Upon hearing Tver utter his name, Quirrell sprang to his feet, his face darkening. He had believed his disguise was impenetrable—the very foundation of his confidence in remaining at Hogwarts. Now, his name had been called out so bluntly. What if Dumbledore had also seen through him? Quirrell was now in a panic.
Truth be told, he no longer wished to deal with the man before him. He desperately wanted to flee, to shout at the Dark Lord: "I quit!"
"Calm yourself. If this man had informed Dumbledore of your affairs, it wouldn't be him coming to see you," Voldemort's voice echoed eerily within Quirrell's mind.
"But he still holds leverage over us. He could expose our identities at any moment."
Voldemort gave a soft snort, mocking someone unseen.
"Rest assured. His goal is also the Philosopher's Stone. Before he gets it, he won't want complications. On the contrary, he'll 'protect' your identity."
Quirrell instantly understood the Dark Lord's meaning and exhaled in relief.
"So you mean he plans to help us obtain the Philosopher's Stone, only to snatch it from us afterward?"
Voldemort offered no reply, but Quirrell already knew the answer. He sat back down, his posture relaxed with newfound confidence.
"There's only one of those things. If I give it to you, what about me?" Quirrell asked casually.
"I can wait until you've used it," Tver replied even more dismissively.
They both knew that the moment the Philosopher's Stone was obtained would be the moment they drew their wands against each other. How could it be a matter of "you use it first, then I get it"? Was this some kind of clothing exchange?
Quirrell understood this logic perfectly well, so he hadn't expected to hear a useful answer.
"You know my identity, but I don't know yours. That's not fair."
Tver snorted derisively, tilting his head up to look at Quirrell. "There's no such thing as fairness in the black market."
"True, but there is room for bargaining."
Tver sat up straight, studying the face hidden beneath Quirrell's hood, puzzled by his sudden shrewdness.
"I can remain ignorant of your identity," Quirrell said smugly, "but I need to know your progress and more details about that object."
The man before him knew the first guardian of the Philosopher's Stone was a Three-Headed Dog—meaning he'd already been inside. But needing him to scout the path and retrieve the stone meant he couldn't navigate the rest himself.
So Quirrell planned to use Tver's intel to grab the stone early and flee. Even if Dumbledore raged afterward, the Dark Lord would be resurrected by then—what did he have to fear?
Tver chuckled softly, recalling the plot.
"I can offer you one extra piece of information—that thing is hidden within the final mirror, protected by a spell cast by Dumbledore himself."
The expression beneath Quirrell's hood shifted abruptly. He had long suspected the Philosopher's Stone's protection wouldn't be simple, and had feared Dumbledore might personally cast a spell. He hadn't expected that fear to be confirmed so quickly.
"What magic did Dumbledore use?" Quirrell demanded urgently.
He couldn't help but be anxious. While the Dark Lord might not fear Dumbledore in a contest of dark magic, when it came to normal magic, Dumbledore could outclass the Dark Lord by a mile!
"You'll have to ask Dumbledore himself about that. All I can say is this much—whether we make a deal or not is up to you."
Tver wasn't about to spill everything at once. At the very least, he'd wait until he'd cleared the chessboard and Quirrell had drawn enough of Dumbledore's attention for him to slip through the chaos.
Quirrell pondered for a moment before grasping the crux.
"Speak. Tell me the Three-Headed Dog's weakness. It benefits us both, doesn't it?"
Tver tapped the table lightly, leaving behind a single word before departing. The attention they drew was far too high, easily attracting desperados. Though he feared none, it remained a nuisance—especially while he couldn't risk exposing his identity.
Quirrell glanced at the word "Music" above the table and waved his hand, making it vanish. For the same reason, he didn't linger in the pub.
...
By the time Tver returned to the castle, it was already nine o'clock at night, with curfew starting in less than an hour. For the professor, this was no issue, but for the four suspended students, time was of the essence.
"My oversight," Tver chuckled, suppressing a smile at the scene before him.
Cedric and the other three had hesitated when first encountering the dummy, unsure whether to engage it. This training dummy appeared cruder than the second-year description suggested—merely basic limbs without facial features. Its bald head clearly didn't look very intelligent. After a moment's hesitation, they resolved not to waste such a valuable practice opportunity.
So they boldly charged forward. But they never expected this expressionless dummy to be even more ruthless than a real opponent! Though it used standard spells, its accuracy, casting speed, and overall performance surpassed even Professor Fawley!
Of course, that was because it was the first lesson, and the professor had let them off easy. But they all shared one common experience: they couldn't win!
Fortunately, the dummy was considerate. Even when it knocked them flying, it would carefully cushion their falls to prevent injury, ensuring they could quickly resume the next round.
And so it went, over and over. They were sent flying time and again, only to return to stand before the dummy once more. After all, these were the four most resourceful third-years. After enduring so many beatings, they weren't completely without countermeasures.
Soon, they mastered a step-by-step offensive strategy—wave after wave of relentless attacks that forced the dummy into passive defense. But when the dummy started dodging, their plan crumbled.
Finally, they exploited the dummy's poor senses, targeting it with Transfiguration spells to hinder its movement. The effect was striking—the dummy nearly fell to their magic. The only problem was—
The dummy evolved!
It unleashed its first shape-shifting spell—one far more potent than theirs—instantly hoisting all four of them to the ceiling...
"Professor, this dummy isn't training us—it's training itself!" George shouted indignantly after being lowered.
"Ahem, how could that be? I promised this was your reward."
Caught in his little scheme, Tver felt a bit embarrassed. This dummy was his creation, born from combining a chessboard with his insights into souls. It wasn't just imbued with memories; a sliver of will was embedded within it.
And it was precisely this sliver of will that gave the dummy a semblance of consciousness, allowing it to learn continuously during combat. That was why, despite only possessing basic magical memories, it could ultimately wield such a powerful Transfiguration spell.
Hearing faint rumblings from the group's stomachs, Tver pulled out some sandwiches and a large bottle of Pumpkin juice from his bag.
"You haven't had dinner yet, right? Grab something quick before heading back to the lounge."
Fred, munching on a sandwich, couldn't help but tease, "Professor's bag really has everything in it."