Chapter 266 : Accident
This tavern was the main gathering spot for the Black family's underground network. Many wizards associated with the family frequented it to pick up assignments and earn bounties. Though the Black family paid them well, no one ever refused extra Galleons. Phineas didn't object to them taking private jobs either—constant combat kept their skills sharp.
As the tavern door creaked open, the sharp scent of smoke mingled with malt liquor filled the air. Dim lighting and raucous chatter created an atmosphere of indulgent abandon.
Phineas's entrance drew no attention. The drinkers, smokers, and braggers were too immersed in their routines to notice him.
Many of them practically lived in the tavern—vagrants, outcasts, disavowed dark wizards, and others with identities unsanctioned by the Ministry. Within these walls, they kept to themselves. No one caused trouble in the tavern itself. If they had a score to settle, it was handled outside.
The Ministry's Aurors rarely inspected the place, and that perceived safety made patrons fiercely protective. At times, they even helped keep the peace.
But Phineas's focus was on the robed men in the far corner, away from both the fireplace and the windows.
That seat was rarely taken unless the tavern was full—but the tavern wasn't full tonight. Their deliberate placement drew attention.
In such places, the warmest and liveliest seats—by the fireplace or the bar—were prized. Then came spots near windows or doors. The central tables came next. Only the corners remained least desirable.
Though some patrons preferred the corner for privacy, these men weren't deep in hushed conversation.
However, the men were wolfing down their simple meals at this moment, not looking like they were talking about anything. It was more like they were taking refuge here. They all looked very cold and lonely. Perhaps they felt Phineas's gaze, one of them glared at Phineas with a warning look, then lowered his head to eat the lunch which was not at all sumptuous.
"If I were you, I wouldn't mess with them," said the young bartender quietly as Phineas approached the bar. "What'll it be?"
Phineas smiled and placed a silver Sickle on the counter. "Butterbeer. Also, who are they?"
The bartender's eyes gleamed at the coin, which he subtly pocketed. Though the tavern paid better than most places, a Sickle still equaled several days' wages.
He handed Phineas a foaming glass of butterbeer, topped with cream and garnished with cherries, then leaned in and murmured, "They arrived during a heavy storm a few nights ago. Looked terrified. Four of them. Rented a room upstairs and only come out for meals. They never order drinks—just plain food. Bread, soup. Nothing complicated."
The bartender glanced around, then whispered in Phineas's ear, "I reckon they're fugitives. Or hiding from someone. Either way, they're bad news."
Phineas took a sip and smirked. "This tavern isn't afraid of trouble."
"That's right," the bartender said with a grin as he polished a glass. "We never are."
Phineas found the butterbeer to his liking. The cream was rich but balanced. The alcohol had more kick than the Hogsmeade version. Even the cherries weren't just for show—the flavor melded perfectly with the butter and cream, awakening his senses.
"Very nice," Phineas said, setting the glass down.
"Thanks, sir. Need anything else?"
"Yes—fried pancakes with Fire Dragon sauce."
The bartender blinked, then nodded. "That'll take a while. You're welcome to rest upstairs."
Phineas downed the rest of his drink and followed the bartender. Patrons in the tavern didn't react. It wasn't uncommon for guests to follow staff upstairs—most taverns doubled as centers for information and mercenary contracts.
But what they didn't know was that Phineas wasn't taken to the second floor. He was led to the fourth—the top floor. There was only one room there, rarely used and always kept tidy.
After showing him in, the bartender nodded and left.
Phineas showed no surprise. He sat by the window and casually picked up a book nearby.
A knock on the door interrupted him a while later.
"Come in," he said, closing the book.
A man entered—stooped, plainly featured, but elegantly dressed. He bowed. "Young Master."
Phineas nodded, motioned for the man to sit opposite him, and then said with a smile.
"Is there any important news recently?"
The man took the seat opposite him. "There are whispers that the Dark Lord has returned. Former Death Eaters are regrouping. Fewer people come here now. I sent someone to investigate—but they've yet to return."
Phineas nodded and said.
"He is indeed back. He was the one who attacked me a while ago. As for the people you sent out, I think they will not come back. Although I am not sure about his current condition, based on his personality and ability, he will definitely be able to find the people who were following him. It is only a matter of time before they are killed."
The man's face darkened. "Master, are you certain?"
Phineas's gaze sharpened. "Do you think I'd lie? Or that I'm mistaken?"
"No, Master," the man said quickly. "It's just that… it's hard to believe."
"It's terrifying, isn't it?" Phineas said with a smile. "But true. We must gather our people. Move their families to the peninsula—remove distractions. War is coming."
"I understand. I'll activate all intelligence channels—especially the covert ones."
Phineas nodded. "What about those men downstairs?"
"Poachers," the man replied. "Spotted by the Ministry while smuggling dragon eggs out of Romania. They're hiding here now."
"Dragon eggs? What kind?"
"One Romanian Longhorn. The other—a Hebridean Black, marked by the Dragon Research Institute."
Phineas grinned. "No wonder the Ministry's after them. Hebridean Blacks are rare—even the farms have few. See if they've sold the eggs. If not, take them. We could use more."
The Hebridean Black was a fierce fire-breather from the Scottish Hebrides. Thirty feet long, with rugged scales and razor ridges along its spine. It had a pointed tail and bat-like wings—ideal for magical components. Over-hunting and territorial needs had made them scarce even in Romania.
The Black family's dragon farm had some, but Phineas was always happy to expand the stock.
"I'll handle it, Master," the man said.
"One more thing—place some of our people near Number 4, Privet Drive. Little Whinging. Surrey."
The man frowned. "Surrey? Not many wizards there. Why?"
Phineas didn't take offense. Few could ask such questions without consequence—but this man was one of them.
Although the man appeared to be around Sirius's age, he was in fact much older—nearly as old as Mad-Eye Moody. He had long served the Black family, having been born into a branch of it. His mother came from a small, reclusive pure-blood scholar family and later married into a cadet line of the Blacks.
His father had been the head of the family's intelligence network, a position he inherited upon his father's death. When Phineas rose to leadership, he entrusted the family's covert operations to him as well.
There was no concern about betrayal—he was family. More than that, his wife and children lived near the Black family's ancestral estate under the watchful protection of the elders, further ensuring his loyalty.
"Harry Potter lives there," Phineas said. "If Voldemort is back, he'll go after him. Place watchers—discreetly. Protect him if needed. Dumbledore will likely assign guards too. Avoid conflict with them."
"Understood, Master. I'll ensure they remain hidden."
Phineas trusted the man implicitly. He'd ensure the agents wouldn't even know each other, keeping the operation secure.
After exchanging more intel, Phineas left the tavern. The man bought the dragon eggs from the poachers—at a price well below market—and rushed them to the Black family's dragon farm.
Phineas returned to the family home in London.
As he entered, he found Sirius and Harry upstairs, seated by the fireplace and playing wizard chess.
"Phineas! You're back!" Harry greeted excitedly.
Though Phineas was older, Harry considered him a friend from Hogwarts. He got along better with those near his own age—even though Sirius treated him like family.
Phineas smiled. "Just handled some matters. Did Sirius mention my proposal? And how was your trip?"
Harry nodded. "It went well."
Sirius's expression darkened. "It did—but something was off."
Phineas immediately sat down. "What happened?"
"After picking up Harry, I took him to Diagon Alley. We cleared a blockade easily enough, but… I feel like I missed something."
A chill ran through Phineas. He recalled how Voldemort had been resurrected—with Harry's blood.
He turned to Harry, serious. "Were you hurt?"
Harry was about to shake his head, but Phineas cut in.
"Even a scratch that bleeds counts."
Harry frowned, then nodded. "When we got away from that crowd, I noticed my sleeve was torn. My arm was scratched too."