HA 7b: Albus

HIM AGAIN: Chapter 7: The Dead We Loved - Albus

The Hog’s Head was nearly empty; it was too early for the less respectable of its regulars to be present and too late for those who were simply being daring. The hag on the corner table was lingering over her drink and the cloaked man at the opposite end of the pub had his head in his hands and didn’t look to be leaving any time soon. He’d just started on his third bottle of Fire-Whisky and Merlin knew how many he intended to have.

Aberforth Dumbledore sniffed bad-temperedly and forced a cloth around a mug. This time of day was the worst, he’d found from years of experience. This was the point when one just had to stand there and play the waiting game. The end of the waiting game was always the arrival of one Sybil Trelawney - and then it became an endurance test. The ruddy woman always became so talkative - rambled until the urge to strangle her was almost unbearable.

This was also the point when introspection was most dangerous. Aberforth disliked introspection as a rule - it was unhealthy, for one thing, and impractical for another - but this hour was when it became impossible to avoid; when there was nothing else to occupy the mind or the hands.

Silly things came back to him. Everything was fine when he concentrated on his goats - ten generations and counting - but no, the silly, sentimental things kept on intruding. There was that woman he’d liked - what was her name, Pandora? Now she’d been the one to open up a box of misery and no mistake. Still, Pandora was better than Albus.

Images of Albus as an fresh-faced youth, phoenix on one shoulder and auburn locks tumbling down the other, obstinately ramming a stupid Muggle hat on his head whilst opening an envelope containing the most glowing O.W.L. results Hogwarts had ever seen. Images of Albus waltzing around in that embarrassingly vivid plum velvet suit, laughing at him as he scowled at it. Images of Albus arriving on the doorstep, windswept and pale but flushed with victory, babbling about his latest Auror exploits. Images of Albus spewing facts about Transfiguration, and rambling incomprehensibly about the ‘forces of darkness’ before rushing off to do battle with Grindelwald. Albus smiling and shaking hands at the Headteacher’s Inauguration Ceremony, Albus sat at his office desk, the tips of his fingers together and the blue eyes bright and intelligent, Albus staring at him wearily from the other side of the bar, looking tired and depressed, Albus grimly going over an Order plan…

Merlin, how he’d hated him - for most of his life. He’d only really started liking him after he’d died. Now he was dogged by memories of the man.

What had he said, that evening eight years before? Of course, he was pretending to himself that he was forgetting, because the words were largely unforgettable as they were so unlike the normal Albus. It was deeply ironic that Albus had only ever once heeded his pleas for him not ‘speak like a bloody thesaurus.’”

Aberforth, why do you hate me?

The eyes had been dull and the face lined. Yet what had he expected him to do or to say? He was the mighty Albus Dumbledore, and he was the grubby barman.

Figure it out for yourself.

What a stupid thing to say, he scolded himself, slamming the mug down with a bang that made the cloaked man start. And what an idiot. If he was so damned clever, he should have detected the evasion.

The next thing he’d heard, Albus had got himself blasted off a tower - by the man he himself had thrown out of the pub. It was a funny old world.

A sudden draft made Aberforth look up. The door had opened - and five figures were striding in. He blinked as he recognised them. The first to spot was Hagrid - a sight which made him scowl; he’d never had much patience for the big man. Then there was Rolanda Hooch, a woman who could hold her drink, Poppy Pomfrey and Pomona Sprout who were not well-known to him - and finally Filius Flitwick, another irritating presence. He raised one eyebrow in mild surprise: the Three Broomsticks was the usual pub for the Professors (who probably considered themselves too up-market for the Hog’s Head, he thought moodily).

As they drew nearer to the bar, Aberforth realised that all of them, great or small, had one thing in common: their eyes were fixed on him. The flying instructor looked furious, the Herbology Professor resolute and the groundskeeper alarmed - but there was no doubt about it; he was definitely their target.

Rolanda reached the bar first. He opened his mouth to demand what she wanted - but one clenched fist had already hit the surface.

“Right. What have you done to Minerva?”

Aberforth stared at her.

Filius flapped his hands apologetically. “Now, now - let’s not rush in-”

“What are you talking about?” Aberforth snapped.

“Don’t pretend not to know!” Rolanda’s nostrils flared. “We know you’ve given her some sort of trouble!”

“Rolanda, we’re not certain of anything,” Poppy said reasonably. “We can’t just start making accusations!”

Aberforth ignored her; surprised indignation was coursing through his veins. “I’ve done nothing of the sort! I don’t even talk to the blasted woman!”

“Then why has she wasted away?” The flying instructor was shouting now. “You’ve done something to her!”

“I don’t know and I don’t care! It’s not my bloody fault if the Headmistress is ill-”

“Hagrid saw you!”

“Saw me doing what?”

Rolanda gaped like a fish. Hagrid looked panicked.

“Mr Dumbledore sir, I’m not accusin’ yeh of anything but I - I couldn’t ‘elp noticing - please pardon me - but the Headmistress, she-”

“I have absolutely nothing to do with the woman! Now either buy a drink or get out!”

“I DON’T WANT TO TOUCH ANY OF YOUR FILTH; I’M HERE TO FIND OUT WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MINERVA!” Rolanda shrieked.

Aberforth’s fingers sped towards his wand.

“ROLANDA!” Poppy roared. Filius squeaked in shock. “Please, sir, Rolanda is jumping to conclusions out of worry. We’re all very worried about Minerva; her health has completely deteriorated, as has her state of mind. We came to you because Hagrid has given us reason to believe you might know something - the Headmistress reacted rather strongly to your appearance at the last Order reunion-”

“Are you deaf! I don’t know anything! I have no idea why the Headmistress looks as me as if I‘m a damned Inferius!”

The Headmistress’s white, agonised face swam into Aberforth’s memory. He knew Minerva only vaguely - as the irrepressible supporter of Albus and Transfiguration Professor, nothing more. In spite of this lack of connection, he’d been shocked and confused at her reaction towards him at the meeting - but then, the woman was clearly going through some sort of inner crisis…

“Please, Mr Dumbledore,” Poppy continued, hands fastened onto Rolanda’s shoulders. “We’re very concerned and any information at all-”

“And she was a friend of your brother’s,” Pomona added quietly.

Aberforth felt himself stiffen. He was too angry to move.

“I’ve never said more than three words to her in my entire life,” he hissed through gritted teeth - and a tide of resentment burst forth. “The only reason people ever react to me is because of Albus! If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his; you‘ve got the wrong man! I’m just the bloody barman! Happy now?”

Rolanda sagged, grey and miserable. Poppy hauled her up straight, sighing. Filius and Pomona were already moving towards the door, obviously aware that the audience was at an end. Hagrid, however, was staring at Aberforth with suddenly misty eyes.

“You can go too, you great oaf,” Aberforth snarled - the words coming out even more harshly than he’d intended.

Hagrid didn’t appear to notice. A reminiscing expression was on his face. “Yeh do look a good bit like yeh brother, Mr Dumbledore sir… yeah, definitely something ‘bout the eyes and nose…”
Aberforth felt himself torn between hitting Hagrid in the face with the mug and enquiring further. The phrase ‘you look like your brother’ was something painful and endlessly repeated until Aberforth Dumbledore ceased to exist as a separate person and simply became a pale echo of Albus - but the memories he’d found himself perusing earlier forced themselves up again.

Poppy let go of Rolanda - leaving the flying instructor swaying and tottering towards the doorway. The Healer’s mouth was a round O.

“Rolanda. Rolanda! Dumbledore. It’s Dumbledore!”

A rasping, rough voice spoke abruptly into Poppy‘s ear. “What’s Dumbledore?”

Alastor Moody eyed the scene curiously. Aberforth was standing rigidly at the bar, apparently immobile with rage - the Dumbledore blue eyes flashing and the long, bony fingers curled into fists. Albus’s anger had been quietly passionate, impressive, limited in expression to the eyes; Aberforth’s was violent, contorting his entire face with venom. Moody kept his normal eye on the old man whilst rotating the magical one round to the Professors. Poppy seemed equally rooted to the spot, gazing at him but not seeing him, evidently distracted by some sudden understanding. The spiky-haired woman was staring irritably at her with a grey, resigned face and Hagrid was looking around, obviously bewildered. Both the curly-haired witch and the miniature wizard were glaring at the ex-Auror himself with evident suspicion. At first Moody suspected that they were simply disconcerted by his revolving eye - but then remembered that the last Mad-Eye Moody they’d seen had been a Death Eater in disguise.

“An explanation would be nice,” he growled. “I haven’t seen Abe riled up this badly for some time.”

“Alastor…” said Poppy distractedly.

Her eyes were turned towards Aberforth, busily surveying him up and down, and so she missed the Moody’s gash of a mouth twist into a crooked smile. The ex-Auror stumped forward, fondly remembering the past application of poultices by the same hands that were now clasped together as a result of mental agitation. Surprised at the sentimentality of his thoughts, Moody opened his mouth to speak - and Aberforth suddenly regained his faculties.

“Riled up! I should say!” The old man stroked his beard furiously, worsening the tangles. “They march in here and spout unfounded accusations without so much as a greeting! I stand accused of harassing a woman I barely know!”

“Harassing women, eh? I thought goats were more your thing,” Moody growled, confused. Poppy Pomfrey was not generally the type of woman to jump to conclusions.

“I’ve told them; I have absolutely no connection to Minerva McGonagall!”

Moody started - and Hagrid’s vast form increased in significance. The last Order reunion meeting flashed into his brain - Hagrid, red-faced, shifty-eyed, trying to suppress his booming voice as he spoke to the Headmistress, uneasy guilt written all over him. Hagrid was hardly the most subtle of people - and his whole manner had been the one of someone forced to carry out an unpleasant, awkward task. That combined with Minerva’s haggard appearance and her reaction to Aberforth…

He found himself chuckling. “Oh but you do have a connection, Abe! A brother of yours, for one thing!”

Without waiting for a reply he turned and faced the Professors. “I suppose this entire thing is out of your clumsy concern. Well, well, let’s see whether we can put it all together. How long has the Headmistress been in her present condition?”

Rolanda blinked at the ex-Auror’s abrupt, knowing attachment to the situation and frowned. “Ever since the war,” she replied sadly.

“Aye - and at what point during the war?”

“Well, really ever since she’s been Headmistress.”

Moody’s grizzled head bobbed in a nod. “Oh yes, and I expect she never goes near the Astronomy Tower.”

The flying instructor threw up her hands in frustration. First Aberforth had pretended ignorance and buried their one chance of a lead; now a mad old ex-Auror was accosting them with pure irrelevance! “What on earth does the Astronomy Tower have to do with anything?” she spluttered.

“No,” said Poppy in a breathless voice, gazing at Moody with wide eyes. “No, she hasn’t. She wouldn’t go near it during the last visit from the inspectors - Slughorn had to take them up there.”

“The Astronomy Tower?” Filius squeaked. “Are you suggesting that something very upsetting for her happened up there?”

“Does the Headmistress suffer from vertigo?” Moody rasped.

“Most certainly not!” snapped Rolanda. “She was a brilliant Chaser in her day and unless you think that one can fly a broomstick with a fear of heights-”

“I think nothing of the sort. This is a process of elimination. If she doesn’t suffer from vertigo then yes, I am suggesting something terrible happened up there.”

“Something did,” said Poppy quietly.

The flying instructor shot her a baffled look that went unnoticed. Hagrid was scratching his head and the other Professors were wearing identical looks of incomprehension. Moody gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Put it together, ladies and gents. The Headmistress won’t go near the Astronomy Tower, she can’t stand the sight of Aberforth, her condition dates from her becoming Headmistress…Blimey, I was told you had to be intelligent to be a Professor…”

Poppy sank down onto the nearest chair. Rolanda stared at her in puzzlement. Filius gave a sudden high-pitched squeak that robbed Aberforth temporarily of all auditory ability and Hagrid’s hands went to his mouth. Pomona’s brow furrowed and she stared at Moody as though doubtful of his sanity.

“I sincerely doubt that the Headmistress entertains such ideas at her age,” she sniffed stubbornly.

“Oh,” said Poppy, softly, twisting her hands together and blinking rapidly. “She loved him, didn’t she?”

Rolanda let out a cry of astonishment but Poppy barely heard it. Something inside her felt raw and tender; she felt her eyes being opened, her memories being seen again with an updated hindsight. The old Minerva floated before her, sprightly and fiery - sitting next to Dumbledore at the High Table, smiling as he bent his head to whisper something to her - standing in Dumbledore’s office at the start of a short audience about health and safety, brushing her fingers over Fawkes’s warm feathers. Minerva McGonagall, a friend since childhood - to hide a secret so badly yet still be undiscovered by a woman who was meant to be a kindred soul! How blind she had been, sitting in the Hospital Wing forcing potions down student’s throats, complaining about Quidditch as a source of injury - all the while oblivious to Minerva as a force that failed after Dumbledore’s death! What else had she missed over the years?

“I was supposed to know her,” she whispered to herself. “She shouldn’t have had to confide in me; I should have just known.”

Rolanda was protesting wildly, gesticulating and expressing her disagreement with the most forceful of adjectives - yet there was the same look in her eyes; the look that echoed Poppy’s soul in saying: By Merlin, it’s true, we’ve failed her! Moody was arguing back, Hagrid was gently doubting, Filius excited, Aberforth disbelieving - but it didn’t matter. Rolanda would argue herself blue in the face and then rise the next morning the epitome of astonished acceptance.
Now the question to be faced was: what was to be done? What distraction could remove the burden of such a grief that had lasted seven, nearly eight years? Poppy’s hands twisted more violently. Was there anything that could bring Minerva back?