FIC: "He Knew He Was Right" for lyras
Recipient: lyras
Author/Artist: naughtysnail / bluemoon02
Title: He Knew He Was Right
Rating: PG
Pairings: Aberforth Dumbledore/Minerva McGonagall, background mentions of Albus/Grindelwald
Word Count: ~3500
Warnings: None
Summary: Aberforth resents that, through his life, he has always had to share his women with his brother.
Author's/Artist's Notes: Huge thanks for the hard work and patience of my beta, B. Lyras requested character study, angsty with a glimmer of a happy ending, and people re-building themselves. I'm not sure I managed exactly happy, but hopefully satisfying. I really hope you enjoy!
***
1899
The weight of the coffin was a burden on Aberforth's shoulders, but still lighter than his mother's. He glanced across to Albus, who frowned in concentration, auburn hair falling forwards to partially mask his face. Aberforth scowled and faced front, waiting for the hired pallbearers to gain their bearings.
Around them the church was dusty and tumble-down, the Cotswold stone mouldering away, the creases between bricks deepening into smooth fissures. Dust floated through the slanting light that shone through thick glass. The church felt empty and silent. For there were only three mourners: Albus and Aberforth, the two brothers, the only Dumbledores alive and free. Their father stood cuffed (for the sake of the Muggle vicar) and wandless at the back of the church. Aberforth would be surprised if he could even remember Ariadne. She had been barely seven when he was arrested, and Father never paid much attention to children, let alone anyone else.
"Onward, please, gentlemen," a man said from behind. Aberforth took a step, and another. With a stutter and a half-step out of sync, two brothers and two undertakers snaked through the vestry into the churchyard. The vicar led, resplendent in snowy white cassock over his blacks, silver hair cut too-long at the back, dropping dandruff onto his black collar. Aberforth sneered and tried not to look, but found his eye drawn to that spot again and again. Such a lack of personal care, thought Aberforth, was just another grim example of how little Ariadne's passing mattered.
They were led along the path and over the grass, to the familiar spot where their mother lay. So smooth and new, that slab of granite, surrounded by ancient stones and tombs, and now this second yawning grave beside it. The stone was still empty black.
"Steady as she goes," said that same voice from before, as the coffin was steadily lowered at the back. Aberforth was an old hand, performing this rite at two funerals in such quick succession. Bend at the knee, lower from the shoulder, and gently to the ground. Albus matched his brother's every movements. A practiced pair: steady movements, jaws set and firm, eyes lowered beneath the brim of their top hats.
They stood side by side. Aberforth barely heard the final words of their sister's interment.
Father stood opposite, respecting the segregation Albus had forcibly imposed after their mother's funeral. And hadn't that been a special bit of nastiness? Mother probably rolled in her un-filled grave when Albus snarled angry, hateful words at his father. The poor man registered as nothing more than a scapegoat, of course, taking on the burden of Albus' impotent frustrations. Father would return to prison and, in his place, Albus would take up his position as the head of the household, leaving a life everybody said was destined to be great.
Aberforth shook his head imperceptibly. Ungrateful sod. So small a family, so broken, and Albus would have it smaller, would be alone in the world quite happily.
Quite happily alone, except for him.
Aberforth was satisfied to note that Grindelwald had been decent enough not to come. For all Aberforth knew or cared, he could be half way to Australia. Of course, Albus was sulking. There was something very odd about those two and the way their excited, whispered conversations cut off when anyone else entered the room.
The vicar gestured to the mound of earth. Pomp and ceremony all over, and Aberforth had hardly even noticed. Their father leant down to pick up a handful of mud, and threw it into the hole. Then Albus. And finally Aberforth bent and dug his fingers into the dirt, grains slipping beneath his nails. Without a second glance, he tossed the handful into the hole and turned away before he could hear the dull thud of mud against coffin. Albus was already halfway across the graveyard, and Aberforth had to hurry to catch up with him.
There was a momentary flash of guilt, thinking of his father standing alone at the graves of his wife and daughter. But even as Aberforth felt, once more, the crunch of the gravel path beneath his feet, he passed the black-cloaked guard come to escort his father back to Azkaban. There would be plenty of time for small talk and niceties when his sentence was over. "Albus! Wait!" he called.
There was a thin drizzle, not quite mist and not quite rain, muffling the sound of his voice. "Wait!" he called louder.
"Can't stop," Albus said, turning as he continued at the same pace, and calling back to Aberforth over his shoulder. "I have to see a man about a stone."
Aberforth sped his steps, until he could reach out and pull at Albus' sleeve, stopping his elder brother in his tracks. "Ariadne's engraving. Of course," he said gruffly.
Albus' calm blue gaze slid away to the ground, tongue flicking quickly to whet his lips. "Not exactly."
"Grindelwald," Aberforth snarled. "You're in mourning, and you're running away from your sister's funeral for him? For your nonsense with that fairytale?"
Albus sighed. "You wouldn't understand."
"Clearly." The damp air did nothing to cool Aberforth, as the blood pumped hot in his veins, hands fisting at his sides. "Because from where I stand, it almost seems that your obstacle has been conveniently pushed aside. And now you are free."
His face was still closed down, expression mild and slack. "You are upset," Albus said quickly, softly, "Please, stop before you say anything you might regret."
"But you seem to have forgotten something," Aberforth said, embarrassed that his voice cracked. "Rid of one sibling, but there's another still to hold you back."
Albus looked tired, which made it all the more infuriating. "You are angry and upset, and I understand perfectly-"
"You should know, not understand. For God's sake, Albus, she was your sister. And you killed her." It was the tears pricking in his eyes that made Aberforth angriest. The threat of emotion, the lump in his throat that he could not swallow, the breath that was always too shallow and did not quite calm his rage.
And in the face of all this, Albus was calm. The calm of a man without remorse. "Aberforth, please," Albus said, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder.
But Aberforth was in no mood for platitudes, nor for words that did nothing to salve the ache of his sister's death. He had had enough of staying silent, when all he wanted to do was scream. So long he had stayed silent, when someone must speak up, someone must take action.
In a flash, Albus, the cemetery, the vicar and grave were all gone, and Aberforth saw only a white starburst surrounded by a red haze.
Surely not even a second had passed. A fraction of a moment, barely time to blink. Yet in that time everything had changed. Aberforth's hand was on fire, searing pain streaking across his knuckles, swollen and red. Albus no longer stood before him, but sat in an undignified sprawl on the ground. His hat had fallen and rolled to the grassy verge, and when he looked up his cheek was bruised.
"Gentlemen, please!" huffed the vicar, jowls quivering as he lent Albus his hand and hauled him to his feet. "A little decorum goes a long way, boys," he said more sensitively to them both.
Aberforth snorted and strode away, shaking the life back into his bruised hand. His flash of anger had released something, returned a portion of his equilibrium. While the pain remained it felt alive and true, no longer numb and ignored. He felt righteous, justified, for possibly the first time in his life. The air around him, soaked through with a rain that would not fall, seemed to clear in his wake, like an adoring crowd proud of their champion. He imagined the mists as the spirits of his sister and mother. They applauded his chivalry. Albus had gone too far. It was bad enough that he hushed up the funeral, skimped on the arrangements, when it had all been his fault. To return to his lifestyle of self-satisfaction afterwards - and so soon afterwards - was obscene, and he deserved it. Aberforth would not speak to him again. If he wanted freedom, if he wanted Grindelwald, then Aberforth was of age and more than satisfied to be cut loose.
He had done the right thing.
He had.
*
1956
What a lot of rubbish the papers did report these days. Aberforth turned another page, eye sweeping over the weekend's Quidditch results - far more interesting than the Prophet's usual stream of politics and society nonsense. His hand absently dropped from the paper, fingers ruffling through the coarse, warm fur of the beast that slept beside him.
Then, with a start and a snort, she raised her head. Aberforth glanced down at his pretty white nanny goat, who stared fixedly at the doorway to the main bar.
"We got visitors, Bess?" he mumbled, folding the paper and replacing it on the table before him. He stood, more stiffly than he would have liked, and patted the goat's head once more. "Good girl," he muttered, sidling out of his own quarters and into the bar.
The pub appeared to be deserted. Late evening sun filtered through the grimy windows, and candle stumps flickering their last light cast the room in deep and changeable shadows. These were Aberforth's shadows, and he knew them well. The room was empty.
Just as he was about to return to his newspaper, a streak of movement low to the ground caught his eye. Aberforth bent low, scanning the spaces under tables and behind the bar, until he almost jumped at the sight of a pair of green eyes gazing back at him. "Come on, I see you," he said in his gravelly tone. A small, lithe cat padded delicately from behind the bar, and sat neatly before him. Aberforth reached out, running a hand over her tabby head and smiling when she began to purr. "What a pretty moggy. Can't imagine what you'd be doing here."
The cat shifted quickly, turning her head to nip at his fingers, but not hard enough to break the skin.
He chuckled, standing back upright. "Come on then, or are you waiting for a saucer of milk?"
Before Aberforth's eyes, the cat began to shift. The fur retreated, changing from tabby stripes to a more regulated tartan; the face flattened, spectacle markings turning to real wire-rimmed glasses; limbs, indeed the whole body lengthened, until it was a woman that sat on the floor, and not a cat at all.
Aberforth offered a hand to the attractive young woman sitting at his feet, which she graciously took, standing smoothly. "Thank you," she said primly, brushing hands over her skirt and straightening her blouse.
Sidling past his guest, Aberforth moved behind the bar and took down the bottle of scotch he reserved for such occasions. "Sneaking out of school, Miss McGonagall? Tut tut. What would Headmaster say?"
"Professor McGonagall, if you don't mind," she replied in a clipped tone.
Aberforth glanced at her as he fished for a clean glass. "I'm guessing, then, that you're wanting a large measure?" He put the bottle and glass in front of her, retrieving a bottle of stout for himself. Uncapping it, he took a long swig, before leaning his elbows on the bar and watching his companion pour herself at least three fingers. "Go on, and the rest," he growled, a crooked grin on his face, "it's on me, after all."
"None of your nonsense today, old man. I'm not in the mood." She knocked back half of the glass's contents. Aberforth's smile softened as her nose wrinkled, thin lips puckering, her eyes shut. And then the barest hint of a smile as she swallowed. He could almost feel the burn along with her, and when her eyes opened, they glittered.
"You're here for a reason, I can only imagine it's to burden a poor landlord with your worries."
"There are no worries," she said softly, staring down into the glass. Aberforth enjoyed these moods of hers. It gave him the chance to observe her without embarrassment. "Just not a good day."
"Regretting it?" he asked, taking another glug from the bottle.
She shook her head, black hair falling over her shoulders in waves, a pleasant after-effect of the tight bun she wore during the day. "It will get better." Her accent caught on the `r', rolling into an almost-purr. Aberforth couldn't help thinking how well Minerva's Animagus form suited her. Small and lively, attractive with a sly, bold undercurrent.
His hand left the cool glass of the bottle, and he brushed the backs of his fingers against hers. "Don't button it up. It's not good for you."
"Look who's talking," she replied quickly, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes, eyebrow quirked, a smirk on those lips.
Aberforth always thought of them as `those lips', had done for several months. And he did think about them, quite often. He watched them and observed their every twist and nuance. Such an expressive mouth. And so warm, despite the frosty words they sometimes uttered.
She turned her hand, laid it over his, as though in apology for her sharp words. Aberforth thought it safest not to move, lest she change her mind.
"Let me help," Aberforth offered, the hope shining through in his voice.
Minerva did not reply. She watched him for a moment, scrutinising to the point where he began to grow uncomfortable, and shifted under her gaze. Her hand tightened around his. He could feel the pad of her thumb, soft and warm against his knuckle. Green eyes lowered to their joined hands, then raised up to look at him once more. Those lips were smiling again, mischievous this time, and Aberforth swallowed. She leaned forward across the bar, watching him all the time, and with her eyes still open, still gazing into his, those lips pressed firmly against his mouth. Warmth and softness, the sweet burn of whisky, heat and skin and closeness. One hand reached up of its own volition, fingers twining through the thick strands of inky black hair. He tried to pull her closer as her lips twisted gently against his, but she was always in control.
With a soft breath and rush of cool air, her lips were gone. Absently, Aberforth noted that he had closed his eyes at some point, and when they opened she was watching him once more. So close, the smell of her still filled his nostrils.
Her forehead rested against his. "Better?" he asked, hopeful once more.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Minerva moved away, back to her bar stool and her glass of whisky. Aberforth played with his bottle, turning the glass in his hand, but would not drink, would not wash away the latent taste of her.
"How is Albus?" he asked awkwardly.
"I was hoping you would ask."
Aberforth snorted indelicately. "I knew he'd send you to spy."
Minerva sighed, sipping at her drink once more. "He is your brother. He shouldn't need to spy," she said, voice strained.
"And yet he does," Aberforth responded bitterly. He turned and took the bottle to the sink, upturning its contents down the drain. The one drawback to haphazardly almost-courting Minerva was that she came as a package deal. Albus had determinedly taken her under his wing, had got to her first, and now there was no clear way of extricating her. "I don't want to argue," he said gruffly.
"With me? Or with him?"
He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Can't argue with him if I don't talk to him, can I?"
Aberforth could feel the disapproving stare that scorched his back. He delayed turning back to her for as long as possible, dropping the bottle into a bin, running the tap to clean out the sink, hands eventually gripping the counter top as he waited for Minerva to say something.
"He would very much like to come and see you."
"I run a public house," Aberforth said over his shoulder. "Can't keep him out, can I?"
"Perhaps he doesn't feel welcome." Aberforth imagined this as the tone that she used in the classroom. It made him smile to think of it, as it always did when he thought of her life away from him.
But even that flush of pleasure could not thaw the ice that coated memories of his brother. "Perhaps he isn't welcome. Perhaps he's displaying some tact. For once."
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. He had not heard her approach. Minerva's breath grazed over the shell of his ear when she spoke. "You should see him. He's certain there's something brewing, and he wants to see you. He's sorry."
Aberforth snorted again, and turned to face this very pretty, very young woman.
He laid his hands gently on her waist, thumbs running back and forth over the crisp cotton of her blouse. "No he isn't," he said simply, and cut short Minerva's reply by kissing her.
*
1997
Decorum, and whoever planned seating arrangements for such officious occasions, had decreed that they should sit apart. In fact, Aberforth had somehow been dumped rather near the back. There were few left alive, he supposed, that even knew they were brothers. Many had died in the course of one battle or another, and even more lost to the ravages of time. Minerva, Moody, Flitwick, Fudge (though he doubted that the provenance of the Hog's Head's landlord was of much interest to their mighty former minister). Few enough of the remaining Hogwarts staff, and none of the kids. Certainly not the gangly little chap that flitted up and down the aisle, ensuring people were sat where they were told.
On any other day, Aberforth might have been glad enough to forget. That had surely been the purpose of his adult life, the occasional mucking in `for the greater good' aside: to forget any familial connection to the Dumbledore name.
Well, not the name exactly. The name, and the family, would have been fine enough, had it not been re-defined to include only one man.
As far as the gathered mourners were concerned, the Dumbledore name had died with Albus. And Aberforth supposed that he would not contradict them.
Heads turned as the new minister, Scrimgeour, made his way down the aisle, leaning heavily on his cane. Aberforth shook his head and heaved a mirthless chuckle. Almost a hundred years since he had last attended a funeral. They had changed somewhat, in that time. The socialites of his youth had prided themselves on pomp and spectacle, but this was something else.
"Enjoying the festivities?" said a soft Scottish brogue in his ear.
Aberforth's smile widened, and he reached up to take her hand. The skin had aged, grown soft and wrinkled, but her hands were still warm and dry, small and perfect. "It's Albus to a tee," he replied, looking up at her.
Minerva's smile was watery, and her bright shining eyes were red-rimmed behind her glasses. Hair, long-since turned steel grey, swept back into its customary bun. It had been a long time since Aberforth had been allowed to run his fingers through that hair, to feel the silk of it between his finger tips and breathe in its heather-scent. Too old for such things these days, his youth frittered away in bitterness and impotent anger. Minerva had not been the only gleam of light in the dark landscape of his life, but she had been one of the brightest, might even have illuminated it entirely. If she had consented.
She glanced up at the rows of school children at the front of the crowd - her children now. He nodded and patted her hand. "Go on, then," he told her, reluctantly letting her go once more.
Minerva shook her head, gripping his shoulder again. "You still haven't changed your mind, have you? About Albus?"
"Why should I?" Aberforth's voice was mild, in spite of the challenge, and he smiled. "My brother will always be who he always was. Things don't change because he's dead."
Minerva sighed. Perhaps it was the old goat in him, but he was certain she looked like she wanted to say more. Do more.
Bloody kids.
"I have to go," she whispered.
"You always do," he replied.
She paused before leaving, seemed to debate internally before saying, "Don't let him die in your mind. You might forgive him yet."
Aberforth shook his head. "My brother's been all-but-dead to me for a long time. Nothing has changed."
Minerva smiled and shook her head. Those lips were all they had once been, her green eyes were brilliant and wicked. "You're wrong, Aberforth. Everything has changed."
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Author/Artist: naughtysnail / bluemoon02
Title: He Knew He Was Right
Rating: PG
Pairings: Aberforth Dumbledore/Minerva McGonagall, background mentions of Albus/Grindelwald
Word Count: ~3500
Warnings: None
Summary: Aberforth resents that, through his life, he has always had to share his women with his brother.
Author's/Artist's Notes: Huge thanks for the hard work and patience of my beta, B. Lyras requested character study, angsty with a glimmer of a happy ending, and people re-building themselves. I'm not sure I managed exactly happy, but hopefully satisfying. I really hope you enjoy!
***
1899
The weight of the coffin was a burden on Aberforth's shoulders, but still lighter than his mother's. He glanced across to Albus, who frowned in concentration, auburn hair falling forwards to partially mask his face. Aberforth scowled and faced front, waiting for the hired pallbearers to gain their bearings.
Around them the church was dusty and tumble-down, the Cotswold stone mouldering away, the creases between bricks deepening into smooth fissures. Dust floated through the slanting light that shone through thick glass. The church felt empty and silent. For there were only three mourners: Albus and Aberforth, the two brothers, the only Dumbledores alive and free. Their father stood cuffed (for the sake of the Muggle vicar) and wandless at the back of the church. Aberforth would be surprised if he could even remember Ariadne. She had been barely seven when he was arrested, and Father never paid much attention to children, let alone anyone else.
"Onward, please, gentlemen," a man said from behind. Aberforth took a step, and another. With a stutter and a half-step out of sync, two brothers and two undertakers snaked through the vestry into the churchyard. The vicar led, resplendent in snowy white cassock over his blacks, silver hair cut too-long at the back, dropping dandruff onto his black collar. Aberforth sneered and tried not to look, but found his eye drawn to that spot again and again. Such a lack of personal care, thought Aberforth, was just another grim example of how little Ariadne's passing mattered.
They were led along the path and over the grass, to the familiar spot where their mother lay. So smooth and new, that slab of granite, surrounded by ancient stones and tombs, and now this second yawning grave beside it. The stone was still empty black.
"Steady as she goes," said that same voice from before, as the coffin was steadily lowered at the back. Aberforth was an old hand, performing this rite at two funerals in such quick succession. Bend at the knee, lower from the shoulder, and gently to the ground. Albus matched his brother's every movements. A practiced pair: steady movements, jaws set and firm, eyes lowered beneath the brim of their top hats.
They stood side by side. Aberforth barely heard the final words of their sister's interment.
Father stood opposite, respecting the segregation Albus had forcibly imposed after their mother's funeral. And hadn't that been a special bit of nastiness? Mother probably rolled in her un-filled grave when Albus snarled angry, hateful words at his father. The poor man registered as nothing more than a scapegoat, of course, taking on the burden of Albus' impotent frustrations. Father would return to prison and, in his place, Albus would take up his position as the head of the household, leaving a life everybody said was destined to be great.
Aberforth shook his head imperceptibly. Ungrateful sod. So small a family, so broken, and Albus would have it smaller, would be alone in the world quite happily.
Quite happily alone, except for him.
Aberforth was satisfied to note that Grindelwald had been decent enough not to come. For all Aberforth knew or cared, he could be half way to Australia. Of course, Albus was sulking. There was something very odd about those two and the way their excited, whispered conversations cut off when anyone else entered the room.
The vicar gestured to the mound of earth. Pomp and ceremony all over, and Aberforth had hardly even noticed. Their father leant down to pick up a handful of mud, and threw it into the hole. Then Albus. And finally Aberforth bent and dug his fingers into the dirt, grains slipping beneath his nails. Without a second glance, he tossed the handful into the hole and turned away before he could hear the dull thud of mud against coffin. Albus was already halfway across the graveyard, and Aberforth had to hurry to catch up with him.
There was a momentary flash of guilt, thinking of his father standing alone at the graves of his wife and daughter. But even as Aberforth felt, once more, the crunch of the gravel path beneath his feet, he passed the black-cloaked guard come to escort his father back to Azkaban. There would be plenty of time for small talk and niceties when his sentence was over. "Albus! Wait!" he called.
There was a thin drizzle, not quite mist and not quite rain, muffling the sound of his voice. "Wait!" he called louder.
"Can't stop," Albus said, turning as he continued at the same pace, and calling back to Aberforth over his shoulder. "I have to see a man about a stone."
Aberforth sped his steps, until he could reach out and pull at Albus' sleeve, stopping his elder brother in his tracks. "Ariadne's engraving. Of course," he said gruffly.
Albus' calm blue gaze slid away to the ground, tongue flicking quickly to whet his lips. "Not exactly."
"Grindelwald," Aberforth snarled. "You're in mourning, and you're running away from your sister's funeral for him? For your nonsense with that fairytale?"
Albus sighed. "You wouldn't understand."
"Clearly." The damp air did nothing to cool Aberforth, as the blood pumped hot in his veins, hands fisting at his sides. "Because from where I stand, it almost seems that your obstacle has been conveniently pushed aside. And now you are free."
His face was still closed down, expression mild and slack. "You are upset," Albus said quickly, softly, "Please, stop before you say anything you might regret."
"But you seem to have forgotten something," Aberforth said, embarrassed that his voice cracked. "Rid of one sibling, but there's another still to hold you back."
Albus looked tired, which made it all the more infuriating. "You are angry and upset, and I understand perfectly-"
"You should know, not understand. For God's sake, Albus, she was your sister. And you killed her." It was the tears pricking in his eyes that made Aberforth angriest. The threat of emotion, the lump in his throat that he could not swallow, the breath that was always too shallow and did not quite calm his rage.
And in the face of all this, Albus was calm. The calm of a man without remorse. "Aberforth, please," Albus said, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder.
But Aberforth was in no mood for platitudes, nor for words that did nothing to salve the ache of his sister's death. He had had enough of staying silent, when all he wanted to do was scream. So long he had stayed silent, when someone must speak up, someone must take action.
In a flash, Albus, the cemetery, the vicar and grave were all gone, and Aberforth saw only a white starburst surrounded by a red haze.
Surely not even a second had passed. A fraction of a moment, barely time to blink. Yet in that time everything had changed. Aberforth's hand was on fire, searing pain streaking across his knuckles, swollen and red. Albus no longer stood before him, but sat in an undignified sprawl on the ground. His hat had fallen and rolled to the grassy verge, and when he looked up his cheek was bruised.
"Gentlemen, please!" huffed the vicar, jowls quivering as he lent Albus his hand and hauled him to his feet. "A little decorum goes a long way, boys," he said more sensitively to them both.
Aberforth snorted and strode away, shaking the life back into his bruised hand. His flash of anger had released something, returned a portion of his equilibrium. While the pain remained it felt alive and true, no longer numb and ignored. He felt righteous, justified, for possibly the first time in his life. The air around him, soaked through with a rain that would not fall, seemed to clear in his wake, like an adoring crowd proud of their champion. He imagined the mists as the spirits of his sister and mother. They applauded his chivalry. Albus had gone too far. It was bad enough that he hushed up the funeral, skimped on the arrangements, when it had all been his fault. To return to his lifestyle of self-satisfaction afterwards - and so soon afterwards - was obscene, and he deserved it. Aberforth would not speak to him again. If he wanted freedom, if he wanted Grindelwald, then Aberforth was of age and more than satisfied to be cut loose.
He had done the right thing.
He had.
*
1956
What a lot of rubbish the papers did report these days. Aberforth turned another page, eye sweeping over the weekend's Quidditch results - far more interesting than the Prophet's usual stream of politics and society nonsense. His hand absently dropped from the paper, fingers ruffling through the coarse, warm fur of the beast that slept beside him.
Then, with a start and a snort, she raised her head. Aberforth glanced down at his pretty white nanny goat, who stared fixedly at the doorway to the main bar.
"We got visitors, Bess?" he mumbled, folding the paper and replacing it on the table before him. He stood, more stiffly than he would have liked, and patted the goat's head once more. "Good girl," he muttered, sidling out of his own quarters and into the bar.
The pub appeared to be deserted. Late evening sun filtered through the grimy windows, and candle stumps flickering their last light cast the room in deep and changeable shadows. These were Aberforth's shadows, and he knew them well. The room was empty.
Just as he was about to return to his newspaper, a streak of movement low to the ground caught his eye. Aberforth bent low, scanning the spaces under tables and behind the bar, until he almost jumped at the sight of a pair of green eyes gazing back at him. "Come on, I see you," he said in his gravelly tone. A small, lithe cat padded delicately from behind the bar, and sat neatly before him. Aberforth reached out, running a hand over her tabby head and smiling when she began to purr. "What a pretty moggy. Can't imagine what you'd be doing here."
The cat shifted quickly, turning her head to nip at his fingers, but not hard enough to break the skin.
He chuckled, standing back upright. "Come on then, or are you waiting for a saucer of milk?"
Before Aberforth's eyes, the cat began to shift. The fur retreated, changing from tabby stripes to a more regulated tartan; the face flattened, spectacle markings turning to real wire-rimmed glasses; limbs, indeed the whole body lengthened, until it was a woman that sat on the floor, and not a cat at all.
Aberforth offered a hand to the attractive young woman sitting at his feet, which she graciously took, standing smoothly. "Thank you," she said primly, brushing hands over her skirt and straightening her blouse.
Sidling past his guest, Aberforth moved behind the bar and took down the bottle of scotch he reserved for such occasions. "Sneaking out of school, Miss McGonagall? Tut tut. What would Headmaster say?"
"Professor McGonagall, if you don't mind," she replied in a clipped tone.
Aberforth glanced at her as he fished for a clean glass. "I'm guessing, then, that you're wanting a large measure?" He put the bottle and glass in front of her, retrieving a bottle of stout for himself. Uncapping it, he took a long swig, before leaning his elbows on the bar and watching his companion pour herself at least three fingers. "Go on, and the rest," he growled, a crooked grin on his face, "it's on me, after all."
"None of your nonsense today, old man. I'm not in the mood." She knocked back half of the glass's contents. Aberforth's smile softened as her nose wrinkled, thin lips puckering, her eyes shut. And then the barest hint of a smile as she swallowed. He could almost feel the burn along with her, and when her eyes opened, they glittered.
"You're here for a reason, I can only imagine it's to burden a poor landlord with your worries."
"There are no worries," she said softly, staring down into the glass. Aberforth enjoyed these moods of hers. It gave him the chance to observe her without embarrassment. "Just not a good day."
"Regretting it?" he asked, taking another glug from the bottle.
She shook her head, black hair falling over her shoulders in waves, a pleasant after-effect of the tight bun she wore during the day. "It will get better." Her accent caught on the `r', rolling into an almost-purr. Aberforth couldn't help thinking how well Minerva's Animagus form suited her. Small and lively, attractive with a sly, bold undercurrent.
His hand left the cool glass of the bottle, and he brushed the backs of his fingers against hers. "Don't button it up. It's not good for you."
"Look who's talking," she replied quickly, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes, eyebrow quirked, a smirk on those lips.
Aberforth always thought of them as `those lips', had done for several months. And he did think about them, quite often. He watched them and observed their every twist and nuance. Such an expressive mouth. And so warm, despite the frosty words they sometimes uttered.
She turned her hand, laid it over his, as though in apology for her sharp words. Aberforth thought it safest not to move, lest she change her mind.
"Let me help," Aberforth offered, the hope shining through in his voice.
Minerva did not reply. She watched him for a moment, scrutinising to the point where he began to grow uncomfortable, and shifted under her gaze. Her hand tightened around his. He could feel the pad of her thumb, soft and warm against his knuckle. Green eyes lowered to their joined hands, then raised up to look at him once more. Those lips were smiling again, mischievous this time, and Aberforth swallowed. She leaned forward across the bar, watching him all the time, and with her eyes still open, still gazing into his, those lips pressed firmly against his mouth. Warmth and softness, the sweet burn of whisky, heat and skin and closeness. One hand reached up of its own volition, fingers twining through the thick strands of inky black hair. He tried to pull her closer as her lips twisted gently against his, but she was always in control.
With a soft breath and rush of cool air, her lips were gone. Absently, Aberforth noted that he had closed his eyes at some point, and when they opened she was watching him once more. So close, the smell of her still filled his nostrils.
Her forehead rested against his. "Better?" he asked, hopeful once more.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Minerva moved away, back to her bar stool and her glass of whisky. Aberforth played with his bottle, turning the glass in his hand, but would not drink, would not wash away the latent taste of her.
"How is Albus?" he asked awkwardly.
"I was hoping you would ask."
Aberforth snorted indelicately. "I knew he'd send you to spy."
Minerva sighed, sipping at her drink once more. "He is your brother. He shouldn't need to spy," she said, voice strained.
"And yet he does," Aberforth responded bitterly. He turned and took the bottle to the sink, upturning its contents down the drain. The one drawback to haphazardly almost-courting Minerva was that she came as a package deal. Albus had determinedly taken her under his wing, had got to her first, and now there was no clear way of extricating her. "I don't want to argue," he said gruffly.
"With me? Or with him?"
He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Can't argue with him if I don't talk to him, can I?"
Aberforth could feel the disapproving stare that scorched his back. He delayed turning back to her for as long as possible, dropping the bottle into a bin, running the tap to clean out the sink, hands eventually gripping the counter top as he waited for Minerva to say something.
"He would very much like to come and see you."
"I run a public house," Aberforth said over his shoulder. "Can't keep him out, can I?"
"Perhaps he doesn't feel welcome." Aberforth imagined this as the tone that she used in the classroom. It made him smile to think of it, as it always did when he thought of her life away from him.
But even that flush of pleasure could not thaw the ice that coated memories of his brother. "Perhaps he isn't welcome. Perhaps he's displaying some tact. For once."
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. He had not heard her approach. Minerva's breath grazed over the shell of his ear when she spoke. "You should see him. He's certain there's something brewing, and he wants to see you. He's sorry."
Aberforth snorted again, and turned to face this very pretty, very young woman.
He laid his hands gently on her waist, thumbs running back and forth over the crisp cotton of her blouse. "No he isn't," he said simply, and cut short Minerva's reply by kissing her.
*
1997
Decorum, and whoever planned seating arrangements for such officious occasions, had decreed that they should sit apart. In fact, Aberforth had somehow been dumped rather near the back. There were few left alive, he supposed, that even knew they were brothers. Many had died in the course of one battle or another, and even more lost to the ravages of time. Minerva, Moody, Flitwick, Fudge (though he doubted that the provenance of the Hog's Head's landlord was of much interest to their mighty former minister). Few enough of the remaining Hogwarts staff, and none of the kids. Certainly not the gangly little chap that flitted up and down the aisle, ensuring people were sat where they were told.
On any other day, Aberforth might have been glad enough to forget. That had surely been the purpose of his adult life, the occasional mucking in `for the greater good' aside: to forget any familial connection to the Dumbledore name.
Well, not the name exactly. The name, and the family, would have been fine enough, had it not been re-defined to include only one man.
As far as the gathered mourners were concerned, the Dumbledore name had died with Albus. And Aberforth supposed that he would not contradict them.
Heads turned as the new minister, Scrimgeour, made his way down the aisle, leaning heavily on his cane. Aberforth shook his head and heaved a mirthless chuckle. Almost a hundred years since he had last attended a funeral. They had changed somewhat, in that time. The socialites of his youth had prided themselves on pomp and spectacle, but this was something else.
"Enjoying the festivities?" said a soft Scottish brogue in his ear.
Aberforth's smile widened, and he reached up to take her hand. The skin had aged, grown soft and wrinkled, but her hands were still warm and dry, small and perfect. "It's Albus to a tee," he replied, looking up at her.
Minerva's smile was watery, and her bright shining eyes were red-rimmed behind her glasses. Hair, long-since turned steel grey, swept back into its customary bun. It had been a long time since Aberforth had been allowed to run his fingers through that hair, to feel the silk of it between his finger tips and breathe in its heather-scent. Too old for such things these days, his youth frittered away in bitterness and impotent anger. Minerva had not been the only gleam of light in the dark landscape of his life, but she had been one of the brightest, might even have illuminated it entirely. If she had consented.
She glanced up at the rows of school children at the front of the crowd - her children now. He nodded and patted her hand. "Go on, then," he told her, reluctantly letting her go once more.
Minerva shook her head, gripping his shoulder again. "You still haven't changed your mind, have you? About Albus?"
"Why should I?" Aberforth's voice was mild, in spite of the challenge, and he smiled. "My brother will always be who he always was. Things don't change because he's dead."
Minerva sighed. Perhaps it was the old goat in him, but he was certain she looked like she wanted to say more. Do more.
Bloody kids.
"I have to go," she whispered.
"You always do," he replied.
She paused before leaving, seemed to debate internally before saying, "Don't let him die in your mind. You might forgive him yet."
Aberforth shook his head. "My brother's been all-but-dead to me for a long time. Nothing has changed."
Minerva smiled and shook her head. Those lips were all they had once been, her green eyes were brilliant and wicked. "You're wrong, Aberforth. Everything has changed."
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