Pyrrhic Victory, Albus Dumbledore+Aberforth Dumbledore Part Three
Title: Pyrrhic Victory
Author: liliths-requiem
Rating: R for language
Word Count: 14,510
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore
Pairings: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Aberforth Dumbledore/Siobhan Macmillan
Summary: Thirteen conversations between Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore, starting a week after Ariana’s death and ending a week before Albus is killed. It is a story that deals with almost everything.
Author’s Notes: This may or may not be my masterpiece. It’s definitely the longest thing I’ve ever written that I don’t want to rip to shreds.
November 1, 1981
Albus did not learn of the Potters’ deaths through the Daily Prophet, which sent out a breaking news issue at six in the morning, right after Sirius Black was arrested. He did not hear the news over the wireless, which included an interview with Mundungus Fletcher, who claimed to have inside knowledge of the event. He did not hear the rumors that flew around the Leaky Cauldron like gubraithian fire, which spread quickly and never went out. No, Albus Dumbledore, who always knew everything, was not the first to know that Voldemort had vanished and the Potters were dead.
Aberforth, however, might have been.
The winds that whipped outside his bedroom window were horrible, but he barely acknowledged them as he threw a cloak about his shoulders and went out to fight against them. In the next room, he could hear his granddaughter and her lover of twenty years slightly snoring against each other’s skin. Perversion, he decided, was a part of the Dumbledore blood, and he knew better than to judge his Kendra Ann on the basis of who she slept with. Listening closely, he reassured himself that they were safe without him. Then he pushed open the door and let it close with a bang. He had a war to end.
Aberforth walked up to the castle and banged heavily on the front door. At four in the morning, someone was bound to complain about the unwanted noise. Luckily, Peeves was floating about in the Great Hall and, unaware of Voldemort’s demise, went quickly upstairs to fetch Albus, as he feared for the children’s lives. Peeves had always been a jokester, even back when he was alive, but the seriousness of the war gave him responsibility, and he knew better than to let Albus, and Hogwarts, down.
The door opened a few minutes later, and Albus was standing at his full height, his wand drawn in an offensive stance and his eyes alight with vigilance. Anyone who wondered where Alastor Moody found his motto had only to look as far as the Auror’s old Transfiguration professor. When Albus saw his brother looking back at him, he still did not lower his wand.
“What actually happened with the goats?” he asked, a security question only the two of the knew the answer to.
In any other situation, Aberforth would have smirked, punched his brother in the face without even the consideration of drawing his wand, and then pushed his way into the Hall. But this was probably the most important thing he would ever tell his brother, so he answered the question to hurry things along. “I was trying to bring Siobhan back. I needed a body to put her in. Killing a human terrified me, but a goat…that was something I could manage.” He was bloody ashamed of that fact, but his hurt pride hadn’t been enough. The media had to twist everything to make it sound like bestiality. It was bad enough his brother was a blooming pouf who used to shag a dark wizard, they didn’t need any more taboos in the family.
“Why are you here, Aberforth?” Albus asked as he lowered his wand. He opened the door wider and ushered Aberforth into the Great Hall. Albus was tired, that much was evident. Maybe he could wear a mask around the rest of the world that painted him invincible and colored him perfect, but the slight yawn in his voice and the sadness in his eyes belied all of that. Despite everything-and there was so much that lay between the two of them-Aberforth knew that his understood his brother better than anyone in the world.
Best to get right to it then. Aberforth took a deep breath and said, “The Potters are dead.” The words hurt to say, because he had always loved James, regardless of Albus’ adoration of Lily. James Potter was a true Gryffindor, the type of man Albus should have been. For their wedding, Aberforth had given them a portrait of his dead mother. “To contact me,” he explained, when James looked confused, “In case you ever need anything.” In the fifteen minutes that had passed since Aberforth learned of his death, he hadn’t had a chance to try this new grief on for size yet. “Mother’s portrait just told me. Apparently your favorite student is also dead…” his gruff voice faded to silence for a moment, but before Albus could interject he added, “Their boy, Harry? He lived.”
He lived.
It was probably the only part of the whole rant that Albus acknowledged. “Where is he now?” he rasped, unable to sound authoritative given the current events. “Harry, the boy, where is he now, Aberforth?”
“She doesn’t know. She thinks he might still be in his crib. She can hear him crying, but she can’t see that far, and there aren’t any portraits around the crib, obviously. But Albus,” in that moment everything he had been saying finally caught up with him, “Albus, Tom Riddle is dead.”
Albus nodded. He left the room and went in search of his trusted Order, leaving Aberforth alone with Peeves, who was celebrating with back flips, and the Bloody Baron, who looked almost relieved. Even the ghosts had feared He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and Aberforth understood then that Albus was right in believing there were things in life far worse than death. Slowly, the castle came alive. More ghosts gathered in the Great Hall, the portraits began to wake, and then the professors began to gather outside the door, none of them quite sure what was happening. No one approached him to ask. Those who knew who he was thought him deranged and those who didn’t recognize him probably thought he was a war refugee. Hogwarts, it seemed, had become home to quite a number of them.
Aberforth, however, was unaffected by all of this. He focused on the enchanted sky above him and tried to make sense of his rambling. James Potter and Lily Evans were dead. Harry Potter, barely a year old, had defeated a homicidal bastard who seemed almost indestructible to everyone-including Albus. The most evil wizard to walk the free world in almost a century was no longer a threat. Voldemort was gone, the Dark Lord was destroyed, Tom Riddle was dead.
Tom Riddle was dead.
It probably should have meant more to him than it did.
June 29, 1985
The End of Year Staff Party for the professors at Hogwarts was always a very interesting shindig. Since the year Albus was made Headmaster, the event was always held the Saturday after the last day of classes, so that no one who had summer plans had to be absent. Aberforth had never formally given Albus his permission to hold the party in his establishment, but then, Albus had never been the type of older brother to ask for such a thing. At first, Aberforth had been bitter about the obvious abuse of their siblinghood, but by 1985, he was used to it.
“Did you hear, Mr. Dumbledore?” the youngest teacher, and one of the few Slytherins on staff, questioned. Aberforth remembered throwing Severus Snape out of the pub once, for spying on his brother. But six years had passed since then, and while some people were worth holding a grudge about, Snape had never been anything but courteous to the older man since then. So Aberforth pretended to look interested. Apparently, that was all the prompting the teacher needed. “Slytherin’s won the Cup!” It wasn’t really said with excitement, and, honestly, Aberforth wasn’t entirely sure Snape was capable of excitement, but there was an undertone of victory in the young man’s voice, and Aberforth couldn’t help but let his face crack into a grin.
“So we’ve finally taken the Cup back from him, then?” he asked, motioning to his brother, who had just entered through the front door. Snape nodded his head and shook Aberforth’s congratulatory hand when he offered it, but the barkeep knew he would have to find someone else to celebrate with. Luckily, Septima Vector had just walked in, with a smile that painted her face a brilliant shade of happy.
“Gryffindor’s lost!” she proclaimed, her eyes alight with merriment. Aberforth wouldn’t have been surprised to know that Tima, who was a good friend of his granddaughter’s, had already had a few glasses of wine before making her way down to Hogsmeade. “Oh I know it would be brilliant if my Ravenclaws would win, but honestly, I’m just glad to see the Hall wasn’t decked out in red again!”
Aberforth smiled at her and offered a “congratulations” along with her drink. Septima took a seat in the back, at a table filled with the teachers around her own age-Pomona, who had been in her year at Hogwarts, and Aurora, who had not, but who was smart and Slytherin enough to keep up with the other two women, who were ten years her senior. Albus then made his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools in front of it. “You look as though you want to celebrate with them,” he commented, not bothering with a greeting. “Surely you don’t still cling to the Hogwarts’ prejudices.”
“Show me a witch or wizard in all of England who doesn’t,” Aberforth replied, setting two shots of whiskey down on the counter between them. “Minnie doesn’t look too happy about her Gryffindors losing, Albus.” He gestured to Minerva, who was sitting off to the side with Flitwick and Hooch. Hooch, who was the third and last Slytherin on staff, seemed to be gloating. It was a misconception, Aberforth knew, that only Gryffindors knew how to do that.
“Yes well,” Albus rebuffed, “It’s about time another House wins. Hopefully next year it’ll be Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. I’m sure dear Pomona would like to have at least one win under her belt before this century ends.”
Aberforth let the topic drop, because there was no point in trying to bait Albus anymore. After a century together, the two men rarely argued. There was simply the deep resentment that stood between them like a brick wall with no exit. It wasn’t worth a fight, even Aberforth, with all of his hot-headedness, knew that. “I’m going to celebrate with the other Slytherins,” he decided. Albus didn’t stop him, and for the next five hours, the brothers did not speak again.
Once most of the professors had taken their leaves of the pub, Aberforth found his brother near the fireplace, reading a letter that reeked of broken promises and good plans gone bad. He didn’t have to ask to know who the parchment was from. “What’s he got to say now?” he asked instead, taking the seat opposite of Albus. He knew that by this point in their lives he really shouldn’t care, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Gellert Grindelwald had always fascinated him, something he would never admit.
Albus, who knew everything, was nonetheless aware of this. “He asked about Quidditch,” he began. The random chats about Gellert were a form of catharsis for both of them. Albus was able to tell someone who understood about his love for the man, and Aberforth was able to renew his hatred for all three of them. “He sent me his next move in our never ending game of Wizard’s chess. There’s a new cook at the prison, and he likes her much more than he did the last one. He asked for some new books, as he’s read all the ones I last sent. He…” Albus paused, and looked at his brother for a moment, “asked about your goats. And about Kendra Ann. And he wanted to know whether or not we were able to pin anything on Malfoy yet.”
“So nothing extraordinary,” Aberforth summed up. “Tell him my goats are fine, though if I had any way of reaching him I’d tell him I’d like to shove one of them up his arse and use another’s horns to maul his eyes out. Is that too violent for your tastes?” the hatred was omnipresent in the room, and Albus almost regretted saying anything. But he didn’t know how to keep quiet when talk turned to Gellert, and he sincerely doubted he would ever learn that particular skill. “And Kendra’s alive and well, unlike both of her namesakes, thanks to him.”
“He didn’t kill Mother,” Albus defended.
Aberforth shook his head, “You make it sound like I should forgive him.”
“Don’t you think enough time has passed? I lost my sister too, Aberforth, and I’ve forgiven him.” He knew that declaration would damn him, the moment he said the words, but he also knew it was too late to take them back.
“You’ve done what?” Aberforth asked. “He killed my sister, he has my wife’s and my daughter’s deaths on his hands. It’s been less than fifty years. And you’ve forgiven him?” Aberforth reached for his wand, and Albus knew that if he didn’t leave quickly, a duel would commence.
So, without another word, Albus left. And for the next ten years, Aberforth refused to say a single word to him.
June 30, 1995
Their silence ended the day Voldemort returned from the dead. Not that either brother had ever really thought Tom Riddle was gone for good. Dark Wizards are never defeated by a baby in a crib, regardless of what a mother might say to her children when they complain of kappas in the closet and boggarts under the bed. Albus watched his school mourn a death they were not ready to accept, and Aberforth stared on in anger as his brother said nothing to defend himself from the reporters who asked ridiculous questions and pinned the Hufflepuff’s death on him. Sometimes, Albus’ self-imposed martyrdom was too ridiculous for Aberforth to accept-even if the git did deserve it.
The first words Aberforth said to his brother after a decade of silence were, “What next?” the question had no context, but then, it was pretty obvious what Aberforth was asking. He knew that the peace both brothers had fought so hard for was ruined, and he knew that somehow he would be roped in to fixing it. Whenever Albus had to save the world, Aberforth was somehow manipulated into following his big brother to the battlefield, despite his obvious willingness to hide in the Hogs Head and be as neutral as were the goats in his barn.
Albus’ first words to Aberforth were a bit more poetic: “The world has a funny way of making you understand when it is too late for you to do much about it. Truth has been born from time, and I think we have a chance, but hope is a fragile thing, and one misstep can ruin everything.”
Being cryptic had always been one of Albus’ more obnoxious talents-right up there with flying sans broom or griffin.
“Care to be a bit more specific, Albus?” Aberforth asked, looking out at the Black Lake. The funeral for Cedric Diggory had taken place a few days ago, and it was one of the worst funerals he had ever attended. Children during the First War had seemed almost immune to death, considering how constant it had been in their lives. But these kids, they’d never seen a classmate perish before their eyes. He could feel the disillusionment that stabbed into their hearts as the eulogy was said, and he was reminded of his first wave of grief, the moment he found out his mother was dead.
Albus looked at him as though he were only just noticing Aberforth’s existence. “We must start up the Order again,” he decided. “I’ll write Elphias and Remus right away. They’ll get into contact with most of them. Could you call Miss Vance? She’s always loved you the best.”
“Albus!” Aberforth grunted, “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“No?” Albus asked, as though he couldn’t think of anything else Aberforth could be asking.
Aberforth let out a sigh and said, “No. I meant…I meant what’s going to happen to the world?” Maybe it wasn’t a succinct question, and maybe there wasn’t an answer to be had, but Aberforth knew he had to at least ask.
Albus thought for a moment, his blue eyes clouding with age and what could have been considered fear in a lesser man. “The world’s going to remember that there are those who wish to conquer death. And those who should be feared are the ones who actually stand a chance.”
“Does Riddle stand a chance?” it was a question they both knew did not need to be asked.
But Albus answered anyway, with finality stronger than the ground they were standing on. “Yes. As far as chances go, I’d say he has the best.”
June 22, 1997
“Snape was just in here,” Aberforth stated as Albus walked through the entrance of the Hogs’ Head. It was the last Sunday before the end of term, and most of the students were milling about outside. A few seventh years were drinking in the back of the pub, near the fireplace, but beyond that, the establishment was mostly empty. “He’s quite angry with you, I hope you know.”
“As he well should be, I suppose,” Albus said. Turning away from his brother he said, “Good afternoon, Kendra dear.” The witch behind the bar smiled at him, but didn’t say anything. She was busy taking inventory, as was most likely afraid of losing count if she opened her mouth to say something to the Great-Uncle Albus. “Kendra, would you mind if I stole your grandfather away for a moment?” Kendra shook her head, sending her black curls bouncing across her face. In the rare moments when Albus really looked at his niece, he was struck by how very much she looked like his mother. Aberforth had been right in choosing that name for her, but then, Aberforth was right in most things.
The two brothers made their way upstairs, with Albus placing protective charms behind them with every step. By the time they reached the door of Aberforth’s bedroom, both brothers were completely paranoid. “What the bloody hell is going on?” Aberforth asked, the moment they entered the room. Albus cast two more spells before he motioned to the bed. Knowing that Albus wouldn’t ask him to take a seat unless it was necessary, the younger brother sat down.
“I have asked Severus Snape to kill me,” Albus announced, his voice low and his eyes vigilant. “He informed me this morning that there will be an attack on Hogwarts in the coming weeks. It is at this time that he will make good on this promise.”
Aberforth could hear words coming from Albus’ mouth, but he couldn’t get passed the first sentence. I have asked Severus Snape to kill me-like he was talking about the weather, or the latest Quidditch scores, or whatever pair of socks Minerva was planning on knitting for him for his birthday. It was probably the most surreal thing he had ever heard, and living with Albus for more than a century, he had been under the impression that he had witnessed everything that was possible for one man to witness. Apparently, this was Albus Dumbledore proving expectations wrong-yet again.
“I’m sorry,” Aberforth said, when he could find his voice again, “In what fucked up parallel universe in any of what you just said supposed to make sense?”
Albus didn’t seem shocked by the way Aberforth gasped out the words. “It isn’t, but it is the truth, regardless. You once told me that Riddle and I were much too similar for your liking. At first the thought deeply disturbed me, but I’ve learned to use it to my advantage. He’s not quite as intelligent as he’d like us all to believe, and I’ve begun to find his movements almost as predictable as they are malicious.”
When Aberforth said nothing, Albus continued. He moved into the light to give his brother a better view of his poisoned arm, which was now almost black, with veins visibly twisting around themselves like the ivy that crawled up Hogwarts’ walls. “I am dying, Aberforth,” he explained, wincing when the arm came into contact with the table he was standing next to. The skin was flaying and every sensation felt like a hex to the stomach. “Whether Snape performs his duty or he doesn’t, I will not make it to my next birthday, of this I am certain.”
Aberforth wanted to argue. He wanted to point out that Albus had predicted his own death before, and he had been wrong then. But the finality of his brother’s words weighed heavy on Aberforth’s shoulders, and he could feel their oppressive truth smothering him. “I feel like I should say some words of hope, but I don’t know which one of us needs the comfort more.”
“Death is not an enemy to be feared,” Albus responded, and the cryptic tone, the serene acceptance of death, made Aberforth angry. Not that either brother had been expecting Aberforth to stay calm for long. Anger was his primary emotion whenever Albus was concerned, so even upon learning of his brother’s imminent doom, he couldn’t help but rely on frustration to overrule acceptance.
For the first time in a long time, Aberforth raised his voice. “Don’t pull that saintly shite with me, Albus Percival.” The reminder of his middle name, the use of their father’s name against him, brought out the first human emotion Aberforth had seen in his brother all night-shame. “You’re going off to meet your death, and you think you can comfort me with clichés and cryptic words of comfort. I am not one of your students, Albus. Nor am I a precious Order member who thinks your words are divine law. I am your brother, for the love of Salazar, and I demand truth from you, for the first time in my entire existence!”
He was red in the face and breathing in huffs, but the words seemed to have broken some sort of barrier between them, because Albus had fallen to his knees, and was looking up at his brother with fear blatant in his face. “I don’t want to die, Aberforth,” Albus murmured, as a tear leaked from his eye. Neither brother could remember the last time Albus had cried. “But what more have I on earth than my life to give as sacrifice? Who will really miss me when I’m gone-besides a handful of people who still aren’t sure if they love me or they hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Albus,” both brothers were surprised by how easily the lie fell from Aberforth’s lips. It hung between them for a moment like a beautiful façade they both knew they had to break. Almost one hundred years of bitterness and grief fueled Aberforth’s hatred for his brother, but the love Aberforth had for Albus still outshone the hate, which allowed the fragile lie to linger between them longer than it should have. Aberforth had never quite learned how to deny the truth.
So threw the first stone, and the lie shattered at his feet between them. “I do hate you,” it was the first time in a long time that Aberforth had made the declaration aloud, “But then, I hate myself as well. And sometimes, in the quiet hours, I remember Gellert enough to hate him too.” Bringing his eyes down to meet Albus’ he asked, “Does he know about this?”
“Gellert? Oh, yes,” Albus replied, not bothering to look sorry for telling his lover about his plans before he told his brother, “Yes, I went to visit him one last time the other day. Arabella’s fireplace is still hooked up to the nearest wizarding town. He…well he told me that he had’t breathed or bled outside of Hell in more than fifty years, so what right did he have to interfere with those who could still claim to be among the living?” Albus looked away, and after a few moments of gazing at the wall, he added. “Then he kissed me.” The additive was said in a tone almost wistful, but definitely amazed. That kiss was closure fifty years in the making, and Aberforth wanted to feel disgusted, but the smile on his brother’s face made that nearly impossible.
“You’re my older brother,” Aberforth said, instead, without precedence. “You’re Albus Dumbledore and you’re the best Wizard to walk the earth in almost a millennium. How am I supposed to be okay with you throwing your life away?” If his tone was pleading or sad, neither brother acknowledged it. “I never liked you, Albus, but…loving you never seemed to be optional.”
It was the closest thing love Albus was ever going to get. In a moment of weakness, his head fell forward to rest on his brother’s knobby knee. Aberforth placed his hand behind Albus’ head and gave him what could have passed as a brotherly embrace-had they been any other family. “I love you too, Aberforth,” Albus whispered to his brother’s feet. They stayed like that for what could have been a moment and what could have been hours. Two of the most powerful wizards in the world were clinging to each other at the end of it, letting years of anger, grief, and bitterness melt away with their tears.
“Do you think it will be enough?” Aberforth asked, later, when Albus had pushed himself to his feet and Aberforth had made them both tea. “This fearless sacrifice you’re planning. Do you think being the Order’s sacrificial lamb will be enough to stay the slaughter of everyone who gets in Riddle’s way?” There was no more fear in Aberforth’s voice, just a tone of melancholy that ran deeper than any sadness ever could.
Albus finished his cup of tea and tried to force a smile. “I think it may be the only way to give them a running start,” he said, this time without the cryptic overtones or the beseeching look, “I think it may be the only way for them to win.” At some point in the past two years, Albus had separated his brother and himself from the fight. This, he had told Aberforth one night, was not their fight. They were too old to march as soldiers into the fray. That didn’t stop either Dumbledore from fighting, but it made them both feel as though-win or lose-the end of the war would result in the end of everything for them. Aberforth wouldn’t admit it, but deep down, he felt the same.
“I should be leaving, Ab,” Albus excused himself, getting out of the chair. “I have other affairs to settle before the end.” And he made it sound as if life were a story to be put aside for later and reread until the pages were frayed and the words were permanently ingrained in Aberforth’s memory. “I hate to rush. I trust you’ll forgive me?”
Aberforth smiled then, a small, sad smile that would have belied any bitter words he could have said then. His reply was soft: “Maybe one day.”
Those were the last words Aberforth ever said to his brother. They weren’t articulate and they didn’t sound pretty coming from his chapped lips and raspy throat, but they were true. And for both of them, that meant more than anything. Albus offered Aberforth his good hand, and they shook as though they were friends, which is something both knew they had never been.
:::
A week later, while standing in the front of Albus’ funeral gathering, Aberforth touched the stone of his brother’s tomb with his hand. “I guess, now, it’s my turn to do something magnificent,” he whispered to the cold marble. “I hope you were right.” He looked out across the Black Lake for a moment, then to the people gathered behind him, and when his eyes returned to the tomb he added:
“I hope your love for them is enough to redeem your sins, Albus. And I hope somewhere along the line, in all that the world threw at you and everything they took from you. I hope that despite everything they put you through, they’ve earned this.”
Author: liliths-requiem
Rating: R for language
Word Count: 14,510
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore
Pairings: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Aberforth Dumbledore/Siobhan Macmillan
Summary: Thirteen conversations between Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore, starting a week after Ariana’s death and ending a week before Albus is killed. It is a story that deals with almost everything.
Author’s Notes: This may or may not be my masterpiece. It’s definitely the longest thing I’ve ever written that I don’t want to rip to shreds.
November 1, 1981
Albus did not learn of the Potters’ deaths through the Daily Prophet, which sent out a breaking news issue at six in the morning, right after Sirius Black was arrested. He did not hear the news over the wireless, which included an interview with Mundungus Fletcher, who claimed to have inside knowledge of the event. He did not hear the rumors that flew around the Leaky Cauldron like gubraithian fire, which spread quickly and never went out. No, Albus Dumbledore, who always knew everything, was not the first to know that Voldemort had vanished and the Potters were dead.
Aberforth, however, might have been.
The winds that whipped outside his bedroom window were horrible, but he barely acknowledged them as he threw a cloak about his shoulders and went out to fight against them. In the next room, he could hear his granddaughter and her lover of twenty years slightly snoring against each other’s skin. Perversion, he decided, was a part of the Dumbledore blood, and he knew better than to judge his Kendra Ann on the basis of who she slept with. Listening closely, he reassured himself that they were safe without him. Then he pushed open the door and let it close with a bang. He had a war to end.
Aberforth walked up to the castle and banged heavily on the front door. At four in the morning, someone was bound to complain about the unwanted noise. Luckily, Peeves was floating about in the Great Hall and, unaware of Voldemort’s demise, went quickly upstairs to fetch Albus, as he feared for the children’s lives. Peeves had always been a jokester, even back when he was alive, but the seriousness of the war gave him responsibility, and he knew better than to let Albus, and Hogwarts, down.
The door opened a few minutes later, and Albus was standing at his full height, his wand drawn in an offensive stance and his eyes alight with vigilance. Anyone who wondered where Alastor Moody found his motto had only to look as far as the Auror’s old Transfiguration professor. When Albus saw his brother looking back at him, he still did not lower his wand.
“What actually happened with the goats?” he asked, a security question only the two of the knew the answer to.
In any other situation, Aberforth would have smirked, punched his brother in the face without even the consideration of drawing his wand, and then pushed his way into the Hall. But this was probably the most important thing he would ever tell his brother, so he answered the question to hurry things along. “I was trying to bring Siobhan back. I needed a body to put her in. Killing a human terrified me, but a goat…that was something I could manage.” He was bloody ashamed of that fact, but his hurt pride hadn’t been enough. The media had to twist everything to make it sound like bestiality. It was bad enough his brother was a blooming pouf who used to shag a dark wizard, they didn’t need any more taboos in the family.
“Why are you here, Aberforth?” Albus asked as he lowered his wand. He opened the door wider and ushered Aberforth into the Great Hall. Albus was tired, that much was evident. Maybe he could wear a mask around the rest of the world that painted him invincible and colored him perfect, but the slight yawn in his voice and the sadness in his eyes belied all of that. Despite everything-and there was so much that lay between the two of them-Aberforth knew that his understood his brother better than anyone in the world.
Best to get right to it then. Aberforth took a deep breath and said, “The Potters are dead.” The words hurt to say, because he had always loved James, regardless of Albus’ adoration of Lily. James Potter was a true Gryffindor, the type of man Albus should have been. For their wedding, Aberforth had given them a portrait of his dead mother. “To contact me,” he explained, when James looked confused, “In case you ever need anything.” In the fifteen minutes that had passed since Aberforth learned of his death, he hadn’t had a chance to try this new grief on for size yet. “Mother’s portrait just told me. Apparently your favorite student is also dead…” his gruff voice faded to silence for a moment, but before Albus could interject he added, “Their boy, Harry? He lived.”
He lived.
It was probably the only part of the whole rant that Albus acknowledged. “Where is he now?” he rasped, unable to sound authoritative given the current events. “Harry, the boy, where is he now, Aberforth?”
“She doesn’t know. She thinks he might still be in his crib. She can hear him crying, but she can’t see that far, and there aren’t any portraits around the crib, obviously. But Albus,” in that moment everything he had been saying finally caught up with him, “Albus, Tom Riddle is dead.”
Albus nodded. He left the room and went in search of his trusted Order, leaving Aberforth alone with Peeves, who was celebrating with back flips, and the Bloody Baron, who looked almost relieved. Even the ghosts had feared He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and Aberforth understood then that Albus was right in believing there were things in life far worse than death. Slowly, the castle came alive. More ghosts gathered in the Great Hall, the portraits began to wake, and then the professors began to gather outside the door, none of them quite sure what was happening. No one approached him to ask. Those who knew who he was thought him deranged and those who didn’t recognize him probably thought he was a war refugee. Hogwarts, it seemed, had become home to quite a number of them.
Aberforth, however, was unaffected by all of this. He focused on the enchanted sky above him and tried to make sense of his rambling. James Potter and Lily Evans were dead. Harry Potter, barely a year old, had defeated a homicidal bastard who seemed almost indestructible to everyone-including Albus. The most evil wizard to walk the free world in almost a century was no longer a threat. Voldemort was gone, the Dark Lord was destroyed, Tom Riddle was dead.
Tom Riddle was dead.
It probably should have meant more to him than it did.
June 29, 1985
The End of Year Staff Party for the professors at Hogwarts was always a very interesting shindig. Since the year Albus was made Headmaster, the event was always held the Saturday after the last day of classes, so that no one who had summer plans had to be absent. Aberforth had never formally given Albus his permission to hold the party in his establishment, but then, Albus had never been the type of older brother to ask for such a thing. At first, Aberforth had been bitter about the obvious abuse of their siblinghood, but by 1985, he was used to it.
“Did you hear, Mr. Dumbledore?” the youngest teacher, and one of the few Slytherins on staff, questioned. Aberforth remembered throwing Severus Snape out of the pub once, for spying on his brother. But six years had passed since then, and while some people were worth holding a grudge about, Snape had never been anything but courteous to the older man since then. So Aberforth pretended to look interested. Apparently, that was all the prompting the teacher needed. “Slytherin’s won the Cup!” It wasn’t really said with excitement, and, honestly, Aberforth wasn’t entirely sure Snape was capable of excitement, but there was an undertone of victory in the young man’s voice, and Aberforth couldn’t help but let his face crack into a grin.
“So we’ve finally taken the Cup back from him, then?” he asked, motioning to his brother, who had just entered through the front door. Snape nodded his head and shook Aberforth’s congratulatory hand when he offered it, but the barkeep knew he would have to find someone else to celebrate with. Luckily, Septima Vector had just walked in, with a smile that painted her face a brilliant shade of happy.
“Gryffindor’s lost!” she proclaimed, her eyes alight with merriment. Aberforth wouldn’t have been surprised to know that Tima, who was a good friend of his granddaughter’s, had already had a few glasses of wine before making her way down to Hogsmeade. “Oh I know it would be brilliant if my Ravenclaws would win, but honestly, I’m just glad to see the Hall wasn’t decked out in red again!”
Aberforth smiled at her and offered a “congratulations” along with her drink. Septima took a seat in the back, at a table filled with the teachers around her own age-Pomona, who had been in her year at Hogwarts, and Aurora, who had not, but who was smart and Slytherin enough to keep up with the other two women, who were ten years her senior. Albus then made his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools in front of it. “You look as though you want to celebrate with them,” he commented, not bothering with a greeting. “Surely you don’t still cling to the Hogwarts’ prejudices.”
“Show me a witch or wizard in all of England who doesn’t,” Aberforth replied, setting two shots of whiskey down on the counter between them. “Minnie doesn’t look too happy about her Gryffindors losing, Albus.” He gestured to Minerva, who was sitting off to the side with Flitwick and Hooch. Hooch, who was the third and last Slytherin on staff, seemed to be gloating. It was a misconception, Aberforth knew, that only Gryffindors knew how to do that.
“Yes well,” Albus rebuffed, “It’s about time another House wins. Hopefully next year it’ll be Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. I’m sure dear Pomona would like to have at least one win under her belt before this century ends.”
Aberforth let the topic drop, because there was no point in trying to bait Albus anymore. After a century together, the two men rarely argued. There was simply the deep resentment that stood between them like a brick wall with no exit. It wasn’t worth a fight, even Aberforth, with all of his hot-headedness, knew that. “I’m going to celebrate with the other Slytherins,” he decided. Albus didn’t stop him, and for the next five hours, the brothers did not speak again.
Once most of the professors had taken their leaves of the pub, Aberforth found his brother near the fireplace, reading a letter that reeked of broken promises and good plans gone bad. He didn’t have to ask to know who the parchment was from. “What’s he got to say now?” he asked instead, taking the seat opposite of Albus. He knew that by this point in their lives he really shouldn’t care, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Gellert Grindelwald had always fascinated him, something he would never admit.
Albus, who knew everything, was nonetheless aware of this. “He asked about Quidditch,” he began. The random chats about Gellert were a form of catharsis for both of them. Albus was able to tell someone who understood about his love for the man, and Aberforth was able to renew his hatred for all three of them. “He sent me his next move in our never ending game of Wizard’s chess. There’s a new cook at the prison, and he likes her much more than he did the last one. He asked for some new books, as he’s read all the ones I last sent. He…” Albus paused, and looked at his brother for a moment, “asked about your goats. And about Kendra Ann. And he wanted to know whether or not we were able to pin anything on Malfoy yet.”
“So nothing extraordinary,” Aberforth summed up. “Tell him my goats are fine, though if I had any way of reaching him I’d tell him I’d like to shove one of them up his arse and use another’s horns to maul his eyes out. Is that too violent for your tastes?” the hatred was omnipresent in the room, and Albus almost regretted saying anything. But he didn’t know how to keep quiet when talk turned to Gellert, and he sincerely doubted he would ever learn that particular skill. “And Kendra’s alive and well, unlike both of her namesakes, thanks to him.”
“He didn’t kill Mother,” Albus defended.
Aberforth shook his head, “You make it sound like I should forgive him.”
“Don’t you think enough time has passed? I lost my sister too, Aberforth, and I’ve forgiven him.” He knew that declaration would damn him, the moment he said the words, but he also knew it was too late to take them back.
“You’ve done what?” Aberforth asked. “He killed my sister, he has my wife’s and my daughter’s deaths on his hands. It’s been less than fifty years. And you’ve forgiven him?” Aberforth reached for his wand, and Albus knew that if he didn’t leave quickly, a duel would commence.
So, without another word, Albus left. And for the next ten years, Aberforth refused to say a single word to him.
June 30, 1995
Their silence ended the day Voldemort returned from the dead. Not that either brother had ever really thought Tom Riddle was gone for good. Dark Wizards are never defeated by a baby in a crib, regardless of what a mother might say to her children when they complain of kappas in the closet and boggarts under the bed. Albus watched his school mourn a death they were not ready to accept, and Aberforth stared on in anger as his brother said nothing to defend himself from the reporters who asked ridiculous questions and pinned the Hufflepuff’s death on him. Sometimes, Albus’ self-imposed martyrdom was too ridiculous for Aberforth to accept-even if the git did deserve it.
The first words Aberforth said to his brother after a decade of silence were, “What next?” the question had no context, but then, it was pretty obvious what Aberforth was asking. He knew that the peace both brothers had fought so hard for was ruined, and he knew that somehow he would be roped in to fixing it. Whenever Albus had to save the world, Aberforth was somehow manipulated into following his big brother to the battlefield, despite his obvious willingness to hide in the Hogs Head and be as neutral as were the goats in his barn.
Albus’ first words to Aberforth were a bit more poetic: “The world has a funny way of making you understand when it is too late for you to do much about it. Truth has been born from time, and I think we have a chance, but hope is a fragile thing, and one misstep can ruin everything.”
Being cryptic had always been one of Albus’ more obnoxious talents-right up there with flying sans broom or griffin.
“Care to be a bit more specific, Albus?” Aberforth asked, looking out at the Black Lake. The funeral for Cedric Diggory had taken place a few days ago, and it was one of the worst funerals he had ever attended. Children during the First War had seemed almost immune to death, considering how constant it had been in their lives. But these kids, they’d never seen a classmate perish before their eyes. He could feel the disillusionment that stabbed into their hearts as the eulogy was said, and he was reminded of his first wave of grief, the moment he found out his mother was dead.
Albus looked at him as though he were only just noticing Aberforth’s existence. “We must start up the Order again,” he decided. “I’ll write Elphias and Remus right away. They’ll get into contact with most of them. Could you call Miss Vance? She’s always loved you the best.”
“Albus!” Aberforth grunted, “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“No?” Albus asked, as though he couldn’t think of anything else Aberforth could be asking.
Aberforth let out a sigh and said, “No. I meant…I meant what’s going to happen to the world?” Maybe it wasn’t a succinct question, and maybe there wasn’t an answer to be had, but Aberforth knew he had to at least ask.
Albus thought for a moment, his blue eyes clouding with age and what could have been considered fear in a lesser man. “The world’s going to remember that there are those who wish to conquer death. And those who should be feared are the ones who actually stand a chance.”
“Does Riddle stand a chance?” it was a question they both knew did not need to be asked.
But Albus answered anyway, with finality stronger than the ground they were standing on. “Yes. As far as chances go, I’d say he has the best.”
June 22, 1997
“Snape was just in here,” Aberforth stated as Albus walked through the entrance of the Hogs’ Head. It was the last Sunday before the end of term, and most of the students were milling about outside. A few seventh years were drinking in the back of the pub, near the fireplace, but beyond that, the establishment was mostly empty. “He’s quite angry with you, I hope you know.”
“As he well should be, I suppose,” Albus said. Turning away from his brother he said, “Good afternoon, Kendra dear.” The witch behind the bar smiled at him, but didn’t say anything. She was busy taking inventory, as was most likely afraid of losing count if she opened her mouth to say something to the Great-Uncle Albus. “Kendra, would you mind if I stole your grandfather away for a moment?” Kendra shook her head, sending her black curls bouncing across her face. In the rare moments when Albus really looked at his niece, he was struck by how very much she looked like his mother. Aberforth had been right in choosing that name for her, but then, Aberforth was right in most things.
The two brothers made their way upstairs, with Albus placing protective charms behind them with every step. By the time they reached the door of Aberforth’s bedroom, both brothers were completely paranoid. “What the bloody hell is going on?” Aberforth asked, the moment they entered the room. Albus cast two more spells before he motioned to the bed. Knowing that Albus wouldn’t ask him to take a seat unless it was necessary, the younger brother sat down.
“I have asked Severus Snape to kill me,” Albus announced, his voice low and his eyes vigilant. “He informed me this morning that there will be an attack on Hogwarts in the coming weeks. It is at this time that he will make good on this promise.”
Aberforth could hear words coming from Albus’ mouth, but he couldn’t get passed the first sentence. I have asked Severus Snape to kill me-like he was talking about the weather, or the latest Quidditch scores, or whatever pair of socks Minerva was planning on knitting for him for his birthday. It was probably the most surreal thing he had ever heard, and living with Albus for more than a century, he had been under the impression that he had witnessed everything that was possible for one man to witness. Apparently, this was Albus Dumbledore proving expectations wrong-yet again.
“I’m sorry,” Aberforth said, when he could find his voice again, “In what fucked up parallel universe in any of what you just said supposed to make sense?”
Albus didn’t seem shocked by the way Aberforth gasped out the words. “It isn’t, but it is the truth, regardless. You once told me that Riddle and I were much too similar for your liking. At first the thought deeply disturbed me, but I’ve learned to use it to my advantage. He’s not quite as intelligent as he’d like us all to believe, and I’ve begun to find his movements almost as predictable as they are malicious.”
When Aberforth said nothing, Albus continued. He moved into the light to give his brother a better view of his poisoned arm, which was now almost black, with veins visibly twisting around themselves like the ivy that crawled up Hogwarts’ walls. “I am dying, Aberforth,” he explained, wincing when the arm came into contact with the table he was standing next to. The skin was flaying and every sensation felt like a hex to the stomach. “Whether Snape performs his duty or he doesn’t, I will not make it to my next birthday, of this I am certain.”
Aberforth wanted to argue. He wanted to point out that Albus had predicted his own death before, and he had been wrong then. But the finality of his brother’s words weighed heavy on Aberforth’s shoulders, and he could feel their oppressive truth smothering him. “I feel like I should say some words of hope, but I don’t know which one of us needs the comfort more.”
“Death is not an enemy to be feared,” Albus responded, and the cryptic tone, the serene acceptance of death, made Aberforth angry. Not that either brother had been expecting Aberforth to stay calm for long. Anger was his primary emotion whenever Albus was concerned, so even upon learning of his brother’s imminent doom, he couldn’t help but rely on frustration to overrule acceptance.
For the first time in a long time, Aberforth raised his voice. “Don’t pull that saintly shite with me, Albus Percival.” The reminder of his middle name, the use of their father’s name against him, brought out the first human emotion Aberforth had seen in his brother all night-shame. “You’re going off to meet your death, and you think you can comfort me with clichés and cryptic words of comfort. I am not one of your students, Albus. Nor am I a precious Order member who thinks your words are divine law. I am your brother, for the love of Salazar, and I demand truth from you, for the first time in my entire existence!”
He was red in the face and breathing in huffs, but the words seemed to have broken some sort of barrier between them, because Albus had fallen to his knees, and was looking up at his brother with fear blatant in his face. “I don’t want to die, Aberforth,” Albus murmured, as a tear leaked from his eye. Neither brother could remember the last time Albus had cried. “But what more have I on earth than my life to give as sacrifice? Who will really miss me when I’m gone-besides a handful of people who still aren’t sure if they love me or they hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Albus,” both brothers were surprised by how easily the lie fell from Aberforth’s lips. It hung between them for a moment like a beautiful façade they both knew they had to break. Almost one hundred years of bitterness and grief fueled Aberforth’s hatred for his brother, but the love Aberforth had for Albus still outshone the hate, which allowed the fragile lie to linger between them longer than it should have. Aberforth had never quite learned how to deny the truth.
So threw the first stone, and the lie shattered at his feet between them. “I do hate you,” it was the first time in a long time that Aberforth had made the declaration aloud, “But then, I hate myself as well. And sometimes, in the quiet hours, I remember Gellert enough to hate him too.” Bringing his eyes down to meet Albus’ he asked, “Does he know about this?”
“Gellert? Oh, yes,” Albus replied, not bothering to look sorry for telling his lover about his plans before he told his brother, “Yes, I went to visit him one last time the other day. Arabella’s fireplace is still hooked up to the nearest wizarding town. He…well he told me that he had’t breathed or bled outside of Hell in more than fifty years, so what right did he have to interfere with those who could still claim to be among the living?” Albus looked away, and after a few moments of gazing at the wall, he added. “Then he kissed me.” The additive was said in a tone almost wistful, but definitely amazed. That kiss was closure fifty years in the making, and Aberforth wanted to feel disgusted, but the smile on his brother’s face made that nearly impossible.
“You’re my older brother,” Aberforth said, instead, without precedence. “You’re Albus Dumbledore and you’re the best Wizard to walk the earth in almost a millennium. How am I supposed to be okay with you throwing your life away?” If his tone was pleading or sad, neither brother acknowledged it. “I never liked you, Albus, but…loving you never seemed to be optional.”
It was the closest thing love Albus was ever going to get. In a moment of weakness, his head fell forward to rest on his brother’s knobby knee. Aberforth placed his hand behind Albus’ head and gave him what could have passed as a brotherly embrace-had they been any other family. “I love you too, Aberforth,” Albus whispered to his brother’s feet. They stayed like that for what could have been a moment and what could have been hours. Two of the most powerful wizards in the world were clinging to each other at the end of it, letting years of anger, grief, and bitterness melt away with their tears.
“Do you think it will be enough?” Aberforth asked, later, when Albus had pushed himself to his feet and Aberforth had made them both tea. “This fearless sacrifice you’re planning. Do you think being the Order’s sacrificial lamb will be enough to stay the slaughter of everyone who gets in Riddle’s way?” There was no more fear in Aberforth’s voice, just a tone of melancholy that ran deeper than any sadness ever could.
Albus finished his cup of tea and tried to force a smile. “I think it may be the only way to give them a running start,” he said, this time without the cryptic overtones or the beseeching look, “I think it may be the only way for them to win.” At some point in the past two years, Albus had separated his brother and himself from the fight. This, he had told Aberforth one night, was not their fight. They were too old to march as soldiers into the fray. That didn’t stop either Dumbledore from fighting, but it made them both feel as though-win or lose-the end of the war would result in the end of everything for them. Aberforth wouldn’t admit it, but deep down, he felt the same.
“I should be leaving, Ab,” Albus excused himself, getting out of the chair. “I have other affairs to settle before the end.” And he made it sound as if life were a story to be put aside for later and reread until the pages were frayed and the words were permanently ingrained in Aberforth’s memory. “I hate to rush. I trust you’ll forgive me?”
Aberforth smiled then, a small, sad smile that would have belied any bitter words he could have said then. His reply was soft: “Maybe one day.”
Those were the last words Aberforth ever said to his brother. They weren’t articulate and they didn’t sound pretty coming from his chapped lips and raspy throat, but they were true. And for both of them, that meant more than anything. Albus offered Aberforth his good hand, and they shook as though they were friends, which is something both knew they had never been.
:::
A week later, while standing in the front of Albus’ funeral gathering, Aberforth touched the stone of his brother’s tomb with his hand. “I guess, now, it’s my turn to do something magnificent,” he whispered to the cold marble. “I hope you were right.” He looked out across the Black Lake for a moment, then to the people gathered behind him, and when his eyes returned to the tomb he added:
“I hope your love for them is enough to redeem your sins, Albus. And I hope somewhere along the line, in all that the world threw at you and everything they took from you. I hope that despite everything they put you through, they’ve earned this.”