The morning light streamed in through the tall windows of the Flamel residence, turning the parchment spread across the long dining table into golden sheets. Oliver sat between Nicolas and Penny, his legs dangling from the chair, a quill tucked awkwardly behind his ear. His manuscript—the battered collection of pages he'd carried from the orphanage—was now spread open, with magical notations scribbled in the margins.
"You see, Oliver," Nicolas explained, running a finger down a page that described Zeus's lightning bolt, "when you write of divine power, wizards will naturally compare it to ancient enchanted relics. We don't want your readers confused. Adjusting the terminology will make the world you've built feel both foreign and familiar."
Oliver nodded, wide-eyed. "So it's still mine—just a little more… understandable?"
"Exactly," Penny said warmly. She tapped the margin with her wand, and the phrase weapon of the gods shimmered before reforming into artifact of celestial magic. "Your story remains the same, but now it sings in our tongue."
They had been working like this for days, Oliver leaning over while Penny adjusted words with practiced precision and Nicolas added flourishes that tied the tale into magical lore. They never changed the heart of what he'd written—just reshaped it, ensuring that the wizarding world would see the story as something born of wonder rather than nonsense.
When they were finally satisfied, Penny stacked the freshly enchanted manuscript neatly and patted the pile with her palm. "There. Ready for its first true home."
Oliver stared at it, the familiar pages now glowing faintly under charmwork. It didn't feel like something a lonely orphan had scrawled late at night under candlelight. It looked… real.
The French Wizarding Publishing Center stood in the middle of Paris, disguised as an ordinary library to the eyes of passing Muggles. Its outer walls were ivy-clad stone, windows tall and arched. But once Oliver followed Penny through the enchanted doors, his breath caught.
Inside, the place buzzed with organized chaos. Quills scribbled across floating stacks of parchment, editors shouted in French over contracts, and owls zipped from desk to desk carrying signed documents. A giant enchanted clock on the far wall ticked in rhythm with the scratching of hundreds of quills, keeping everyone in pace.
Oliver clutched the manuscript to his chest, feeling horribly small among the whirl of robes and voices. Penny walked briskly ahead, her posture sharp, every inch the confident negotiator. Nicolas trailed behind at an unhurried pace, serene as ever, though Oliver noticed how other wizards gave him quick glances of recognition and parted to let him pass.
They entered a polished oak conference room where two publishing executives waited. Their robes were dark, their quills ready. One of them, a man with a sharp nose, smiled thinly.
"Ah, Monsieur Flamel, Madame Flamel," he greeted smoothly in accented English. His eyes flicked briefly to Oliver, but he didn't bother to hide his skepticism. "And this is the… young author?"
Oliver shifted uncomfortably, but Penny's hand on his shoulder steadied him.
"Yes," she said crisply. "Oliver D. Night. His manuscript has already proven popular among Muggles. What we are here to discuss is its translation and distribution to the wizarding community."
The negotiations began immediately. The executives proposed the standard: forty percent of sales revenue to the author, the rest to publishing, printing, distribution, and advertising.
Oliver's stomach sank. Forty percent sounded like a fortune to him, but Penny's face didn't move. Instead, she leaned forward, her eyes sharp as cut glass.
"Unacceptable," she said.
The room went silent.
Penny continued smoothly, "You are not negotiating with a desperate child. You are negotiating with the Flamels standing behind him. This book is already circulating among Muggles. You are not offering sole rights—you are offering a translation license. Without us, you lose access to a market that already exists."
The sharp-nosed man blinked, momentarily thrown. His partner frowned, shuffling through the contract notes.
Oliver sat frozen, clutching the manuscript tighter. Penny's voice was calm, but it cut through the room like a blade.
At that moment, Nicolas entered quietly, having stepped out for tea. He set his cup down and seated himself beside Oliver. The executives stiffened, their gazes darting to him.
"Ah, forgive my lateness," Nicolas murmured. He looked at the manuscript on the table, then at the men. "My wife is correct. You will find, gentlemen, that this is not a favor you extend to us. It is an opportunity we extend to you."
The weight of his words settled like stone. Everyone in the wizarding world knew Nicolas Flamel. His support was priceless.
Oliver, cheeks hot, dared to glance up. For the first time, he felt the balance shift in the room—not against him, but in his favor.
The negotiations stretched on. Offers were made and dismissed, percentages argued over, parchment filled and vanished in puffs of smoke as contracts were rewritten. Oliver didn't understand half of it, but he understood Penny's unwavering tone, Nicolas's calm counterpoints, and the growing unease of the men across the table.
By the end of the second hour, the deal was struck.
Eighty-five percent of all future revenue would go to Oliver. The remaining fifteen percent would be split among publishing, printing, promotion, and advertising.
Oliver blinked at the numbers, hardly believing them. "Eighty-five?" he whispered, stunned. "For me?"
Penny squeezed his hand. "For your work. For your voice."
Nicolas nodded approvingly. "Do not be surprised by what you are worth, Oliver. Merely accept it—and live up to it."
The executives, pale and subdued, signed their names. Penny guided Oliver's hand as he added his own shaky signature to the glowing contract. The parchment folded itself neatly and vanished with a snap of magic.
Oliver sat back, dazed. The room seemed to tilt, his heart racing. For the first time, his dream wasn't just paper and candlelight scribbles—it was alive, carried into the world by more than his own hands.
When they left the publishing center, the winter sun was dipping low, painting the Paris streets in gold. Oliver clutched the now-charmed copy of his manuscript close as they walked.
"So fast?" he asked breathlessly. "They said… a week?"
"Yes," Penny confirmed. Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "In less than seven days, children will walk into bookshops across wizarding Europe and find your story waiting for them."
Oliver's throat tightened. He thought of the orphanage, of how no one had ever believed he could make anything of himself. And now…
He hugged the manuscript tighter, smiling faintly as Nyx hummed from her perch on his shoulder, feathers glinting in the sunlight.
This was only the beginning.
The carriage ride back from the publishing center was quiet at first, the wheels humming gently over cobblestones. Penny sat with her gloved hands folded neatly, her gaze on the fading light outside. Nicolas, unbothered, sipped his tea from a self-heating cup he always carried with him, calm as the river.
Oliver sat between them, staring down at his lap where his manuscript rested, still glowing faintly from the sealing charm. He felt like if he blinked too long, it would vanish, as though this day had been a dream conjured up by his own restless hopes.
"Eighty-five percent," he murmured, half to himself. "That's… that's more than I could ever imagine. It's… it's too much."
Nicolas chuckled quietly, setting his cup aside. "On the contrary, my boy. It is only the beginning. Wealth, if earned fairly, is not something to shy from. It is a responsibility. What matters is how you use it."
Oliver shifted in his seat. "I don't even know what I'd do with money like that. I mean… I never had anything before."
Penny's gaze softened, her hand coming to rest gently over his. "Then this is your chance to build something. Something that belongs to you, Oliver. Don't think of the number. Think of the doors it will open for you. For your music. For your dreams."
Her words sank into him like sunlight. For the first time, Oliver felt the faintest tug of excitement rather than disbelief.
When they returned to the Flamel home, the air smelled of herbs from the greenhouse, warm and comforting. Oliver excused himself almost immediately, retreating to the quiet of his room. He set the manuscript on his desk, lit a candle, and just stared at it.
He remembered nights back at the orphanage, hunched over parchment while the matron shouted at the other children to be quiet. He remembered stealing bits of wax from half-burned candles, dripping wax across the page because his quill shook too much in the cold. He remembered thinking that nobody would ever read the words but him.
And now, in a week, strangers across magical Europe would hold his story in their hands.
He sat heavily on the chair, the weight of it pressing into his chest.
Nyx rustled her feathers from her perch on the windowsill, tilting her head at him. Her sky-blue eyes gleamed faintly, reflecting the candlelight.
"You knew, didn't you?" Oliver asked softly. "That it wasn't just… just scribbles. That it mattered."
The Phoenix gave a low hum in answer, a sound that vibrated through the air and into Oliver's bones.
He leaned back, exhaling shakily. "I don't even know what to feel. Happy? Scared? Both?"
Nyx fluttered down, landing gracefully on the desk. She tapped the manuscript once with her beak, then looked at him again. It was as though she were saying: Don't think of what comes next. Think of what you've done already.
Oliver smiled faintly. "Yeah. One step at a time."
Later that evening, Nicolas found Oliver still in his room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his guitar across his lap. He wasn't playing—just idly plucking single strings, the notes drifting aimlessly.
"May I join you?" Nicolas asked, leaning on the doorframe.
Oliver shrugged but gestured for him to come in.
The old alchemist lowered himself onto the rug with a soft grunt. For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the random notes filling the space. Finally, Nicolas spoke.
"When I wrote my first text," he said, his voice thoughtful, "I was terrified. Not of failing, but of being seen. Of knowing that people would look at what I had made and find it lacking. Do you feel that too?"
Oliver's fingers stilled on the strings. "…Yeah. Exactly that. What if they think it's stupid? What if I look like a fool?"
Nicolas's eyes crinkled kindly. "Then you will write again. And again. Until the world can no longer deny that your voice deserves to be heard."
Oliver swallowed, the lump in his throat tightening. "…You really think people will like it?"
"I think," Nicolas said gently, "that your words carry a truth no critic can erase. And truth has a way of finding those who need it most."
Oliver looked down at his guitar, strumming a chord that echoed warmly in the room. For the first time, the fear loosened, just a little.
By bedtime, Oliver felt lighter. He tucked the manuscript under his pillow, almost like a talisman. Lying on his side, he whispered into the quiet: "In less than a week, they'll know me."
Nyx shifted from her perch to the foot of his bed, feathers glinting faintly in the dark. She let out a low hum, like a lullaby, and Oliver drifted off to sleep.
At breakfast the next morning, Penny passed him a cup of hot cocoa and smiled knowingly. "A week will come sooner than you think, Oliver. And when it does, the world will be listening."
Oliver nodded, holding the warm cup close. For once, instead of dread, he felt anticipation buzzing under his skin. He didn't know what the future held—but for the first time, he was eager to meet it.
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Hello All Dead3nd here,
I wanted to get a 50 deep commentary going. How's everyone liking this fic so far? Any suggestions on songs that we want the MC to "make". Anywhere we want him and the Flamels to visit. I'm already planning on taking them on a trip to America to visit Newt and Tina but i'm open to any place. we could go Magical Creature hunting to catch them all, or we could make him a superstar in many different languages. This can all be heavily influenced by leaving comments to steer the Fic in the right direction.
Kindest Regards,
Dead3nd