Ludwici left, and Tommy entered soon after.
"People from the Goyle and Crabbe families wish to see you, My Lord," he reported.
"They must be here for their foolish sons," John said evenly as he unfolded the list, his gaze sweeping down the nas until it paused on the Rozier entry.
Tommy shrugged. "During the last battle at the Ministry, both were captured and sent to Azkaban."
"In exchange, they're offering part of their holdings in Diagon Alley."
Pure-blood families were dwindling—an inevitable trend.
Their intermarriages could preserve the purity of blood, but they could not reverse decline.
These ancient families controlled much of the wizarding world's comrce, monopolizing industries to maintain their status.
But when forced to choose between their wealth and their heirs, they would always choose their heirs.
John t with the two heads of the pure-blood houses.
After a round of negotiation, he obtained ownership of a cauldron shop and shares in Literati's Corner.
In return, he agreed to petition the Ministry to commute the two Death Eaters' sentences from life imprisonnt to fixed terms.
The family heads thanked him profusely. John gestured for them to co closer.
When they ca closer, John placed a hand on each of their shoulders, pressing down lightly until the taller one bent forward.
"My help is for friends," he said softly. "Not everyone gets this kind of chance. As for your people—I don't want those foolish minds of theirs clinging to another man. I dabble with soul magic. Heh~ Even in the wizarding world, there are ways to deal with the dead."
Cold sweat drenched their backs as they nodded repeatedly, promising they would make sure their kin understood reality.
If nothing else, they could keep them confined at ho and focus on raising the next generation properly.
John gave each of them a firm pat on the shoulder and dismissed them, leaving the two n pale and shaken.
More visitors followed—each from families with relatives imprisoned in Azkaban.
John selected a few of them, those who had sided with Voldemort out of opportunism, seeing him as a kind of high-risk investnt.
Now that Voldemort had fallen, those were the ones who regretted it most.
John accepted what they offered, while the true fanatics—the ones who would never turn back even after slamming into a wall—remained in Azkaban.
"Minister Crouch is here," Tommy said as he entered quietly. "He brought sothing."
John raised an eyebrow, and a mont later, Barty Crouch Sr. appeared, carrying a plain, unadorned box.
"Barty, should I have your son brought up?" John asked, reading the hesitation in the man's expression.
"No, that won't be necessary... Lord Silverhand" Barty Sr. frowned as he set the box down. "Alia has been attacking your enterprises in the council. She claims they're disrupting the fabric of society."
John spread his hands helplessly. "My friend, you don't agree with her, do you?"
"If I didn't know the true face beneath your mask," Barty Sr. said.
A man who had built a vast fortune by the age of fifteen—by the ti John took power, Barty suspected he himself would already be long retired.
"Sigh.. I can't afford to attend such banquets these days," Barty added, casually explaining his absence. "As Minister, it's best not to be seen getting too close to certain people."
"Quite right," John agreed, snapping his fingers. Golden-trimd crystal glasses appeared on the table. He rose, walked over to the cabinet, and retrieved a bottle of golden "Constellation." He gave it a little shake and smiled. "Private collection."
When he uncorked it, a rich, heady fragrance filled the room. Even Barty couldn't help but praise it. "This sort of thing can only be found in your possession."
John poured two glasses. The mont Barty took a sip, he felt the faint surge of magic coursing through his body—an oddly pleasant sensation.
"I can send you a bottle," John offered casually as he sat back down. "Though my stock is running low."
"Ah.. that won't be necessary then." Barty declined, not wanting anyone to think he indulged in luxury.
They drank, exchanged a few pleasantries—then John steered the conversation to the real matter: the sentencing of several Death Eaters.
Barty's brow furrowed, his expression souring. "I don't recall you ever taking an interest in such affairs."
John, ever perceptive, knew that ddling in the Minister's authority would only push Barty to the opposite side.
So he spoke plainly. "Of course not. The heads of several families ca to ."
Barty gave a small, knowing laugh. "Do they think Johnny Silverhand can work miracles?"
"Have you ever heard of a Muggle amusent park?" John asked, ignoring the tone behind Barty's laugh and steering the conversation elsewhere.
"Amusent park?" Barty Sr., fluent in over two hundred languages and well-versed in Muggle studies, naturally knew what that was.
"I want to build one—or, more precisely, an entertainnt complex," John said, snapping his fingers. Dozens of sheets of parchnt flew off the bookshelf and floated neatly in front of Barty.
Barty picked them up, scanning through the pages. His brows furrowed and relaxed in turn.
As he read on, his expression shifted—thoughtful at first, then faintly intrigued.
Seeing the timing was right, John continued, "This plan could boost trade tax revenue and stimulate dostic magical tourism."
"And," he added with a pleasant smile, "I don't intend to do it alone. It will be a joint project between Silverhand Aesthetics Architecture and the Ministry of Magic. All I need from the Ministry is a plot of land. As for the funding…"
John pushed a separate list across the table, smiling. "They've already paid it on behalf of the Ministry."
Barty's expression shifted several tis.
The wizarding world was, in truth, backward in many ways. For instance, it still maintained a kind of "atonent fine" system—by donating enough money, one could mitigate or even escape punishnt.
Lucius Malfoy, for example, had avoided Azkaban after Voldemort's first fall through a mix of wealth and a conveniently tid Imperius defense.
But ever since Barty took office, that loophole had quietly disappeared under his strict administration.
Now, with John dangling the prospect of a magical entertainnt complex before him, even the iron-willed Minister found himself wavering.
"If I set a precedent, it'll be hard to control what cos after," Barty muttered, almost tempted to light a cigarette to think.
"Actually, it's not without a solution," John said, seeing his hesitation and offering help like a thoughtful friend. "What if they've done sothing… comndable?"
"Oh?" Barty raised an eyebrow.
"Old Goyle and old Crabbe have a decent son. At Hogwarts, he helped misdirect Voldemort's attention while passing along information from his ranks."
John laced his fingers together, his tone aningful. "That could be considered service in atonent."
"Hmm.. They'll need to serve two years in Azkaban," Barty said after a pause, lifting his eyes to et John's. "That's for your sake."
"I'm honored," John replied with a smile, raising his glass.
Changing a life sentence to two years—what a favor indeed.
Barty left with the entertainnt complex proposal, while John picked up the gift box the Minister had left behind.
"A proud father to the end," John murmured, noticing the new clothes clearly ant for Barty Jr. He carried the box to the garden and handed it to him.
Barty Jr. gave it a cold glance, his face unreadable—it was impossible to tell if he liked it or not.
The rift between father and son in the Crouch family wouldn't heal so easily.
Even after being cleared of all charges, Barty Jr. still chose to stay in the garden, tending to his work in silence.
Perhaps, deep down, he despised the father whose only title was Minister.
It might take that—until the day Barty Sr. finally steps down—before Barty Jr. can ever truly let go.
...
Grimmauld Place, the old Black family ho.
"Get back to your hole, Kreacher!" Sirius roared.
Kreacher touched his nose to the staircase and slowly rolled himself down, inch by inch, until he disappeared beneath the stove in the kitchen.
The sight made Hermione wince with pity, though Harry felt nothing but cold indifference—for that creature had nearly cost him everything.
"Sirius!" Harry rushed forward to embrace his godfather. "Are you all right?"
"Just a bit sore in the ribs," Sirius said with a grin, returning the hug. "Haven't seen you for a month—you've shot up again."
He greeted Hermione and Ron warmly before adding, "Dumbledore's inside. We've had word—Voldemort's been seen abroad."
Unlike Mrs. Weasley, Sirius never tried to cage Harry. He believed his godson could handle adventure, maybe even needed it.
If Molly Weasley overheard that, she'd likely start yelling all over again.
Harry glanced toward the door. Behind it, Dumbledore sat with Lupin and several others.
"I'd better go," Sirius said, slipping inside and closing the door behind him.
Ron frowned. "Was that… Mundungus Fletcher I just saw?"
"What's so strange about that? He's a mber of the Order," Harry said dismissively.
"I thought he'd been kicked out," Ron muttered. "He got caught stealing last ti."
"Yes, but maybe he had his reason? Or Dumbledore would never welco him again—"
"He's neck-deep in debt," Ron added with a sneer. "Used to brag about his gold teeth—sold every last one of them."
"Harry, Ron, let's go check on Kreacher," Hermione interrupted, clearly uninterested in Mundungus's financial situation.
She felt compelled to look after the poor house-elf.
Knowing how sympathetic Hermione was toward house-elves, Harry and Ron reluctantly followed.
They stepped into the kitchen but didn't see Kreacher anywhere.
After calling his na twice, they finally spotted him crouched beneath the stove.
The sight of such miserable living conditions made Hermione's heart ache.
Harry, however, didn't feel the sa pity. He had no patience for the elf's foul mouth and cruel mutterings.
As he glanced around carelessly, sothing under the stove caught his eye—a small box that looked oddly familiar.
________
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