11th August 1994 — 11:00 AM
Dartmoor, England
I was in a great mood.
The RV rolled smoothly along the narrow Dartmoor road, tyres crunching softly over gravel as miles of empty moorland stretched out on either side. A grey sky hung low overhead, the air heavy with that particular sort of quiet that suggested nothing had happened here in centuries—and nothing ever should.
I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, whistling under my breath, and glanced back through the rear-view mirror. The interior of the RV, thanks to a few carefully layered expansion charms, bore no resemblance to its modest exterior.
All ten of my Wiphone store assistants were comfortably seated—some chatting, some staring out of the magically widened windows, and one enthusiastically filming the rolling landscape on their Wiphone as though it might suddenly decide to do something dramatic.
Business has been booming.
In the forty days since the opening of the Wiphone store, even though we never again saw the sheer insanity of the first day, tens of thousands of customers had passed through our doors from all across the UK. On top of that came thousands of owl orders from around the world, each one more enthusiastic than the last.
The aftermath of that first day had been particularly memorable.
When I went to Gringotts to deposit the earnings, the goblin teller had very nearly had a heart attack. Within minutes, I was escorted—politely but firmly—to the manager's office, where Ragnuk the Ninth personally informed me that my vault had been upgraded to one of the deep-security chambers usually reserved for Ancient and Noble wizarding families.
After a month, a little over two million galleons now sat there quite comfortably.
This week, the Diagon Alley store was closed. After all, the real business wasn't in London anymore.
It was out here.
The road narrowed, then faded into little more than a suggestion. Ahead, two figures stood beside a crooked sign that proclaimed—entirely unconvincingly—that this was a Portkey Arrival Point.
I slowed the RV.
They had to be wizards.
No Muggle on Earth would dress like that, even by accident.
One wore a tweed suit paired with thigh-length galoshes, as though he'd been advised to prepare for rain and had catastrophically overachieved. The other had opted for a kilt-and-poncho combination that suggested either deep cultural pride or complete surrender to fate.
I parked a short distance away and stepped out.
"Good morning," I said.
Both of them visibly brightened.
"Good morning, Mr Carter," said the one in tweed, clutching a thick roll of parchment and a quill that looked moments away from making a bid for freedom. "We were informed you might be arriving today."
He scanned his list, nodded once, then gestured vaguely behind himself.
"You're booked in the first field from here—about a quarter mile that way. The site manager's called Mr Roberts. He's a Muggle, so… best to watch what you say."
"Of course. Thank you," I replied, turning back toward the RV.
I drove on until a small stone cottage came into view beside a wooden gate. Beyond a low wall, a broad field stretched uphill toward a dark wood on the horizon.
Even with a full week to go before the Quidditch World Cup final, the place was already alive with magic. Hundreds of tents dotted the hillside as witches and wizards arrived from all over the world to witness the climax of the premier sporting event of the year.
I parked, stepped out, and walked toward the cottage.
A man stood in the doorway, gazing out over the field with the air of someone who had just realised his quiet corner of England had been leased—temporarily—to madness.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning," he replied, turning.
"Mr Roberts, I presume?"
"Aye," he said. "That'd be me. And you are?"
"Carter. Benjamin Carter," I said. "I booked a spot a couple of days ago."
He consulted the list tacked beside the door.
"Aye. You've got a space up by the wood there." He looked up again. "Just the one night?"
"A week, actually."
"A week?" He blinked. "Well… alright then. Paying now, or later?"
"Now's fine."
I handed over the pound notes.
He accepted them, then gave me a thoughtful once-over.
"Gotta say," he muttered, "you're the most normal-looking bloke I've seen all morning."
I raised an eyebrow.
"For crying out loud," he continued, jerking his head toward the field, "there's a fellow wandering about in a kilt and a poncho."
I chuckled.
"Well, you know what they say—a man without a woman in his life will put on anything as long as it's within arm's reach."
Mr Roberts barked out a laugh.
"Aye, I reckon that's true. But that's not even the strangest bit."
"Oh?"
"Just an hour ago," he said, lowering his voice, "two blokes—one of them wearing a flowery nightgown—tried to pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps."
I kept my expression perfectly straight.
"Weird. Must've been foreigners or something."
"Aye," he said. "That's what I thought."
He handed me a map along with my change.
"There you go. Your spot's marked."
"Thank you," I said. "It was nice talking to you, Mr Roberts. But I'd better get going."
"Of course," he replied, already turning back toward the field. "Good luck with… all this."
I climbed back into the RV and drove it through the gate and into the campsite, easing it forward at a deliberate, unhurried pace as the field opened up around us.
Long rows of tents stretched up the slope toward the woods. Most of them tried very hard to look ordinary—canvas walls, muted colours, sensible shapes—yet nearly all had betrayed themselves in some small way. A chimney where none should exist. A brass bellpull hanging by an entrance. A weather vane spinning lazily above a tent that absolutely did not experience weather indoors.
Here and there, however, subtlety had been abandoned entirely.
Halfway up the field stood a massive tent of striped silk shaped like a miniature palace, its entrance flanked by several live peacocks tethered on silver chains. A little farther on loomed a three-storey tent complete with turrets and battlements. Beyond that sat a tent with a front garden—an actual garden—featuring a birdbath, a sundial, and a gently splashing fountain.
Apparently, some people treated the Statute of Secrecy as more of a suggestion.
As the RV rumbled past, it drew attention immediately. Heads popped out of tent flaps. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Children tugged on sleeves and pointed openly. Curious eyes followed us as we climbed higher up the field.
Which was exactly why I'd come this way.
I could have arrived by Portkey. I could have opened a silent portal directly onto the site. Instead, I'd brought an RV—large, loud, unmistakably different—because different draws attention.
I wanted people watching.
I drove all the way to the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, where a wide stretch of ground had been left deliberately empty. A wooden sign was hammered firmly into the earth.
CARTER
I brought the RV to a stop.
The engine cut out, and for a moment there was silence—then the low murmur of voices drifting up from below, the weight of dozens of gazes settling on us.
I stepped out, my employees following close behind. All ten of them stared out across the campsite, eyes wide, expressions hovering somewhere between amazement and disbelief. Young witches and wizards barely into their twenties, none of them had the galleons or the connections to afford World Cup final tickets.
And yet—here they were.
I clapped once.
"Alright, everyone," I said. "Let's get started."
Jack moved immediately, ducking back into the RV. A moment later, he reappeared carrying a miniature model—no larger than a dollhouse—cradled carefully in both hands.
A shrunken Wiphone outlet store.
He set it gently on the ground.
Roxie stepped forward, drew her wand, and pointed it squarely at the model.
"Engorgio."
The effect was instantaneous.
The miniature storefront swelled outward, walls rising as glass panes stretched and locked seamlessly into place. The structure expanded smoothly and precisely—no wobble, no distortion—until a full-sized Wiphone outlet store stood at the top of the field, perfectly identical to the one I'd constructed days earlier.
A murmur rippled through the campsite below.
The signboard shimmered, then flared to life.
WIPHONE STORE
My employees moved at once. Supplies floated out of the RV—crates of devices, accessories, and packaging—levitating neatly through the air and into the store. Inside, the familiar wooden tables were arranged with practiced efficiency, Wiphones laid out in careful, deliberate symmetry.
The signboard brightened further.
OPEN
I was admiring the view when I heard it—the unmistakable crack of Apparition behind me.
I turned.
Cornelius Fudge stood a few feet away, dressed smartly in black robes and a matching hat, looking faintly pleased with himself. Beside him was a man who looked like an overgrown schoolboy dressed for a particularly enthusiastic Quidditch match—long robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black, an enormous wasp emblazoned boldly across his chest.
I smiled.
"Minister," I said, stepping forward. "How nice to see you again."
We shook hands.
His grip was firm but measured—public confidence tempered by calculation.
"Thank you for agreeing to my little request."
"Oh, it was no trouble at all," Fudge said genially, his tone warm even as his eyes flicked briefly past me—to the store, the signboard, the activity. "Always a pleasure to support promising young entrepreneurs."
He gestured vaguely toward the storefront.
"I trust everything is to your satisfaction?"
"It is," I said easily. "You chose an excellent spot."
That earned a small, pleased nod.
I turned to his companion.
"Ah yes," Fudge said smoothly, reclaiming the conversational lead. "Benjamin, this is Ludo Bagman—Head of Magical Games and Sports."
Bagman seized my hand with enthusiasm.
"Hello, Mr Carter!" he boomed. "Nice to finally meet you in person!"
He glanced at the RV and grinned broadly.
"That's quite a vehicle you've got there. It's called a… truck, I believe?"
"An RV," I corrected with a smile. "Recreational Vehicle. Muggles use them for temporary living accommodations while out camping."
Fudge eyed it with mild suspicion, lips pursed.
"It's certainly… unique."
"I'm actually glad you're here, Minister," I said, letting my smile sharpen just a fraction. "There's something I wanted to discuss with you."
Fudge straightened slightly—interest piqued, caution engaged.
"Oh?"
"You know how the Wiphones can store and play video files?" I said.
He nodded once.
"A few days ago, I was thinking about the World Cup final," I continued. "About how it's bound to be a truly extraordinary spectacle—something people will talk about for years."
Bagman leaned in, already hooked.
"And it occurred to me," I went on, "that people would love to see it more than just once."
Bagman's eyes lit up.
"Even with a hundred thousand seats," I said, "there will be countless witches and wizards around the world who won't be able to watch the match live. And I suspect nearly everyone who does see it would want to experience it again—with friends, with family."
I paused, letting the idea settle.
"So why not record the match," I finished, "and allow people to rewatch it as many times as they like on their Wiphones?"
Fudge frowned thoughtfully.
"An intriguing idea, Benjamin," he said carefully. "But how exactly do you propose to record the entire match?"
He allowed himself a thin smile.
"Surely you're not suggesting we send some poor fellow armed with a Wiphone on a broomstick to chase after the players?"
He chuckled.
I smirked.
I made a show of reaching into my inner jacket pocket. In truth, I merely obscured the motion as I retrieved an object from my storage ring. A moment later, I brought out my hand.
A compact spherical device hovered above my palm.
About the size of a Bludger. Smooth ceramic finish. A single large central lens at the front. Three stabilising fins at the rear. Quiet side ports etched cleanly into its surface.
As Fudge and Bagman stared, the device rose gently into the air and began moving on its own—silent, precise, perfectly steady.
I smiled.
"Gentlemen," I said, "meet Argus."
The drone hovered serenely between us.
"Capable of high-speed image and video capture, live viewing, internal storage, and sustained flight for up to twelve hours."
Bagman looked delighted, already imagining the possibilities.
Fudge simply stared.
I gestured toward the store.
"Why don't we head to my office," I suggested pleasantly, "and discuss this over a cup of tea?"
I turned and led them inside, already certain of the outcome.
Some ideas, once seen, sell themselves.
---
17th August 1994
Quidditch World Cup Campsite
I tracked the motion of the five glowing balloons as they drifted and weaved through the air above the stall, their flight paths erratic on purpose—tiny, floating acts of spite.
I turned my face to the side.
Without looking—relying instead on subtle shifts in the air, the faint hum of magic, the way space itself bent around moving objects—I raised the battered, age-softened wand the stall owner had provided and fired.
Five stunning spells. Silent. Rapid.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Every balloon burst in quick succession.
For a moment, there was stunned silence.
Then—
"YES!"
Rachel whooped. Hermione clapped, laughing openly. Ginny grinned, eyes bright, while Luna applauded politely, as though she'd expected no other outcome.
Behind me, Harry groaned.
Neville sighed deeply.
"That's bloody cheating, mate," Neville said, shaking his head. "There's no other word for it."
Harry nodded in solemn agreement. "Absolutely. A crime against fair competition."
I laughed.
"That's not cheating," I said. "That's evolution. I told you—this wouldn't end the way you were hoping."
Harry shot me a look.
"Yeah, well, just because you're super handsome, tall, and rich now doesn't mean you had to get better at magic too."
He scowled theatrically.
"I swear, the universe has no sense of propriety when it comes to you."
I chuckled, accepting the stall owner's muttered disbelief with a polite nod.
Just then, my Wiphone rang in my pocket.
I frowned slightly and pulled it out.
A voice call from Roxie.
"Hold on," I said to the group, then accepted the call. "Yes, Roxie?"
"Hi, boss," she said. "I know you're out with your friends, but… the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy just showed up at the store."
I paused.
"I see."
"And," she added carefully, "she says she'd like to speak with you. Personally."
"Alright," I said after a moment. "Make sure she's comfortable. I'll be back in a jiffy."
"Got it."
I ended the call and slid the Wiphone back into my pocket.
"Sorry, guys," I said. "Looks like I'll have to take a rain check for a bit."
Hermione frowned slightly.
"What happened?"
"Nothing much," I said lightly. "Just the Headmistress of Beauxbatons dropping by the store and asking to speak with me."
Neville blinked.
"Do you know why?"
I shook my head.
"Nope. Probably about the Wiphones. We'll see."
The stall owner handed me the prize—a stuffed Graphorn, shaggy and stubborn-looking.
I turned and presented it to Hermione.
She smiled and accepted it without hesitation.
"Thank you."
I tossed the stall owner a gold Galleon.
His jaw dropped.
"Thanks, pal," I said.
As I stepped back, I smiled at my friends.
"I'll see you guys later. Try not to have too much fun without me."
Harry snorted.
"No promises."
I walked away from the cluster of game stalls, letting the sounds of the campsite wash over me.
Two young boys were competing fiercely at a broom-balancing game nearby. Enchanted fireworks crackled overhead, scattering harmless sparks in team colours. Stalls overflowed with magical trinkets, sweets I didn't recognise, and banners that fluttered and roared on command.
Half the campsite was drenched in Irish green.
The other half was plastered with enchanted posters of Viktor Krum's scowling face.
The air thrummed with excitement—raw, contagious energy that hummed beneath the skin.
Tomorrow was the final.
And everyone could feel it.
I found a quiet corner behind a pair of empty tents, opened a portal, and stepped through—emerging into the back room of the store. I adjusted my jacket and took a steadying breath before stepping out onto the main floor.
Roxie was mid-conversation with a customer, but her eyes flicked to me instantly.
"Excuse me," she said politely, disengaging at once. She crossed the floor and lowered her voice. "She's in your office."
I nodded.
"Oh—and she didn't come alone," Roxie added. "There's another person with her. A young woman."
I inclined my head.
"Thanks."
Crossing the floor, I reached my office and opened the door.
I noticed the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy immediately.
Madame Olympe Maxime was easily the largest woman I had ever seen in my life. In fact, the only person I knew who could rival her sheer size was Hagrid—which made sense, given their shared half-giant heritage. But where Hagrid was all rough edges and unpolished warmth, Madame Maxime carried herself with a practiced, effortless grace that he could never hope to emulate.
She had a handsome, olive-skinned face; large black eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian; and a rather beaky nose that only added to her commanding presence. Her hair was drawn back into a shining knot at the base of her neck, and she was dressed from head to foot in black satin. Magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers, catching the light whenever she moved.
She rose smoothly from her chair as I entered.
Beside her stood one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.
For a split second, my mind stalled.
She looked uncannily like Alexandra Daddario from my previous life—except with long, silvery-blonde hair, even brighter blue eyes, and an otherworldly quality that went far beyond mere physical appearance. Even without MageSight, I could feel it: a faint but unmistakable magical aura brushing against my senses.
Interesting.
I refocused on Madame Maxime and smiled.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Maxime," I said, stepping forward. "What an unexpected pleasure."
She smiled warmly and extended her hand.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Carter. The pleasure is mine."
I shook her hand, then turned to her companion as Madame Maxime gestured toward her.
"This is Miss Fleur Delacour," she said. "One of my students."
I was briefly surprised—though I didn't let it show. This Fleur looked nothing like the actress who had portrayed her in the films of my old world. Reality, it seemed, had been far more generous.
We exchanged a brief handshake.
Moving around the desk to my chair, I gestured toward the seating area.
"Please, have a seat. My apologies for the delay—I was otherwise engaged."
"Not at all," Madame Maxime said as she sat. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
"Can I offer you anything to drink?" I asked. "Tea? Coffee?"
"That won't be necessary," she replied with a polite smile.
"Very well," I said, settling into my chair. "So—what can I do for you today?"
Madame Maxime folded her hands neatly in her lap.
"As you can probably imagine," she said, "wizarding France has taken great interest in your Wiphones. Beauxbatons included. We would like to purchase a number of them for our students and staff."
I nodded.
"How many were you thinking?"
"Approximately two hundred and forty," she said. "However, given the size of the order, we would naturally expect a discount."
I leaned back slightly.
"And what sort of discount were you hoping for?"
"We are prepared to pay fifteen galleons per Wiphone."
I shook my head.
"I can't do that," I said calmly. "Fifteen galleons per unit cuts directly into our production costs—not to mention sales tax. At that price, we'd be operating in the red."
Fleur spoke for the first time, her French accent smooth and flowing.
"We were told you gave a Wiphone to every student and teacher at Hogwarts. For free."
I met her gaze evenly.
"That wasn't altruism," I said. "It was a marketing strategy. As fond as I am of my schoolmates, Miss Delacour, I wouldn't give away a thirty-galleon device and accessories to every single one of them out of charity.
But by doing so, I ensured that hundreds of enthusiastic teenagers demonstrated, discussed, and promoted the Wiphone across the length and breadth of wizarding Britain—far more effectively than any article in the Daily Prophet ever could."
I shrugged slightly.
"A simple sales tactic. But an effective one."
Madame Maxime regarded me thoughtfully.
"Be that as it may," she said, "you are a student yourself, Mr Carter. Surely you understand how valuable such a device would be for students worldwide—not just for study, but for staying in touch with their families, especially when they do not see them for months at a time."
I considered her earnest expression for a moment.
Then I nodded.
"I can offer eighteen galleons per Wiphone," I said. "Add one galleon for earbuds or headphones and one for a back cover. Twenty galleons total—device and accessories included, instead of the usual thirty."
I met her eyes steadily.
"That's my final offer."
Madame Maxime paused, weighing it.
Then she smiled.
"We accept."
She rose from her chair. Fleur and I followed suit.
"Thank you for your consideration, Mr Carter," Madame Maxime said, shaking my hand. "You are an impressive young man—far more so than I was led to expect."
"Thank you for stopping by," I replied. "And for what it's worth—if Igor Karkaroff had been standing where you are now, I wouldn't have lowered the price by a single Knut."
She laughed softly.
"Having met the man, I understand completely."
I turned to Fleur.
She extended her hand.
"Au revoir, Mr Carter. Until our paths cross again."
I took her hand.
"Farewell, Miss Delacour. Enjoy the festivities."
She smiled—a small, subtle curve of her lips.
"I intend to."
And with that, she followed her headmistress out of the office.
---
Outside the Wiphone store, the late-afternoon air hummed with distant voices and lingering enchantments. The glass façade reflected the restless movement of the campsite beyond.
Fleur Delacour walked beside Madame Maxime in silence for several steps before she spoke.
"Headmistress," Fleur said at last, her voice thoughtful, "are you certain he is fourteen?"
Madame Maxime's expression remained unchanged, though her stride slowed by a fraction.
"Everything we know about him suggests that he is," she replied. "His records are… consistent."
Fleur's brow furrowed faintly.
"He does not look like a fourteen-year-old boy."
"No," Madame Maxime agreed. "Nor does he behave like one."
She glanced sideways at Fleur.
"What is your assessment of him?"
Fleur considered the question, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead.
"Strong," she said finally. "Intelligent. Socially adept." She paused, then added more quietly, "And he did not react to me the way other boys—and many men—do."
Madame Maxime inclined her head.
"I noticed," she said. "Which is unusual."
They walked on in silence for a moment.
"With the Triwizard Tournament approaching," Madame Maxime continued thoughtfully, "someone like Benjamin Carter could prove to be a… complication."
Fleur did not answer.
Instead, she slowed and turned her head, glancing back toward the store, where his office lay.
Intrigued.
And for the first time in a very long while—
Interested.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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