"It's safe here—at least we don't have to worry about those pesky little kittens bothering us!" Dumbledore spoke first. "I'm on fairly good terms with the bartender here. Care for some Butterbeer?"
"Sure thing!" Jon nodded with a smile.
The Butterbeer keg popped open, and Fawkes, looking mildly displeased, flew onto the bed.
Dumbledore poured two glasses and handed one to Jon. Jon took it and sipped lightly.
"Some Slytherin students have formed a sort of reserve Death Eater organization," Jon began. "Including Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini…"
He listed the names of all the members of the Knights of Walpurgis, finishing with, "And of course, myself."
"Is that so?" Dumbledore asked casually, taking a sip of Butterbeer as if the revelation didn't surprise him. "And who's their leader?"
"It used to be Draco Malfoy," Jon replied honestly. "Now it's me."
"Ahem, ahem…" Dumbledore suddenly broke into a violent coughing fit, apparently choking on his Butterbeer.
"Are you all right, Professor?" Jon quickly stood and patted him on the back.
Fawkes swooped over and let a single tear fall onto Dumbledore's hand. Dumbledore touched it to his lips… and his color immediately returned to normal.
"I'm fine, just choked a little. Go on."
"Professor Hagrid seems to be keeping something in the Forbidden Forest…" Jon continued. "People have already started to notice. Professor, I suggest you warn him—otherwise, he might get into trouble."
"Mhm." Dumbledore nodded gravely.
"And also…" Jon hesitated for a moment. "Mrs. Greengrass—I saw the article in the Daily Prophet. Is she…?"
"Don't worry," Dumbledore said with a reassuring smile. "I've known about Diana's situation for some time. You can tell young Miss Greengrass that her mother will be fine."
Hearing Dumbledore's certainty, Jon finally exhaled in relief.
The old man and the young boy continued talking in the dim, shabby room, discussing various matters around the school.
"It's already half past eleven," Dumbledore remarked after glancing at the cracked clock on the wall. "Jon, you should head back now. Mr. Filch will be quite upset if he catches you out this late."
"I understand, Professor." Jon stood, paused thoughtfully, then added, "Um… could you have Fawkes find me again later? There are a few things I'd like to ask you—questions about some theories—but I need to organize them first."
"Oh? About what, exactly?" Dumbledore asked, curious.
"Transfiguration," Jon said seriously.
"Excellent. I'll be looking forward to it."
...
A few minutes later, they made their way downstairs.
Jon had already slipped the iron ring back onto his finger, transforming once again into Christopher Patrick.
Downstairs in the Hog's Head, the oddly dressed bartender was still crouched on the floor, feeding a few goats.
Dumbledore gave him a polite nod, but the bartender simply turned his head away without acknowledgment.
They stepped outside together. Dumbledore lowered his head and said softly, "I'll take my leave now. I believe you'll still need to pass through the main gate for Mr. Filch's inspection."
Fawkes flew onto Dumbledore's shoulder, and with a flash of golden light, both man and bird vanished.
Jon was about to leave as well when a hand pressed firmly onto his shoulder.
It was the peculiar bartender, the heavy scent of goat clinging to him. Jon suspected that the hand on his shoulder had just been licked by one of the goats.
"Hart?" the man asked, his tone low and slightly doubtful. "Jon Hart?"
Jon froze for an instant, genuinely startled. But when he recalled the man's true identity—Albus Dumbledore's brother, Aberforth Dumbledore—his surprise quickly faded.
He nodded.
"Come with me," the old man said, his voice rough and gravelly.
Before Jon could respond, Aberforth gripped his shoulder again and pulled him back inside the Hog's Head.
...
This time, they didn't go upstairs but down into a small room in the basement.
The floor was covered with sturdy carpet, noticeably cleaner than the upper floor. Above the fireplace hung a large oil painting of a beautiful blonde girl, about Jon's age, who gazed timidly at the stranger in the room.
"Was it Professor Dumbledore who told you about my identity?" Jon asked softly, turning toward the bartender.
The man had shed his thick, full-body cloak, revealing a face half-hidden beneath a long, rope-like beard. Behind a pair of dirty spectacles gleamed eyes as blue as those of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.
"No, I guessed it," Aberforth Dumbledore said coolly. "There aren't many students at Hogwarts who receive special treatment from the great Headmaster Albus Dumbledore."
The word "great" came out laced with biting sarcasm.
"Care for a Butterbeer?" he offered, already picking up a grimy glass.
"No, thank you, Mr. Dumbledore. I've already had two today," Jon quickly declined. Butterbeer might not be alcoholic, but too much of it could be nauseatingly sweet.
"My brother told you who I really am?" Aberforth looked up in mild surprise, his blue eyes scrutinizing Jon.
"No, actually, I guessed," Jon replied with a small smile. "After all, there aren't many people in this world whom Headmaster Dumbledore trusts that much."
"Hmph. Clever," Aberforth grunted. Then he gestured toward the golden-framed portrait. "This is my sister, Ariana Dumbledore."
Jon noticed that he had said "my" instead of "our."
Turning to the portrait, Jon bowed slightly to the girl.
Ariana, who appeared to be only thirteen or fourteen, smiled brightly and waved shyly at him.
Seeing Jon's gesture, Aberforth's cold demeanor softened slightly.
"Yes, you're clever," he said gravely. "But unfortunately…"
"You understand nothing, Jon Hart."