It was common knowledge that America was the most "peaceful and friendly" place in the world.
Their Muggles were all kind, polite, and spoke ever so sweetly—especially those hip-hop prodigies who liked to show half their backsides and carried human "conversation tools" for convenient, on-the-go communication.
It was a land of freedom and friendliness.
The American wizarding world wasn't quite as "free" as its Muggle counterpart, but it was no less dangerous.
During Grindelwald's rise, America had been one of the many places visited by the Dark Lord himself.
So when word spread that Grindelwald had resurfaced, Silverhand Johnny's Specialty shops saw a surge in sales.
The American Auror Office wanted to collaborate just as the British Ministry had—purchasing equipment through official channels and at government pricing.
The local branch was overseen by Lady Serpent, though she operated largely in the shadows.
The Aurors had long tried to find something they could use against her, but District Thirteen had long since become an impenetrable fortress.
Even brute force couldn't bring it down.
Left with no better option, the American Ministry decided to take a different approach.
John, of course, was happy to oblige.
For new customers, he was never stingy with discounts.
The condition was that Silverhand Johnny's equipment would be legalized in the American market.
The American Minister for Magic hesitated at first—but that very night, several high-ranking Ministry officials found their homes mysteriously filled with gleaming piles of gold Galleons.
By morning, their opinions had shifted dramatically.
They now insisted that, with Grindelwald's reappearance, legalizing magical equipment would help the public feel safer.
Their reasoning, coupled with the Minister's own surprise gift—a pure gold owl that had "somehow" appeared at his residence the previous day—was enough to push the proposal through.
Thus, Silverhand Johnny's District Thirteen branch officially became a legally recognized business.
Of course, retail prices were three times higher than what the Ministry paid.
The Ministry's procurement officers began quietly buying extra stock and reselling it on the black market under their own names, earning quadruple profits.
Soon after, Gilderoy Lockhart arrived at the Silverhand Johnny store.
As a constant fixture atop the wizarding world's trending lists, Lockhart brought with him immense fan appeal.
He was not only a famous author but also a loyal, long-time user of the "Of" series.
John invited him to become the official spokesperson, promising that his fame would open doors across every European nation.
For a man as vain and fame-loving as Lockhart, this was a dream come true.
Still, he hesitated. His public image was that of a powerful wizard—if he openly used "assistive devices," wouldn't that tarnish the persona he had so carefully built?
"Think about it, Gilderoy." John walked up beside Lockhart, draping an arm over his shoulder. His voice was low, deep, carrying an almost hypnotic allure.
The two stood by the window, gazing down at the bustling chaos of Knockturn Alley below.
"Soon, America will be just like this," John murmured. "Your portraits will hang outside the Ministry of Magic for public display. Remember that golden statue taller than a man outside Silverhand Publishing?"
At the mention of that pure gold likeness of himself, Lockhart's eyes turned dreamy.
"When the time comes," John continued, raising his right hand to sketch the image in the air, "you'll stand upon the grandest fountain in the Plymouth Enclave—'Dedicated to the greatest author, the most dazzling smile, Gilderoy Lockhart.'"
Lockhart's mind was already awash with visions of his monument gleaming under the American wizarding sky. "Yes… yes, that would be wonderful," he murmured, entranced.
"Gilderoy," John said with a quiet chuckle, "even powerful wizards need allies. Just as Dumbledore has his Order of the Phoenix, you'll have Johnny Silverhand—clearing every obstacle in your way."
"All right, all right," Lockhart raised both hands in surrender, utterly seduced by the vision. "I admit it—you've made it impossible for me to say no."
"I'll have the design studio craft you a new image," John said smoothly. "In this darkened age, the wizarding world needs someone like you to give them hope, Gilderoy."
He had turned a marketing campaign into a crusade against the Dark Lord—one meant to give the public a sense of safety, and Lockhart, a sense of divine purpose.
Now fired up like a man possessed, Lockhart rolled up his sleeves, ready to lead the people out of darkness.
Gilderoy Lockhart feared nothing—except perhaps the thought of his smile not winning awards or his fan count dropping.
Back in his school days, when Voldemort's name inspired terror across the land, Lockhart had still dared to mimic him—casting his own giant likeness into the sky like the Dark Mark itself.
A man like that was as fearless—and as foolish—as any true Gryffindor could be.
But to his credit, Lockhart was a Ravenclaw and did possess one bit of wisdom—he never once doubted John's decisions.
Kim stood there, dumbfounded, watching Lockhart rehearse his speech over and over again, swishing his robes dramatically before finally sweeping out of the Silverhand Johnny office.
"That's the Dark Lord we're talking about," Kim said in disbelief. "And you convinced him just like that?"
John merely shrugged. "Everyone in this world is moved by something—fame, power, wealth, or glory."
Indeed, there wasn't another man alive who would agree to endorse anti–Dark Lord equipment while two Dark Lords were still roaming free.
Fame, power, wealth, legacy—those were the four pillars that drove ambition.
To win renown, to protect the people, to wield influence, to amass fortune—no one could resist having at least one of them.
And for Lockhart, this was the perfect opportunity—to boost his own fame while pretending to serve the public good.
He couldn't have been more delighted.
...
Lockhart wasted no time. That very night, he summoned his image management team and ordered a full redesign of his wardrobe.
His previous look had been ostentatious and elegant, but the new one featured a crimson cloak and a weathered wand—making him look like a valiant knight fighting against darkness.
The new design also incorporated Silverhand's "Of" series elements.
He even embedded a range of Silverhand Johnny accessories into his costume designs.
A wooden dog that never shed fur, wizard's chess pieces that could guard one's home.....
And decorative wooden shields that could, in truth, repel unwanted guests.....
One by one, these new products hit the market, rapidly selling out through serialized promotional stories.
A week later, John noticed that the Silverhand Alchemy Workshop was rushing production day and night.
Meanwhile, Lockhart was making passionate, inspirational speeches at every event imaginable, spreading the craze overseas.
The Daily Prophet's front page was filled with his name:
"A Book Written for the Rise of Wizards — Gilderoy Lockhart's New Series Breaks Sales Records Once Again!"
Merlin only knew what went through Harry's mind when Mrs. Weasley proudly brought home a wooden husky from the market.
It looked exactly like the one that had bitten Dumbledore at the Dursleys' house.
Even Mr. Weasley couldn't help grumbling, since that little dog had cost half a month's salary.
Ron's jaw dropped. "Why is it so expensive?"
"This is the rare signed edition!" Mrs. Weasley declared, her eyes shining—she was a die-hard Lockhart fangirl through and through.
Harry glanced at the dog's collar and spotted Lockhart's signature carved there. He recognized it instantly—it was the same handwriting from when Lockhart had made him co-sign fan letters back in second year.
Clutching Lockhart's latest book to her chest, Mrs. Weasley said dreamily, "Buying the limited edition also gets you a ticket to Gilderoy Lockhart's autograph and handshake event."
"His hands aren't made of gold," Ron muttered with perfect sarcasm.
Bill shook his head. "Actually, they kind of are."
"?" Ron and Harry both looked utterly baffled.
Bill went on, "Fleur said Lockhart had a custom gold glove made—pure gold."
Well, poverty had its limits—Ron couldn't even begin to imagine how heavy a solid gold glove would feel.
At the mention of Fleur, Ginny's expression instantly soured at the table.
"That clingy phlegm," Ginny muttered under her breath.
"Ginny," Bill said sternly, "don't talk like that."
"Fine," Ginny replied half-heartedly.
But Harry caught her lips moving again in silent protest.
He knew why she disliked Fleur—Fleur's older-sister attitude always made her treat Ginny like a child.
Worse still, ever since the Ministry incident started, Ginny and Fleur had been butting heads more often.
Ginny was talented, no doubt—but Fleur was simply on another level, and that was something Ginny refused to accept.
Although that incident had ended with neither the Order of the Phoenix nor the Constellation Society suffering any losses, the fact that Bill was now dating a member of the Constellation Society still made the Weasley family uneasy.
Dumbledore didn't object to their relationship—in fact, whenever he saw Fleur, he even smiled kindly.
Unfortunately, Fleur never returned that smile.
Mrs. Weasley, for her part, worried that Fleur would disrupt the family's harmony.
Mr. Weasley said nothing, though he saw things more clearly than most.
He understood that Dumbledore's approval of Bill and Fleur's relationship likely stemmed from a desire to ease tensions with the Constellation Society.
As a man skilled in alchemy, Mr. Weasley knew exactly what that rejuvenating substance truly meant.
If it ever spread beyond control, it could ignite a new war in the wizarding world.
And on a larger scale—if the Muggle world ever learned of it—they would lose their minds.
Rejuvenation. Immortality.
Who wouldn't desire the Holy Grail?
So Mr. Weasley chose to turn a blind eye, remaining neutral on the matter.
After a while, their conversation faded. Harry looked upstairs with worry in his eyes.
"Ever since Hermione got that letter back from John, she hasn't come downstairs once," he said quietly.
Ron had no idea what was written in that letter either—Ginny and Hermione shared a room.
"She doesn't talk, doesn't read," Ginny whispered. "Just buries her head under the blanket all day."
"What did that letter even say?" Ron murmured, his voice unconsciously low.
Ginny shook her head. "No one knows. She never showed it to anyone."
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