Watching Quirrell awkwardly leave the headmaster's office, Tver couldn't help but think he looked even more suspicious.
It was like he had "Something's wrong with me" carved into the back of his head.
Oh, right—
He did have Voldemort on the back of his head. Never mind, then.
"Quirinus was always a timid child. There are... certain reasons for the way he is now," Dumbledore sighed. "Back when he was at Hogwarts, he was a bright student. I never imagined things would turn out like this."
He let the thought linger for a moment, then moved on without pressing the topic further.
"Do you believe what's written in this book?"
He tapped the cover of The Four Elements of Magic. The residual magic clinging to the surface dissipated instantly.
"I believe in Rowena Ravenclaw."
Tver wouldn't go so far as to claim the book's contents were absolute truth. But if it was endorsed by Ravenclaw, there had to be something in it worth studying.
After all, it was Rowena Ravenclaw—renowned as the embodiment of wisdom. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have invested so much time in the book.
Dumbledore seemed to share the same sentiment. History offered little about the four founders of Hogwarts, but every sliver of information was something scholars pored over tirelessly.
So rather than get caught up on that, Dumbledore moved on to his next question.
"What's your view on Dark Magic?"
Now that got his attention. Tver perked up instantly.
"Caution."
He paused deliberately, as if considering his words, not wanting to come across as too bold.
"No matter what kind of magic it is—if it's the right tool for the job, then it can be used.
But Dark Magic corrodes the mind. At Durmstrang, those without sufficient mental strength aren't permitted to use it."
"So I've always approached Dark Magic with caution. If you carry malice toward those who do harm—isn't that justice?"
His reply was a bit sharp, enough to make the elderly wizard frown, though Dumbledore didn't offer any immediate rebuttal.
"Justice doesn't come from fighting violence with violence..."
"But the bad guys get to be evil without restraint, while the good guys are buried in rules? You really expect me to believe you are that naïve?"
Tver cut him off rather bluntly. Yet Dumbledore wasn't offended—in fact, the more he looked at Tver, the more he was reminded of someone.
Himself.
The young, ambitious Dumbledore.
Or maybe... Grindelwald.
The old man drifted into memory for a brief moment, but quickly forced himself back to the present.
"Leave the book with me. If you ever have questions about magic, you're welcome to ask. I'll do my best to answer them all."
Compared to his own teachers, Dumbledore had far more accumulated knowledge—and far more stability. That was precisely what Tver lacked.
So when he heard that, he nodded without hesitation.
...
Once he left Hogwarts, Tver finally let out a breath of relief.
He'd thought the school would be desperate for Defense Against the Dark Arts instructors, but the interview turned out to be more challenging and intricate than he had expected.
Still, the outcome was good—he was officially a teaching assistant at the school he'd long dreamed of joining.
Judging by the time, everything was right on schedule.
With a sharp "whoosh," Tver vanished from the spot.
When he regained his footing, the scene around him had changed from Hogwarts to a deserted alleyway.
He walked a few steps and came upon a grimy little building with a worn sign hanging over the door—The Leaky Cauldron.
Passersby on the street paid it no attention, not because they disdained it, but because Muggles couldn't see the enchanted pub at all.
When Tver pushed the door open and stepped inside, not a soul reacted.
It seemed the bar was well-used to people coming and going.
"Guest?" asked a shriveled man behind the bar. "Or just passing through?"
As the owner of this small pub, he prided himself on remembering every wizard who came through the door—but he could hardly recall Tver.
A man that distinctive wasn't easy to forget.
In truth, Tver had been here a few times before. But in the past seven years, he'd transformed from a brooding student into a poised gentleman.
Once afraid of death, he now carried himself with ease. The change was so drastic it was as if he'd become a different person entirely.
Tver scanned the dingy little bar. When he didn't spot his target, he walked over to Tom, the bartender.
"I'd like to ask where Professor Quirrell is," he said with a smile, though he already knew the answer.
"I don't reveal the whereabouts of Hogwarts staff lightly," Tom replied with a grin, baring a mouthful of rotten teeth.
"What about Harry Potter? Has he left yet?"
Without waiting for a response, Tver stepped away from the counter.
Tom had "told" him everything he needed—mainly that this bar was filthier than expected.
But his question caused the entire room to fall silent. A bald little man next to him didn't even notice when his top hat hit the floor—he just stared at Tver with suspicion.
"Stranger, if I may ask first—ah, yes. Mr. Potter entered Diagon Alley not long ago. He's likely enjoying a pleasant shopping trip right about now."
Tom's expression suddenly shifted into one of obsequious flattery as he bowed his hunched back deeply.
No one in the bar seemed to think this odd. In fact, they all looked at Tver with similarly admiring eyes.
This wasn't the Imperius Curse. Tver had no plans to end up in Azkaban on his first day.
It was a Confundus Charm—one laced with a touch of soul magic. That was how he achieved this effect.
To them, he probably seemed like some great figure—perhaps even someone on par with Dumbledore. But in five minutes, they wouldn't remember a thing.
They'd forget this little interruption.
"Thank you."
Tver offered a polite smile and quickly slipped through the courtyard door into Diagon Alley.
The bustling crowd lived up to the alley's reputation as the heart of magical Britain. The winding cobblestone street was lined with curious and whimsical shops on either side.
The narrowness of the street wasn't exactly a perk, but it did help Tver spot his target right away.
Rubeus Hagrid and Harry Potter.
As a half-giant, Hagrid stood out like a dragon in the cramped street.
Tver had seen many part-human magical beings before—France, for instance, had its fair share of Veela-human hybrids.
But a human-giant hybrid like Hagrid? No offense, but even the boldest Durmstrang students wouldn't dream of... entangling with a giant.
He offered Hagrid's father the highest respect imaginable.
At the entrance to Madam Malkin's, Hagrid suddenly rubbed his head and parted ways with Harry.
Harry entered the robe shop, and Hagrid strolled off toward Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.
The owner of that shop had quite the background too, but Tver wasn't in the mood for greetings. He held back the surge of excitement in his chest and quietly approached Hagrid, standing right beside him.
And yet—not a soul noticed Tver's presence. Just like Muggles, who couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron.
Coat pocket?
No.
Shirt pocket—
There it was.
Tver's gaze locked onto the bulging fabric. If he wasn't mistaken, that was the coveted Philosopher's Stone.
But he didn't act. Magical laws were still laws—even the simplest ones. No one fails to notice a hand reaching into their shirt pocket.
Especially not a half-giant like Hagrid. His resistance to magic was much higher than that of an ordinary wizard.
Following Hagrid's gaze, Tver watched Harry marvel at the wizarding world for the first time.
It reminded him of his own first visit here.
Exotic herbs, masterfully crafted broomsticks, quirky and chaotic joke shops—even the most ordinary of cauldrons seemed fascinating.
But all good things must come to an end.
...
Evening.
Tver watched Hagrid and a slightly disheartened Harry leave the now-empty Leaky Cauldron. This time, he didn't follow.
Back when Hagrid bought the snowy owl, Tver had already confirmed it—
The Philosopher's Stone was a fake.
A smile tugged at his lips as he looked out over the street crowded with passing Muggles.
If a fake artifact was locked away in Gringotts and then became the target of a failed theft attempt, no one would question its authenticity again.
Dumbledore... truly a master strategist.
The smile on Tver's face grew, even as his eyes turned colder.
He was really looking forward to life at Hogwarts.