In late January, Moriarty received a carefully packed parcel from Nimbus, accompanied by a neatly written letter from Lilith Rosier.
Inside the box were twelve miniaturized Nimbus 1990S broomsticks.
The letter explained the origin of the new model's name.
The "1990" was to commemorate the 1990 Quidditch World Cup, and the "S" was an abbreviation for Slytherin—an open tribute to Moriarty, the mastermind behind the new broom's design.
Lilith detailed her negotiation with Leonard Whitehorn in terse, shrewd words and casually mentioned his demeanor during the deal.
> "Whitehorn is greedy, shortsighted, and cunning.
Personal advice? Watch your back around him.
Especially while developing the next generation of brooms—don't let him catch wind of it. He's not the type to applaud innovation unless he controls it. He'll definitely play dirty if he senses his empire is threatened."
The letter ended on a warm yet sharp note.
> "Lastly, Moriarty, good luck in your game.
Bring the Quidditch trophy back to Hogwarts where it belongs."
Finishing the letter, Moriarty tucked it into his ever-growing notebook of schedules, strategies, and secrets. Lilith had outdone herself—resolving the contract standoff and completing her assignment brilliantly.
In truth, Lilith had read Moriarty's mind. His main goal had never been to profit from the broom directly. He only sought a credible manufacturer to produce the Nimbus 1990S, ensuring the British national team could fly it in the World Cup.
How many Galleons the broom would eventually bring in was of lesser concern—Moriarty hadn't said so explicitly, but Lilith understood.
That kind of silent synergy had always existed between them.
With the notebook in one hand and the dozen shrunken brooms in the other, Moriarty stepped into the corridor, knocking on the door to Roman's room. He summoned the rest of the team, leading them out to the private runway.
After restoring the brooms to their original size, he turned to the others. "One each. Take your new ride."
Roman and the others surged forward like kids let loose in a toy store, whooping as they grabbed the gleaming brooms. Excitement lit up their faces like fireworks.
Without needing further encouragement, they mounted the Nimbus 1990S and launched themselves into the sky.
"Ahhh—!"
Their screams echoed behind them, not of fear but pure exhilaration. The broom's speed had caught them completely off guard, and they shot into the clouds like arrows loosed from a bow.
Nearby foreign teams on the runway watched in stunned silence. Their gazes shifted between the soaring Nimbus 1990S and their own obsolete Nimbus 1700s, their expressions sinking in realization. Most turned away in frustration.
Moriarty mounted his own broom and burst skyward with a forceful gust that swept across the onlookers.
Several spectators stumbled from the sudden gale, and more than a few female fans shrieked as the wind nearly knocked them off balance.
As Moriarty rose higher, his figure left a pale afterimage—so fast that even with enchanted binoculars, his motion blurred.
He activated a Sonorus Charm on himself. "Clamp your brooms, stay steady! Then shift into maximum speed—we're beginning formation training!"
Roman and the others struggled to regain stability but obeyed, adjusting to the velocity of the Nimbus 1990S under Moriarty's sharp directives.
Meanwhile, the Nimbus company made an audacious move: they suspended production of all previous broom models.
From that moment on, only the Nimbus 1990S was manufactured.
British witches and wizards were stunned. Overnight, every broom in Nimbus showrooms transformed into the gleaming new model.
With its sleek design, polished mahogany handle, and perfectly aligned tail twigs, the Nimbus 1990S was a marvel. But what truly set it apart was the tiny silver serpent etched atop the gold-inlaid grip—a bold nod to Slytherin House.
Wizards quickly caught on: another alchemical masterpiece from Moriarty Slytherin.
News spread that the broom would be exclusively used by the British national team. Nimbus didn't waste the chance, tying their brand firmly to Moriarty's name and hyping it with every ounce of PR muscle they had.
Demand exploded. Orders poured in. Supply ran dry.
The wizarding world was buzzing—fifteen national teams convened emergency meetings to strategize against the technological gap.
But the British team was already far ahead, having completed flight adaptation and moved on to advanced drills.
By the first Wednesday of February, the tournament's opening match—England vs. France—had arrived.
At 8:50 a.m., Hyprosey Stadium, a massive arena with seating for eighty thousand, was packed to capacity. Fans from every corner of the magical world filled the upper, middle, and lower stands.
In the French camp sat the Delacour family. On Madame Delacour's lap was little Gabrielle, a porcelain-like girl with long silver hair.
"Mommy, where's my sister?" she asked sweetly, her big eyes scanning the crowd.
Madame Delacour glanced across the stands and spotted Fleur—poised and elegant, waving a small silver-green flag embroidered with Slytherin's crest and Moriarty's face.
As usual, Fleur had a small exclusion zone around her. None dared come too close to the mesmerizing young witch.
She and her husband exchanged knowing glances.
"Gabrielle," Madame Delacour said gently, lifting her daughter, "your sister is cheering for her prince."
"Where's the prince?" Gabrielle asked curiously.
Madame Delacour turned to the arena, where players began emerging from the locker rooms. The British and French teams walked side-by-side.
Roman and French Captain Peru exchanged a death glare, their rivalry visible from the stands.
But Roman's eyes held an edge of cool confidence—his Nimbus 1990S gave him assurance.
"There," Madame Delacour said, pointing. "There's your prince."
Gabrielle's eyes widened as she spotted Moriarty, resplendent in emerald green robes, moving toward the pitch with practiced grace.
The Quidditch pitch was pristine, with three gleaming goal hoops on each end and a giant enchanted scoreboard reading:
England: 0 | France: 0
"It's almost time," Mr. Delacour said with excitement thick in his voice.
As if on cue, a commentator from the Canadian Ministry of Magic amplified his voice with a Sonorus Charm and bellowed:
> "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...
WELCOME TO THE 421ST QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP!"
The crowd roared, flags waved like waves crashing on shore, and several magical anthems clashed noisily in the air.
Fleur cheered loudly, shaking her handmade flag with pride. Though Moriarty couldn't see her in the chaos, she cheered with everything in her.
The players gazed into the stands, feeding off the electric atmosphere.
The commentator continued:
> "Please give a thunderous welcome to the BRITISH NATIONAL TEAM!
Led by none other than CAPTAIN MORIARTY SLYTHERIN!"
A collective gasp rose as Moriarty soared into view on his broom, a blur of green and gold streaking across the sky.
Binoculars clicked into place as fans zoomed in.
> "That's right! At just 13 years old, he is the youngest Quidditch captain in British history!
And this is his first World Cup appearance!"
The crowd erupted again, this time with focused cheers.
> "You may know him as Hogwarts' famed Seeker, but today—Roman Reigns will play that position, while Moriarty takes the field as a Chaser!"
Roman followed, rising gracefully and waving at the crowd. His experience showed in his confident posture.
> "Roman Reigns—veteran Seeker of the British team—is back. But who's missing from the Chasers?
None other than the young captain himself! Tactical shuffle? We'll soon find out!"
One by one, the rest of the British squad ascended into formation, determination etched on every face.
> "Now, please welcome the FRENCH TEAM—led by Captain PERU!
And officiating today's match, all the way from Iceland—referee DAYA!"
Daya, dressed in golden officiating robes, marched confidently to the center of the pitch.
He mounted his broom, whistled, and opened a large enchanted chest.
Out burst the Quaffle, two Bludgers, and the glittering Golden Snitch.
With a sharp whoosh, the Snitch vanished from sight. Daya's whistle signaled the game's start.
"AND THEY'RE OFF! Roman and Peru dive for the Snitch!"
The match had begun. And with it, the next chapter in Quidditch history.