Wyzett gave a slight bow. "Mr. Dumbledore, what I'm most concerned about is… what exactly can I do here?"
"Ah…" Aberforth shook his head with a long, dramatic sigh, looking pained. "The way you are now… you remind me of the great… Headmaster Dumbledore himself!"
"When he was young, he was just like you. Meticulous, stiff—honestly, you might be even worse! So, which House are you in? Gryffindor? Or Ravenclaw?"
"Ravenclaw," said Wyzett.
"Ravenclaw, eh? Well, that fits…" Aberforth stroked his beard and let out another sigh. "Anyway, I've already agreed, so you can stay. Just don't ruin my business, that's all…"
"Thank you…" A glimmer flashed in Dumbledore's eyes, as if he'd finally relaxed. "When do you want him to start? I'll arrange a Hogsmeade pass for him."
"No need for that rubbish!" Aberforth waved him off, blunt as ever. "Rules are rules—he's underage, and that's that!"
"Starting next week, every Friday night, he comes here. No Hogsmeade pass—he'll have to find his own way in!"
As for the issue with the Soul-Soothing Draught, Wyzett made a point of checking in with Professor Quirrell.
Once he was sure the potion hadn't caused Quirrell any trouble, he could finally set his mind at ease and throw himself into his studies.
Aside from reviewing and expanding on what he learned in class, Wyzett had set himself a few extra challenges.
He had five notebooks on hand: two from private lessons with Professor Quirrell and Professor Snape, two more as Christmas gifts from Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall, and the last—a battered tome—belonged to Grindelwald.
Plenty of resources, more than enough to keep his life busy and full.
Mondays were for the private lesson notes, Tuesday evenings for Quidditch practice, Wednesdays for Flitwick and McGonagall's notes, Thursdays for Grindelwald's writings.
And Friday nights? That was for the Hog's Head.
As for Aberforth's first little test, Wyzett had already learned from Fred and George about a secret passage into Hogsmeade.
After Flying class, he followed their hand-drawn map, slipping into a quiet corridor on the castle's fourth floor.
Halfway down the corridor stood a one-eyed witch statue, posed with her back to the hall, head turned as if glancing over her shoulder.
Wyzett drew his wand and tapped the statue's humped back. "Dissendium!"
With a soft series of clicks, the hump split open, revealing a narrow, pitch-black passage.
Just to be safe, Wyzett snapped his fingers, transforming them into Devil's Snare—then crouched low and slipped inside.
After a week of practice, he'd finally managed his first nonverbal spell: Ancient Magic: Self-Molding (Devil's Snare Form).
His control over silent casting wasn't quite stable yet, so he'd found a workaround—using a finger snap as a trigger to activate the Devil's Snare transformation.
The tunnel inside was a steep slide. After what felt like ages, Wyzett landed on cold, damp earth.
With the help of his Devil's Snare form, he moved cautiously, senses stretched for any sound as he made his way through the darkness.
He unfolded his mental map, lighting up each new area as he passed and drawing in the Ancient Magic that lingered there.
The tunnel twisted and turned, like something a giant rodent might have carved.
At the far end, a steep stone staircase spiraled upward, so long it seemed to vanish into darkness.
The journey was long, but the chance to absorb Ancient Magic along the way made it a bit more interesting.
After who knew how long, Wyzett finally reached the top. A trapdoor waited above.
He used his Devil's Snare senses to scout the area. Once he was sure it was clear, he pushed open the trapdoor.
Wyzett let out a breath. "Just like Fred and George said—this is the Honeydukes cellar."
He glanced back—the trapdoor had already sealed itself, blending perfectly with the floor.
…
After a few more twists and turns, Wyzett retraced the route in his memory and slipped through the back door of the Hog's Head.
He didn't bother going upstairs to the inn. Instead, he waited quietly in the entrance hall.
It wasn't long before Aberforth, still dusted with flour, appeared before him.
"So, you haven't been corrupted by Albus yet. I figured it'd take you until next month to find a way to sneak in. How'd you get here?"
This was only his second meeting with Aberforth, and Wyzett was struck by how the two Dumbledores were like two sides of the same coin.
Dumbledore was always immaculately dressed, courteous, gentle, and kind—his smile warm and reassuring.
Aberforth, by contrast, was rumpled and rough-voiced, his eyebrows—so like his brother's—raised in a way that made him look almost fierce.
"I heard about a secret passage from some friends," Wyzett replied.
"If they trusted you with that, you must be on good terms." Aberforth arched a brow. "Better than Albus, that's for sure. Come on, follow me!"
The main hall of the tavern was even dimmer than the Leaky Cauldron, thick with the smell of mutton. From the bar came the constant gnashing of teeth—a stuffed boar's head, enchanted to chew endlessly.
Wyzett had barely taken a few steps before he felt several unfriendly gazes on him.
Most of the patrons were hidden in black cloaks, their eyes glinting with a hard, predatory light.
A few, noticing he was just a child, pulled back their hoods, smoothed their tangled hair, and grinned, exposing rows of blackened, yellowed teeth as they hissed and snickered.
Aberforth led him into a side room, where candles burned around the walls, casting a brighter glow.
A long table, dusted with flour, stretched across the center. Sacks of flour were piled in the corners, and shelves held sugar, butter, and other baking supplies—it looked more like a bakery than a bar.
"This is the Hog's Head. If you want to leave, now's your chance," Aberforth said. "The patrons here are worse than the lot at Hogwarts—and so am I!"
Wyzett shook his head and spoke up, loud and clear. "Mr. Dumbledore, what do you need me to do?"
"Don't call me 'Mr. Dumbledore,'" Aberforth said seriously. "Just Aberforth. I'll call you Wyzett, and that's that."
"All right, Aberforth."
"Good." Aberforth nodded, flicked his wand, and summoned two round stools, motioning for Wyzett to sit.
He then drew out a strange piece of parchment, covered in dense, peculiar script that formed the shape of an eye.
As Wyzett looked at it, the eye suddenly blinked open and spoke in a voice that was neither male nor female: "Where is your home?"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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