Chapter 177: The Twelve Runespoors
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"Boss, who’s that? Pretty mysterious, huh?" a regular chuckled from his seat at the bar. "And you must be close—you actually let him upstairs."
Aberforth didn’t even glance at him as he kept pouring drinks. "Barnes, don’t let your curiosity get you killed. Some people you’re better off not knowing about."
Barnes gave a sheepish grin and held up his hands. "Alright, alright. Forget I asked."
Aberforth went back to his orders, not in any hurry to head upstairs.
Meanwhile, Tom was wandering around the room above, curious eyes sweeping across everything. He didn’t touch Aberforth’s belongings, just studied whatever was out in the open.
One object in particular caught his attention: a massive Two-Way mirror.
"That’s... huge," Tom muttered in awe.
He hadn’t taken Aberforth for a secret rich man. Daphne’s two-way mirror was only palm-sized. This thing was big enough that, smashed to bits, you could make hundreds of those.
Of course, that was just a joke. However you broke them, a mirror only ever showed the pair it was bound to.
Tom tried activating it, curious to see what lay on the other side. But after a few attempts, nothing happened. Either it was sealed under a powerful spell or completely dead.
"Oh.. I get it now."
Opposite the mirror hung a painting, covered with thick velvet cloth.
"Ariana," Tom said softly, "that’s probably your portrait under there. Want to see?"
Because behind that portrait was also the hidden passage leading straight into Hogwarts.
Inside his mental study-space, Ariana hesitated for a long while before finally giving a tiny nod.
"But... you can’t just move other people’s things," she whispered.
"So what now? Waiting for god’s move?" Tom sighed.
Ariana pouted immediately, thinking he was teasing her on purpose.
But before she could scold him, a sudden gale howled outside. The old wooden window banged open, slamming against the wall, and the velvet cloth was whipped clean off the portrait.
"Well, would you look at that?" Tom exclaimed, delighted. "Ask and you shall receive."
Ariana rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick. She decided she’d better just assume that gust was natural—not some trick of his. Still, she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips as she turned her gaze to the portrait.
Then her smile froze.
"Pfft—" Tom couldn’t hold it in and burst out laughing.
"Who painted this? Genius! I mean, it’s recognizably you, but... what are you, forty in this thing?"
"Tom!" Ariana’s whole body trembled with fury, black mist practically seeping off her shoulders. "Even if I were forty, I would never look that ugly!"
Tom quickly clamped down on her rage inside the study space before she exploded.
"Ariana, it’s just a bad portrait. Doesn’t mean you’d ever look like that. Honestly, you’re adorable."
Shameless, sure. But exactly the kind of thing a girl wanted to hear. Ariana’s anger melted a little, though one glance at the portrait sent it flaring again.
On the wall, the painted Ariana had noticed Tom and shrank back in fright, peeking out from behind a painted tree as though "secretly" spying on him.
"You’re not even half as cute as me—what’s with the fake cutesy act?" Ariana huffed. Her fingers itched to blast the thing apart with her newly learned Smashing spell, then track down the best painter in the world to redo her portrait, properly this time.
"Tom," she coaxed with mock innocence, "maybe the wind could... blow a little harder?"
He pretended not to hear. If it had been his property, sure, he’d have agreed. But tear down Dumbledore family heirlooms? That was asking to get hunted across Britain by not one but two Dumbledores. And unlike with Grindelwald, Albus wouldn’t be soft on him.
While Ariana kept trying to sweet-talk him into "accidentally" destroying it, the door creaked open.
Aberforth entered, a sack dangling from one hand, a tray balanced in the other. The moment he saw the uncovered painting, his expression darkened.
Tom quickly pointed to the open window. "Didn’t touch it. Wind blew it off."
Aberforth’s scowl softened. Whether or not that was true, no one was stupid enough to think staging that would be fun.
"Fine. You’ve seen it." He set the sack down, placed the tray on the table, and waved dismissively. "I just didn’t want you startling Ariana. She doesn’t like strangers."
"Ariana?" Tom asked smoothly.
"Ariana Dumbledore," Aberforth said, moving toward the painting. The painted Ariana peeked out shyly, then smiled when she saw him.
"She’s my sister. Your headmaster’s sister. Cute, isn’t she?"
Tom’s lips twitched. "Not cute."
Swoosh—
Aberforth’s wand was out in a heartbeat, his face twisted with fury. He looked ready to curse Tom.
"The portrait isn’t cute," Tom corrected calmly, unfazed. "The real Ariana must be a thousand times cuter. Sweet, thoughtful, and clever. That’s what she’s really like."
His words rang with such absolute conviction that Aberforth paused, thrown off. It felt as though the boy had actually met Ariana. His anger slipped away, replaced by the faintest smile as memories stirred.
"You’re right," he murmured. "She was cuter. Much cuter."
Inside the study space, Ariana buried her face under her quilt, cheeks burning.
"Hehehe~"
[Affection +1 +1 +1...]
In seconds, Ariana’s affection meter shot past ninety—higher than Grindelwald’s.
But Tom wasn’t paying attention to the system at all. He was too busy inspecting the cargo Aberforth had just brought in.
Twelve Runespoors in total, all fully grown. Seven female, five male.
Tom was more than satisfied—he was thrilled.
He’d only expected Aberforth to scrape together a few. Honestly, he would’ve accepted juveniles too; he could always raise them himself.
Lately he’d even managed to wring a few secret recipes out of old Newt, concoctions that could accelerate the growth of serpents.
But Aberforth had over-delivered. A dozen full adults, ready to go.
The uneven gender ratio didn’t bother Tom in the slightest. If some females had to share a mate, so be it.
"These must’ve cost you a fortune. How much do I owe you?"
"Two thousand more will do." Aberforth didn’t bother with pleasantries. Getting hold of these snakes had taken effort, not to mention calling in old favors.
Really, he’d only managed it because of the names Nicolas Flamel and Newt Scamander.
Of course... he wasn’t above charging a fat "finder’s fee."
The truth was, Tom had already paid more than enough upfront. This extra two thousand galleons was pure profit for Aberforth.
Tom didn’t care whether he was being cheated. If that much gold bought him a dozen Runespoors, it was a bargain.
He pulled out two pre-counted pockets, a thousand galleons each, and set them on the table.
That was one drawback of wizarding society: any large deal meant lugging around heavy bags of coins.
Aberforth’s mood lightened considerably once he pocketed the gold. Watching Tom eagerly pack the snakes away into his enchanted card case, he chuckled. "So... you planning on telling Newt about this little haul? Think he’ll make you let them all go?"
"Grandpa Newt isn’t that rigid."
Tom got up, unconcerned. "And it’s not like I went poaching."
Aberforth gave a sharp laugh. "How exactly is this any different from poaching?"
"There’s a huge difference." Tom gave him the kind of look you reserve for someone missing a few brain cells. "First off, I didn’t catch them—you did. I’m just an innocent, pitiful buyer."
He held up a second finger. "Second, the snakes only came to you because they felt the call of freedom. Fate led them here. That makes this a destined encounter, not a crime."
"With such a romantic meeting, how can you make it sound so vulgar?"
Aberforth stared at him, silent.
So according to this brat: the snakes came willingly, Tom never lifted a finger, Aberforth did all the dirty work... meaning Aberforth was the poacher.
The old man actually barked out a laugh, shaking his head. He jabbed a finger in Tom’s direction. "Merlin’s beard... you really are a Slytherin. Slimier than any of the ones I went to school with."
Tom accepted the words like praise. "Flattered, truly."
With business settled, his spirits lifted. He rubbed his hands together and sat down at the rickety wooden table.
"Is this that codfish casserole Newt’s always raving about?"
"Hmph." Aberforth snorted. "If it weren’t for the holiday, I wouldn’t have bothered. Just eat and keep quiet."
Tom smiled, conjured a spoon, and scooped up a bite. No way was he using the tavern’s filthy cutlery.
"Tell me about your sister," he said casually. "The Headmaster never talks about her."
Aberforth didn’t leave. Instead, he slumped into the chair across from Tom, grabbed a bottle, and uncorked it. After a pause, he muttered, "Ariana..." His gaze flicked to the painting covered once more by its velvet drape.
He drank, then began sharing stories. Not the dark secrets—those he kept to himself—but little childhood anecdotes, mischief and tender memories.
Tom listened, absorbed. Some of the stories were things Ariana herself had never told him. He imagined her hiding under her blankets right now, mortified.
...
Tom stayed until he was full, until he’d heard enough gossip to last him the week. Then it was time to return to Hogwarts.
Before leaving, he pulled a bracelet from his pocket and set it on the table.
Aberforth blinked. "What’s this?"
"A thank-you gift. You’ll figure it out after using it once or twice."
Tom didn’t explain further. It was an Anti-Disarm Bracelet engraved with a Shielding Charm. Hardly priceless, but a genuine token of gratitude.
Without waiting for more questions, Tom raised his hood and slipped out the door.
Aberforth stared at the bracelet for a long moment before letting out a rueful chuckle. "Other than Albus... it’s been years since anyone’s given me a gift."
While Tom made his way back toward the castle, Hogwarts’ Halloween feast was drawing to an end.
Then a scream split the hall.
In the corridor, Argus Filch stood frozen, clutching Mrs. Norris, her body stiff as a board. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Harry.
"It was you! You killed Mrs. Norris."
"It wasn’t me." Harry went pale, stumbling back.
"You killed my cat and that student! It was YOU, Harry Potter."
"No, no, it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me."
.
.
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