The Wizengamot chamber carried an air of ageless power, its stone walls etched with centuries of rulings and decisions that had shaped wizarding Britain. Torches lined the circular arena, their flames burning blue today to signify that international observers were present. Delegates from France, Germany, America, and even further afield sat in reserved galleries, leaning forward with thinly veiled interest. Everyone knew this hearing was less about Britain's internal squabbles and more about whether the future of magical communication would remain free—or be strangled by bureaucracy.
At the center of the chamber, Oliver stood with Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel flanking him like ancient, immovable sentinels. Nyx, her feathers shimmering faintly like threads of a living constellation, perched proudly on Oliver's shoulder. Even in her adolescent form, she radiated an aura that drew eyes and silenced whispers. For many here, this was their first glimpse of the mysterious phoenix, and the sight alone reminded them why this boy mattered.
Oliver tried not to fidget. His new wand, with Nyx's feather at its core, rested in a holster against his wrist, but he felt no comfort from its presence. He knew this wasn't a duel he was walking into. This was worse: politics.
Dumbledore sat just behind them, his face a carefully neutral mask, though his eyes never left Fudge. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks stood as impartial escorts at the edges of the arena, though both had quietly assured Oliver earlier that they weren't there to intimidate him. It had gone a long way toward easing his nerves—at least compared to the knot currently twisting in his stomach.
Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, stood opposite him at a polished podium. He clutched his ridiculous lime-green bowler hat in his hands like it was a talisman. Behind him sat Dolores Umbridge, her bow-laden robes nauseatingly pink, her simper fixed like a mask. She looked at Oliver with the kind of disdain reserved for dangerous animals that needed to be caged.
Madam Amelia Bones, presiding officer today, struck the staff of office against the stone floor. The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder, quieting all voices.
"This hearing of the Wizengamot is now in session," she declared. "The matter concerns the allegations of monopolization and misuse of magical resources by Oliver Night, inventor of the so-called crystal network. Minister Fudge, as petitioner, you may present your case."
Fudge straightened, chest puffing up like an overeager peacock.
"My esteemed colleagues," he began, his voice carrying across the chamber with practiced ease, "we gather here today not to diminish innovation. No! Innovation is the heartbeat of magical society. But let us not confuse brilliance with danger. What stands before us is not merely a clever child with a toy, but a boy who has, intentionally or not, placed the entire magical world at his mercy."
A ripple went through the chamber. Some Wizengamot members nodded slowly, but others raised skeptical brows.
"This… crystal network," Fudge continued, his tone sharpened, "already spans across Europe. Ministries, schools, and governments are using devices that only one wizard on this planet can create. One wizard—a child! Do you not see the danger in this? What happens when such power is abused? What happens when Oliver Night, or those guiding him, decide who may speak and who may remain silent?"
Murmurs rose, louder this time. Oliver bit the inside of his cheek, keeping his expression steady. He knew Fudge was playing to fear. That was all politicians ever did when cornered.
Fudge seized on the reaction. "Furthermore, let us not ignore the facts: this boy controls the sole supply of phoenix tears used to power these devices. This is the definition of a monopoly! And worse still, he has chosen to favor foreign nations over his own people. France has their network. Spain has theirs. Even the Americans are soon to follow. But Britain, the very country of this boy's birth, has been left in the dust!"
Now there were sharp whispers, tinged with indignation. Umbridge's smile widened like a toad spotting a fly.
Fudge leaned forward, voice booming. "Are we truly prepared to entrust the future of wizarding communication to the whims of one eleven-year-old? To give a child more power than entire ministries combined? It is irresponsible. It is dangerous. And it must be stopped before it grows beyond our ability to control."
He finished with a dramatic flourish, placing his bowler hat on the podium as though it were the final nail in Oliver's coffin.
Amelia Bones inclined her head. "Thank you, Minister Fudge. The floor is now open for response."
All eyes turned to Oliver. His mouth went dry, but Nicholas's gentle hand on his shoulder steadied him. Perenelle gave him an encouraging nod, her sharp eyes daring anyone to so much as breathe wrong at her grandson.
Oliver stepped forward. His voice, when it came, wasn't booming like Fudge's, but clear and steady.
"I won't stand here and pretend I'm not young," he began, drawing a few startled chuckles from the gallery. "I am. I'm still learning, still growing. But my age doesn't make the truth any less true. And the truth is, I didn't create the crystal network to control anyone. I made it because I saw how much better things could be."
He reached into his satchel and lifted one of his prototype phones, holding it high for all to see. The sapphire embedded in its design glimmered faintly under the torchlight.
"These devices aren't about power. They're about connection. A father in France can speak to his daughter in Egypt without waiting weeks for an owl. A Healer in Spain can consult with a colleague in Germany in minutes, not days. Aurors can coordinate across borders instantly. This isn't about control. It's about saving time, saving lives, and making the world smaller in the best possible way."
He lowered the phone, meeting the gazes of the Wizengamot one by one. "Yes, I'm the only one who can make them right now. But that's not because I'm hoarding the process. It's because of Nyx." He tilted his head, and the phoenix let out a melodic trill that made several members gasp. "Her tears are unique. They power the network. Unless someone else finds a phoenix like her, I am the only one who can provide this resource. That isn't monopoly—it's reality."
A low rumble of agreement spread through the chamber. Fudge's smile faltered.
"And as for Britain being left out," Oliver continued, his voice gaining confidence, "that was never my intention. The rollout started in France because I live with my guardians there during the holidays. The network is spreading outward, and Britain is part of that plan. It takes time to set up something this big, and I would think even the Minister of Magic understands that."
Laughter rippled through the galleries, quick and biting. Fudge flushed, gripping his bowler hat like a lifeline.
Oliver pressed on. "The truth is, Minister, you're not afraid of me having power. You're afraid of not being the one who controls it. But the phones don't belong to Britain or France or even me, really. They belong to everyone who needs them. That's why I designed them with different versions—cheaper ones for everyday families, more advanced ones for businesses or governments. Everyone can have one, no matter their station. Because communication isn't just for the rich. It's for everyone."
Now the chamber erupted with murmurs, many nodding, some clapping before being silenced by Amelia's raised hand.
Fudge tried to rally, standing straighter. "Fine words from a boy, but words are not law. What safeguards are in place? What protections exist to prevent abuse? He admits himself—only he can decide who gets these devices. What happens when he denies them to those he doesn't like?"
At this, Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice soft but carrying across the chamber like a spell. "That is a concern easily answered. Oliver's patents, filed and recognized internationally, already include clauses ensuring his rights and responsibilities. One of which explicitly states that any attempt to coerce or seize his intellectual property would be tried as bloodline theft, an offense punishable by the Wizengamot itself."
Gasps filled the chamber. Even Oliver blinked—he hadn't realized that clause had already been filed, though he remembered Penny mentioning it briefly during the paperwork.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly. "In addition, Oliver retains the right to refuse business at his discretion. A safeguard, yes, but also a reminder that respect is mutual. One does not demand the fruits of innovation while spitting upon its creator."
Fudge sputtered. "This—this is outrageous! Are we to enshrine favoritism into law?"
"No," Amelia Bones cut in sharply. "We are to enshrine protection against exploitation. Unless you would prefer a world where innovation is punished by theft, Minister?"
The chamber roared with laughter this time, and Fudge's face went the color of a beetroot.
Oliver exhaled slowly, Nyx trilling encouragement at his ear. For the first time since stepping into the chamber, he felt the tide turning in his favor.
Fudge's fingers drummed furiously on the podium, his eyes darting from Amelia Bones to the rest of the Wizengamot as though desperately searching for an ally. But the reaction in the chamber made it clear: the tide had already shifted. He cleared his throat, voice pitching higher than before.
"You cannot possibly expect us to allow one boy to dictate the terms of international communication! It sets a dangerous precedent. Today it is Oliver Night—tomorrow, who knows? Every child with a clever invention could walk in here demanding sovereignty over the world's systems. This is not governance. This is chaos!"
A grumble of dissent rippled through the chamber, but it wasn't directed at Oliver—it was at Fudge. Even those who had come in skeptical of Oliver's power had seen enough evidence of his intentions, his guardians' oversight, and the clear benefit of his work to make Fudge's words ring hollow.
Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, his voice once again quiet but firm. "Minister, you forget yourself. The Wizengamot does not punish innovation. It safeguards it. Were we to strip Oliver of his creation, we would send a message that progress is not welcome in our world—that anyone who dares to create must also fear theft from their own government. Is that the message you wish Britain to send to the international community gathered here today?"
The international delegates shifted in their seats, murmuring among themselves. A man from the French delegation gave a sharp nod of agreement. The American representative smirked. Even the German witches whispered to each other, jotting quick notes on enchanted parchment. Fudge, for the first time, looked like he realized just how badly this was going.
Oliver took a slow step forward, emboldened by the weight of silence pressing down on Fudge. His voice was calm but carried with conviction.
"I didn't come here to take anything away from anyone. I came here because I was told I had to defend myself, and I've done that. The truth is simple. The network is already making life better for thousands of witches and wizards across Europe. And it will make life better here in Britain too. You can resist it. You can insult me. But you can't stop it. Not unless you find another phoenix willing to lend you its magic. And if you do—then good. Compete with me. Make something better. I'd rather share this race than run it alone."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, firm and unyielding.
Whispers spread quickly through the chamber. Even members of the Wizengamot who had been ambivalent earlier now leaned forward with interest, their gazes softening as they regarded Oliver not as a child but as an inventor, a businessman, a wizard standing his ground against the Minister of Magic himself.
Fudge's mouth opened, then closed again. He had no rebuttal. No clever phrasing. No weapon left but desperation.
Dolores Umbridge, who had remained silent until now, stood abruptly, her saccharine smile plastered across her face. "If I may interject—surely the Wizengamot must consider that this child is being manipulated by his so-called guardians. The Flamels, ancient and powerful, have everything to gain by hiding behind the image of a sweet, innocent boy. What guarantee do we have that they are not the true hands pulling the strings?"
A hiss of disapproval rose from the French delegation. Perenelle Flamel's eyes narrowed dangerously, her voice sharp as steel. "Madame, if I wished to dominate the world's markets, I would have done so centuries ago. I do not need a child to hide behind. We are here because Oliver is our family. We support him because we believe in him. Nothing more, nothing less."
Nicholas added, his tone calm but commanding, "And let us not forget—without Oliver's phoenix, none of this would be possible. Neither Perenelle nor I can summon such a companion. Only Oliver could."
Umbridge faltered, her smile trembling. She glanced at Fudge for support, but he had sunk into his chair, sweat beading on his forehead.
Amelia Bones raised her staff again, calling for silence. Her gaze swept the chamber. "We have heard both sides. It is clear that Oliver Night has presented his invention in good faith, with provisions already established to prevent misuse. It is equally clear that this invention provides undeniable benefit to wizarding society at large."
She paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. "Therefore, the Wizengamot acknowledges the validity of Oliver Night's patents and affirms his rights as sole proprietor and innovator of the crystal network."
Oliver felt a rush of air escape his lungs, a weight lifting from his shoulders. But Amelia wasn't finished.
"Furthermore, let it be entered into record that any attempt to coerce, force, or otherwise strip Oliver Night—or his descendants—of these rights shall be considered bloodline theft, punishable under the highest laws of wizarding Britain. In addition, Oliver Night retains the right to refuse business to any individual, organization, or government at his discretion. These protections shall extend as long as the Night line endures."
The chamber erupted in applause. Even some of the sternest, most traditional Wizengamot members clapped their hands against the arms of their chairs. International delegates whispered furiously, already calculating what this would mean for trade, for communication, for politics.
Fudge stood frozen, his bowler hat crushed in his grip, his face pale as parchment. It was over. He had lost, and not just in Britain—the world had seen him fail.
Oliver turned, meeting Dumbledore's eyes. For once, his uncle didn't wear a cryptic smile. Instead, there was something warmer, prouder, hidden in those blue depths. Nicholas placed a steady hand on Oliver's shoulder, and Perenelle's lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. Nyx trilled from her perch, the sound echoing like a victory song through the chamber.
Amelia Bones brought down her staff once more. "This hearing is adjourned."
The torches dimmed, signaling the close of session. Wizengamot members began filing out, still murmuring to one another, while international representatives hurried to pen reports home. The gallery buzzed with excitement. Oliver barely moved, his body buzzing with adrenaline, his thoughts racing with what this meant.
For the first time since stepping into the chamber, he let himself smile fully. Not out of arrogance, but out of relief—and pride. He hadn't just defended himself. He had carved a place for himself in the wizarding world.
As the chamber emptied, Fudge remained slumped in his chair, Umbridge whispering furiously in his ear. Neither of them looked at Oliver. Neither could. And Oliver, for his part, didn't spare them a second glance. He had won.