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The Dumbledore brothers sat in silence at the Hog’s Head, the dim candlelight barely cutting through the gloom. The scent of firewhiskey lingered in the air, mixing with old wood and something bitter—grief, perhaps.
After Aurelius’s funeral, neither had spoken much. Words felt too small, too clumsy to capture everything that had been lost. Instead, they drank.
Aberforth poured another round, his grip tight around the bottle. He didn’t bother measuring. The liquid sloshed as he filled their glasses, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction.
After the third shot, he let out a low chuckle—one without humor. “You know,” he muttered, “I think about her sometimes.”
Albus, who had been absently running a finger along the rim of his glass, looked up.
“Aurora,” Aberforth clarified, leaning back against his chair. “It was just a summer. But I suppose some things stay with you.”
Albus said nothing, only waited.
Aberforth let out a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the past.
It had been a warm afternoon, the sun high and the air thick with the scent of earth and wildflowers. One of his goats—Adeline, the mischievous little thing—broke loose, darting through the pasture.
He had chased after her, cursing under his breath, when he heard a shriek—one that quickly turned into laughter.
And then he saw her.
Aurora Dawson.
She stood at the edge of the pasture, Adeline nudging against her as if utterly smitten. The girl had a smile like sunrise, her dark curls bouncing as she laughed, her eyes bright with mischief.
“She sure is a friendly little thing, aren’t you, my pretty?” she cooed to the goat before looking up at him. “I take it she’s yours?”
Aberforth nodded, breathlessly taking her in. “Yeah. Adeline here’s got a habit of slipping past me. Hope she didn’t scare you.”
Aurora shook her head, scratching the goat behind the ears. “Not at all. I’ve always had a way with animals. Something about me calms them, I suppose.”
“That so?”
She grinned. “Mmm. Where are my manners? Aurora Dawson. And you?”
“Aberforth Dumbledore.” He dipped his head slightly. “Pleasure.”
She ended up following him back, chatting easily as they tended to the rest of the goats. The afternoon stretched into evening, their conversation unhurried, effortless.
A week later, under a sky thick with stars, they had walked side by side. He had told her about his family—the fights with Albus, the weight of expectations, the sister he felt duty-bound to protect.
Aurora had no siblings but spoke of a cousin she loved like a brother. “There’s tension between us sometimes,” she admitted, “but anger left to fester only rots. The best way to fix things is to talk.”
Wise words. Words he hadn’t taken to heart soon enough.
One afternoon, they had been picking apples when hushed voices carried through the orchard.
Albus.
And Grindelwald.
Aberforth and Aurora had ducked behind the trees, pressing close as they listened.
The two young men spoke in fervent whispers—grand ideals, arrogance threaded through every word. Power, legacy, reshaping the world.
Then, they kissed.
Aberforth had clenched his jaw. Aurora had only exhaled softly, squeezing his hand. They had left before they could hear more.
The last night he saw her, he had been raw with anger, fresh from another fight with Albus.
Aurora had held him, whispered to him, softened the edges of his grief. That night, they had given in to everything between them, the world falling away in the quiet of each other’s arms.
And then she was gone. Sent away before his world shattered entirely.
She had left him a note.
She was carrying his child.
Back at the Hog’s Head, Aberforth exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the table. “Every damn day, I wondered. Was he safe? Was he happy? Did he know—” His voice caught. “And then I find out he was abandoned. Used. Alone.”
Albus set his glass down gently. “You gave him what he longed for most,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “For those last few weeks, he knew love. He knew family. He can rest now.”
Aberforth scoffed, shaking his head. “It was so fleeting. Just like my time with her.”
“That does not make it meaningless,” Albus countered. “Life is built on fleeting moments, but those moments matter. We carry them forward, pass them down. And in doing so, perhaps we create more love than there was before.”
Aberforth was silent for a long time, staring into his empty glass. Finally, he nodded.
“I hope you’re right, Albus.” His voice was hoarse. “I do hope you’re right.”