1st July 1994
Wiphone Store, Diagon Alley
Diagon Alley had seen crowds before.
This was not a crowd.
This was a phenomenon.
By nine in the morning—an hour before opening time—people were already packed shoulder-to-shoulder from Flourish & Blotts all the way past Quality Quidditch Supplies. Wizards and witches were pressed up against the warded, reinforced glass of the storefront, craning their necks, standing on tiptoe, trying desperately to peer inside.
Above them, enchanted banners drifted lazily through the air, shimmering as they caught the morning light.
✨ WIPHONE — NOW OPENING ✨
✨ THE FUTURE OF MAGIC IS CALLING ✨
And then there were the reporters.
Merlin help me, there were so many reporters.
The Daily Prophet. Witch Weekly. Wizarding Wireless News. Cameramen hovered at every conceivable angle, some perched on floating platforms, others standing atop crates they had absolutely not paid for. Self-writing quills scribbled furiously in midair, occasionally smoking from the effort.
Inside the store, I adjusted my cuffs.
Simple black jacket. Grey sweatshirt underneath. Clean lines. No dramatic robes. No flair. Let the product do the flexing.
I glanced at the wall clock.
09:59.
Behind me, ten store employees stood in formation—carefully trained, carefully vetted, and fully aware that today would either make history or break their sanity. They wore matching charcoal-grey shirts, each emblazoned with the stylised W inside a circle.
One minute later, the double doors opened.
The crowd surged in with hurried footsteps and sharp intakes of breath.
Gasps followed immediately.
Because the inside of the shop didn't feel like inside at all.
Sunlight poured down through the vast glass façade and the skylight above, flooding the store with a brightness that rivalled the open street outside. There were no cramped shelves, no crooked aisles, no towering stacks of goods threatening to topple over if someone sneezed too hard.
Instead, the shop felt wide. Open. Inviting.
The glass staircase at the center caught the light and scattered it across the floor in soft prisms, each step floating serenely, gravity politely ignored. The skylight framed a perfect slice of blue summer sky.
For the first time in living memory, a shop in Diagon Alley felt modern—not loud, not garish, but calm. Confident. Like it knew it was the future and didn't feel the need to shout about it.
Before anyone could stand there too long with their jaw hanging open, I stepped forward and smiled.
"Good morning, everyone."
Every head snapped toward me.
Mostly because they were expecting a scrawny, awkward adolescent boy.
Instead, they got someone over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, relaxed, and very much in control of the room.
Whispers rippled through the store.
"That's him?"
"He's fourteen?!"
"No bloody way."
Then the reporters pounced.
Cameras flashed like duelling spells.
"BENJAMIN CARTER!"
"OVER HERE!"
"IS IT TRUE THE WIPHONE CAN COMMUNICATE ACROSS COUNTRIES INSTANTLY?"
"DID YOU INVENT THIS AT HOGWARTS?"
"ARE YOU TRYING TO REPLACE OWL POST?"
I raised a hand.
Slowly—miraculously—the noise dipped.
"I know you all have questions," I said calmly, "and I'll be happy to answer them."
I turned slightly, addressing the wider crowd.
"But first—a word to our soon-to-be customers. Welcome to Wiphone. Please feel free to explore. Try everything. The information panels will introduce the features, and if you still have doubts"—I smiled faintly—"as I suspect many of you will, my assistants will be happy to help."
I gestured toward the staff.
"I hope you enjoy your visit."
That did it.
People began drifting toward the smooth ashwood tables where the Wiphones rested. A young witch tapped a screen—and yelped as it lit up instantly.
"Oh! Oh, it moves!"
An employee stepped in smoothly.
"That's the interface activating. If you'd like, I can show you how to—"
"Yes," the witch said immediately. "Please. Before I accidentally summon something."
Laughter rippled through the shop.
Then the demonstrations began.
Screens glowed. Photos got clicked. Music poured into the air—clear, rich sound from devices no larger than a deck of cards. Someone gasped when an animated film began playing, characters moving and speaking as though a Pensieve had been flattened and politely asked to behave itself.
Then—
"Watch this."
One employee lifted her Wiphone and tapped twice.
A video call activated.
On the screen appeared a young man standing inside a cluttered bookshop somewhere else in Diagon Alley.
"Hey, Charlie. How're you doing?" she asked.
"I'm good, Roxie," he replied, grinning. "Oh—looks like you've gathered quite the crowd in that fancy new shop."
"Looks like it. I'll talk to you later. Bye."
The screen went dark.
The crowd absolutely lost its mind.
"That's live?!"
"Right now?!"
"No mirrors? No Floo?!"
I smiled as scepticism melted into awe.
Turning back to the reporters, I said, "To answer your questions—the Wiphone can communicate instantly not just across countries, but across entire continents. On the highest mountaintop, in the deepest gorge—" I lifted my own device "—as long as you have one of these, you'll never truly be alone."
More flashes. Faster quills.
"Yes, I invented the Wiphone during my third year at Hogwarts. No, I'm not trying to replace Owl Post or Floo calls. I'm simply offering a faster, cleaner, more efficient alternative."
A Witch Weekly reporter raised her hand.
"Mr Carter, if this device works as advertised, it could bring a paradigm shift in wizarding life forever. How does it feel to change the magical world overnight?"
I considered that.
Then I said, "I didn't change it overnight. I just gave it a tool it's been ready for quite some time."
Behind me, the first purchases rang through.
"Two in blue."
"Green, please—and the dragonhide cover."
"Do the earbuds come in silver?"
"Yes? I'll take those too."
Twenty-six galleons for the Wiphone.
Three for earbuds or headphones.
One for enchanted back covers—cats stretching, constellations turning, tiny dragons curling lazily in perpetual loops.
Gold clinked cheerfully at the counters.
I watched customers leave carrying elegant boxes, the Wiphone logo gleaming on their bags.
And naturally—
The moment had to be ruined.
"Well, well," Rita Skeeter purred, materialising from the crowd like a malignant fungus wrapped in emerald robes. "If it isn't Britain's youngest technological messiah."
I smiled.
"Miss Skeeter."
"The elusive Benjamin Carter," she said, looking me up and down. "My, my… you look less like a fourteen-year-old inventor and more like a cross between a professional athlete and a movie star. What's your secret, dear boy? Diet? Potions? A bargain with a suspiciously handsome devil?"
I returned her grin.
"Genetics," I said lightly. "Though eating properly and not lying constantly does wonders for one's complexion."
Her eyes narrowed—then sparkled.
"Oh, I like you already."
I gestured toward the staircase behind me.
"Why don't we continue this somewhere a bit quieter?" I suggested. "My office, perhaps. Less foot traffic that way."
Rita smiled sharply.
"Lead the way."
---
Rita Skeeter walked into my office like she owned it.
That confidence lasted exactly three steps.
The moment her eyes landed on the walls, she froze mid-stride.
Four large holographic projections floated against the enchanted glass, each displaying a live view of the store below—crowds flowing, employees assisting customers, gold changing hands at a frankly irresponsible rate.
"What are these?" Rita asked, genuine interest breaking through her usual smugness.
"Security feeds from the cameras downstairs," I replied casually.
"I didn't notice any cameras."
"Obviously," I smiled.
The door closed behind us with a soft click. The hum of the shop faded, replaced by silence and sunlight filtering through the translucent enchanted glass walls. My office was intentionally sparse: desk, chairs, a decorative bookcase, and a wide window overlooking Diagon Alley.
Rita took it all in with a journalist's eye.
"Very tasteful," she said, dropping into the chair opposite my desk without waiting to be invited. "Most people clutter their offices with trophies and trinkets—trying desperately to look important. But I suppose when your work speaks for itself, you don't need the noise."
"Indeed," I said, taking my seat. "Tea?"
She waved a dismissive hand. "Perhaps later. For now—let's talk about you."
Her eyes sharpened.
"I must say, Mr Carter, it's extraordinary what one can accomplish when one has… help."
Ah. There it was.
"Help?" I echoed mildly. "From whom?"
She leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice just enough to be theatrical.
"Powerful benefactors. Shadowy backers. Unspeakable departments with deep pockets and deeper secrets."
"Are you implying Ministry involvement?" I asked.
Her smile sharpened. "I'm implying that a fourteen-year-old schoolboy doesn't revolutionise magical technology without cutting a few… interesting deals."
"Fascinating theory," I said pleasantly. "Do you have any evidence?"
She waved a hand. "Evidence is such a limiting word."
Her quill began scribbling furiously in midair.
BOY GENIUS OR MINISTRY PUPPET?
WHAT IS BENJAMIN CARTER HIDING?
I glanced at the quill. Then at her.
Slowly, I smiled.
"Tell me, Rita," I said lightly. "May I call you Rita?"
She blinked. "I—yes, I suppose—"
"What's your opinion on insects?"
She stared. "I beg your pardon?"
"Insects," I repeated. "Flies. Bugs. Spiders… Beetles." I tilted my head. "What do you think of them?"
A flicker of discomfort crossed her face.
"I've never given them much thought," she said carefully.
"Haven't you?" I mused. "I know most people see them as nothing more than pests. But I think, just like everything else in nature, insects too have a surprising utility."
I leaned back.
"Namely their ability to remain inconspicuous. To hide in plain sight. After all, how many people notice a spider quietly clinging to the ceiling? Or a little beetle fluttering in through an open window, listening to their every secret?"
Rita shifted.
"Indeed," she said tightly. "You know, I've just remembered I—"
"I don't like to toot my own horn," I interrupted, pulling out my Wiphone, "but this device does some rather impressive things. Instant communication. Information storage. And videos."
She frowned. "Videos?"
"Yes, videos. I've often wondered—do wizards actually have videos? I know we have moving photographs, wireless radio broadcasts… but proper videos?"
"I… don't think we do," she admitted.
"Huh. Well," I smiled, "we do now."
I tapped the screen a few times and turned it towards her.
The moment Rita saw it, she froze.
The video showed a familiar bespectacled witch standing alone in a deserted Ministry corridor, glancing around furtively before transforming into a small green beetle. The beetle then took flight and zipped straight into the Auror Offices.
I lowered the phone.
"My, my," I said softly. "An unregistered Animagus. Using her form to violate privacy laws on a near-daily basis. Libel. Defamation. Illegal surveillance. You've been a rather busy beetle, haven't you, Rita?"
She stared at me, colour draining from her face.
"…How?" she whispered.
"Preparation, Miss Skeeter," I replied lightly. "Do you really think I didn't anticipate this? You trying to make a quick galleon by dragging my name through the mud—like you have done with so many others before?"
I leaned forward slightly.
"A wise man once said that being one step ahead of the game isn't a plan. Nor two to three steps ahead. Beating an enemy's move before it's even made—now that's a plan."
I smiled.
"And if there's one thing you should know about me, Miss Skeeter… I always have a plan."
Silence stretched between us.
Rita cycled through shock, anger, calculation—and finally resignation.
"…What do you want?" she asked quietly.
"Very little," I said. "You behave like a decent human being when it comes to me, my friends, and my family. No stories about my family—ever. Any article mentioning me or my friends goes through me before publication. No anonymous 'sources'. And absolutely no creative interpretation."
She studied me.
"You're asking me to muzzle myself."
"I'm offering you the path of survival," I replied calmly. "The alternative involves Aurors blowing apart your front door before dinner—Aurors who won't be pleased to learn you've been spying on them. Or on Wizengamot members. Or the Minister. Who, incidentally, would be presiding over your trial."
"This is blackmail," she whispered.
I shrugged. "I prefer mutually assured professionalism."
She scoffed. "I see nothing mutual here."
"That's because you haven't heard the carrot yet," I smiled.
Her eyes sharpened. "Go on."
"Every once in a while, I will toss a story your way," I said.
"What kind of story?"
"Breaking news story. Headline-worthy story. The sort of story that lets you unleash your full, terrifying talent for speculation."
Her interest was unmistakable.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a spot of pink in one of the projections. I glanced at it—and saw a short, squat woman in aggressively pink robes entering the store, clipboard in hand, flanked by two broad, dull-eyed men whose posture screamed thinking optional.
My smile widened.
Turning to Rita, I said, "As it happens, one of those stories just walked in."
She followed my gaze and raised an eyebrow as she saw Dolores Umbridge beginning to interrogate my employees with a saccharine smile.
"…Are you going to do what I think you're going to do?" Rita asked.
"Most likely," I said, sending a few quick messages.
She sighed. "Very well. I agree—on one condition."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I get an exclusive interview anytime you rewrite the common sense of the Wizarding World."
I smirked.
"We'll see."
---
The temperature in the store dropped exactly three degrees.
Not magically.
Socially.
"Ahem."
That sound—the sharp, nasal throat-clearing of authority worn so thin it squeaked—cut through the hum of conversation like a curse that smelled faintly of parchment and disappointment.
A couple of my employees turned toward the entrance.
Standing just inside the doors was Dolores Umbridge, clad in aggressively pink robes, her lips stretched into a smile that had never once meant kindness in its entire career.
Behind her trailed two broad-shouldered Ministry wizards in regulation robes, wands already half-raised and faces set to 'we have been told not to think'.
"Well," Umbridge said brightly, her beady eyes sweeping the store with thinly veiled contempt, "this is… ambitious."
One of my employees smiled politely. Brave soul.
"Good morning," he said. "Can I help you?"
Umbridge conjured a clipboard with a theatrical flutter. "I am here on behalf of the Ministry of Magic. Concerns have been raised regarding this establishment."
"What kind of concerns?" I asked, descending the glass staircase.
I made sure not to bring Rita with me. No need to spook Umbridge with a loaded poison-quill lurking at my shoulder. Rita remained upstairs, watching through the security feeds, her Quick-Quotes Quill probably setting speed records.
Let Umbridge dig her own grave.
Her smile sharpened as she turned toward me. "Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean, Mr Carter."
She tapped the clipboard sharply.
"You are operating without the appropriate licences, permits, and regulatory oversight required for the sale of enchanted artefacts."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Umbridge snapped her fingers.
The two henchmen stepped forward.
"I am hereby ordering the immediate seizure of all devices pending Ministry investigation."
I looked at her calmly.
"No, you're not."
Her smile twitched.
"What did you say?" she asked sweetly.
I reached into my inner pocket and withdrew a slim folio, opening it with deliberate care.
Licences floated into the air.
Official parchments.
Stamped seals.
Layered enchantments.
Manufacturing permits.
Retail permits.
Experimental magic clearances.
Cross-departmental exemptions.
International trade approvals.
Most of them glowed softly with unmistakable Ministry seals.
"I am fully licensed," I said, gesturing to the display. "In triplicate. Filed with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Department of Mysteries, the Wizengamot Registry, and Gringotts Arbitration."
Umbridge glanced at the documents and sniffed.
"These could be forgeries. I don't recognise some of these authorisations," she said primly. "Which means they are invalid."
"Ah," I said mildly. "Then this is about ignorance, not legality."
Her cheeks flushed.
"How dare—"
"I would advise you to leave," I said evenly. "Before you embarrass yourself."
Her eyes hardened.
"Seize them," she snapped.
The henchmen lunged.
They made it exactly one step.
Then froze—mid-stride, mid-breath, faces contorted in sudden panic.
I hadn't raised my wand. Hadn't lifted a finger. I hadn't even spoken.
Since my transformation, magic responded to intent as easily as breathing. Simple spells required nothing more than mental focus. More complex work still needed preparation—but this?
This was effortless.
"I don't recommend touching my property," I said mildly. "Or my staff. Or my customers."
The store was silent.
Then the front doors swung open.
I smiled.
Lord Cyrus Greengrass entered first—tall, composed, wrapped in the quiet authority of old money and older magic. Lady Aurora Greengrass followed, eyes cool and assessing. Behind them came Mum and Dad.
All eyes turned toward Umbridge and her immobilised minions.
"Everything all right, son?" Dad asked.
Umbridge spun, seizing the moment like a drowning woman clutching driftwood.
"Auror Carter!" she snapped. "Perfect timing. I am ordering you to arrest your son for illegal magical commerce and resisting Ministry authority."
Lord and Lady Greengrass raised brows. Mum's expression darkened. Dad looked at Umbridge, then at me, then back at her.
"No," he said flatly.
Umbridge spluttered. "Excuse me?!"
"I said no," Dad repeated, voice cold. "You have no jurisdiction here, Madam Undersecretary. And what you're attempting is unlawful seizure."
"You will obey this order!" Umbridge shrieked. "Or I will see to it that your career is ruined!"
"I'd be very interested to see how you do that," said a new voice.
Amelia Bones stepped inside, followed by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks—the latter sporting short, spiky bubblegum-pink hair and looking around the store with undisguised wonder.
Umbridge went pale.
"Madam Bones," she forced a smile. "How… nice to see you."
Amelia's gaze swept the scene: frozen henchmen, floating licences, then me. She sighed.
"Dolores Umbridge," she said evenly, "you are under arrest. For abuse of authority, attempted illegal seizure of private property, harassment of a licensed magical enterprise, and ordering Ministry personnel to act outside their remit."
She turned slightly. "Shacklebolt. Tonks. Take her away."
"This is OUTRAGEOUS!" Umbridge screeched as the Aurors moved. "You can't do this! I'll have your job!"
Amelia looked unimpressed.
"After the stunt you just pulled, Dolores, I'd be more worried about your job," she said.
The Aurors escorted Umbridge out, her shrill protests echoing all the way down Diagon Alley. Her goons were dragged after her.
As the doors shut, the store exhaled as one.
"Good riddance," Mum said. A ripple of chuckles followed.
"I knew this invention of yours would attract hungry eyes, Benjamin," Lord Greengrass said thoughtfully. "But even I'm surprised at just how quickly."
I smiled and turned to Amelia.
"Thank you for your assistance, Madam Bones."
She nodded once.
I turned to one of my employees. "Roxie. The case, please."
Roxie beamed and returned with a large reinforced case. I handed it to Amelia.
"As discussed—premium Wiphone package for the DMLE," I said. "Tactical invisible earbuds and smart glasses included."
She accepted it carefully. "Thank you, Mr Carter. Payment will be transferred within three days."
I nodded.
"Well," came a familiar voice from the staircase, "that was quite the show."
Rita Skeeter descended, drawing immediate frowns from several newcomers.
"Ministry Undersecretary arrested in broad daylight," she mused. "I can see the headline already—assuming I'm allowed to write it."
I met her gaze.
"If I didn't want you to write it, Miss Skeeter, you wouldn't be here," I said calmly. "Write your article. Just make sure Umbridge gets exactly what she deserves."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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