Tver didn't mind and began to wander leisurely around the shop.
Dervish and Banges were among the most famous alchemists in the British wizarding world, though they rarely identified themselves as such. Most people simply thought of them as the proprietors of a small magic supply shop.
And indeed, their store was modest in size, focusing mainly on practical magical tools. Its reputation couldn't compare to the likes of Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop or Zonko's Joke Shop, both known for their playful and entertaining products.
If not for the Fawley family records detailing the Dervish family's legacy and their authentic alchemical heritage, Tver wouldn't have chosen to come here at all.
The other half of the shop was filled with Quidditch gear. Besides some repair scissors, he also noticed a few strange-looking Golden Snitches. Everything Tver knew about Quidditch came from Viktor, yet even he could tell that Snitches didn't normally look like these.
Some had wings resembling dragon bone spurs, others were shaped like birds, and there were even square ones. Curious, he picked up the bird-shaped Snitch. It seemed to come alive at once, flapping its wings weakly in his hand and trying to lift off, but it never quite managed.
It reminded him of a toy plane from his previous life that had run out of battery.
"These are old experimental Snitches," said Dervish, who had finished talking with Banges. While Banges tidied the shelves, Dervish approached Tver. "Made by one of my ancestors—many generations back, I'd imagine. Clearly, they weren't adopted."
"Guest, I'll need to know your identity," Dervish continued, gesturing to the badge in his hand. "Mass-producing this kind of item… apart from the Ministry of Magic, I can't think of any legitimate organization that would need it. The Dark Force Defence League, perhaps?"
Tver knew the group he was referring to—a loose alliance of wizards opposed to dark magic. In truth, its members were not closely connected, and the organization lacked any real cohesion. Still, its members did have methods of identifying dark magic, and Tver had no interest in inviting unnecessary trouble.
"Allow me to introduce myself," Tver said, giving a courteous bow. "Tver Fawley, Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. These tools are for my students."
"Ah—!"
Dervish drew in a sharp breath. "You're the new professor from Durmstrang?"
"Oh?" Tver raised an eyebrow. "You know of me?"
Dervish's body tensed for a brief moment before he managed a slightly ingratiating smile. "Of course. The Fawley family name is well-known to us. Besides, Hagrid often comes by to drink and play cards."
Tver shrugged casually.
"In that case, you can make these badges, can't you?"
He could understand Dervish's hesitation. If an illegitimate group used these badges to commit crimes in the wizarding world, the shop would inevitably share the blame. People on the side of justice always had more scruples. In Knockturn Alley, however, as long as you had the money, you could get anything you wanted.
"If it's for you, there's no problem," Dervish replied respectfully, handing the badge back. "How many would you like us to make?"
The Fawley family had produced a former Minister of Magic—Tver's grandfather—though his political career had ended after only ten years. Even so, the Fawleys remained a prominent pure-blood family.
Tver did a quick calculation. There were about eighty students per year, so for three years, he would need roughly two hundred and forty badges. The first-years wouldn't need them yet, but it wouldn't hurt to prepare ahead of time.
"I need two hundred and forty badges. You can deliver them in three batches—just give me eighty each time."
Big business!
Dervish's eyes lit up instantly.
As for whether Tver could afford it? You were underestimating the wealth of pureblood families. Even the Weasleys, as poor as they were now, had once been prosperous.
"I do need time to craft them. Based on the schedule, the first batch will take about two months. Once I get the hang of it, subsequent orders will be faster," Dervish said excitedly.
That meant November—earlier than Tver's teaching plan required. He nodded decisively in agreement.
After discussing a few more details, Tver dropped eighty Galleons on the counter and left.
One Galleon per badge, two hundred and forty in total. Not expensive—just two months' salary for him, a real bargain.
Besides, it earned him a connection with the alchemists Dervish and Banges.
The world's largest Centre for Alchemical Studies was in Egypt, where most alchemists lived. In Britain, these two brothers were practically the only ones. Borgin & Burkes from Knockturn Alley were also decent alchemists, but Tver had little regard for them.
Back on the main street, there were far fewer people now, and most of the shops were preparing to close. Compared to the bustling nightlife of Muggles, wizards' evenings were downright dull.
In an age when Muggle technology was advancing rapidly, the wizarding world seemed frozen in time. Aside from the usual newspapers and periodicals, there was little to entertain people—perhaps a rare bit of music on occasion.
Such was the state of the magical world.
Lagging behind.
Tver hadn't planned to stay, but then he spotted a familiar figure on the side of the street.
Quirinus Quirrell.
His signature large scarf was tucked beneath a wide hood, his face hidden in shadow, only his chin faintly visible. But the stench of Voldemort clinging to him was unmistakable—even from across the street.
That aura of evil was all too familiar to Tver.
He pulled out a black cloak from his bag—a constant companion—and, imitating Quirrell, covered his own face.
A little tip: whether you're a dark wizard, a light wizard, or something in between, learning to conceal your appearance is the first step in surviving the real world.
Tver could even use Human Transfiguration to subtly alter his appearance—a skill his teacher had mastered—but there was no need for that now.
Following Quirrell, Tver trailed behind him and another man as they entered a shabby little pub.
The Hog's Head.
It was a narrow, rustic place—so narrow that a dozen people inside made it feel packed with a hundred. The windows were coated with centuries of grime, barely allowing any light through. The same filth clung to the tables, chairs, and even the floor.
Here, hiding one's face was nothing unusual. Except for people like Hagrid, who couldn't conceal themselves even if they tried, nearly everyone wore hoods or veils.
When Tver walked in, no one paid him any attention.
Only the Hog's Head's owner approached, his expression indifferent—not as though welcoming a customer, but more like addressing a nuisance.
"What can I get you?"