Barty Crouch Sr. liked being friends with Johnny Silverhand.
Because he was straightforward, and because he was genuine.
Just like the ti Johnny had bluntly told him to his face that he wanted to undermine Dumbledore's authority—no hesitation, no evasion—and had laid out the very real benefits to back it up.
Barty knew Johnny Silverhand was an ambitious and cunning man.
But so what?
There was a ti when Barty had considered keeping his distance. But the benefits... they were just too tempting.
Just like now—Johnny Silverhand was offering to renovate the Ministry of Magic for them.
And the Ministry wouldn't have to spend a single Knut to get a completely new building.
No need to worry about the budget. No proposals, no paperwork regarding renovation expenses.
Which ant—if Barty were the greedy type—he could even pocket the entire budget for himself and no one would know.
Barty couldn't help but wonder, what could Johnny Silverhand possibly gain from this?
The answer was: nothing.
Not a thing.
He couldn't see any advantage Johnny would get out of this—no publicity, no profit, not even much in the way of reputation.
Why, then?
Johnny Silverhand was a businessman—an ambitious one.
"Lord Silverhand," Barty Crouch Sr. stared at the mask, trying to read sothing from the eyes behind it, "what are you really after?"
"I an.. Even if you're incredibly wealthy, this kind of thing holds no aning for you."
He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Don't tell it's because you want to be friends with . My son is in your hands—that alone is enough to keep in line."
Don't underestimate Barty. He knew full well their relationship was based entirely on mutual benefit.
He looked up earnestly, eting Johnny's eyes. "Tell —what is it you truly want?"
John fell silent for a mont when he heard the question.
"You really want to know, Barty?"
"If you don't tell , I'm afraid I'll start harboring suspicion, fear, and unease," said Barty—a man like him, saying sothing like that.
John gave a hoarse laugh, then glanced down at the silver ring on his finger.
When he looked up again, he slowly raised a hand to his mask.
He was going to take it off?!
Barty's eyes widened. Even as the Minister of Magic—he couldn't help feeling a wave of nervous tension.
Slender fingers slowly lifted the mask away.
Barty Crouch Sr. forgot to breathe, staring fixedly at the young face revealed beneath.
The pale, gaunt cheeks, the brown eyes he had seen so many tis before—paired with that face, they made Barty feel disoriented.
"We've t before," he murmured. "Yes… during last year's Triwizard Tournant. I rember you."
"Heh~ Indeed." Silverhand chuckled.
"John Wick." The na ca out with difficulty, as if reality itself had beco surreal.
Of course.
Who would've thought that a student at Hogwarts and the infamous Johnny Silverhand—
Were the sa person.
Two people with no apparent connection.
No—there was a connection.
Barty's back was drenched in cold sweat. It felt like waking from a dream in a sudden drop.
The confusion in his eyes gradually cleared.
They both possessed imnse power.
In that tournant, that Hogwarts student had cleaved the Black Lake in half with a single sword strike.
They both possessed astonishing intelligence.
The Order of rlin, Second Class, was the best proof of that.
They both had the sa friend.
Damocles Alex Belby.
So that was it — so many things they had in common.
Barty's eyes grew brighter and brighter, until at last a terrifying thought crossed his mind.
Johnny Silverhand, who had never shown his true face, why would he suddenly remove his mask?
In the wizarding world, there were countless ways to control a person.
Perhaps he simply thought there was no need to hide anymore.
Because his son was in his hands?
No, that wasn't right!
That alone wasn't secure enough; he might not necessarily submit.
Then why?
Could it be… the Imperius Curse?
That cool clarity from uncovering the truth turned into a chilling cold.
Barty Crouch Sr.'s hand slowly moved toward the pocket where he kept his wand.
This was the Second King — Johnny Silverhand.
Did he really stand a chance?
His fingers brushed the wand, and even a hardened, battle-tested man like Barty could feel his heart pounding uncontrollably.
Strike first, or wait?
The dilemma paralyzed him.
Sweat dampened his temples, and his palm was slightly slick.
"No one would've guessed… it was you," he said hoarsely, eyes locked on that familiar face.
"Exactly as planned." John, anwhile, set the mask down, every move he made tugging at Barty's nerves like a taut string.
Glancing at Barty's tensed-up fra, John slowly stood.
At that mont, Barty's senses sharpened to the limit, blood vessels visible in his eyes. "Why?"
But just as Barty braced for a strike, John said calmly, "This is my show of sincerity, Barty. I'm dying."
For a mont, Barty thought he must have misheard.
He looked up in disbelief at that pale, youthful face.
"W-What did you say?"
"I'm dying, Barty," John said, spreading his hands with a helpless expression. "It shouldn't be that hard to tell."
As he spoke, he unfastened the buttons at his collar.
On one side of his neck, black veins stretched across his skin, overtaking that body.
Barty couldn't tell if he felt relieved or shaken.
His usually stern face showed a rare, unguarded shock.
"You're dying?" Barty rubbed his eyes hard, until the rims turned red like a panda's.
"Yes," John grinned, "that's why I took off the mask."
Thinking it over, Barty realized it did make sense.
He had considered so many possibilities — just not this one.
He let go of his wand, and with a tone of deep emotion, said, "You… you're still so young."
"Isn't that why people are afraid of ?" John leaned back in the chair, seemingly unafraid of death.
"So you want to do sothing for the Ministry in your final days?" Barty was unexpectedly moved, surprised by such generosity. "How much ti do you have left? If you're willing, I can have a statue erected for you in the Ministry."
"Pfft~ I think you misunderstood." John buttoned his collar back up, shaking his head as he watched Barty moved by his own thoughts. "I'm not doing this out of so sudden burst of kindness."
"Then what are you doing it for?" Facing a dying man, Barty showed more than enough patience.
John said in a low voice, "An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Against Tom Riddle… Voldemort."
Barty clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms without him even noticing.
He stared hard at John, who t his gaze calmly.
"So I want you to lend the Ministry for a while. In return, the renovation is free."
"Do you even hear what you're saying?" Barty frowned deeply. "You want revenge on the Dark Lord and you're asking to borrow the Ministry?"
He was starting to feel like maybe John's illness had pushed him past reason.
Borrow the Ministry?
Was that sothing that could even be borrowed?
In all of magical history, there had never been such a thing.
"Voldemort wants sothing in the Ministry. He'll co for it."
John turned the ring on his finger, eyes glinting with a convincing light. "This is a deal. And it's your chance, Minister Crouch."
He didn't address him as "Barty," but used the formal title instead.
Barty's expression twisted with conflict, a thoughtful glint flickering in his eyes.
"To convince ," he said, "you'll need to offer enough chips on the table."
His current standing was already enough to make him a respected Minister. If the Ministry fell, everything would be ruined.
He looked at that young face, and couldn't help but imagine—if this person lived to see twenty, the entire wizarding world would bow before him.
But sadly, Barty himself had once earned an 'O' in Potions back at Hogwarts. He could tell John would never live that long.
He even mocked himself a little—for still calculating benefits, even when faced with a dying man.
Maybe he really was just a cold, selfish man.
Just like the way he treated his son—he was hardly fit to be a father.
John, hearing him, spoke with calm certainty, "You know the Stardisciples are mine, and the Security Squad is equipped with the 'Zhi' series."
"They're powerful, yes. But we're talking about the Dark Lord," Barty stared at John. "That's not enough."
John chuckled lightly. "What if I add the Savior and Dumbledore?"
Barty fell into deep thought—one had defeated Voldemort before, and the other was the man Voldemort feared the most.
John went on, "The Order of the Phoenix—it's an organization no less formidable than the Death Eaters. You know that."
Barty's expression shifted several tis before he finally let out a heavy breath.
"I choose to trust you, Johnny Silverhand… no, John Wick."
John rose to his feet and shook hands with Barty.
"You won't regret this, Minister Crouch."
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