The guests each cradled the notebook in their hands, scrutinizing it with the reverence one might give a priceless artifact.
The basics were clear enough: runes of self-repair, wards against damp and flame, and enchantments strengthening the cover so it might outlast centuries of use. But the real magic—ah, that was hidden deep within.
Opening the book, they found a familiar template, a simple registration form Fleur knew all too well. Beyond that: blank pages, waiting to be filled.
It was Lionel, Beauxbatons' alchemy professor, who first caught the detail others had missed.
Comparing his notebook with Olympe Maxime's, he noticed a string of strange runic script etched faintly into the lower right-hand corner of the cover. Not Runes, not Arithmancy symbols—something else entirely. And curiously, his code was not the same as hers. Nor, as he glanced furtively at others', did anyone share the same one.
"Riddle," Lionel said, excitement creeping into his voice, "this symbol—this is a unique identifier, isn't it? A code? I've never seen this language before, but the magic in it is undeniable. Some new form of runic structure?"
Tom smiled faintly. "Sharp eyes, Professor. Yes—what you see is a script of my own design. Think of them as letters in an alphabet, or perhaps digits in a number system. Their purpose… you'll soon understand."
He lifted his wand. At once, mist swirled and dozens of those glowing symbols appeared, floating in the air like constellations, enormous and luminous. Every eye in the room widened.
"Now then," Tom continued, "on the first page, I'd like you to enter your information. It may be real, or false—it doesn't matter. What matters is that you participate."
With murmurs of curiosity, the guests obeyed. None were foolish enough to pen their true names; in the wizarding world, such honesty could be dangerous. With the right rituals, even a name could become a weapon.
One by one, they finished.
"Good. Now—take your wand, and write down the code from the notebook opposite yours."
Skeptical glances exchanged. Still, they did as told.
A soft ping echoed as the blank page before them shimmered. A prompt appeared: a friend request, with a neat little checkmark and cross. Amusement rippled through the hall. No one, of course, was idiotic enough to refuse.
"Now," Tom said, his smile widening, "try it. Write something to your new friend. Anything you like. Just a quill and ink will do."
The hall came alive. Lionel nearly vibrated with energy, scribbling nonsense across his page. Maxime's notebook flashed with the response, his message appearing instantly in her book. Her eyes widened as though she had glimpsed the future itself.
Others tested eagerly, some even dashing toward the door to Apparate away—only to be stopped by Tom's raised hand and amused shake of the head.
"No need to waste your strength, Mr. Cromwell. WhatsApp has no meaningful distance limit. From here, you could write to a friend across the Atlantic, and they would see it instantly."
"WhatsApp?" Maxime repeated, voice trembling with wonder. She clutched the notebook to her chest as though it were sacred. "A perfect name. No wonder Master Flamel called this invention a treasure beyond even the Philosopher's Stone. Child—you have just altered history itself. The age of owls is over. This will transform how wizards live, forever."
"I already see it," another guest whispered, half in awe. "Thousands of owls, retired in peace…"
Tom lifted a hand, modest as ever. "I only stand on the shoulders of giants. My design borrows entirely from Muggle networks and communications. I merely… applied magic to realize it."
"Nonsense," Lionel snapped, shaking his head wildly. "Others may have thought of it, but none succeeded. And most never even tried. You alone had both the vision and the will to bring it to life. That is no small feat."
"Were you French," added Dickett, his voice full of conviction, "the Grand Order of the Fleur-de-Lis would already be yours."
A murmur passed through the hall. That honor was France's answer to the Order of Merlin—except, some whispered, rarer still.
Tom's lips curved. "I don't care for medals or orders." (Though inwardly he added, unless it's First-Class Order of Merlin.)
His tone grew firmer. "Professor Flamel invited you here not simply to admire a toy. He hopes that together—with your influence, your networks, your wealth—we will push this forward. Change is not easy. The wizarding world clings to old habits with a stubbornness bordering on madness. Even something as revolutionary as WhatsApp will meet resistance. People will scoff. They will sneer. They will refuse."
He let the silence hang, then continued softly, almost intimately.
"But when future generations look back… they will see your names written in history. They will thank you. Because you were the ones who dragged wizardkind out of the age of owls and into a brighter age of connection."
The room swelled with heat. Faces flushed. Breaths quickened. The hunger to matter—to leave a mark—burned in every chest.
At Tom's side, Fleur's heart thundered. Her eyes glittered like stars, and she wanted nothing more than to throw herself at him, to hold him tight and never let go.
Only Nicolas Flamel did not bask in the fever. His smile faltered as he stepped back, the echoes of memory tugging at him.
In Paris… years ago… another man had spoken just so. His voice had swayed crowds. He had stirred not admiration but fervor, zealotry. Even the Aurors sent to arrest him had faltered, caught in the net of his words.
That man had been Gellert Grindelwald.
And now here stood Tom Riddle. His words carried the same dangerous charisma. His presence bent emotions like a storm bends trees.
This is wrong, Nicolas thought, a shadow crawling down his spine. Is he walking the same path?
Then Tom turned, catching Nicolas' eye—and with a boyish grin, he winked.
The old alchemist exhaled, shaking himself free of the memory. No, not Grindelwald. Not Voldemort. Tom was different—ambitious, yes. Brilliant, without question. But this boy was no monster.
If Grindelwald had been present, though, he would've roared with laughter.
"Old man, you've gone soft. Can't you see? That brat's the real deal!"