While Harry was preoccupied with the birthday gift Alaric had sent, Alaric had already arrived in Diagon Alley.
His objective today was the Magical Menagerie on the south side. As the name implied, the shop specialized in common magical creatures—pets like owls, Fire Crabs, and Puffskeins. Most Hogwarts first-years purchased their companions here, making it the most popular pet shop in Britain with several branches across the country.
"Welcome."
As Alaric stepped inside, a young witch in shop robes hurried over to greet him.
"Are you looking for a pet today, sir?" she asked enthusiastically. "We've just received a fresh shipment of owls this morning."
Alaric offered a polite shake of his head. "Thank you, but I'm not here for a pet. Is the proprietor in?"
The shop assistant's expression faltered slightly.
"Sir," she hesitated, "if there is something specific you need, I'm more than happy to assist you. Or, if it's a matter that truly requires the owner, I can certainly pass along a message."
Before Alaric could respond, the witch's eyes widened as if a sudden realization had struck her. She peered at him more closely. "Ah... wait. Are you Mr. Thorn?"
Alaric gave a slow nod.
The assistant's demeanor shifted instantly from professional to apologetic. She offered a bright, welcoming smile. "You should have mentioned you had an appointment, Mr. Thorn! The proprietor is expecting you in the back office."
"Thank you."
Following her lead, Alaric navigated a narrow corridor lined with cages of chattering creatures until they reached a sturdy wooden door.
"Ms. Ruskin? Mr. Thorn has arrived," the assistant called out, rapping on the wood.
"Send him in," a clear, crisp voice responded from within.
The assistant opened the door, and Alaric stepped through. The office was functional and sparsely decorated—a desk, two chairs, and several moving portraits of beasts on the walls. Alaric noted a Graphorn pacing rhythmically within its frame.
Ms. Ruskin was seated behind the desk, which was currently buried under a chaotic mountain of ledgers and parchment. She had dark, tightly curled hair and wore a set of sophisticated charcoal-gray robes. Alaric was surprised to see she appeared to be roughly his own age.
Managing a business this successful at her age, Alaric mused, she must be quite capable.
"Mr. Thorn, a pleasure to meet you." She stood and extended a hand.
Alaric shook it, but he was in no mood for idle pleasantries. He had already put down a significant deposit, and he wanted to see results. "The pleasure is mine, Ms. Ruskin. I assume you've reviewed my order?"
"I have."
Ruskin spent a few moments digging through the parchment piles before triumphantly extracting a crumpled sheet.
"Ah, here we go." She looked a bit embarrassed as she smoothed the page flat on the desk. She scanned the list, then looked up at Alaric. "To be perfectly honest, when I first received this order, I assumed it was a prank. I nearly tossed it in the bin."
"Is there a problem with the procurement?" Alaric asked, his voice dropping slightly.
Ruskin let out a short, dry laugh.
"You should look at what you've written here, sir," she noted. "Murtlaps, Bundimuns, Fwoopers... those are standard. But then! Toward the bottom, you've listed Erumpents and Horned Serpents. Do you wish for me to spend my retirement in Azkaban?"
It was the response Alaric had expected. In truth, he hadn't held out much hope for the more dangerous classifications. Even if Ruskin could source them, the price would likely exceed even his generous budget. Furthermore, he wasn't about to parade an Erumpent in front of a class of eleven-year-olds.
He was here to stock the curriculum for his new post at Hogwarts; the school expected the professor to provide the necessary specimens for study.
"If you could manage to evade the Ministry's notice..." Ruskin said suddenly, a mischievous glint in her eye, "it isn't entirely impossible."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"I'm joking, of course," she added with a shrug.
Despite her words, Alaric got the distinct impression she wasn't joking at all.
"Very well, Ms. Ruskin," Alaric said, waving a hand to dismiss the more lethal entries. "Joking aside, can you provide the rest of the list?"
Ruskin reviewed the remaining items and offered a confident smile.
"The rest are no trouble at all," she confirmed. "Are you certain you want the entire lot, Mr. Thorn? This is going to cost a staggering number of Galleons."
"I want the lot," Alaric said with a satisfied nod. "Oh, and you can send the bill directly to Hogwarts."
At that exact moment, far away in the Scottish Highlands, Albus Dumbledore let out a sudden, violent sneeze.
Having concluded a satisfactory transaction, Alaric decided to visit the Leaky Cauldron for a celebratory drink. As luck would have it, he spotted a familiar, massive silhouette in the corner.
"Good morning, Hagrid."
Hagrid was sitting alone, looking content as he nursed a large tankard of mead. Hearing his name, he looked up and beamed. He patted the empty seat beside him. "Ah, Professor Thorn! Come an' have a seat! Join me for a drink, will yeh?"
Alaric sat and signaled Tom for a glass of mead. "Do you find yourself here often, Hagrid?"
A look of simple pleasure crossed Hagrid's face. "I pop in here or the Three Broomsticks whenever I get the chance. D'yeh know, when the students are away, Hogwarts gets quiet enough to hear the stones breathin'. It's a bit much sometimes." He took a swig. "An' the mead here is top-notch."
Alaric nodded, and the two shared a few minutes of easy conversation. Eventually, the topic drifted back to Harry.
"The lad's a treasure, he is," Hagrid said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "When we were in the Alley yesterday, he even insisted on pickin' up a gift for yeh."
"For me?" Alaric looked genuinely surprised. "What did he get?"
"Ah, looks like it hasn't reached yeh yet." Hagrid chuckled. "I'd best leave the surprise for the owl, then."
As they continued to talk, Hagrid gestured toward a figure on the far side of the pub.
"There's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Hagrid whispered.
Alaric followed the giant's gaze. A man with a thick, purple turban wrapped around his head was sitting with his back to them, nursing a drink in silence.
So, that's Quirrell, Alaric thought.
He reached out mentally. Eldra, analyze the target.
The Tree of Wisdom provided a dual-layered response:
Name: Quirinus Quirrell
Vocation: Wizard
...
Name: Tom Riddle
Vocation: Wizard
...
The confirmation hit Alaric like a physical chill. Quirrell was indeed playing host to Voldemort.
"Tom Riddle," Alaric murmured to himself.
For Alaric Thorn, the name Voldemort didn't represent a "Dark Lord" to be feared—it represented the source of a decade of cold, burning hatred.