Another Price

Tver had no idea what Cedric and the others were thinking. After dinner, he once again set off down the path to Hogsmeade.

Tonight was the day of his "appointment" with Quirrell.

Pulling up his hood once more, Tver slowly entered the Hog's Head Inn.

It was as filthy and disorderly as ever. Though evening had only just fallen, it was already packed with all kinds of wizards.

Quite a few people wore hoods, but Quirrell was the only one as conspicuous as this.

He sat boldly at the very center, practically radiating "I'm furious." He did nothing at all, yet no one dared provoke him. The bartender glanced at him several times but never dared approach.

Quirrell could not really be called angry. Even the Dark Lord had failed, so it was perfectly normal that he had misjudged someone.

It was simply that the Dark Lord had been in a foul mood lately. After several break-ins, they still had not come up with a good way to deal with the Three-Headed Dog.

If they went head-to-head, he was certainly confident he could deal with the Three-Headed Dog. But if anything went wrong, the commotion would become enormous.

That was the fourth floor of the castle. Dumbledore was above them, and the professors were below. It would be difficult to explain if they attracted either side.

So even knowing that he would likely be fleeced tonight, he had no choice but to sit here obediently—

And wait for that bastard to come over!

"You're here pretty early. Have you eaten dinner?"

Completely unconcerned by the fierce glare Quirrell could not hide beneath his hood, Tver sat down across from him with ease.

As if this were a conversation between old friends.

Quirrell placed his right hand on the table and tapped his fingernails against it, producing a rhythmic tap-tap-tap as he tried to put some pressure on Tver.

"I've been looking forward to this meeting for a long time!" he said through gritted teeth, emphasizing every word.

Tver smiled casually and said to Aberforth, who was approaching from behind him, "A bottle of butterbeer for the gentleman across from me."

Aberforth gave him a long look before asking flatly, "And for you?"

Remembering last week's butterbeer, Tver hurriedly shook his head. "I'll pass."

Quirrell was so angry he laughed. Tver had shown off again.

Even in such a noisy environment, he had sensed someone approaching from behind. Whether it was sharp observation or simply powerful magical perception, neither was something an ordinary wizard could achieve.

At least, before the Dark Lord possessed him, he had not been capable of it.

But now, with the Dark Lord's help, Quirrell did not care about such a trivial trick.

If Tver knew what he was thinking, he would probably roll his eyes.

You were the one playing petty tricks yourself.

After that brief interruption, the moment Aberforth left, Quirrell impatiently said, "Name your price. Tell me the Three-Headed Dog's weakness. For a deal like this, no one but me would trade with you."

"I thought you'd choose to ask that big fellow. He looks like he'd be easier to talk to than me."

Tver spoke sarcastically, meaning to tell Quirrell that he was likewise the only one who would give him a straightforward answer to such a question.

Quirrell froze for a moment. "Isn't that perfect? One buyer, one seller. As long as your price is reasonable, I don't mind paying you right now."

Tver immediately raised one finger and waved it a few times in front of him.

"No. You can't afford what I want right now."

Couldn't afford it?

Quirrell laughed in anger again, his heavy snort reaching Tver's ears clearly.

He raised his other hand, holding a black cloth bag. With a casual toss, he threw it before Tver. The bag landed with a dull thud.

It looked quite substantial.

"Ten times the price from last week! There are a full two hundred Galleons in here—enough to buy your life!"

At that moment, Aberforth came over carrying a bottle of butterbeer and set it down heavily in front of Quirrell.

"One Galleon."

"Are you insane?" Quirrell's disbelief came through even beneath his hood. "One Galleon for a bottle of beer? Why don't you just rob Gringotts?!"

Aberforth snorted and said disdainfully, "At the beginning of August, some idiot tried and failed to rob Gringotts. He's still wanted now. How could that possibly be more comfortable than providing a venue for black-market deals here?"

Quirrell was speechless. The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a moment, he did not even know how to retort. Fortunately, his hood hid his embarrassed expression from everyone.

Tver, however, was amused by Aberforth's words. He did not know whether Aberforth had realized Quirrell's identity or had merely happened to think of that remark.

Seeing Aberforth's outstretched palm, Tver took a gold Galleon from the money bag and gently placed it on his hand. Only then did Aberforth leave in satisfaction.

"Now there are only 199 Galleons left. Tell me the answer, or don't even think about walking out that door today," Quirrell said stiffly.

Tver simply pushed the money bag back.

"I told you, you can't offer my price right now."

Bang!

Quirrell slammed his hand onto the table, producing a sharp crash. The wizards in the tavern all stopped what they were doing and cast strange looks in their direction.

There were plenty of black-market dealings at the Hog's Head Inn, but this was the first time they had seen someone fly into such a rage.

Quirrell turned a blind eye to it and instead glared resentfully at Tver. "Then what's your price? Let me see whether I really can't afford it!"

But Tver had no desire to remain the center of attention. He cast a Muffliato Charm around them, isolating the sounds at their table from the outside.

After finishing, he raised one finger again. This time, however, he did not wave it. Instead, he wrote two words in the air half an inch above the tabletop.

"Philosopher's Stone."

Please provide the text to revise.

As Tver moved his finger, the words "Philosopher's Stone" appeared on the table as well, thin as a layer of mist breathed onto glass, before vanishing the next second.

But it was enough for Quirrell to see clearly.

His right hand subtly hovered near his wand as he gave Tver a long, searching look. Instead, he became 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 himself from being exposed!

Tver glanced at Quirrell's little movement and smiled easily.

"If you can know that thing exists, why can't I, you little fool who failed to rob Gringotts?"

The existence of the Philosopher's Stone was not exactly a secret. Anyone with ulterior motives could detect some signs of it, so quite a few wizards had guessed that the Philosopher's Stone was at Hogwarts.

They simply assumed that Dumbledore kept it close at hand, and so abandoned any thoughts of stealing it.

Not even death-row prisoners in Azkaban would be foolish enough to try and steal something Dumbledore personally protected.

"But the question is, how did you know what my target was?" Quirrell's voice grew calmer and calmer.

Tver spread his hands and shrugged. "Of course I figured it out from this clue and that clue."

Then he leaned forward until he was less than five inches from Quirrell and whispered:

"Isn't that right, Professor Quirrell?"