Chapter 31: A Different Price

Tver was unaware of Cedric and the others' thoughts. After dinner, he once again set out on the path to Hogsmeade. Tonight was the night he had "agreed" to meet with Quirrell.

Donning his hood once more, Tver walked slowly into the Hog's Head Inn.

The place was as filthy and chaotic as ever. Just past dusk, it was already packed with various wizards.

Hooded figures were not uncommon, but Quirrell was the most conspicuous of them all. He sat boldly in the center, radiating an aura of "I'm very angry." Although he did nothing, no one dared to provoke him. The bartender glanced at him several times but didn't dare approach.

Quirrell wasn't truly angry. If the Dark Lord had failed, it was only natural he might have misjudged things too.

However, the Dark Lord had been very angry recently, failing several times to find a way to deal with the three-headed dog. If it came to a head-on confrontation, Quirrell was confident he could handle the dog, but any mishap could cause an enormous commotion.

The castle's third floor was above, with Dumbledore and the professors. Any disturbance would be hard to explain.

So even though he knew tonight might come with a high price, he had to obediently sit here—waiting for that scoundrel to show up!

"You're early. Have you had dinner?"

Tver casually sat opposite Quirrell, unfazed by his menacing glare, as if it were a conversation between old friends.

Quirrell placed his right hand on the table, tapping his fingernails rhythmically, trying to exert pressure on Tver.

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

Tver smiled easily and said to Aberforth, who was walking towards him, "A butterbeer for the gentleman opposite me."

Aberforth gave him a deep look before speaking indifferently, "What about you?"

Recalling the butterbeer from last week, Tver quickly shook his head, "I'll pass."

Quirrell laughed in exasperation; Tver had shown off again.

In a noisy environment, being able to sense the person behind you, whether due to keen observation or pure magical sensitivity, was not something an ordinary wizard could do. At least before being possessed by the Dark Lord, he couldn't manage it.

But now, with the Dark Lord's help, Quirrell wouldn't care about such a small trick. If Tver knew what he was thinking, he would probably roll his eyes.

'You're playing tricks yourself.'

After the brief interlude, once Aberforth left, Quirrell eagerly said, "Name your price. Tell me the weakness of the three-headed dog. No one but me will make this deal with you."

"I thought you'd ask that big guy. He seems more approachable than I am."

Tver's sarcastic tone implied that only he would straightforwardly provide an answer to such a question.

Quirrell was momentarily taken aback. "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 a finger and waved it a few times in front of him.

"No, you can't afford my price right now."

Can't afford it?

Quirrell laughed again in anger, his heavy breathing clearly audible to Tver. His other hand lifted, holding a black pouch, which he casually tossed in front of Tver with a thud. It looked substantial.

"Ten times, ten times last week's price! There are two hundred Galleons in here, enough to buy your life!"

At this moment, Aberforth brought a bottle of butterbeer and slammed it in front of Quirrell.

"One Galleon."

"Are you insane?" Quirrell's incredulity was palpable even through his hood. "A Galleon for a bottle of beer? Why don't you rob Gringotts?!"

Aberforth snorted disdainfully, "Some fool tried to rob Gringotts at the beginning of August and is still wanted. Providing a place for black market deals here is much more comfortable."

Quirrell was dumbfounded, his mouth twitching. For a moment, he didn't know how to retort. Luckily, with his hood up, no one could see his embarrassed expression.

Tver, however, was amused by Aberforth's words. It was unclear whether Aberforth had realized Quirrell's identity or just happened to make such a remark.

Seeing Aberforth's outstretched hand, Tver took a Galleon from the pouch and placed it lightly in his palm. Satisfied, Aberforth walked away.

"Now there are only 199 Galleons left. Tell me the answer, or you won't leave this place today," Quirrell said harshly.

Tver simply pushed the pouch back.

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

"Bang!"

Quirrell slammed his hand on the table, creating a loud noise that made the wizards in the bar pause and look over curiously. The Hog's Head was no stranger to black market deals, but they'd never seen such a furious outburst.

Ignoring the onlookers, Quirrell glared at Tver. "What's your price then? Let me see if I really can't afford it!"

Tver didn't want to attract more attention, so he cast a Muffliato charm around the table, isolating their conversation from the rest of the bar.

After doing this, he extended a finger again, but this time, instead of shaking it, he traced two words in the air just above the table.

"Philosopher's Stone."

As Tver moved, the word "Philosopher's Stone" appeared on the table, thin and fleeting like a mist on glass, disappearing the next second.

But it was enough for Quirrell to see clearly. His right hand subtly moved towards his wand as he gave Tver a deep look, becoming eerily calm.

"Who are you? How do you know about that?"

He had already made up his mind: regardless of Tver's answer, he would find a way to eliminate this threat and prevent his exposure.

Tver noticed Quirrell's subtle movement and smiled easily.

"If you can know about it, why can't I? You little fool who failed to rob Gringotts!"

The existence of the Philosopher's Stone wasn't exactly a secret; those with ulterior motives could sense something. Many wizards suspected the Stone was at Hogwarts. They all assumed Dumbledore kept it close, which deterred them from attempting to steal it. Even Azkaban's death row inmates wouldn't foolishly try to snatch something under Dumbledore's direct protection.

"But the question is, how do you know my target?" Quirrell's voice grew increasingly calm.

Tver spread his hands and shrugged. "Of course, I deduced it from various clues."

Then he leaned forward, less than five inches from Quirrell, and whispered: "Isn't that right, Professor Quirrell?"