Hogwarts' John Wick

Night fell, and Privet Drive was quiet.

Apart from the occasional meowing of stray cats and the sound of cars passing by, there was little noise.

Previously, Vernon Dursley's booming voice, yelling at Harry, could often be heard. Tonight, however, there was an unexpected harmony.

Apparently, Vernon had come to understand the gap between himself and wizards. John had made it clear to him: not attending school didn't mean Harry couldn't use magic.

"If you push him too far, he might just hang around casting spells on you all day. That'd be the end of you," John had warned.

Down in the basement, John was busy with his own matters. His parents had long grown accustomed to his habits over the past few years.

The basement had been renovated and was becoming increasingly sophisticated. John had even installed a fireplace connected to Johnny Silverhand's office in Knockturn Alley.

On the table sat a vial of magical blood, along with three additional bottles.

The first bottle contained something that could loosely be described as blood, extracted from a Boggart.

The second bottle held unicorn blood, generously donated by Weiwei the unicorn.

The third bottle was blood from a bird-snake raised by Hagrid.

John stared at the three bottles in deep thought. His fingers brushed past the unicorn blood.

Despite its allure, he decided the risks were too great.

The image of Professor Quirrell's ghastly appearance in his first year remained fresh in his mind. For now, experimenting with unicorn blood was a risk he wasn't willing to take.

The bird-snake's blood was intriguing, particularly because of its ability to alter its size depending on spatial conditions—a trait potentially linked to spatial magic. But for the moment, John didn't see an immediate use for it.

John was far more intrigued by the Boggart. Its impressive shapeshifting abilities, combined with its powers resembling Legilimency, made it a fascinating subject.

In the end, John chose the Boggart's "blood." The small swirl of black mist in the bottle shifted constantly, and upon contact with the vial of magical blood, it quickly fused with it.

Almost immediately, the magical blood began to change.

Its color shifted from red to light blue, then to black, and finally back to red.

The consistency transformed as well, going from liquid to something resembling a misty vapor.

"This is the first time I've seen magical blood like this," John muttered, shaking the bottle lightly. The reddish mist swirled within, almost alive. He wondered if it could even be consumed safely.

For now, he set it aside. Turning his attention to the candle on the desk, he lit it.

The candlelight illuminated the room, and the nearby scrying mirror suddenly emitted a piercing sound as it spun rapidly.

The Eye of Truth—a warning signal. Someone had entered the house.

John tapped lightly on the desk, and the items laid out on it neatly packed themselves into two large chests.

With the desk cleared, a projection of starlight emerged, displaying a detailed floor plan of the Wick household.

On the map, a single set of footprints was moving in the living room. John narrowed his eyes. This was a tool he had devised by combining the Human Presence Charm with tracking spells, inspired by the Marauder's Map.

His parents had gone to greet the uncles, so the intruder was clearly none of them.

John zoomed in on the footprints, revealing the image of the black wizard with the missing half of his nose.

Watching the black wizard fumble around, not even reaching for the wand at his waist, John smirked.

"Tsk, tsk. What a coward," he muttered, shaking his head.

The black wizard jumped in fright at the sight of a fake owl perched in the living room. John couldn't help but chuckle as the intruder hesitantly reached out to pinch the owl, only to realize it wasn't real. His disbelieving expression was almost comical.

John, however, quickly grew bored of the farce. He tapped on the tea table icon on the projected map.

In the living room, the tea table transformed into a much larger version of Tom. With a single leap, it pounced on the black wizard, sinking its teeth into his foot.

"W-What!?"

Crunch!

Screeeeeeeeam!

The sound of bone snapping filled the room, followed by the black wizard's agonized scream.

John then tapped on the sofa icon. The living room sofa stood up, its armrests morphing into fists that began pummeling the intruder mercilessly.

Dazed and battered, the black wizard finally seemed to remember he was a wizard. He pulled out his wand and began to mutter an incantation—

Only for a flying slipper to land squarely in his mouth, gagging him.

As he choked, the sofa casually removed one of its cushions and pressed it firmly over the black wizard's face.

Deprived of air, the black wizard soon passed out.

The sofa calmly returned to its original position, thoughtfully dusting off the cushion before tossing it into the laundry for cleaning, as it was now damp with drool.

The oversized tea table, transformed into a large dog, dragged the unconscious black wizard down to the basement. His head bumped against the steps with repeated thud, thud, thud sounds.

"Big Tom! Good job! Now back to your post. There'll be more visitors for you to handle tonight," John said, waving dismissively.

The dog obediently trotted back upstairs, reverting to its original tea table form.

About half an hour later, another intruder sneaked into the house.

As with the first, this one also couldn't escape the fate of being beaten senseless by the sofa and bitten by the tea table.

...

By the end of the night, The Johny Silverhand Shop's basement had four new occupants—all wizards, professional hitmen judging by their gear.

When the first black wizard regained consciousness, he found his wand neatly placed on the table in front of him.

A silver mask materialized before his eyes. The moment he saw it, he began to tremble uncontrollably.

"So, it seems you recognize me," a low, hoarse voice echoed through the room.

"H-How..." The black wizard completely broke down, collapsing to the floor in terror, his entire body shaking like a leaf.

"R-Respectable Johnny Silverhand, sir," he stammered, not daring to lift his head.

Who in the magical world didn't know that iconic silver mask?

"I found you sneaking around a Muggle's home," the figure growled, his cold gaze piercing the black wizard. "Tell me, Defoe, what were you planning to do?"

Defoe, the black wizard, had all his secrets pried out by John within less than an hour.

Trembling with fear, Defoe stammered, "Respectable Johnny Silverhand, sir, I never intended to oppose you."

"I seem to recall I set certain rules," John said, leaning lazily in a luxurious leather chair.

His voice was very calm. "You broke those rules without my consent, disregarded my authority, and now you claim to respect me?"

Defoe's body wavered as if he might collapse. Regret consumed him—why had he succumbed to the temptation of the Muggles' offer?

Johnny Silverhand hadn't eradicated the black wizards outright but had instead brought order to their chaotic and lawless market.

Most black wizards were content with this arrangement. To defy it was to risk the same fate as the rogue who'd been cast out of the werewolf community—an example none dared to follow.

"My lord, how can I prove my loyalty?" Defoe gritted his teeth, kneeling. He banged his head hard enough to bleed, tears streaming down his face, hoping his pitiful display might earn leniency.

John glanced at him indifferently and said, "Brand yourself with my mark, so I know where your loyalty lies."

The mark?!

Defoe shuddered violently.

The mark was a permanent seal of submission, an irreversible symbol of servitude.

But compared to death, it was a price he was willing to pay to survive.

Dragged away, Defoe knew his chance to oppose Johnny Silverhand had been permanently stripped away.

Still, compared to the others who were shipped off to Azkaban, he considered himself incredibly lucky.

After dealing with the black wizards, Tommy Shelby entered the room. Bowing respectfully, he reported, "Sir, the gathering in seven days has been arranged. Invitations have been sent to Lucius Malfoy, Barty Crouch, and others."

After Tommy finished his report, he hesitated slightly and added, "Rufus Scrimgeour..."

"It doesn't matter. He should understand his place. His betrayal of Johny Silverhand ensures his fate," John replied with a lowered gaze and a deep voice. "Pius Thicknesse is a clever man. He's adept at navigating relationships and, more importantly, knows his position."

Tommy bowed in agreement, then, after some thought, said, "The Ministry of Magic is planning to hold Sirius Black accountable for the disappearance of the Dementors. Should we intervene in this matter?"

John's eyelid twitched—he had almost forgotten about eliminating all those Dementors. Considering that Dementors didn't reproduce, the sudden disappearance of dozens of them must have given the Ministry quite the headache.

"Have Rita Skeeter publish an article questioning whether the Ministry of Magic can effectively manage Dementors. Use the incidents where Dementors attacked wizards at Hogwarts as examples."

Keeping his expression neutral, John was determined not to let his involvement with the missing Dementors be exposed.

Tommy nodded and went off to carry out the instructions. Once the matter was settled, it was time for John to handle another issue.

...

He returned home through the fireplace and was greeted by the sound of the front door opening.

A loud, familiar flurry of rapid-fire Russian filled the air.

Mrs. Wick was beaming with joy, while Watson looked distinctly put out.

"My dear Yadani, your Uncle Seryozha has come to visit!"

Uncle Seryozha's voice boomed through the house.

"Uncle!!"

He had a square face framed by a thick, prickly beard, a buzz cut, and broad, imposing shoulders. His hulking frame could easily pin Watson down with one hand.

And he hadn't come alone.

Along with him were John's other uncles—Andrei, Anton, and Alexei.

The moment they arrived, the unmistakable energy of their rugged Russian origins filled the house.

Unfortunately, trouble was brewing outside.

A delivery truck rolled to a stop on Privet Drive. The driver pulled out a phone and made a quick call.

"Watson Wick is back," he reported.

The voice on the other end replied coldly, "Take care of him."

The driver hung up, got out of the truck, and opened the back door.

From the shadows of the truck emerged a group of men, their expressions hard and menacing.

"Move," the driver commanded tersely.

The group began donning masks and armed themselves with iron hammers, steel pipes, and knives.

They didn't need guns to handle Watson Wick. Using firearms would attract the police, and that was a headache they preferred to avoid.

The mob began marching toward the Wick house.

The Wick family was immersed in the scene of the uncle and nephew gathering and couldn't extricate themselves.

__________

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