Many of the guests widened their eyes in shock—none of them had expected the Rosier family to move so quickly.
No wonder, then, that after Tom's explosive article, the Rosiers had not reacted with rage. Quite the opposite—they had published their own "thank-you" piece, praising his rational and objective analysis. By doing so, they had indirectly confirmed the accuracy of every sordid detail.
Even the ancient Muggle-born ancestors they'd tried to bury? The Rosiers had quietly admitted them, too.
Now everyone understood. It hadn't been grace or magnanimity. It was a trade, struck in shadow.
Compared with the profits WhatsApp could bring, acknowledging a few "undesirable" ancestors was nothing at all.
A sharp-voiced wizard suddenly spoke up with enthusiasm:
"Mr. Riddle, my family line may not be as glorious as the Rosiers, but we have survived for over eight centuries. Perhaps we fall short of your criteria for a full entry in your History of the Wizarding World, but we do have many records of other noble families. If you're interested, I'll gladly deliver them to you."
Tom's eyes lit up. "Mr. Novak, I would be deeply grateful."
Novak hailed from a lesser-known family in Poland, claiming eight hundred years of history—though Tom suspected it was closer to four or five. Still, useful information was useful information, and he wasn't picky.
That was why he had baited the Rosier connection so openly—to stir envy, to make others step forward with their own family archives. It was the perfect complement to his book's expansion and a way to speed the project's completion.
Novak's gesture broke the dam. Others followed, dropping hints, making promises, pledging records and testimonies that would bolster Tom's work.
By the time the evening wound down, Tom had won more than he'd ever expected: new distributors, secured material supply chains, and a growing pile of historical sources.
Before dismissing the guests, Nicolas gathered everyone together for a commemorative photograph.
Naturally, he himself stayed out of frame. The world thought him dead, after all. But Tom was placed squarely in the center—C position—surrounded by Europe's finest like stars around the moon.
That photograph would be splashed across front pages within the week, heralding WhatsApp's arrival without ever saying its name.
…
"Exhausted?"
As the last guest departed, Tom brushed his fingers through Fleur's silvery hair. Her face betrayed fatigue—this level of high society was beyond her experience, and she'd spent the entire night on edge, terrified of disgracing him.
"I'm fine," Fleur murmured, shaking her head. "It's you who should be tired, always maneuvering between them."
Tom chuckled. "Then we've both worked hard. Let's go home."
She hummed in agreement, and together they stepped into the Floo, green fire delivering them back to the Flamel estate.
At the door to their rooms, Tom meant to bid her goodnight. But Fleur caught his hand and pulled him through the threshold.
"I'm too wound up to sleep," she whispered, cheeks flushed. "Stay with me, just for a while."
And so he did. They spoke until dawn, lying side by side.
Nothing happened—nor could it, not yet. The time wasn't right.
…
A few days later, the photograph blazed across the front pages of magical newspapers in half a dozen countries. The headline, near-universal:
"They Will Change the World."
The faces were a roll call of power: Maxime, known to every Beauxbatons graduate of the past twenty years; learned scholars whose names carried weight in every Ministry; wealthy merchants; high officials; scions of ancient bloodlines.
And yet, at the heart of them all—sitting proudly at the center—was a boy.
"Mr. Riddle, the magical world's newest rising star, is already known for his groundbreaking work in magical history and for redefining the standards of pure-blood lineage. What few know, however, is that his mastery of alchemy is equally astonishing. This was nothing less than a world-class summit of alchemy…"
The article heaped praise upon him, yet carefully avoided mentioning WhatsApp by name. Instead, it hinted at "a great project" that would soon reshape society. Curiosity burned hotter with every passing day.
Speculation raged.
Even The Daily Prophet ran the photo on its cover. And, of course, Rita Skeeter could not resist adding fuel to the fire.
Her headline screamed:
"The Black Hand Revealed At Last!"
Her article was dripping with paranoia, spinning a tale of shadowy conspiracies. According to her, Tom had not sat at the center because of his own power—but because he was merely a mouthpiece for a mysterious organization pulling the strings of the magical world.
The true leader remained unseen, but his presence was everywhere.
…
In the Hogwarts hospital wing, Albus Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles and frowned.
This mysterious figure… she means me, doesn't she?
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. Him? The puppet master of a global cabal? If that were true, if such a hand truly existed and he commanded it—then the Order of the Phoenix would never have struggled against the Death Eaters. Voldemort's forces would have been scattered like leaves before the wind.
Still… "changing the world," Rita had written. Could it be true?
His eyes fell on the little notebook on the desk—Tom's Christmas gift. WhatsApp.
Yes. Rita Skeeter, in her own mad way, had stumbled on a truth. This invention could change the world. He saw, now, why Nicolas Flamel would invest such faith in Tom.
Dumbledore understood what drove his old friend. Nicolas, who had lived long enough to have everything, wanted nothing more than to leave alchemy as a gift to the many, not the few.
And Tom was his chance.
Albus sighed, leaning back. The boy was relentless. He had barely finished shaking the magical world with his redefinition of pure-blood lineage, and already he was launching something greater. And in between, as if casually, he had unearthed a Horcrux.
The prophecy, he thought, was beginning to seem more and more unlikely.
Quirrell, last year. The diary, this year.
Tom Riddle was not walking the path that fate had set. He was blazing one of his own.