After seeing Umbridge off, the tavern fell silent. Melvin sat in the corner, watching the barman wipe a glass over and over with a dirty rag. A cool breeze drafted in through the doors and windows, but the smell of ancient grease lingered stubbornly.
What a terrible place, but perfect for discussing conspiracies that couldn't see the light of day.
"That eggnog she ordered hasn't been paid for," the barman whispered like a ghost, looking up from behind the bar.
Strands of wire-like gray hair and beard obscured most of his face. He also wore glasses—round, black-rimmed, with grimy lenses—but behind them, a pair of blue eyes shone bright and sharp.
He bore a striking resemblance to Dumbledore, but due to his rugged, sloppy demeanor, no one would associate the two unless they knew the inside story.
"Then you should have stopped her just now. Don't expect me to pay for it; I didn't drink a drop," Melvin said lightly.
"I don't know her, but I remember you. You've been here a few times with Rubeus Hagrid."
"Does Hagrid still come here often to drink?"
"Occasionally. A few times a month."
Melvin found this barman to be very clever, with a good memory, perhaps even shrewd. He had banned Mundungus Fletcher from the tavern for life, so no matter how Mundungus disguised himself, he was always seen through.
He suddenly felt curious about this barman. A dim, secluded, and dirty tavern like this, whose patrons were wizards coming and going from Hogsmeade but hiding their identities—the barman must have heard and seen many unknown secrets.
Here, Hagrid bought Fluffy the three-headed dog from a Greek chappie. Here, Quirrell bought a dragon egg and resold it to Hagrid.
Even in early 1980, Trelawney accepted Dumbledore's interview here and made the prophecy that changed the future of the wizarding world. Snape overheard a few words from the side, but this seemingly seedy barman heard the entire content of the prophecy.
"A Hogwarts professor's duty is to teach well, not to come here and get involved with people of unknown origin."
"A barman's duty is to run the tavern, clean regularly, and research new flavors of drinks. Not to mention the Three Broomsticks next door stealing business... Forget it, forget it. Opening the tavern at the very edge of the village, right at the school gates—the location was wrong from the start. You never intended to run this tavern properly."
Melvin suddenly sighed, seemingly emotional.
"What are you sighing for?" The barman found it baffling.
"Nothing. Just remembered a touching story."
Aberforth was stunned, not understanding Melvin's meaning. "What story?"
"Biological brothers who cared for each other, but because they couldn't swallow their pride to communicate, they separated. They didn't speak for decades. Only when one died did the other regret it, and in the end, they could only achieve spiritual reconciliation." Melvin swirled the glass on the table, the liquid rippling with a faint glimmer.
Aberforth looked up, the reflection on his filthy lenses turning into a cold, bright white. Veins bulged on his forehead as he slammed the glass roughly onto the table:
"Oh, really? You think just because you heard some things from back then somewhere, you can self-righteously speculate about my relationship with Albus? You think you know us better than we know ourselves?"
"You and Albus?" Melvin put on a look of astonishment. "Do you have any relationship with Dumbledore?"
"Weren't you talking about us?" Aberforth was stunned.
"I don't even know you, okay?"
Melvin said unhurriedly, "I was thinking about the three brothers of the Deathly Hallows. The Peverell brothers. Antioch possessed powerful magic and the Elder Wand, able to deal with all troubles. Cadmus was deeply devoted to his late wife and must have respected and loved his brothers equally. And the youngest, Ignotus, had a clever mind."
Aberforth sneered. Of course he had heard the story of the Deathly Hallows. That summer, that damned blonde boy had bewitched his brother with it, leading to his sister's death. "What does that have to do with what you said?"
"Before they separated, even Death blocking the way and setting curses in the river couldn't stop the three brothers' steps. After they separated, the eldest and second brothers were killed individually, while the youngest could only hide for a lifetime."
Melvin shook his head with emotion.
"Hah..."
Aberforth was speechless. He saw through this young professor's trick. He clearly knew what happened back then, deliberately speaking vaguely. When pressed, he shifted to the three Peverell brothers.
"Clumsy tricks! Who do you think you are, lecturing me!"
He said roughly, "I'm not a Hogwarts student. You don't need to tell fables in front of me!"
"Fine, fine..."
Melvin raised his hands in a gesture of compromise. "I didn't mean anything else. I just want to use a piece of news to pay for this pot of eggnog."
For a tavern like the Hog's Head, it was common for destitute customers to be unable to pay for drinks. Sometimes they would use items on their person to settle the bill—a ring passed down from pure-blood ancestors, a scepter dug out of some tomb, Acromantula venom and unicorn hair Hagrid plucked from the Forbidden Forest.
Even if it was something of unknown origin, as long as it didn't bring trouble to the bar—like the blacklisted Mundungus Fletcher—Aberforth could usually make an exception.
Using intelligence to pay the bill depended on the value of the intelligence.
"Let's hear it," Aberforth said gruffly.
"Do you know what the three Deathly Hallows are?"
"The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak," Aberforth said impatiently.
"Yes. The invincible Elder Wand, the trace-hiding Invisibility Cloak, and... the Resurrection Stone that summons the souls of the dead." Melvin spoke very slowly, as if deliberately observing his expression. "Not long ago, I saw with my own eyes that our Headmaster of Hogwarts, Mr. Albus Dumbledore, found a real Deathly Hallow."
Aberforth's breathing quickened. He no longer wore that impatient expression. His eyes suddenly shot out a sharp, burning gaze.
"It's the item you're thinking of... the Resurrection Stone."
Silence filled the room. Aberforth's face changed drastically, his gaze involuntarily drifting toward the stairs. Above the fireplace upstairs, there was a portrait of a little witch.
"Judging by your reaction, I think this news is enough to cover the bill."
The school forced the young professor to work overtime; the professor causing trouble for the Headmaster was only natural justice.
Melvin revealed a satisfied smile, turned and waved, walking out of the tavern without looking back. "Goodbye, Mr. Dumbledore."
...
Easter of 1994 arrived.
In a house in the suburbs of London, in a clutter-filled attic.
A middle-aged witch dressed in a sweet style stood by the wall, urging an old man to pack her luggage. Before her hunched an elderly wizard.
A pink suitcase treated with an Undetectable Extension Charm, decorated with lace-like patterns, gold threads weaving looming stripes. The suitcase was piled with things young girls loved: decorative plates with cat patterns, fluffy pink cardigans...
If the destination of this trip weren't Albania, she would have wanted to bring along the fat calico cat from home.
It was much easier for wizards to raise cats than Muggles. Feeding, watering, grooming, and cleaning up waste could be done with a wave of a wand. While witches in Muggle stories always kept black cats, Umbridge liked calico cats.
She liked cats more than her own parents and relatives. Her corporeal Patronus was a long-haired silver cat. When practicing the Patronus Charm, she thought of the cats she had raised, recalling those happy times.
She spared no expense on cats—cat trees, cat food, snacks, and various dragon livers and fish oils. She always fed the cats until they were fat and round.
Then she would quietly wait for various diseases to strike, watching the calico cat wail miserably in pain, life slipping away bit by bit, finally dying in agony.
"Be quick about it, Orford. Pack all these in!"
Umbridge ordered the old wizard in front of her, using the imperious tone of a young girl. "I'm going on a business trip to Albania. The hotels there probably have nothing. I must bring these things to get a good sleep!"
The old wizard paused in his packing, then sped up, bending his back lower, his figure even more hunched.
The old wizard's name was Orford Umbridge. He used to work in the Magical Maintenance Department at the Ministry. After retiring, he was required by Umbridge to stay in the house and go nowhere, especially not outside to expose his surname.
"Business trip? How long will you be gone?"
Orford asked in a hoarse voice, his tone cautious, not like a father asking a daughter, but more like a subordinate asking a superior.
"I don't know yet. Maybe a week or two, maybe a few months!"
Umbridge answered impatiently. Behind the old wizard where he couldn't see, she unnaturally pressed the inside of her right arm.
This was the contract she signed after agreeing to cooperate with that professor.
Having served in the Improper Use of Magic Office and as Senior Undersecretary, Umbridge had seen similar things. The Dark Mark—the mark the Dark Lord once bestowed upon Death Eaters—could also be called a brand. Essentially, it was to establish a magical connection to summon servants anytime, anywhere.
Back then, many Death Eaters were proud of this mark, releasing it into the sky over every crime scene... In a sense, being able to create such a mark was a sign of mastering Dark Magic.
Regardless of whether that young professor was good or bad, or what kind of ambition he harbored, this showed that he was secretly operating and cultivating his own forces. When they revealed their identities, perhaps they would be even more imposing than the Death Eaters.
Thinking of the benefits Malfoy gained in the last Wizarding War, a trace of fervor flashed in Umbridge's eyes. This business had great prospects!
Hearing that she wouldn't be back for a long time, a trace of joy flashed in Orford's eyes, quickly concealed. He asked in a low voice, "Before you leave, do you want to go see your mother and brother?"
"A Muggle, a Squib, what is worth..."
Umbridge rebuked almost without thinking, but quickly remembered that professor's advocacy. She paused, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.
"I won't go. Take my key, go to the vault to withdraw some Galleons, exchange them for Muggle currency, and give it to them."
...
Evening, Knockturn Alley, a candle shop.
In the basement, a group of wizards with obscured faces gathered. All wore black-gray cloaks, hoods covering their heads, and various masks on their faces. They surrounded a dilapidated fish bucket, placing their hands on its surface. They were wary of each other, maintaining a distance that allowed them to draw their wands at any time.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, the Portkey to Albania leaves in half a minute..."
Mr. Borgin, who maintained order, also covered his face. He explained while observing the people in the room: "I must remind everyone that this journey charges twice. After arriving in Albania, someone will meet you. You need to settle the final payment."
He didn't understand. It was just an ordinary smuggling operation; why would Mr. Levent intervene personally?
"Well then, I wish everyone gets what they want in Albania..."
As his voice fell, the fish bucket suddenly rippled with powerful magic, enveloping everyone and dragging them into the turbulent flow of space.
...
Meanwhile, at the Ministry of Magic.
Bertha Jorkins was dressed neatly, carrying a suitcase, standing in a room in the Department of Magical Transportation. In front of her also lay a Portkey—a rusty spatula.
Compared to the smuggling channel in Knockturn Alley, this room was much colder. Apart from the staff of the Transportation Department, Jorkins was the only passenger. Very few wizards registered at the Ministry to travel to Albania via official Portkeys.
"Bertha, are you sure you didn't make a mistake? You're going to Albania to visit relatives?" Wilkie Twycross confirmed the personnel on the list repeatedly, still unable to rest assured.
Bertha Jorkins was famous in the Ministry. During the period after her head went wrong, she had rotated through various departments. Everyone knew she was forgetful and needed someone to accompany her at all times for any work.
"Yes, I'm going to visit my aunt!"
Bertha Jorkins nodded heavily. A witch in her thirties, her style was still like a girl who just graduated. Unlike Umbridge's feigned girlishness that repulsed people, Bertha still had a maiden's innocence.
She lifted her chin proudly. "I passed the test. Mr. Crouch approved my long leave!"
"Alright, have a pleasant trip!"
The rusty iron spatula trembled, and Bertha vanished from the Ministry.
...
Albanian forest, inside a makeshift shelter.
Wormtail sat in front of a fire. His cold body gradually warmed up, and his stiff limbs slowly relaxed. He extended his wand and tapped his chest, chanting a spell indistinctly.
Soft black worms rustled onto the ground, some falling into the fire. After sizzling and roasting, a scent of fishy sweetness lingered in the shelter. It was his own blood; those worms were leeches biting on his body.
The primeval forest of Albania, a place untouched by human footprints. The snow on part of the Valamara mountains had not yet melted, and Lake Ohrid, which never froze, supported the poisonous insects and beasts inhabiting the forest.
Even if a wizard wandered in the forest, the flesh and blood on their body would become nutrients here.
Wormtail swallowed the hard, dry flatbread. He didn't know how long this search would last, but he believed it wouldn't be too long.
Spring had arrived. Poisonous snakes were already wandering in the jungle canopy.