Work Text:
Prologue
When the Dumbledore family went fishing at the headwaters, down the steep banks just outside of Godric’s Hollow, they always went in this order. First, Albus’s father would scale the edge with Ariana on his shoulders. He was burly and strong enough that he could support both her weight and his own, and nimble enough that he didn’t have to worry about catching himself at the bottom.
Next, Aberforth would jump down, not bothering to use magic as an aid. Instead, he would catch himself with loose knees. Sometimes he would fall, pull a face at Albus who was watching from above, and dust himself off. Albus’s mother would follow, gracefully letting herself down with a flick on the wand. Her skirt would parachute and flutter about her ankles as she settled neatly on the banks.
Albus was always last. Some part of him felt that this was a fitting order, that the family was picture perfect without his presence. It wasn’t like at Hogwarts where his mind was sought after, where professors would praise his wit and skill. It was with some effort and reluctance that he would let himself down in the same fashion as his mother.
The fishing trips bored him anyway. This particular summer’s day was blistering, and Albus could feel sweat dripping down his neck, where the neatly tied auburn locks hung loosely against his skin. He watched his family crowd into their boat, Aberforth and Ariana merrily splashing each other over the edge of the shallow water. Ariana would be going to Hogwarts in a few years. Even at the age of thirteen, Albus couldn’t help but marvel at the workings of time.
“Well,” his father called out to him, “Will you be joining us, Albus?”
Crossly, Albus slunk towards him.
“I’m going to read on the shore,” he said, not daring to look up.
“I will not be having that, Albus,” his father started. Out of the corner of his eye, Albus could see his mother raise her hand to quiet him.
Albus plopped down against the muddy rocks. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”
“Let’s go already!” yelled Aberforth, beaming up at his father. He was already fiddling with the fishing line and bait. Albus felt himself seethe with jealousy. His brother had always been a natural at such things, and his father’s favorite between the two boys. Neither of course, could hold a candle to Ariana, but it was hard to be mad at her for it.
Albus’s mother looked back to shore one last time, with a disappointment that pierced directly to Albus’s core. “Suit yourself.”
Albus swallowed, opening up his book. He couldn’t help but take one last glance at the four of them, the perfect family on the perfect family outing. Come Autumn, thought Albus, he would be at home again, surrounded by books and spells and knowledge. Hogwarts, of course, was his actual home.
***
Spring, 1931.
There were five letters on the mantelpiece, each in its own unopened envelope. The latest was a sleek burgundy matte - annoyingly custom in its make. Aberforth turned it over once more, the paper soft against aging palms, roughened by hard labor. Not everyone could be graced with the kind of elegant fingers that are designed to hold wands at the tip. Some hands, Aberforth supposed, were simply meant to get dirty, to scrub basins without the aid of spells.
To most wizards, scarred and hardened hands wouldn’t be a point of pride, but to Aberforth, they were more than a symbol of his life as a barkeep. These hands set his life apart from his brother, whose fame and success was built on a burial ground of lies and whose hands were probably soft and velvety. Aberforth thought about it every time someone mentioned Albus’s name, how those hands had not always been so clean. At least, Aberforth thought, his hands told the truth about him - and no man with hands that looked like those should be receiving letters in custom burgundy packaging.
Aberforth wasn’t stupid, no matter how many times he had been told that he was. From the first letter addressed to “A. Dumbledore” in its small, neat print, he had known exactly who they were from. The blank return address had made more of an identity for itself than his name. He had also known that they were not for him.
There had been whisperings in the Hog’s Head about the rise of Gellert Grindelwald for months now. The Ministry, of course, with its determination to cast a veil of false security over all of Britain, still wasn’t issuing public warnings. The first time he had heard that name again, after all these years, Aberforth let his fist slip down hard on the counter and several nights later, came the first of the five letters.
Aberforth wasn’t stupid, like everyone always assumed. In fact, he was rather quick.
He had wanted to burn it at first, but instead he had put it on the mantle under a potted plant that his brother had sent him last Christmas - a little lie that he had thought well suited at the time. They seemed to follow his brother like fond strays. Aberforth had kept the letter even if he didn’t have a good reason. Even though he owed Albus nothing.
It was a month before the second letter showed and at daybreak, when the barn owl swooped through the loft window to drop it on the mantle, it took everything Aberforth had in him not to wring that bird’s neck. In the next month, two more letters followed. There was not a moment where Aberforth once doubted that Gellert had been the sender, but he was stubborn. Afraid, even. He didn’t dare read them.
When the fifth letter came this morning, it had almost been half a year since the first and the plant on the mantle had long since died. Aberforth sat on his bunk staring blankly out the window, shuffling his options in his mind. They had been mere boys when Gellert Grindelwald had moved into Godric’s Hollow and destroyed the assorted scraps of what had once been the distinguished Dumbledore family.
Since then, Albus had become an instructor at Hogwarts and won at least five national awards. Aberforth had taken his inheritance to Hogsmeade to invest in a pub. Three years ago, Albus had travelled to Milan to receive acclaim for research in the field of medical alchemy. Three years ago, Aberforth had bought out the pub. Last year, Albus had agreed to a contract as a columnist for Transfiguration Today and presently, Aberforth ran and operated the Hog’s Head, his very own pub - and as a matter of fact, it was turning a profit.
Whenever Albus travelled, he always sent something back for Aberforth, but the gesture always felt hollow and impersonal - a houseplant he had no time to water or a candy he had never much cared for. The year was 1931. The brothers had only met up in person a handful of times since they were boys and Aberforth had been more than content to keep it that way - two lives revolving entirely on different axes.
That was why it was with reluctant hands that Aberforth tore a piece of yellowing paper from an unused journal in his desk, dipped his quill to his inkwell, took a deep breath, and wrote.
Albus,
We need to talk.
--The Other A. Dumbledore
***
The Hog’s Head, as always, was smelly, dim and loud and filled Albus with a mix of emotions that left him vulnerable. He couldn’t let go of it, the desire to be forgiven like a need in the back of his mind. The more he tried to snuff it out, the more it grew, like an angry wildfire fed by his shame. Albus hid the flames behind an icy exterior, behind a twinkling smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Aberforth,” Albus said, removing his hat and cloak as he sat, as any patron would, at the bar directly across from his brother.
Aberforth scowled at him. “You came.”
“I must admit,” said Albus warmly, “I was pleasantly surprised by the invitation.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Albus,” said Aberforth, “The entire Wizarding World is doing it for you.”
Albus had nothing to say to that. Instead, he busied himself with a deep sip of his butterbeer. It was oversweet, the only courtesy that Aberforth had provided since he had arrived, and even then, Albus wasn’t sure if it was intentional.
“Barnabas,” Aberforth beckoned to a man in a leather vest, who somehow managed to be scrawny and rotund at the same time, “Watch the bar til my brother and I get back.”
“Right, Mr. Dumbledore, sir.”
Albus watched the barhand salute his brother, dumbfounded. It had never occurred to him that this pub was the one place in the wizarding world where Dumbledore meant Aberforth.
They climbed the narrow stairs that led from the back room of the pub to Aberforth’s living quarters, one after another. As they ascended, Albus noticed the stench of bar food and piss fading. His brother’s room was neat and small. There was a corner desk with a cauldron and several newspapers, no books. One wall was entirely taken up by a hurriedly made bed, over which hung a photograph of a family - a mother with a child peeking around her legs and two boys teetering on the brink of adolescence. Albus bit his lip and looked away, towards the crackling fire and exposed brick of the back wall. Aberforth, it seemed, would never let himself forget.
“It’s no Godric’s Hollow estate,” said Aberforth, eyes tracing Albus’s gaze, “‘Course no one’s been back there in years, anyway. Picture’s all I have of her,” He stopped mid-thought, frowning to himself. His stance was defensive, arms crossed and chest tight, probably waiting for Albus to bring it up. To accuse him of being careless with evidence that Ariana had ever lived. Albus decided not to give in and seated himself at his brother’s too-hard desk chair. Aberforth conjured a fire.
The silence sat like a gnawing hunger. Well, brother, it’s been years, Albus considered saying, Don’t you think there should be a statute on unspoken grudges?
It would hardly be fair of him. His brother knew his truth, his entirety. There was no reason to pretend to be anything else and yet, Albus couldn’t break himself of it. Coward, he thought to himself, always hiding away. He was sure Aberforth thought the same of him. In that way, they were more alike than different. Some Gryffindors.
“I just want to get this over with,” said Aberforth.
Albus nodded gratefully. Whatever it was, it was better to get out of here before the climate of this place ate him alive. Aberforth always looked directly at his core. He felt naked.
Aberforth lifted a stack of envelopes from a box on his mantle and shoved them towards Albus. “Get angry. Or don’t. I don’t care and I don’t need to know, as long as you have them.”
Albus’s eyes narrowed at the familiar print, as the temperature rose unbearably. His chest tightened. His knuckles turned white against the burgundy paper.
“How long?”
“Oh, six months or thereabouts. I thought they’d stop.”
“For Merlin’s sake, Aberforth,” Albus’s voice sharpened, “Why hadn’t you told told me earlier?”
Aberforth’s lip twisted below an ill-tended beard. “I’d forgotten what Angry Albus looked like. That’s not the face you see on The Prophet .”
“The entire fate of the Wizarding World could be wrapped up in these envelopes and you didn’t say a thing,” Albus rubbed a thumb across the crease of the topmost envelope in a mixture of disbelief, anger, and dread.
“There he is,” Aberforth gestured to the eldest boy in the photograph and then to Albus’s reddening face, “I reckon I liked him more than I like you.”
***
Winter, 1941.
There was not supposed to be anyone here this late. The light from the street lamp outside shimmered eerily into the pub’s front window. The shadows of upturned chairs and tables were barely visible, three overhead lanterns casting a yellow gaze across only the bartop. Aberforth looked from the poshly dressed Auror to his rickety bar stool. From the sleek black briefcase and manicured fingernails of this stranger, to the shabby dishrag still sitting on the counter. Absent-mindedly, Aberforth began to scrub.
“Last call was an hour ago. Everyone else has gone home. You ready to scram or should I call someone?”
On second thought, Aberforth wasn’t sure who he would call. He wondered if you could call other Aurors on an Auror. He certainly couldn’t call Barnabas, his trusted barhand and muscle, if he didn’t want to risk spending the night in a cell.
“Aberforth Dumbledore,” the man’s eyes were fixed on Aberforth’s hands, tightly gripping the rag as he exerted some effort on a particularly stubborn bit of grime, “My name is Theseus Scamander.”
“Not to be rude, but I don’t care,” said Aberforth, “The bar’s closed. It’s time to go.”
“I don’t think so,” Theseus leaned forward over the counter, gritting his teeth, “I need to ask you some questions about your brother.”
“Look, pal,” Aberforth snorted and stopped scrubbing very suddenly, looking directly into the Auror’s eyes, “I haven’t talked to Albus is ten years. The last I heard, he was spending his Christmas vacation taking a hematomancy seminar in Peru and for the love of Merlin, spare me the boredom of discussing that.”
“Hematomancy?” Theseus jotted something down in a notebook, “Very interesting.”
Aberforth rolled his eyes. “Not really.”
“Peru is a long way from Europe.”
“You must have received an O on your NEWTs,” Aberforth said, “For Obvious . Tell me, did you take my brother’s classes? Is that where the fascination is coming from? You look young, it can’t be long since you’ve graduated. Believe me when I say that Albus is not interested.”
Theseus chuckled. “You have some nerve, Mr. Dumbledore, but I can assure you that this isn’t personal. I’m here on Ministry business.”
“Oh?” Aberforth perked up, finally abandoning the rag and spinning around the counter to sit beside Theseus. It was harder to see from a distance, Aberforth thought, but there was familiar glint to those eyes. He couldn’t quite place it.
Theseus nodded. “The Ministry is beginning to become concerned with the professor’s academic pursuits. That perhaps he should be confronting Grindelwald himself one of these days. Sooner rather than later, I’d hope. What do you think might be stopping him?”
Aberforth narrowed his eyes. Something was off here. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He practically owns the Ministry. The Minister for Magic licks Albus’s boots.”
“ Licked Albus’s boots, past tense.” Theseus said. His bluntness caught Aberforth off guard. It was one thing when Aberforth said it, but a loyal Auror of the Ministry?
“I think the Minister has growing suspicions,” Theseus continued, “Albus does not practice what he preaches. What of Britain? What of --” He paused, leaning in close, as his voice dropped to a whisper, “ -- the Greater Good ?”
Recognition flooded through Aberforth with an avalanche of memories. There was that familiar glint again, although now it was all too clear.
“ Gellert.”
Aberforth reeled backwards, instinctively bunching up his fist to sling a punch. He could hear a thin pop as the punch unwound into nothingness, the place where Gellert had been sitting now empty. Barely catching himself against the counter, Aberforth’s entire body went slack.
It was a few moments before he found the will to pull himself up the stairs and take a seat at his desk. With a shaking hand, he picked up his quill and wrote.
Albus,
You must get back to Britain at once. I’ll explain in person.
-- Aberforth
***
“It was him, Albus.”
Aberforth’s beard was quivering with ferocity, his jaw clenched tightly. Albus felt a shiver roll down his spine.
“That I don’t doubt,” he said, “He’s been known to wear the skins of politicians. Head Auror is hardly a stretch.”
Aberforth had to arch his back slightly downwards to fully pace his loft. Albus watched him, feeling altogether void of energy. He wondered if he looked the same way when he paced. The brothers shared the same nervous habits: finger drumming, lip biting, pacing. Aberforth’s steps were heavy, rattling the items on his desk.
“Merlin, Albus,” his brother snarled, “Why don’t you do something?”
“What can I do?” Albus snapped back, defensive and raw.
“Well, what did the letters say?”
Albus pinched the bridge of his nose, where worry wrinkles were beginning to crease around his spectacles. He said nothing, since the answer was beyond language. Aberforth was surprisingly insightful, always at the worst times.
“Let me guess,” he roared, breath hot and foul against Albus’s face, “He’s already offered to meet you and you won't do it! Coward!”
Instinctively, Albus pushed his back flat against his chair and let his face go stony and blank. Aberforth took his silence for answer.
“I’ll break your nose again! Knock out your teeth!”
Albus bared them in reply, an offering. “So do it,” he said softly through the gaps, “God knows I deserve it.”
Looking down at his hands, Aberforth instead collapsed backwards onto his bed. Albus watched him roll his eyes up to ceiling.
“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.
“Yes.”
“Weak.”
“Yes.”
“Merlin,” said Aberforth, sitting up quite suddenly and looking right at Albus, “You’re not still in love with him?”
“No,” Albus looked down, “Not still. Not as long as I keep myself away from him.”
Aberforth sprung from the bed with alarming speed. The next accusation Albus had not expected him to guess.
“You’ve seen him since then, haven’t you? Since Ariana…?”
“Yes.” There was no point in lying. “Just once.”
The hard, assured feeling of Aberforth’s balled fist colliding with his cheekbone was almost comfort. Albus could feel the bone throb below his skin. He winced silently. It would leave a nasty bruise that he would wear as a reminder for the next few days. Hogwarts didn’t resume classes for a good week, after all.
***
Spring 1945
The pages of The Prophet were thin and rough against Aberforth’s face, as he wiped a spot of jam from his lip. He examined the corner he had ripped. It was just a little bit unsettling. The Minister for Magic ecstatically smiled back at him, shaking his upper arm enthusiastically as though he had never been severed from the rest of the picture. Below him, Aberforth’s brother shook his disembodied forearm, smiling sadly over his spectacles. The year was 1945. Europe was saved and of course, Britain had once again gone stark raving mad for Albus Dumbledore.
Albus had found a way around killing his former lover, of course. According to the paper -- and Aberforth knew as well as anyone that you could hardly trust the paper -- he had locked Gellert up in his own prison, somewhere on the continent. Far away, but easy enough to visit if Albus got lonely. The whole thing made Aberforth sick to his stomach, but despite it all, he was grateful that it was over.
Aberforth’s world extended from the Hog’s Head to the stables on the outskirts of town where he had a share, and a deal where he could tend to the goats and chickens, brush and groom the horses. That was more than enough for him. Unlike Albus, he had never held any ambition of changing -- or ruling -- the world. As far as he was concerned, as long as these aspects of his life remained intact, it would continue to be worth living.
Even still, there was something reassuring about Europe at large being saved. Aberforth crumpled the entire article and threw it to the wastepin, scraps and all. Finishing his crusty bread and jam in one swallow, he rose. He would damned before he believed for one minute that Albus was its savior.
***
Autumn 1950
Dearest Brother,
I write you not requesting praise for defeating Grindelwald so you needn’t worry about that. It was the only thing to be done. You were right and deserve ample credit. I also do not write in the spirit of congeniality, as you are a busy man and so am I. I humbly request of you a favor. The Hog’s Head is always busy, much to your credit as its gracious owner. I’m asking you to please keep an open ear to all its goings on. I’m not asking you to be a peeping Tom . Please, just listen for any names of note. I understand that despite all jest to the contrary, you are quick enough to enjoy this Riddle.
Sincerely,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
***
Summer 1957
It was with a heavy heart that Albus found himself at the Hog’s Head once again. He wiped his heeled boots over and over on the doorstep, a sense of melancholy flooding through him. It had been over ten years. He should have written a personal letter, sent gifts like he used to. It wouldn’t have been too much to apparate over, check in on his brother.
This place made him feel like a spectre, thin and transparent. Aberforth was one of the few remaining people who could see right through him, directly to the bone. Walking into it was like bearing his soul. Sometimes, in times like these, when the world was growing dark and hopeless again, Albus wanted nothing more than to bear his soul to it. There was darkness in him, darkness that had gone untended and grown wild. He needed that part of himself hidden away. That was one thing Aberforth could never understand. Albus didn’t keep up the masquerade for the sake of his own pride. This balancing act of a distant and warm-hearted professor was a necessity. The world needed saving. A villain could not save the world.
Albus grabbed the iron knocker, a horse-shoe loop that twisted like the horns of a goat. He beat it thrice against the oak and Aberforth let him in.
Little had changed of the Hog’s Head in over ten years. It still stank of stable, boasted a cheap stay at the inn and even cheaper drinks on the bar front. The tablecloths were filthy -- probably washed only a handful of times since Albus had been here last -- and the large taxidermied boar stared down menacingly from its spot above the fireplace.
Aberforth had aged more noticeably. He had put on some weight, his face beginning to display a map of wrinkles and pock marks. His eyes were the same, ice blue and penetrative, like a mirror. They met Albus’s with a sense of recognition -- both brothers aware of their fragile alliance, the only subject on which they had corresponded for a decade.
“Riddle’s gone,” said Aberforth, pulling a stool back for himself at the bar. It creaked under his weight, “Vanished into thin air.”
“People don’t vanish into thin air,” said Albus. He sighed.
Aberforth rolled his eyes. “Look, I can only tell you what I overhear and this is what I’ve heard. Madame Hepzibah Smith was found dead at the hands of her ancient house-elf Hokey, but some people are saying that it was Riddle...that she didn’t give him what he wanted.”
Albus shuddered, the room suddenly much colder. In his mind’s eye, he could see the pale yellow walls of the orphanage, the still brown of eyes of Tom staring at him. He saw himself in those eyes, once. Not Gellert, but him -- cold, lonely in his self-appointed throne.
` “What did he want from her?” Hepzibah was an heiress, a collector and Riddle had never before been concerned with material possessions.
“Look,” Aberforth rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up at the boar’s head, “I only know what I hear. A week later, Riddle resigned from Borgin and Burke’s and then he vanished conveniently.”
“Not conveniently. He’s searching for someone...or something abroad.”
Their eyes met and Albus needed no leglimency to know what Aberforth was thinking.
“Not Gellert,” said Albus too quickly, “Not the Hallows.”
“Yeah?” Aberforth quirked a brow at him, “Or is that just convenient?”
***
Autumn, 1968
The cool night air of the Eastpark Cemetery blew gently against Albus’s cheek as he paced the grounds, Aberforth shuffling beside him. It was enchanting and beautiful, carried a magic that existed beyond the bounds of the wizarding world, or the mortal world at all. The trees hung with barren branches, lining the sides of the walkway. They rustled, emphasizing the stillness of the graves.
Aberforth pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
“Muggle graveyard,” he muttered, “This your idea of a joke, Albus?”
“It’s midnight,” Albus replied, “The world is sleeping. I find that it’s sometimes the most unlikely places that are the safest to chat openly.”
“Well, I find it creepy,” said Aberforth, huffing a breath of opaque air into his hands, “but I’m here anyway. So talk.”
“The Hog’s Head is no longer a safe place to meet, I’m afraid,” Albus said, “Tom’s -- Voldemort’s -- followers haven’t gone silent but they do know that you are listening.”
Aberforth stopped in the middle of the road, kneeling down to examine the roses on a small grave. A child’s grave, Albus thought, with a shudder.
“You sound like a buggering loon,” Aberforth replied over his shoulder. He went back to reading the headstone, murmuring out loud as he went, “Margaret Oakes. Only twelve when she died. Can we please go somewhere else?”
Albus ignored him. “The Wizengamot is at a standstill, progressive politics head-to-head with this archaic injustice that’s being drudged back up again. Centuries old blood purity rhetoric. It’s a distraction, Aberforth! If you squint, you can follow the patterns.”
“Albus,” said Aberforth very slowly and carefully, pulling his body up to a standing position and looking his brother in the eyes, “I will do what I can for the world from the Hog’s Head, but I do not want to be part of your life. I do not want to be your friend. I do not forgive you.”
Albus felt the words sling into his gut, piercing. There were only two people in the world who could pierce him to his core, two people who had ever gotten close enough. Gellert was locked in a tower. Gellert was on the other side of an owl. Gellert was buried beneath moral high ground. Then, there was his brother.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Albus lied, lips turning upwards a little too sharply, “Just to get prepared for open warfare. We are in the eye of the storm. I’m taking the initiative to assemble an Order, a platform of those who I can trust -- the brightest and most influential.”
“And me, I’m guessing?”
Albus looked down to the headstone, Margaret Oakes somehow blurring, the letters somehow reshaping into the name of a different young girl. Brothers had to stick together. Brothers had to lean on each other, even when the hinges of trust were left unoiled and the weight was painful.
“Yes, Aberforth. And you. Especially you.”
“What’s it called?”
“Pardon me?”
“The secret Order,” Aberforth said, “What are you calling it?”
Albus’s smile brightened into something a little more genuine. “Oh. I was thinking ‘Order of the Phoenix.’”
Aberforth scowled. “You taking suggestions?”
“Aberforth,” Albus chided, “I doubt people would take ‘Order of the Goat’ very seriously.”
***
Winter 1980
Aberforth looked around the table. There were few faces left and those that were were scarred, aged well beyond their years. Albus had aged too, his beard now impossibly long and silver-white, a mask over his wrinkled face.
Aberforth had realized at some point along the way that it was impossible to make your world the size of a pub, or even the size of a town. The war raged on outside the creaking bones of the Hog’s Head, and slowly -- like rainwater through the leaking roof -- it sept in. There was no security. Aberforth had a duty to the world, just as much as Albus did.
A clap of lightning set their faces alit, and the babies starting wailing on Lily’s and Alice’s chests, with the threatening boom of thunder. There was no point in trying to quiet them.
“We have to keep fighting,” said James, through his teeth, “I don’t care if it wipes out every single one of us. We are the only chance this world has.”
“How can you say that?” Peter’s eyes were wide, with an uncharacteristic fear, “What about your son? Doesn’t baby Harry deserve a family?”
“Damned straight he deserves a family!” Sirius snapped, “And that’s what we’re fighting for.”
Lily put her hand on his shoulder.
“Sirius,” she warned, “This in-fighting is going to kill the Order before... he does. We have to stick together.”
Aberforth watched silently. This new generation, this brave generation, was hand-picked by his brother. Despite himself, he believed in them. There was not much that Aberforth himself could do. He was content to be an ear for the Order, to offer a secure place for their meetings, but he felt himself overcome by this strange longing to do more. He wondered if it was a glimpse into what Albus felt every day.
There is Gryffindor in me yet, he thought to himself.
“Stay in the inn tonight,” Aberforth said, “On me. Don’t risk aparating with the wee ones.”
Alice looked up at him gratefully. “Thank you for your kindness, Aberforth,” she said, “As always.”
Albus was looking at him too, his eyes shiny behind spectacles that were fogging with the heat from his tea. Aberforth wished that he was better at reading faces. As well as he knew his brother, there were times where his intentions remained a mystery.
***
Autumn 1981
Aberforth had dropped the ‘Dumbledore’ from his name entirely. Who could blame him? Heavy baggage and expectation came with it, with the association. Rarely did people make the connection that the two brothers even knew each other.
They were so different. In his age, Aberforth was beginning to realize that they were also a bit alike.
The Hog’s Head was alive with whooping and hollering, confetti ribbons bursting from wands, in brilliant golds and silvers. A woman was playing the accordion and wailing drunken notes over it’s raucous tune.
“The war is over! The Dark Lord’s dead! The boy who lived has a scar on his head!”
Aberforth downed his entire firewhiskey in one glug and slammed his glass down hard on the table. He had to take a piss. His head was pounding.
When he got back to the bar front, a familiar set of blue eyes was staring up at him from under an emerald cloak.
“Albus,” said Aberforth curtly.
“Can I ask you to part with the festivities for a moment? A word with you in the loft?”
Aberforth grunted in response. The new help was young and incompetent. He had buried Barnabas with the war, only Aberforth knew that his old friend would not be returning from the grave. The brothers climbed the stairs in silence.
“So, Headmaster,” said Aberforth, as the whiskey began to hit him, “Why the long face? The wizarding world is saved! Must be hard not to take all the credit this time.”
“ Muffliato ,” whispered Albus, not bothering to hide his hurt.
“It would all be over -- hic -- if not for...that pesky prophecy.”
Albus frowned. “It’s hardly over at all. It’s just beginning.”
“They don’t know that,” Aberforth gestured downwards, to where the hoots of his patrons could still be heard below, “You’re gonna keep them in the dark? You’re gonna let them believe that it’s over?”
Albus lowered himself deep into Aberforth’s desk chair and held his head in his hands. “What else can I do?”
“You think you’re God!” Aberforth could feel a dark well of neglected anger bubbling inside of him. How had he convinced himself that Albus was good? How had he let himself be one of his brothers playthings? “You’re going to let that little boy die! That little boy who we fought to protect! It was all for his future and you’re going to slaughter him! Over ten years, Albus, we were fighting for their future!”
“You’re not angry at me!” Albus shouted back, and Aberforth felt a sick sort of smugness that he had roused that well-buried emotion, “You’re angry at the world for being so dark! You think I want to play this role? You think I asked for this?”
Aberforth stood up suddenly from his bed, the alcohol rendering his footing unsteady. He jabbed his index finger upwards, towards the worn picture of the Dumbledore family. “Why don’t you ask her?” he roared, “Why don’t you ask your last sacrifice?”
Albus went very still, his eyes shimmering brightly. He said nothing. Aberforth collapsed once again, clattering to the floor against his bed frame. He felt empty, completely wrung out, like his heart was still adjusting to the loss of Ariana. They sat in the silence for a few minutes, before Aberforth noticed that Albus was shaking in the chair. He was crying.
At long last, Albus spoke again, in a quiet, shaky voice.
“Do you remember the fishing trips that mother and father would have us go on when we were children?”
Aberforth nodded his head in one quick jerk.
“I always sat on the shore and read,” Albus continued, “Instead of going on the boat with you and Ari. Father was so angry at me every time. He wanted to know why I couldn’t just be normal and play with my brother and sister. I wondered too.”
Aberforth thought back. He’d never really considered it, had always just assumed that Albus thought himself too smart for fishing.
“From the shoreline, I thought you looked like the perfect family. I wondered where I fit in,” Albus sniffled a little bit, “Then, come springtime, Father would rouse me from my bed while you were still sleeping. He’d say ‘Son, I need you to come with me.’ and he’d take me out into the sheep pen where the easter lamb was ready to be slaughtered. ‘Why not Aberforth?’ I asked one time, ‘Since you like him so much better.’ Do you know what he said to me?”
Aberforth shook his head, not daring to look up.
“He said ‘Son, some people are cut out for mercy and some people are cut out for slaughter.’ And then he took my wand hand and laid it on the lamb’s neck, and he helped me ease the life out of her, so quickly and gently that she didn’t feel a thing.”
Despite himself, Aberforth could feel a big, hot tear roll out of his eye.
“That’s awful,” he said, voice quaking, “That’s so awful. ”
“That’s why he let you sleep,” said Albus, walking over to Aberforth to offer him a hand up, “Neither of us was ever really the golden child.”
***
Winter 1982
The Death Eaters had assimilated back into their old lives, back into their old jobs. For the sake of tradition and to not rouse the order of antebellum silence, the Ministry had let them. Albus still kept his ear to the door at all times, waiting to hear murmurs. It was not long before they came, as Albus had suspected, from the Slytherin common room.
Severus came to him that night with a stony face. They stood on the balcony of Albus’s office, side by side, looking out over the Black Lake. It was a mild winter.
“Young Slytherins confide in me,” said Severus with a chaotic mixture of pride and shame, “They wanted to let me know that there will be blood in the Hog’s Head in a fortnight.”
Albus turned to him. “What exactly do you mean?”
“The Death Eaters know about Aberforth and they know that this isn’t over. They wanted to make an example of him before the tides change once again.”
Albus fought back to urge to react, letting his eyes drop to the rippling waters. “In a fortnight, you say?”
“Yes,” Severus’s lips remained flat, face unreadable, “I thought it would please you to have a warning.”
The Black Lake stirred with a vengeance, and Albus could feel his heart stir as well. He smiled warmly. “Thank you, Severus,” he clasped the Potions Master’s shoulder, “For your information and loyalty.”
***
To The Attention Of One Aberforth Dumbledore,
The Ministry requests your presence at a hearing regarding present allegations of ‘inappropriate charms cast on a goat.’ The date will be February the Second, Nineteen Eighty Two and the time will be seven o’ clock PM, sharp. Please do not bring anything to the hearing with the exception of yourself and an alibi.
Yours,
Madam Millicent Bagnold, Minister for Magic
Aberforth read the letter once again, bristling with anger. ‘Inappropriate charms on a goat’! The meaning, or potencial innuendo, of these accusations aside, there was no way that this smear campaign had come out of nowhere. Instantly, his mind turned to Mundungus Fletcher, the nasty little weasel he had kicked out of his pub so many years ago. Of course, the bloody Ministry would take these claims seriously! Aberforth Dumbledore, the wackjob old goat man. It was sure to be sensationalized.
What bothered him most about it wasn’t even the accusation -- he knew that he could easily shut it down. He loved goats, and all animals for that matter, and would never harm one. It wasn’t even the inevitable stain on his already uncouth reputation. The biggest problem was that the Ministry had picked peak pub hours for the hearing. Who had ever heard of a hearing at seven at night?
For a moment, Aberforth considered asking Albus to get him out of it. Surely, his brother still had sway with the Ministry.
Stupid old coot, he thought to himself, you’re not going to go crying to big brother for help. You know about how well that goes.
***
So there was darkness in Albus. His steps fell heavily in the alley, clothed in darkness. Just as he had arranged, the Hog’s Head’s lights were dimmed. He clicked his deluminator to the streetlamp and let darkness fall loosely all around him.
“ Alohomora, ” he whispered, and he let himself in. In the dark, the whole place felt strange and haunted. The usual booming laughter of Aberforth’s clientele was gone and the silence echoed off the walls in its place. The boar’s head stared down like a totem. As Albus’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see just where the life had once reflected in its eyes.
He hadn’t come here to kill his brother’s attackers. He wasn’t his father.
Oh, said a little voice in the back of his head, but aren’t you?
“I am more than my father’s darkness,” said Albus out loud, shakily, just to hear something besides his thoughts.
He was lucky. It was not long before they came, footfall and laughter shaping a clear image at the doorway.
“Hey, why’s it so dark?” said one man as he wiped the snow from his boots.
“Beats me,” said another, “You been here a lot, Hickory. Innit always this dark?”
Albus could hear the door creak open.
“Lumos ,” the first man said, raising his wand above his head. There was just enough light, Albus calculated, that he could see them but they could not see him. It was time to put a stop to it.
“Gentleman,” said Albus. The men jumped.
“Old man Aberforth,” said Hickory shakily, trying to regather his breath, “You’re a damned good spy to know we were coming for you.”
“Thank you,” said Albus. He aimed his deluminator at the ancient lantern that hung in the center of the pub, “Let’s have some more light, shall we?”
The room was flooded, shimmering with the kind of gold brightness that made Albus’s eyes ache. His attackers squinted up at him, blindly. There was magic, Albus knew, besides magic itself. Magic in the elements. Magic in psychology. Magic in the ability to transcend one’s own darkness.
“ Crucio! ” cried Hickory’s companion, sloppily taking his aim, as his hood flew back. The curse bounded past Albus’s ear, shattering an old jar of Pixie’s Hooch that was sitting on a shelf behind him. Shimmering blue liquid gushed out across the floor, bathing the room in the lovely scent of elderberries.
Albus squinted back at the man, cocking his head in genuine curiosity. “Sterling Plumb? I was under the impression you had left the life of a Death Eater behind you. Don’t you have a job in the Department of Mysteries now? What do you think they would say?”
Albus’s eyes had now adjusted enough for him to make out the fear spreading across Plumb’s face. He smiled pleasantly.
“D-Dumbledore,” Hickory glanced frantically to his companion, “We have to get out of here!”
Albus flicked his wand casually towards the door, letting it go ajar like an offering.
“You can leave,” he said, “and let the tracking charms I have placed on this room do their magic. Or you can wait here. The Aurors are on their way and I was just about to put on a pot of tea.”
***
Summer 1995
Against Aberforth’s better judgement, they met once again at a place of Albus’s choosing. The Parisian cafe was quaint and everything was too small. Aberforth reckoned that his chair would collapse under his weight. The coffee was good, Albus had assured him, but Aberforth had settled on tea. Muggles sat at the other tables, occasionally side-eyeing the two old men who unintentionally towered over everything. Aberforth couldn’t care less. The sooner he could get home, the better.
“This place has changed so much in the past few years,” said Albus, “There used to be a fountain over there. And they really fixed up the little courtyard.”
“Oh,” said Aberforth, not bothering to hide his disinterest, “Why am I here again?”
“I thought it was nice. You could use a vacation.”
“And?”
Albus flinched under his brother’s gaze. “And I’m getting cold feet.”
“About slaughtering the lamb?”
“Yes,” Albus looked down into his flat white, “About that.”
“Don’t do it, then,” said Aberforth, plainly, “Find another way. Use that big brain of yours.”
“I was afraid you would say that.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Aberforth blew on his tea. It was too hot to drink, and far too hot to drink in the summertime.
“Look,” Aberforth said, despite every impulse, every warning sign in his brain telling him not to, “If you want someone to tell you that the ends justify the means, if that’s what you need to hear, we both know who you should talk to. Leave me out of it, I don’t want to be any more a part of this than I have to be. You and Gellert, you play your game of wizard’s chess and drag the pawns kicking and screaming into the cemetery. You need my blessing? You’ll never get it. You need my forgiveness? You’ll never get it.”
Albus just sat there misty-eyed.
“Thank you,” he said.
***
Summer 1997
Albus was afraid to go to Nurmengard, no matter how Gellert begged and pleaded in his letters. He was afraid to go to Nurmengard, just as much as he was afraid to let Gellert go. There had not been a time, over these long years, that he had been fully out of touch. The owls would fly, back and forth, sometimes resting for years at a time, but never stopping. It was another secret darkness that he relied on, the counsel of his former lover. Current lover. The two men had never let eachother go, desperately clinging to one another, through hatred, from every angle of every war that they had fought. From two seperate prison towers. Together.
Albus owed him this, since the motion of the plan was about to grind to a halt. Since he was about to be cast from the tower forever, and Gellert would be all alone -- even more alone than he was in his cell.
It was not just Gellert. Albus had selected two pieces of parchment, two envelopes. Gellert’s was a deep burgundy, an homage to his own stationary. A symbol of the intensity -- blood magic, and a love that rattled him to the bone.
Aberforth’s was silver.
I negotiated some path between them, Albus thought, somehow. Although I’ve earned neither one’s forgiveness. At the end of the day, someone had to die. Sometimes it was the lamb, but other times it was the shepherd.
***
Dear Gellert,
In recent years, I have not been all I could be for you. You wrote me three years back saying that I owed you a visit and I’m afraid I’ve owed you a great many things over the years that I haven’t given you. This letter will be the last that you hear from me. I will die remembering you basked in the golden light of summer, how our days were as crisp as an apple, your laugh like bells. I’m sorry I never let you become Death’s Master. I’m sorry I let him take me first. I’m sorry we were torn from each other by the great forces of light and darkness, and that we let them tower over us like giants.
You and my brother are the last surviving narrators of our story. I wonder who will live to tell it.
Yours, always yours,
Albus
***
Dear Aberforth,
You were more for me than you will ever know. Some say that blood is thicker than water. As someone both practiced in alchemy and hematomancy, I am inclined to agree. You’re probably shaking your head right now. I know you don’t care.
As I fall from the great tower onto the ground below, I will have executed my last pawn. You were right. No more lambs need to be slaughtered. No more young people need to be led to their deaths. I’ve learned I can navigate a world without forgiveness and I face Death unafraid. He beckons me towards him, offering me a great adventure, the likes of which I have never experienced.
I know in my heart of hearts you will be the last surviving narrator of our story, and I’m only grateful. We always deserved an honest one.
Yours, Always silver, never gold,
Albus