After dinner, Harry and Ron decided they couldn't just let Hermione go on like this.
She was Miss Know-It-All, after all—how could she stay in such a slump?
The two of them tiptoed to Hermione's door, shoving each other in hesitation, neither daring to go in first.
Ginny couldn't stand it anymore. She strode up and gave them both a firm push, sending them tumbling straight into the room.
"Ahh—!!"
Her push was a bit too strong—Ron stumbled forward and smacked his leg against the bedframe with a loud thud.
The noise snapped Hermione out of her daze.
Ron scrambled to his feet, while Harry just stood there like an awkward idiot, elbowing Ron.
"Ahem… Hermione, are you okay? Did.. did John forgive you?" Harry tried, attempting some verbal finesse.
At the sound of John's name, Hermione's eyes reddened, and she turned her head away.
"Mate, you had to mention John," Ron muttered, exasperated.
Harry looked mortified—after all, it was because of him that things between Hermione and John had fallen apart.
Especially now that they knew John had only drawn out that fragment of soul from Harry's body to stop his headaches… Hermione felt even more guilty toward him.
Seeing that Harry was useless, Ron had no choice but to step up himself.
Ron took the apple pie Ginny handed him and walked forward cautiously, testing the waters. "Mum made apple pie," he said softly. "I brought you a piece."
"Thank you, Ron." Hermione wiped the corners of her eyes and accepted it.
Harry seized the chance to move closer. He and Ron exchanged a glance, then discreetly looked toward the silver pocket watch and parchment resting on the desk.
"I respect your choice. Before the scales tip, no one will ever know the weight of the heart and the feather."
That was all the letter said.
Ron couldn't understand how such a single line could leave Hermione heartbroken for an entire week.
Harry was just as lost.
The delicate silver lily-engraved watch ticked quietly, its second hand moving with soft precision.
In the stillness, Hermione stabbed the apple pie with her fork until it turned into a mess of crumbs and filling.
"John asked me something in the library," she said blankly, eyes unfocused as she mutilated the pie. "He asked—if one day I had to choose between him and you, Harry… what would I do?"
Harry and Ron stayed silent, listening.
"I panicked at the time," Hermione murmured.
She lowered her head, her expression hidden, voice heavy with sorrow.
"I told him no… that it would never happen."
Gone was the confidence and composure that always defined her—what remained was a fragile, aching tone that made both boys' hearts tighten.
"I was so scared back then—scared that my friends would end up hurting each other," Hermione said softly, her voice trembling like a frightened kitten's, fragile enough to make anyone want to hold her close. "He promised me he wouldn't hurt you, Harry… and he kept that promise."
"He... he always does. He's never once broken his word." Hermione drew her knees up onto the bed and buried her face in her arms. "But I didn't do what a friend should. I didn't trust him. I misunderstood him… and I hurt him."
By the end, her muffled sobs slipped through her folded arms.
Harry sat down beside her, trying to comfort her. "At that time, I honestly thought John was going to kill me. It's not your fault, Hermione. You were just worried about me."
"If Ron were ever taken hostage, I'd do the same thing. We're best friends—that's what we do."
Ron, hearing himself dragged into the example, didn't dare argue. He just nodded repeatedly.
"No, it's not the same," Hermione said, lifting her head. Her eyes were red and swollen. "John was my first friend. He never once put up his guard around me. He never hid anything from me."
The more she thought about it, the worse she felt. John had always been honest with her.
When he bought the Firebolt, she was the first one he let try it.
Whenever she wanted to know something, he always told her—openly, directly.
About the Constellation Society, and everything else.
He had always treated her with complete trust, yet when it truly mattered, she hadn't been able to trust him in return.
Hermione felt like she'd betrayed John—her very first true friend.
The one who had once saved her life.
"This might be the last gift I ever get from him." Hermione lifted the delicate silver pocket watch engraved with a lily.
In the end, neither of the boys were of any help. Seeing that they were only making things worse, Ginny decided to take matters into her own hands.
She kicked them both out of the room.
By the next morning, Hermione finally came out... and, bafflingly, threw herself into her studies with even more intensity than before.
Harry and Ron were completely lost.
They were dying to know what Ginny had said to her.
Ginny just shrugged. "I told her that when she's reached the same height as John, she can apologize to him face to face."
"That's it?" Harry and Ron exchanged a look.
"That's it." Ginny crossed her arms. She'd once been in a similar place—feeling guilty over something she couldn't take back—so she understood exactly how Hermione felt.
...
At the Ministry of Magic, Arthur Weasley lingered outside Percy's office for a long time.
Whenever someone passed by, he'd pretend to be busy, shuffling papers or checking his watch.
But the truth was, he just wanted to talk to his son.
Yet every time that office door opened, he'd lose his nerve and act as though he was just passing through.
Percy didn't so much as glance at his father, continuing to busy himself with papers and reports.
After watching Arthur fidget with the same unfortunate orchid for the fifth time, Percy finally lost patience.
"Father."
Arthur froze. Percy was standing by the lift, documents in hand, looking at him with polite detachment.
Suppressing that awkward pride only a father could have, Arthur forced his voice steady. "I'd like to talk with you."
"Joanna, take these to the Auror Office," Percy said to a young witch passing by, handing her the stack of papers. Then he turned back toward his office. "We can talk inside."
He opened the door and gestured for Arthur to enter.
Inside, the room was cramped—one filing cabinet, a desk buried under neat piles of documents.
After closing the door, Percy motioned for his father to sit anywhere.
He tapped the desk lightly, clearing a bit of space.
"What's this?" Arthur asked, noticing an envelope lying there.
The silver hand emblem stamped on it made it obvious who had sent it.
"Johnny Silverhand—no," Arthur corrected himself quietly, "a letter from John Wick?"
"A banquet," Percy said casually, giving the envelope a brief glance. "What did you want to talk about?"
"I just wanted to say… I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did before." After a long inner struggle, Arthur chose the quickest path toward reconciliation.
He sighed. "I shouldn't have treated you like a child, and I shouldn't have interfered with your decisions."
"It's all in the past," Percy replied. His tone remained formal, but the stiffness in his expression had softened.
"I won't interfere again," Arthur said. "You're grown now. You should have your own judgment."
The tension that had built between them because of the Order of the Phoenix finally eased with Arthur's apology.
Deep down, he even felt proud—his son had taken part in the Death Eater arrests.
With the matter settled, Arthur left Percy's office, a weight lifted from his chest, and started back toward his own.
Halfway there, he stopped.
After the renovations, his new office was quite close to the Auror Department.
From the doorway, he could hear voices inside.
"An invitation to the Silverhand Banquet?" said Lippi, now a member of the Auror training program, in astonishment.
Auror Office Director Oz Hild was holding the letter, and Lippi spoke with open envy: "That's Lord Johnny Silverhand's dinner party! Only the wealthy and powerful get invited—looks like you've finally made it!"
"The food there is prepared by the best chefs in the country, and the wine—none of it costs less than a hundred Galleons," Lippi said knowingly. "But those are secondary. The real power lies in the connections gathered there."
"I heard Minister Crouch himself attends, along with a number of high-ranking officials and nobles."
From the way Lippi spoke, it sounded less like a dinner party and more like a ticket into the upper echelons of wizarding society.
As she was still gushing with envy, an Auror handed her an envelope stamped with the Silverhand seal.
Lippi's eyes went wide with delight. She was so ecstatic he nearly broke into an awkward little dance on the spot.
At the last Silverhand banquet, Director Oz had gone—and not long after his return, she'd been promoted.
If Lippi could attend this time, maybe her own career would take a leap forward too.
Outside the door, Arthur Weasley's expression darkened.
"Johnny Silverhand's influence within the Ministry is… astonishing."
She hadn't imagined that someone his son's age could build such a vast and terrifying network of power.
...
At the Silverhand Estate, night had fallen. One by one, the usually unseen nobles and high officials of the wizarding world began to arrive.
This was Oz's second time attending, while Lippi had once worked here as a security guard.
Tonight, Lippi wore her best set of robes, every inch of her radiating nervous excitement and importance.
From the 1st floor of the manor, John stood overlooking the guests. A silver mask covered his face, concealing any trace of expression.
After reporting the names of the attendees, Tommy quietly withdrew.
Kim Jin stepped forward, standing beside John. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"They're all wolves," John replied calmly. "Greedy, bloodthirsty. They need the right kind of incentive to stay united."
"Some of them once courted Voldemort," Kim said, his gaze flicking toward a few of the pure-blood families below.
"Heh, for profit, nothing more," John said with a faint, knowing smile. "Voldemort now is nothing but a crippled dog. Whatever he can offer, I can offer. And what he can't, I can still provide."
A cold glint flashed in John's eyes. The leverage in his hands was enough to make these avaricious wizards cling to him with desperate loyalty.
He wanted to see, among them, who were the clever ones—and who were the martyrs.
________
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