"Oi, barkeep! Get down here and serve your custor!"
Tom casually rapped his knuckles against the counter. Bang! A door upstairs slamd open, and out stord a furious old man.
He was a ss—his long white beard was tangled into knots, his hair stuck up like a bird's nest, and he was still wearing pajamas.
When his eyes fell on the intruder—a re boy wizard—his fury only grew.
"You little brat! Sneak out of school and then dare to strut about? Keep it up and I'll have your professors drag you back by the ears!"
Unbothered, Tom flicked out a parchnt and waved it. "Ever heard of connections? Who said I snuck out? This is special permission, signed by Dumbledore himself. Professor McGonagall personally walked to the gates. Want to read it out loud for you?"
If anything, that only poured oil on the fire.
Aberforth Dumbledore bellowed like a beast: "Damn that Albus! Useless fool, cowardly old corpse! This is how he runs a school?! Whelps like you belong in hell!"
Plenty of people in the wizarding world disliked Dumbledore. The one who hated him most was Voldemort. But few dared to spit venom so crudely. Others, at most, grumbled or sneered behind his back.
Tom, however, was calm as ever. In his mind, he asked, "Well, Ariana? Has your brother changed much?"
In the learning space, Ariana smiled faintly. "Not at all. He's exactly the sa. Back then, whenever Aberforth and Albus argued, he'd always try to cast a Muffliato on first. But with my silent magic, it never worked. I always heard everything."
Finding soone familiar in this era lifted her spirits. Unlike Andros or Grindelwald, who were worldly and adaptable, Ariana was just a fragile girl who'd suffered trauma. First she'd had to accept her own death. Then she learned she was decades in the future. The fear never fully left her.
Tom chuckled. "Good. Then when we've got spare ti, we'll co tease the old man again."
"Be careful," Ariana warned softly. "Aberforth's temper isn't good."
"It's fine. If things get rough, I'll call Andros out. He'll be the one taking the punches."
"…Just don't hit him too hard," she murmured.
Tom wasn't being cowardly. Aberforth was strong—much stronger than Snape.
In his youth, he had fought in the legendary three-way duel between himself, Albus, and Grindelwald. During the Kirin Election, he and Albus alone had reacted quickly enough to counter Grindelwald's Killing Curse.
And that was Grindelwald at his peak—wielding the Elder Wand. Standing against him at all was an accomplishnt.
Tom had once asked Grindelwald about Aberforth's strength. Grindelwald's only reply: "I once thrashed him bloody. He's rubbish."
But then, to a King of the Century, wasn't everyone rubbish?
While Tom chatted leisurely with Ariana, he ignored the seething man before him. Aberforth, livid at being dismissed, stomped down the stairs, ready to grab the boy and throw him out.
Only then did Tom finally lift his gaze.
"All right, enough theatrics. Aberforth Dumbledore, I didn't co here to argue. I ca because soone sent to find you."
Aberforth froze in place. His eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk's.
"You… know who I am?"
"Grandpa Newt sent ," Tom said smoothly. "He told a little about you—and about your son."
That made Aberforth blink.
It was true. Newt Scamander had ntioned these things. Outside, both Aberforth's identity and his son's entanglents with Grindelwald were tightly held secrets. But within certain circles, they weren't secrets at all.
The greatest barrier to information was always the circle. If you weren't part of it, you knew nothing. Once you were inside, half the world's secrets suddenly seed like common gossip.
And Newt's reputation spoke for itself. Hearing that Newt had sent this boy softened Aberforth's expression.
He hated his brother, yes. And Newt often did favors for Albus. But Newt himself was too earnest, too straightforward to hate. A man you could trust never to stab you in the back.
That was why Aberforth had maintained ties with him for years.
"What's your na? And what are you to Newt?"
"My na is Tom Riddle."
…
"…What did you say your na was?" Aberforth stared at him with a strange, twisted expression.
Tom feigned innocence. "Tom Riddle. Why? Don't tell even the old barman of this shabby hole has heard of already?"
"Yes… a fine reputation indeed." This text is hosted at novel-fire
Aberforth gave a humorless chuckle. "That na brings back mories. Tell , boy—how old are you? Which house?"
"Second year. Slytherin."
Aberforth burst into hearty laughter. "Ha! Perfect. Slytherin it is! Tom Riddle belongs nowhere else!"
How ironic. This child clearly had no idea who his "predecessor" was. And yet he carried his brother's trust—trust enough to be handed an official pass.
"Starting to rethink your choices now, Albus?" Aberforth muttered under his breath.
He went behind the counter, grabbed a bottle of rum, and took a swig for breakfast.
"All right, Riddle. If Newt told you about my past, then he trusts you. What ssage did he want to hear?"
"He needs information on poachers," Tom replied. "Two Horned Serpents from the Louisiana swamps have been stolen recently. Most likely, they're headed toward Europe."
"Horned Serpents?" Aberforth frowned, muttering, "That's a rare catch… even I'd be tempted."
"But no, I haven't heard anything yet."
Horned Serpents were among the most iconic magical creatures of Louisiana—and North Arica in general. Ilvermorny itself had nad a house after them.
Their true treasure was the gemstone embedded in their foreheads. That stone gave them the power of flight and invisibility. Wizard-made Invisibility Cloaks of the highest quality required such gems—far superior to those made from Demiguise hair. It was no wonder poachers lusted after them.
Aberforth tapped the counter with his finger. "I'll make so inquiries. If I hear anything, I'll contact you. Tom Riddle."
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