"I want you to heal Mrs. Weasley."
After Harry said this, the Constellation Society fell silent, leaving only the sound of clouds rolling across the dome overhead.
He looked at John nervously. The poison afflicting Mrs. Weasley was extremely difficult to cure.
Even the Potions Master, Snape, had only been able to shake his head and say it would require further research. It was a vicious, deeply malicious curse.
And Harry only wanted to try—try his luck before an alchemist so formidable that even Slughorn could only ever cooperate with him.
Harry didn't dare look at Dumbledore's expression. He felt Dumbledore might be disappointed.
Because he hadn't used this opportunity to ask for something greater.
Yet he still chose this path. Mrs. Weasley had treated him like her own son, giving him the warmth of a mother.
He watched John's expression shift—from initial amusement, to surprise, and then to something like anger.
Anger?
Why anger?
John suppressed it, turning his head to look at Dumbledore.
"Is this what you want, Dumbledore?" John asked coldly, staring at the two of them. "Are you trying to humiliate me?"
"No! I just want to save Mrs. Weasley…" Harry hurried to explain. He didn't understand—was it that John couldn't do it, or that he didn't want to?
John laughed in anger. "Is that so? Then in your eyes, I would use Percy's mother as a bargaining chip in a deal with someone else?"
The sheer, unexpected fury made Harry feel an oppressive force that seemed ready to grind his bones to dust.
"Don't judge me with that narrow-minded view of yours, Harry Potter!" John's rage-filled words caused the starlight in the dome to vanish.
Thunder rumbled loudly as terrifying blue lightning flashed through the clouds.
Dumbledore spoke up, a trace of satisfaction flickering in his eyes. "Harry didn't mean it that way. He's simply panicking because he cares."
The pressure on Harry vanished. He hadn't expected a single sentence to provoke John's anger to this extent.
"He has never doubted your concern for your friends, John," Dumbledore said apologetically.
John closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the anger within was gone.
The dome returned to its clear state. The little golden figures, who had just been cowering beneath the table as if the apocalypse had arrived, scrambled back out and transformed once more into shimmering golden words.
"I don't want to repeat myself," John said curtly. "If you still wish to continue the deal."
Harry felt as though he'd been granted a reprieve. He'd been incredibly tense just moments ago.
As if John might suddenly turn into a fire-breathing dragon and swallow him whole.
At the same time, Harry realized he'd made a mistake.
He'd selfishly assumed that John's irritation toward the Order of the Phoenix meant John wouldn't accept any request for help.
But in truth, setting aside her status as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Mrs. Weasley was still the mother of John Wick's friend.
John was a Slytherin—he possessed every Slytherin trait.
And as the King of Slytherin, they showed limitless tolerance and indulgence toward their own.
The Constellation Society would protect Ginny within the Ministry of Magic. Malfoy would stand up for her.
To them, there was only the difference between "our people" and "outsiders."
Harry was the outsider. But Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were not.
They were Percy's beloved mother and his adorable little sister.
That, perhaps, was what people meant by caring for someone because you care for the person they love.
Now that he had John's promise to treat Mrs. Weasley, Harry finally relaxed.
So what, then, should he choose?
Harry's mind raced. He glanced at Dumbledore, but the kindly old man didn't urge him.
The Constellation Society was so quiet you could hear a pin drop as they waited for Harry's decision.
He needed to think carefully.
What was it that he—or the Order of the Phoenix—wanted most right now?
That had to be something John could provide.
Sweat seeped into Harry's palms. He wiped his hands against his trousers again and again.
His expression shifted repeatedly before a sudden spark of realization flashed through his mind.
"I want a powerful wand."
What Harry was really thinking of was Dumbledore—his wand had been taken by Grindelwald.
At those words, a change finally appeared on John's otherwise impassive face.
"A wand?"
He let out a soft chuckle. "I can agree to your deal."
Leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, John spoke unhurriedly. "Then it's time for you to pay the price."
Harry removed the golden locket from around his neck and placed it on the table.
"Please allow me to conduct some basic checks before completing the transaction."
John didn't reach for it right away. Sitting across the table, the sound that left his mouth made Dumbledore's pupils contract.
||Open it.||
It was a cold, hoarse voice.
Harry didn't notice anything unusual. To him, John was simply speaking normally.
The golden locket, which had been closed, snapped open at once. Black mist poured out, accompanied by a voice that tempted and bewitched the mind.
||Close it.||
The box shut.
It shifted from in front of Harry to John's side.
Picking up the locket, John said calmly, "The transaction is complete."
"As for that wand, I'll give you one that's powerful enough."
He snapped his fingers, and the clouds descended in an inverted, spiraling vortex.
When they dispersed, a black wand lay atop a velvet cushion.
"Crystal core. Elder wood."
"This is a wand meant for those who thrive in battle."
John picked up the wand, gave it a light flourish, and handed it to Harry, saying meaningfully, "Use it well."
Harry accepted the wand, then immediately passed it to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore looked at the wand and said, "Thank you, Harry."
He took the wand, and the moment it settled into his hand, Dumbledore could tell how extraordinary it was.
This wand amplified his magic.
"I believe our transaction is complete," John said, clearly dismissing them. "Gentlemen."
Dumbledore rose calmly, with Harry following behind him.
Just as they were about to leave, John called out to Harry.
"Take this with you, Harry."
An emerald-clear potion sat on the table. John's fingers idly brushed the golden locket as he said, "Give my regards to Mrs. Weasley."
Harry glanced at Dumbledore, then quickly stepped forward to take it.
His heart pounded wildly as he gripped the vial tightly.
After leaving the room, Harry and Dumbledore returned to the adjacent office.
…
"You made a very good choice, Harry," Dumbledore said, a kindly expression on his face.
"But, Professor… you won't blame me, will you?" Harry felt he'd acted on his own initiative. If it had been Dumbledore, he would surely have chosen something of greater value.
Dumbledore shook his head, a hint of playfulness in his tone. "As it happens, I needed this. My old wand has gone far too long without proper care."
"Besides, you helped me obtain a far more useful answer from John."
"What kind of answer?" Harry couldn't help asking.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "His attitude toward many things—and a deeper understanding of John himself."
"At the very least, we now know one thing for certain: from beginning to end, he has always been someone who values his friends. That alone makes him very different from Voldemort."
Resting a hand on the edge of the Pensieve, Dumbledore said cryptically, "Our lesson for today isn't over yet."
He took a vial from the memory shelf and uncorked it. The silvery liquid flowed into the Pensieve, forming a scene.
Within it appeared a handsome young man.
…
Among Silverhand's many industries, there was one that stood out as the least fitting within that vast commercial empire.
The Phantasmal Divination Pavilion.
So obscure that hardly anyone even knew of its existence.
It was located in a black building wedged between the Silverhand Johnny Boutique and the Alchemy Workshop.
Inside, there was only one person, respectfully referred to as the Elder.
Even Tommy had once doubted what value this so-called diviner—who looked more like a Muggle fortune-teller—could possibly bring to Silverhand.
Yet expensive liquor worth a hundred Galleons was supplied to Trelawney free of charge, and people were even arranged to pose as customers to boost the pitiful income of the divination pavilion.
Over time, Tommy handed responsibility for this place over to a witch named Yennefer.
This witch was a Hufflepuff graduate, exceptionally patient.
Today marked the seventh "actor" to enter the Phantasmal Divination Pavilion, with Yennefer stepping in personally.
She disguised herself as a confused woman and came to the divination pavilion.
Trelawney, wearing thick-lensed spectacles, had changed into an emerald-green robe adorned with small crystal balls as decorations.
It made her look almost like a proper mystic.
"Honored Elder, I seek guidance,"
Yennefer said respectfully, though in truth she was wondering whether she should buy some freshly roasted quail on her way home later.
She received no response and cautiously lifted her head.
What she saw was Trelawney, who should have been launching into her usual unreliable divination routine. Instead, her eyes had rolled back, and her entire being hovered in a hazy state between illusion and reality.
Her voice was hoarse beyond belief, like someone who hadn't had a drop of water for three days and was on the verge of dying of thirst.
A strong stench of alcohol wafted from her, startling Yennefer so badly she almost called for help.
Then Trelawney began to ramble incoherently:
"A turning point has already occurred… Ahhh… the Dark Lord is seeking servants in the darkness."
"A colossal being destroys everything. A fated enemy will slay the giant. Within the flames, the cries of new life usher in the dawn."
"The Dark Lord will die at the hands of a formidable foe. Those who touch the forbidden shall meet a grim end. The gears of fate will be thrown into chaos."
Trelawney suddenly seemed to lose her breath. Yennefer no longer bothered to keep up the act and hurried over.
The moment she reached Trelawney's side, bony, claw-like hands clamped tightly onto her shoulders. An aged, hoarse voice roared at her, "You who trample upon life—you will walk into the abyss—!"
"Abyss—cough, cough—!" Trelawney's throat cracked as she coughed twice, then looked at the witch before her, whose face was pale with terror, and asked in confusion, "Oh—why are you here, my dear?"
As if she'd seen a ghost, Yennefer tore herself free and staggered backward. Her face was deathly white, and without sparing a thought for Trelawney's question, she turned and ran out.
Trelawney watched her go, utterly baffled, unaware that the crystal ball on her table had begun to glow faintly.
________
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