Tver was still unaware of Cedric and the others' plans. After dinner, he once again set off down the path to Hogsmeade. Tonight was the date he and Quirrell had "agreed" upon.
Pulling his hood back over his head, Tver slowly entered The Hog's Head. The place was as filthy and chaotic as ever. Just past dusk, it was already packed with all manner of wizards. Hooded figures were common, but only one stood out as conspicuous as Quirrell.
He sat sprawled in the center, radiating an aura of "I am furious." Though motionless, no one dared cross him. The bartender glanced his way several times but never approached.
Quirrell wasn't truly angry. Even the Dark Lord had failed; misjudging the situation was only natural. It was just that the Dark Lord had been in a foul mood lately. Despite several incursions, he hadn't found a good solution for dealing with the Three-Headed Dog.
If it came down to a direct confrontation, he was confident he could handle the creature. The problem was, one misstep could cause an enormous commotion. This was the fourth floor of the castle, after all. Dumbledore was above, and the professors were below. Upsetting either would be difficult to explain.
So even knowing he'd likely face an outrageous demand tonight, he had to sit here obediently—waiting for this bastard to show up!
"You're early. Did you eat dinner?"
Tver casually sat across from him, utterly unfazed by Quirrell's fierce glare, which even his hood couldn't conceal. It felt like a conversation between old friends.
Quirrell placed his right hand on the table, tapping his fingernails rhythmically against the surface—a deliberate attempt to apply pressure to Tver.
"I've been anticipating this meeting for quite some time!" he declared, enunciating each word with gritted teeth.
Tver chuckled lightly and called out to Aberforth approaching from behind him, "A Butterbeer for the gentleman across from me."
Aberforth gave him a deep look before speaking calmly, "And for yourself?"
Recalling last week's Butterbeer, Tver hastily shook his head, "I'll pass."
Quirrell, however, was amused. Tver had just shown off another trick. To sense someone behind him in such a noisy environment—whether through keen observation or sheer magical perception—was beyond the capabilities of an ordinary wizard.
At least, before being possessed by the Dark Lord, he hadn't been able to do it. But now, with the Dark Lord's aid, Quirrell couldn't care less about such petty tricks. Had Tver known his thoughts, he'd likely have rolled his eyes. You're the one playing tricks.
After the brief interlude, once Aberforth had departed, Quirrell pressed on eagerly. "Name your price. Tell me the Three-Headed Dog's weakness. No one else would make this deal with you."
"I thought you'd go ask that big guy. He seems easier to talk to than me."
Tver shot back sarcastically, implying that only he would provide a straightforward answer to such a question.
Quirrell faltered. "Well then, that's perfect—one buyer, one seller. If your price is reasonable, I don't mind paying you right now."
Tver immediately held up one finger and waved it in front of him.
"No, you can't afford what I'm asking right now."
Can't afford it? Quirrell laughed again in exasperation, his loud snorts clearly reaching Tver's ears. His other hand shot up, clutching a black cloth sack. He tossed it casually, and it landed with a dull thud in front of Tver. It looked heavy.
"Ten times! Ten times last week's price! There's two hundred Galleons in here—enough to buy your life!"
Just then, Aberforth arrived carrying a bottle of Butterbeer, slamming it down in front of Quirrell.
"One Galleon."
"You're mad," Quirrell's disbelief rang out even through his hood. "One Galleon for a bottle of this? Why not just rob Gringotts?!"
Aberforth snorted disdainfully. "Back in early August, some fool tried robbing Gringotts and failed. He's still wanted now. Why would he choose to provide a comfortable spot for black market deals here?"
Quirrell fell silent, his mouth twitching. For a moment, he didn't know how to respond. Thankfully, his hood hid his awkward expression. Tver, however, found Aberforth's words amusing. Whether he'd recognized Quirrell's identity or simply made the connection by chance was unclear.
Watching Aberforth's outstretched palm, Tver pulled a gold Galleon from his money pouch and placed it gently inside. Only then did Aberforth depart, satisfied.
"Now I only have 199 Galleons left. Tell me the answer, or you won't be leaving this place today," Quirrell said stiffly. Tver simply pushed the money pouch back.
"I told you, you can't afford my price right now."
"BANG!" Quirrell slammed his hand down on the table with a loud thud. Wizards throughout the pub paused their activities, casting curious glances in their direction. Black market deals were common at the Hog's Head, but they'd never seen anyone lose their temper like this before.
Quirrell ignored the stares, his voice thick with resentment as he demanded, "Then what is your price? Let me see if I truly can't afford it!"
But Tver had no desire to remain the center of attention. He cast a Muffliato Charm over the table, sealing off the surrounding area from outside noise. Once done, he extended a finger once more. This time, instead of waving it, he wrote two words in the air, hovering half an inch above the tabletop.
"Philosopher's Stone."
As Tver moved, the words "Philosopher's Stone" appeared on the tabletop, thin as a layer of mist on glass, vanishing before their eyes the next second. But it was enough for Quirrell to see clearly.
His right hand moved subtly toward his wand, and after a deep, piercing look at Tver, his entire demeanor shifted to one of calm. "Who exactly are you? How do you know that thing exists?"
He had already made up his mind. No matter what answer Tver gave, he would find a way to eliminate this threat and prevent exposure!
Tver caught Quirrell's subtle movement and smiled easily. "If you knew of its existence, why couldn't I, you little fool who failed to steal from Gringotts?"
The Philosopher's Stone's existence wasn't exactly a secret. Those with ulterior motives could detect its faint traces, so many wizards at Hogwarts had guessed its presence. But they all assumed Dumbledore kept it close at hand, which extinguished their desire to seize it.
Even the condemned prisoner of Azkaban wouldn't be foolish enough to attempt seizing something Dumbledore guarded so closely.
"But the question is, how did you know my target?" Quirrell's voice grew increasingly calm.
Tver spread his hands and shrugged. "Through various clues, of course."
Then he leaned forward, coming within five inches of Quirrell, and whispered, "Wouldn't you agree, Professor Quirrell?"