Chapter 1325 Effort Does Not Equal Reward
into the night,
The humble dwelling was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the cold darkness outside.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of roast chicken, gravy, and fresh bread, but it couldn't mask the tense atmosphere.
Arthur sat at the table, the food in front of him barely touched.
His face bore an unmistakable weariness, and the knuckles of his fingers gripping the knife and fork were slightly white. The third edition of the Daily Prophet lay beside him, its front page featuring a somewhat stiff photograph of him.
Sitting opposite him was his third son, Percy, who hadn't been home for a long time.
He was dressed in the Ministry of Magic’s standard black robes, the collar buttoned up perfectly, and sat upright, as if he were still in his office.
There was a newspaper in front of him, but his gaze was fixed on his father Arthur's face, his eyes behind his glasses showing confusion and deep thought.
With her back to the father and son, Molly busied herself stirring a pot of thick soup in front of the stove.
Percy's sudden return home filled her with joy, but Arthur's unusual silence and the eerie atmosphere brought by the newspaper weighed heavily on her mind.
“The department’s arrangements… are always unexpected.” Arthur finally broke the silence, trying to explain his promotion.
Percy adjusted his glasses but didn't reply immediately.
As the assistant minister, he was all too familiar with the workings of the Ministry of Magic and with Fudge's style of doing things.
Such a high-profile report on Arthur's "heroic deeds" is definitely meant to conceal something significant.
“I heard,” Percy said in a low voice, making sure only his parents at the table could hear, “that a cloud of black mist swept through the department, and there was a face on it.”
Arthur tightened his grip on the fork.
He glanced at his wife's slightly frozen back, then met his son's gaze.
In those eyes magnified by the lenses, he didn't see the blind worship or envy he expected, but rather a kind of pain and a desire for confirmation.
Percy has changed a lot, ever since Vincent became a wanted man.
“Sometimes, Percy,” Arthur’s voice was lower and heavy with weariness, “what the newspapers say is not what actually happened. I just happened to be there and unknowingly became part of the lie.”
These words were so blunt that Percy couldn't help but tremble slightly.
Vincent is not the kind of person who would deliberately spread curses, much less harm innocent people.
Arthur's words confirmed his worst suspicions: the "promotion" and "glory" were tainted with lies, sacrificing a person's innocence.
Molly turned around abruptly, tears streaming down her face. "Arthur! Don't say anymore... Percy finally came back..."
“Mom,” Percy interrupted her, unusually, his voice trembling but his gaze fixed on Arthur across from him, “I need to know, I… I work in the department, I thought I knew the rules, knew how to…”
He paused, but didn't say "make a name for yourself" or "protect this family".
He pointed to the newspaper, then looked at Arthur's slightly pale face. "If even right and wrong, truth and justice, can be like this... I... why should I still..."
Arthur put down his knife and fork and let out a long sigh.
He looked at Percy, his eyes no longer reflecting a father's tolerance for his child, but rather the gaze between two people struggling within the system, yet with different ideas.
That look silenced Percy; he felt an unprecedented sense of absurdity and suffocation.
He worked so hard, strictly adhered to every rule, and did his best to complete every task, believing that achievements and experience were stepping stones to advancement.
He longed for a promotion, but his father got it done simply by lying.
He believed that "effort equals reward," but reality negated all his efforts.
"Why?" Percy asked, his head bowed, his face filled with confusion and pain. "Dad, why don't you... tell me?"
Arthur smiled bitterly, his smile appearing utterly desolate in the dim light. "If I were to say it out loud, or even show any sign of it, I would become a thorn in Fudge's side, rendering last night's sacrifice and Vincent's painstaking efforts to shoulder everything alone futile."
His voice was softer, yet heavier, “Percy, sometimes the hardest thing is not facing the enemy on the battlefield, but outside the battlefield, knowing that the truth has been distorted, yet having to endure the disgust and play the role assigned to you, in order to protect more people you want to protect, or to ensure that the efforts of those braver people are not wasted.”
He looked at Percy, his gaze seemingly penetrating through his always-shiny glasses to see the struggle in his son's heart: "I know you work hard in the department, wanting to climb the ladder, wanting to gain a voice through the rules, and that's not wrong, son, not wrong at all. Many people have done it this way."
Percy looked up and gained a new understanding of this man whom he had privately considered somewhat "impractical" and "uninformed about departmental politics."
“But,” Arthur’s tone suddenly became extremely serious, and he leaned forward, “look at me now, remember this feeling, and as you climb up, make sure you see clearly with every step you take whether what you’re stepping on is a real staircase or a temporary sand dune built with lies and the sacrifices of others.”
Don't be like us... adults who sometimes have to compromise, knowing full well that there might be no way forward, or that the road is crooked, but because we've already come too far, because there are too many things we can't let go of, we can only close our eyes and keep moving forward.
Percy sat there, as if his body was nailed to the chair.
This is not a reprimand, nor is it encouragement; it is a hard-won lesson learned through blood and tears.
This was not the office politics or paperwork he was familiar with, but a darker, more complex, and more courageous choice concerning humanity and morality.
……
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Meanwhile, London's wounds are being soothed by another force.
Large lighting equipment illuminated the damaged area as bright as day, and amidst the roar of construction vehicles, workers skillfully replaced broken glass, repaired sidewalks, and washed away the last traces of dirt.
Above the night sky, several owls carrying the fourth edition of the Daily Prophet swooped down and flew into a bar in Charing Cross Road that Muggles couldn't see: the Leaky Cauldron.
The slightly tipsy wizards clutched the newly delivered newspapers, whispering amongst themselves:
"Merlin's beard! Hundreds of Muggles died in one night? All for some so-called performance?" The middle-aged wizard gasped, his face filled with disgust.
The elegantly dressed old witch shrieked, "I told you long ago that Wayne was a strange fellow, just like Grindelwald. Look, he's really become a menace!"
“But…” a young witch hesitated, “My uncle’s Muggle neighbor was on Oxford Street during the day, and he said he saw Wayne save many people.”
“Foolish!” the wizard next to her immediately retorted. “Didn’t you read the newspapers? That’s a disguise for dark magic! What do Muggles know? They don’t even understand how they fell for it. The Ministry of Magic has already made its stance clear, so what’s there to doubt?”
Many wizards nodded in agreement, and given the official narrative and the long-standing disregard for Muggle cognitive abilities, the Daily Prophet's description seemed "reasonable."
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