"Riddle, it's an honor," Dickett declared, his voice loud enough to draw every ear in the hall. "To be part of something this meaningful—if there's anything you need, you need only ask. My family and I will support you without reservation."
The dam broke.
"I have connections across several ministries—authentication and bureaucracy will be no problem."
"I'll handle the raw materials. At cost—no, lower than cost!"
"Sales, leave to me. Look at these keys—shops all across Europe, every wizarding district worth naming. Your notebooks will be everywhere."
It was everything Tom could have hoped for: from supply to sales, from private networks to official channels, Nicolas Flamel's circle could smooth every obstacle. The only real bottleneck lay with Tom himself—his ability to scale production and reduce costs.
When they learned of the current limitations, some faces fell. Still, disappointment soon gave way to resolve. Wizards were used to waiting. One or two years, to prepare, to maneuver? That was nothing.
Then Tom unveiled the upgraded version of WhatsApp.
It looked identical, but when Perenelle's face flickered to life on the page like a living portrait, the room gasped. Video calls. Group functions. The potential was infinite.
The negotiations wound down, replaced by wine and small talk. In Nicolas' home, Tom might sip red wine without concern, but here, under the eyes of Europe's elite, he held nothing stronger than orange juice.
And yet, the boy was the star. Clusters of alchemists, merchants, aristocrats pressed close, eager for a word. Even those stranded at the edges stole glances his way, wishing they could break into his orbit.
Tom danced through it effortlessly. No groveling, no arrogance. He shared scraps of knowledge freely, batting away the deeper questions with a smile and smooth evasions.
At the edge of the hall, Olympe Maxime was interrogating Fleur.
"Tell me about him," she pressed, lowering her head to bring her sharp gaze level with the girl's.
Fleur, caught, offered what she dared—his charm, his brilliance, the little she could share. But the dangerous truths—the poachers, the dragon—those she locked away.
"Fleur, listen carefully." Maxime's tone was heavy, like prophecy. "Riddle's future is boundless. His invention stands alongside Floo Powder, Portkeys—tools that reshaped society for centuries. Beauxbatons needs a man like him. Why do you think Hogwarts, despite all its chaos, remains untouchable? One reason. Dumbledore. The weight of a single top-tier wizard. Riddle could be that for us."
Fleur's mind drifted back to her first year, to the image of Tom felling poachers like kindling. She shivered. This wasn't potential—this was inevitability.
"Madame, what do you mean?" Fleur whispered, though she already suspected the answer.
Maxime leaned down further, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Bring him to Beauxbatons. If he comes by his own will, I'll face Dumbledore myself. He is strong, yes, but he is bound by rules. That is his weakness."
Fleur blushed, torn between excitement and nerves. "I… I'll try."
"Good girl." Maxime gave her shoulder a pat, then swept back into the crowd, her mind already turning toward negotiations.
And negotiations there were.
"Riddle, my dear boy," Dickett said again, nearly glowing, "France is yours. I'll give you five storefronts in the Hidden Alley, and use my ministry contacts to ensure your work spreads like wildfire. Within two years, WhatsApp will be in every wizarding household."
"Nonsense." Maxime's towering frame sliced into the circle, her presence impossible to ignore. "Leave France to Beauxbatons. Every student will carry WhatsApp—the school itself will fund the expense. When children use it, parents follow. It will spread far faster than through your dusty shops."
"That is coercion," Dickett snapped. "Even the finest gift becomes a shackle when forced. Schools should be sanctuaries, not markets."
"It's not coercion," Maxime countered smoothly, her voice carrying like a general on the battlefield. "It's welfare. A service. Tell me, Monsieur, are you opposed to providing children with better tools?"
The two glared at one another, France itself caught between them.
"Er—ladies and gentlemen." Tom cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly as all eyes swung back to him. "This is… embarrassing. The French rights are already gone."
The hall froze.
"Who?" Maxime and Dickett barked in unison. Instinctively, their gazes darted toward Nicolas, lounging in his chair with a goblet of wine, as if death itself were a trivial inconvenience.
Did the old fox take a piece? He wasn't even supposed to be alive.
But Tom shook his head, still smiling that deceptively mild smile.
"Not him. The Rosier family. They offered me their secrets—and their support for The History of the Wizarding World. In return, I granted them France's exclusive rights."
The silence that followed was heavy. Then the whispers began.
The Rosiers. Of course. A family steeped in shadow, with roots deep and twisted in both politics and blood.
And now—through a boy's invention—they had just been handed the keys to France.