Hogwarts: I Am Such a Model Wizard

Chapter 909: The Same Tower, Dumbledore’s Choice

Aside from the few people who had been present, no one knew that such a conversation had taken place in the wooden hut. No one knew that the widely disliked Malfoy had once been replaced.

For a while after that, Hogwarts seemed to return to normal.

Seemed to—if you ignored the ominous shadows constantly circling the school grounds, the growing number of strangers in Hogsmeade, and the Hog’s Head packed full to bursting every day… yes, then things looked perfectly peaceful.

It was another weekend.

After finishing breakfast, Kyle happened to run into Malfoy in the entrance hall—he was on his way to the Quidditch match.

There were a lot of people around, and the two of them were jostled together in the crowd as they exited the castle, then casually went their separate ways.

Malfoy went off to the Quidditch Pitch with his usual two sidekicks, but Kyle didn’t return to the wooden hut. Instead, he headed straight off school grounds and made for the Hog’s Head.

Even though it was still daytime, the pub was as dimly lit as ever, filled with equally shadowy patrons.

Most of them wore oversized hoods that covered their faces entirely.

Kyle stepped up to the bar, where he found Aberforth busy behind the counter.

A spotless glass was immediately set down in front of him.

“What’ll it be?” Aberforth asked with a smile.

Kyle froze for a moment, not quite processing what he was seeing.

“Oh, By Merlin’s beard, did you see that? The owner… he just smiled!”

Someone nearby said exactly what Kyle was thinking.

“Idiot, you must be drunk,” muttered the person next to him without even glancing up. “That old goat’s got one face and one face only. I’d sooner believe Hogwarts is adding a Dark Arts class tomorrow than believe he actually smiled.”

“I swear I saw it,” the first voice insisted. “Really.”

“All right, I take it back.”

“You’re not drunk—you’re just drunk on fake booze.”

...

The two of them bickered on as Kyle finally came back to his senses.

When he looked up again, Aberforth had already returned to his usual self—stern-faced, like everyone in the room owed him five hundred Galleons.

Now that was more like it… Kyle exhaled quietly.

Aberforth’s smile was genuinely unsettling—like watching a troll teach a centaur to knit sweaters. It was just wrong on every level.

This version of him was much easier to handle.

“Thank you…” Aberforth muttered, just loud enough for Kyle to hear.

Kyle understood exactly what he meant.

Ariana had already visited the Hog’s Head and, presumably, told the stubborn old man the truth.

Kyle shook his head. “I didn’t do it for you. I just happened to think of a possible solution and decided to try it out.”

“Honestly, if she hadn’t been accepted on that side, there wouldn’t have been anything I could do.”

“You helped her all the same.” Aberforth pulled out a dusty bottle of Firewhiskey. “Not like someone else, who just circles around the problem, can’t solve anything, nearly got himself killed in the process, and has lived more than a hundred years without ever using his brain…”

“And he actually had the nerve to punch me. Just wait—I’ll pay him back sooner or later...”

Aberforth’s voice was thick with scorn and resentment for Dumbledore.

The animosity between the brothers hadn’t been eased by Ariana’s return. If anything, Dumbledore’s punch had opened a whole new chapter in their feud.

Kyle wisely said nothing.

What those two did was none of his business—so long as they didn’t drag him into it.

Aberforth wiped off the bottle and poured Kyle a glass.

“Here, try it. Real 80-year-old Ogden’s Firewhiskey. Not the rebottled rubbish those morons usually drink.”

He didn’t bother lowering his voice. Quite a few people nearby heard him loud and clear.

All around the bar, suspicious eyes turned their way.

What the hell? Were people selling fake booze this openly now?

Not even trying to hide it?

“What are you looking at?” Aberforth barked. “Want the real stuff? Fine. Thirty Galleons a glass. Step right up!”

Everyone promptly looked down.

They couldn’t afford it.

“Hmph.” Aberforth sneered. “You think five Sickles gets you the good stuff? Dream on…”

Kyle stayed silent.

The Hog’s Head had its charm—not just for its privacy, ideal for shady dealings, but also because its clientele couldn’t afford to drink at the Three Broomsticks. This place was as close as they’d get.

A better-looking bottle was, in its own way, a form of psychological comfort.

Kyle picked up the glass—which was cleaner than anything you’d find at the Three Broomsticks—and took a small sip.

“Well?” Aberforth asked.

“It’s fine,” Kyle said, smacking his lips lightly.

The old man’s face fell instantly.

Sure, Kyle had saved Ariana, but that didn’t mean he could insult the pub’s signature Firewhiskey like it was nothing.

A kid not even twenty, acting like he understood Ogden’s? This was the 80-year-old vintage, for Merlin’s sake…

“It’s not as good as the 150-year-old.”

Kyle’s comment stopped Aberforth in his tracks.

Because not only had he said it—he’d backed it up by pulling out a bottle that looked even older. Aberforth took one glance at the label, and the corners of his mouth twitched like they were doing a jig.

It really was 150-year-old Ogden’s…

Then he remembered—of course Kyle could get his hands on something like that. He had been to 1899, after all. Dumbledore had mentioned in passing that Kyle had picked up quite a few things back then.

“Hah, I bet it doesn’t have the depth of aged whiskey,” Aberforth grumbled, his neck stiff with pride.

“It’s different. The craft is different,” Kyle said, wagging a finger. “This batch from a hundred and fifty years ago was the work of Ogden’s most gifted distiller. That’s when the name ‘Ogden’s Firewhiskey’ really started to mean something.”

He gave the bottle a swirl, and the liquid inside seemed to ignite, casting a flickering red glow through the cloudy glass.

Real Firewhiskey had actual fire in it—not just the name, not just a brand.

“Sell me a bottle…” Aberforth’s eyes were practically glued to it.

“Flat price—eight hundred Galleons.”

“Eight hundred…” Aberforth gaped. “Why don’t you just rob me outright?”

“Oh, come now. Robbery’s too slow. And risky.” Kyle smirked. “Do you want it or not? Just so we’re clear, eight hundred is the mates’ rate. If this were on my shop shelf, you wouldn’t even get to look at it for less than a thousand.”

“I’ll take it!” Aberforth growled, grinding out the words through clenched teeth. “You bloody swindler.”

“Likewise,” Kyle said cheerfully, handing over his Mokeskin pouch.

He hadn’t expected to make a sale on this trip, but hey—bonus.

Aberforth went off to fetch the money, muttering under his breath. Something about “idiot,” “fool,” “wasted the whole damn trip,” and so on.

Soon enough, he returned and tossed the pouch back at Kyle with no small amount of irritation.

“All right, out with it. What did you come here for?”

Kyle opened the pouch, peeked inside, and then tucked it away, satisfied.

“Just a little favor. I need you to keep an eye on a few people,” he said, flicking his wand subtly beneath the bar.

“Muffliato.”

“I’ve been packed to the rafters every day lately,” Aberforth said, lifting an eyebrow. “I can’t watch everyone.”

“Just a few will do,” Kyle replied. “The big guy in the corner, the witch by the door, and the three at the table straight ahead.”

“They Death Eaters?”

“Yep. The real deal,” Kyle said. “Malfoy got it out of Crabbe and Goyle. Those five have used the Killing Curse multiple times—they’re some of the nastiest ones.”

“Malfoy?” Aberforth raised an eyebrow. “The kid who tried to kill Dumbledore? He managed to pull info like that in that situation?”

So Aberforth knew the background, then.

“Apparently he came clean about his secret mission, and that won over Crabbe and Goyle,” Kyle said. “Bit of a lucky break. I honestly didn’t think Malfoy had it in him.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Aberforth asked.

“Just keep an eye on them,” Kyle said. “If they’re still here, it means the Death Eaters haven’t made a move yet—so we don’t need to act.”

“And if they do make a move?”

Kyle didn’t answer. He just traced a line across the table with his finger.

Aberforth raised an eyebrow. “That’s five seasoned Death Eaters. All of them? You’ve got a pretty high opinion of me.”

“You could always write me a letter,” Kyle said. “I wouldn’t mind making the trip.”

“But I’d rather not waste parchment,” Aberforth sighed. “All right, I get it. But you should head back now—hanging around here too long will get people suspicious.”

“Hogwarts professors don’t come to the Hog’s Head… and neither do students.”

“It’s fine,” Kyle said casually. “They won’t be doing anything soon anyway.”

“Well, I still don’t want to see your face again,” Aberforth said flatly.

Eight hundred Galleons had cleared his goodwill tab in an instant.

Tch. So much for Ariana’s worth, Kyle thought to himself as he stood up and left the Hog’s Head.

...

By the time he returned to the school, the Quidditch match had just ended. Students were heading back to the castle in small groups, excitedly chatting about the game.

In the crowd, Kyle spotted Malfoy again. There was still a bubble of empty space around him—no one wanted to get too close—but he was laughing and chatting with Crabbe and Goyle, clearly on good terms with them again.

Kyle gave them a glance, then turned and walked away.

In the days that followed, the snow on the ground slowly melted. Kyle’s Ancient Runes class remained consistent: one lesson every Monday, always finishing on time, never running over.

The only one who seemed displeased was Hermione. She always had endless questions, and even managed to work out a path through the Alchemic Mist by self-study.

It wasn’t until Kyle reassured her that, with her current skill level, she was guaranteed to score an O in her N.E.W.T. that she finally started showing up less often.

She seemed determined to push herself—wanted to earn more N.E.W.T. certificates, and not just pass them, but score top marks in all of them.

Kyle didn’t think it was necessary. It’s just a certificate. If you’ve got hands, you can get one, can’t you?

But when students showed that kind of motivation, it wasn’t his place to discourage them.

Malfoy continued to pass along bits of information—updates on the Death Eaters’ latest plans.

Kyle had to admit, when Malfoy truly committed to something, he could get things done.

Crabbe and Goyle weren’t especially important figures, and aside from the five Death Eaters in the Hog’s Head, most of the intel they had was fairly insignificant.

But it was better than nothing.

And combined with their other double agent—Snape—most of the Death Eaters lurking in and around Hogwarts had been more or less identified.

During this time, Dumbledore seemed to become unusually busy. Kyle didn’t know what he was up to, but he stopped by the wooden hut a few times to give some instructions.

Nothing major—mostly just a reminder to stay on school grounds and be ready when the time came.

He hadn’t said what kind of opportunity it was, and Kyle hadn’t asked.

Until another Quidditch match.

As usual, the students of Hogwarts eagerly poured into the Quidditch Pitch.

But this time, the crowd was noticeably thinner.

Malfoy was missing, and so were Crabbe and Goyle.

Kyle was in the garden setting up rune arrangements when he suddenly heard the cry of a phoenix.

He looked up and saw Fawkes, inexplicably perched atop one of Hogwarts’ towers.

“That’s the Headmaster’s phoenix…” Hagrid had looked up as well.

Of course he recognized a phoenix, but since they didn’t have saw-like teeth or a particularly fearsome appearance, they’d never really appealed to him. He looked away after a single glance.

“Strange. It never leaves the Headmaster’s office. What’s going on today?”

“No idea,” said Kyle. “I’ll go check it out.”

“Alright,” Hagrid replied, not giving it much thought.

Kyle left the garden, pulled out his Firebolt, and sped toward the tower where Fawkes was perched.

The door was already open. Crabbe and Goyle lay unconscious on either side of the room. Dumbledore stood directly in front of the window, and Malfoy stood opposite him—exactly as they had stood years ago.

“It’s starting?” Kyle asked.

“Yes,” Dumbledore nodded. “Tom seems to be growing impatient. He’s been pressing Mr. Malfoy repeatedly, but so long as I remain alive, he doesn’t dare make his move.”

“He already defeated me and took the Elder Wand,” Dumbledore sighed. “I thought that alone would give him enough confidence, but Tom is still just as cautious.”

“He really beat you?” Kyle’s voice rose slightly.

“Yes. Utterly defeated. Even my wand became his trophy.” Dumbledore spread his hands, indicating he no longer possessed the one tool no wizard could do without.

Kyle, of course, had seen Dumbledore’s other wand—the black one.

But most of the time, Dumbledore didn’t use it. He preferred solving problems with wandless magic.

This was no exception.

“Then let’s begin,” Dumbledore said, looking toward Malfoy. “Minerva and Severus are already on their way, just as we discussed.”

“R-Right…” Malfoy raised his wand, his hand trembling uncontrollably.

“Hold on,” Kyle suddenly interrupted, glancing around. He pulled out his wand and levitated Crabbe off the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“You don’t want Fawkes to be the one to burn for you, do you?” Kyle gave Crabbe a shake. “Someone’s got to take the Killing Curse. Don’t waste it. Besides, if you’re going to ‘die,’ someone has to see it.”

A vein throbbed on Dumbledore’s forehead.

“This is a school, Kyle!”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. Crabbe is still a student.” Dumbledore’s voice was firm.

“Tch. Such a hassle.” Kyle tossed Crabbe aside, opened a trunk, and pulled out another unconscious Death Eater.

“I asked Cedric to check. This guy killed five Muggles using dark magical items, and during a Death Eater operation, he took down an Auror and two Hit Wizards. He should qualify, right?”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched slightly but didn’t object.

Kyle deftly produced a potion bottle.

“No need,” said Dumbledore, stopping Kyle from yanking out his hair.

“Polyjuice has a time limit—it’s not ideal.” As he spoke, a black wand appeared in his hand, and he pointed it at the Death Eater.

In the blink of an eye, a second Dumbledore stood in the room.

Kyle raised his wand and guided the duplicate to the window. “Professor, you sure no one’s going to notice?”

“I’m confident in my Transfiguration,” Dumbledore said. “Not sure if I’ve ever mentioned it, but I did spend quite a few years teaching the subject.”

Watching how smoothly the two worked together, Malfoy’s hand began to tremble even harder.

He couldn’t help but think—if he hadn’t chosen to betray the Dark Lord, if he’d followed the original plan, then the ‘Dumbledore’ being held at wandpoint might have been him instead.

At that thought, it wasn’t just his hands shaking—his knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed on the spot.

“Move quickly,” Dumbledore urged. “Minerva is already downstairs. The fewer people who know, the better we can fool Tom. Just like Alastor.”

Kyle glanced at Dumbledore but said nothing. He carefully positioned the fake Dumbledore in front of the window and made a small adjustment to the distance.

Outside, hurried footsteps echoed up the stairs. The professors had arrived.

Kyle swiftly turned his wand on Malfoy.

“Expelliarmus!”

Malfoy instinctively thrust his wand forward.

He didn’t speak a single incantation, but a Killing Curse shot from the tip of his wand like a bolt of lightning.

It burst out like an ill-timed, garish firework.

There was no resistance. The curse struck the ‘Dumbledore’ squarely in front of the window, and the room fell completely still.

Bang!

At almost the exact same moment, the door to the tower burst open.

A tabby cat leapt into the room, transforming midair into Professor McGonagall, with Snape right behind her.

Their eyes went first to Malfoy’s wand, spinning through the air into Kyle’s hand.

Then they saw Dumbledore—bathed in a fading green glow—launched backward through the window by a powerful force.

Professor McGonagall’s scream caught in her throat. She couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move, and could only stare as Dumbledore plummeted from the tower.