The Ransom of Albus Dumbledore

7. ABERFORTH

Trembling with anger and humiliation, Hermione raced up the path and on through Hogsmeade's main street. She remembered just in time to turn off at that small side road to the Hog's Head Pub. The sight of the battered sign with its gory visage strengthened her a bit. This was where she and Harry and Ron had first met with the students who wanted to learn defensive spells from Harry. The memory that they had done it against Dolores Umbridge's direct order cheered her somewhat. They became Dumbledore's Army, a name Ginny invented, and some of them accompanied Harry and backed him up when he tried to save his godfather from the Death Eaters at the Hall of Prophecies in the Ministry of Magic. It reminded her of what they were fighting for, as well as the large number of their peers who were willing to risk expulsion to arm themselves and protect their loved ones against the evil to come.

Inside, the place was empty of customers and as dirty as ever--perhaps dirtier even, as if its owner had given up all pretense of social nicety. Hermione had no idea what kind of relationship Professor Dumbledore had sustained with his brother Aberforth. She realized now that he was the one Ron had pointed out in the crowd at the funeral, a gaunt, untidy figure in ill-fitting robes that seemed at once too voluminous for his frame, yet too short in the arms. Unlike some who craved the limelight, he had been loath to draw attention to himself. He had not even sat up front where space was reserved for relatives and close friends--and 'worthy dignitaries' like Rufus Scrimgeour. She'd heard something of his tangles with authority. Perhaps it was the presence of so many Ministry officials that made him uncomfortable.

There was no one behind the bar either, and for a moment she studied smudgy, half-full bottles of liquor scattered about dusty shelves on either side of a ragged baize curtain in the center of the wall. Presently there came a sound of movement behind it, and a purple veined hand groped at the curtain's edge and jerked it aside. In lurched a tall man with stringy gray hair and beard. His robes hung loosely and askew about his gaunt frame, as if he'd been caught sleeping in them. They also looked as if they might have been used to polish some of those bottles. But in spite of Aberforth Dumbledore's dishevelment, Hermione was struck by his resemblance to his celebrated brother and wondered why she had not noticed it the first time they met. His blue eyes burned under dark scraggy eyebrows like the incomparably hot flame of a Swedish Short-Snout dragon. Yes, clean up the face a bit, put him in decent clothing, add twenty pounds or so, and they could have passed for twins.

"Whuh you wan'?" The publican scratched his head and pulled absently at his beard. He'd either just woken up or was more than a little drunk.

She placed the satchel on the bar and stepped back a pace. "I'm from the school," she said steadily. "I brought you some things. Your brother wanted you to have them."

He lurched towards her out of the doorway. She quelled the urge to run. He did not look particularly threatening, except for the eyes, but she was by nature suspicious of men who appeared not quite in control of their baser natures. But he stopped when he reached the bar and bent under it, bringing up a bottle and a glass. She had expected Firewhisky, but it looked more like... milk. At least, it was white. His hands shook with a slight, steady tremor. He poured--well tried to pour--himself a glass, but all that came out were thick curds.

"Garn," he mumbled. "Already on the turn."

Hermione remarked in spite of herself, "It looks like--erm--yogurt."

He sniffed at the glass and set it down with a scowl. "I hate yogurt. Hate it. Don't care how good they say it is for your gut... Who'd you say you were?"

"Hermione Granger."

"You a student?"

"Yes--"

"What's the swag?"

She nudged the bag towards him. "Professor McGonagall said it's things you loaned to your--to Professor Dumbledore."

"Hmmph, Scottish Min," he snorted. "She the Head now?"

Hermione suppressed a giggle and nodded. She'd never heard her redoubtable Transfiguration teacher referred to in quite that way before.

But Aberforth had opened the satchel and gazed at its contents. He drew his wand and Levitated the Pensieve out of it. It rocked gently on the uneven floor. She heard its contents slosh about, but they did not spill. He examined the bowl suspiciously. "Not a mark on it--well, 'cept these runes of course. Never did figure out what they meant. Guess maybe he might've." He frowned.

"I heard it was you who discovered it," Hermione offered by way of small talk.

"Aye."

"Where--wherever did you find it?"

"West Coast of Ireland--Dingle Bay---in a cave. It was one of my first finds."

"First?"

"Curious little snip, aren't yer? If you must know, I did it on a dare, but it got me started--for life."

"You've been collecting ancient artifacts all your life?"

"Aye, nigh on a hunnert years. Slowed down some lately. But when the exploring bug bites you, you stay bit." He glared at her as if daring her to contradict him.

But his gruffness did not frighten her at all now; underneath it, she sensed deep hurt and resentment, akin to Harry's in being branded an outcast and a freak of nature. Hermione watched as he continued to remove small delicate items from the bag. she said softly, "Erm--actually--I think I might be able to figure out what that writing says for you--on the Pensieve, I mean. I took Ancient Runes."

He started Levitating objects to the back room. His hands seemed quite steady now, as if having a purpose calmed them. "Tough subject. They must love you--up there at the school. My brother placed great stock in clever learners."

Hermione shook her head slowly. "I think he most valued fairness and hard work."

"Yes, he was fair. I'll give him that. Better than those ninnies at the Ministry, any road. My goats have more sense..."

"Um--Mr--Dumbledore--"

"Call me Ab, everybody does." He sighed and muttered under his breath, "Short for Ab-normal."

Hermione pretended she didn't hear that last. "Mister--Ab--um, there's something in the bag--I wonder if I might borrow it."

"What's that? Not my lucky bowling ball, is it?." He drew a translucent crystalline sphere out of the bag. "I'll not part with it at any price."

"No," said Hermione, then stopped, puzzled. "You know, it looks oddly familiar..."

"Not surprising. It was originally one of those dime-a-dozen crystal balls you can get in any Muggle hock shop. Old hag left it in one of the upper rooms once."

"Not--not Sibyll Trelawney by any chance."

"Think that might've been her name. I heard Albie gave her a job."

Hermione nodded ruefully. "Yes, he did."

"This here one is weighted perfectly. I just had to drill a couple holes in it..." He put fingers in said holes and caressed the ball with a gentle hand. "I should never have let Albie borrow it. Not that it helped his game any. He throws--threw--the worst back-up ball I ever saw..."He stopped and frowned again. His eyes grew watery, and he wiped them with his sleeve.

Hermione waited respectfully for him to pull himself together. He obviously missed his brother more than she would have imagined. After he Banished the ball reverently to a niche over the doorway, labelled, "The Three Hundred Club", she made her request. "Um--what I need--Mister--I mean--Ab--it's a potion--Dr. Doolittle's Veterinaritaserum. Could I perhaps have a little, please?"

The blue eyes narrowed. "What you want it for?"

"It's a bit hard to explain..."

He nodded. "Need to commune with your favorite Kneazle, do you?"

"Erm... something like that."

He was silent for so long, Hermione thought she might just drop a little curtsey and be on her way. But she needed the serum badly. And the man before her held her with his bright, piercing eyes. He looks so like the Professor...

Slowly, deliberately, e leaned overthe bar at her. "It's got something to do with Albie, doesn't it?" he finally forced out.

"What do you mean?" She tried to keep the tremble out of her voice, but it caught at the end of the sentence like a calloused hand catches on cloth it is trying to smooth. It pricked her in much the same way.

"You're on his side, aren't you?" he muttered with a sudden, odd, male coyness. "I mean, really, truly on his side. Not just one of his students."

She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything. It came to her that she needed to let him take his time to make himself clear. Whatever he wanted to say was very painful, she could tell, and she didn't want to frighten him out of saying it. It was like coaxing an injured bird out of its hiding place.

"I remember you came into the bar with all those other kiddies last year. Recruiting, were you?"

"Yes--erm--for a class."

The faintest of smiles lightened his face. "Dumbledore's Army. Some class."

"What--"

"Surprised I knew?" He nodded slowly and essayed a chuckle; it came out as a wheeze. "Well, you all were sure loud enough with yer secret plans. Specially those Weasley twins."

Hermione was amazed and a bit concerned. "But you couldn't have known--the name--the D.A.--we didn't--we only came up with it later--when we were back at school..."

"You wanter know where I heard it?" He leaned in and leered at her. "From the horse's own mouth," he whispered. "Yes, my sainted brother, gawd rest 'im, told me all about it over a glass of Murphy's Finest. At that same table over there where you all had your cozy little meeting."

"Really?"

"Aye, whenever I got in a case of his favorite, I'd let him know, and he'd come over and sample it for me and we'd chew the fat bit. I can't really take that stuff any more, myself." He touched his midsection. "Stomach, y'know."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Hermione, meaning it. It heartened her to finally have a chance to share any memories at all of the Headmaster with the person who knew him best. Until now, she had believed that person to be Professor McGonagall. But 'Scottish Min' was, as Ron might say, as forthcoming with her feelings and memories as she was about her nicknames. This forlorn man, slouched in front of her, was the real 'chief mourner' of Albus Dumbledore, and if he had avoided the front row at his brother's funeral, It was not out of fear, but because of a natural dignity and reticence about his own feelings--which seemed to run in the family, now that she thought about it. But she needed Aberforth's reflections, no matter how random, to help her relieve her own pain and make sense of his brother's seemingly senseless death.

He continued with a wry face. "Albie told me all about that midnight hoo-hah in his office when Fudge accused him and the Potter boy of starting a rebellion. That's where I heard the name: Dumbledore's Army. And the way you stormed the Ministry to save that Black chap, getting Harry's back... Albie was almighty proud of you lot."

A flush of satisfaction suffused Hermione through and through. She found she cherished this remark more than any praise for scholastic accomplishments she had yet received. It subsumed her forbodings for a time and let surface the feeling of solidarity she'd felt standing with her comrades, Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny--and Harry, of course--fighting Death Eaters that night in the Ministry sub-basement

It was a while before Aberforth spoke again, but she found the silence equally comforting, as she imagined the Headmaster sitting there discussing the little everyday problems of students, as well as potentially more troubling matters with his brother the publican.

Finally he cleared his throat and wetted his lips. "I went to visit his tomb the other day----when nobody else was around. There were things--between us--things that needed--saying--" He stopped. He obviously was affected by the moment, but there was something more, something he couldn't bring himself to express.

"It's all right," she said softly, wanting to touch his sleeve, to pat his arm. "I--we--all know how you feel." But she had the feeling that there was more than unexorcized grief here, and that she would have to be patient.

"Do you? Somehow I don't think you do," he rasped. "But that's another story entirely. I got to tell you--I saw him--inside the tomb."

"You mean--"

He grasped her arm, hard, and breathed into her face. His breath was not fetid as she feared, but only a little sour. "You gotta know, Missy, I ain' touched a dram of the hard stuff in a dragon's age. I was stone- cold sober."

She was suddenly terrified of what he was going to say--and perhaps do--to her, but she had to know. She forced herself not to pull away or even flinch. "Wh-what did you see?" she whispered.

He let her go and groaned. "Terrible it was. It was like I could see right through the rock. My--my brother on his knees, his eyes rolled up in pain or worse. I thought it was the D.T.s at first."

"No, no, I'm sure it wasn't."

"He was calling to me."

"What did he say?"

"I heard him--clear as a phoenix's cry. Help--help, he says--get help. Then I thought it must his ghost reliving the way he died, you know. Like he wanted me to understand his final moments--the pain of it, the fear. Like he mighta wanted revenge. But, no--I realized it right away--it was all wrong. That's not his way. Oh he had his faults, lots of 'em. But killing people just to get even wasn't one of them."

"That's right."

"But there's no reason for him to--to come back and haunt me--like this."

"I'm sure he didn't mean--"

The old man held up a hand to silence her. "Always restless he was, always wantin' something--even from beyond the grave. I thought: I'm too old for this. But then he said--I remember it--the dog can help, the big black hound. I thought he meant a Grim at first. Then he said, and the witch with the bushy hair." He stared at her withnew eyes. "He meant you, didn't he?" "

Hermione was speechless.

"Are you the girl he's talking about?"

She nodded slowly, thinking inside, Oh, I hope so--I sincerely do.

"And the dog?"

"Yes," she said softly. "There's a dog too--a big black dog."

His face relaxed from its rigor, like a sick child's who drowses off to a peaceful sleep after the fever breaks. "Makes sense. You need the serum to talk to the dog. That's all right then."

"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the satchel.

"Oh, sure--take the whole bottle." He reached into the satchel and brought out a small phial. "I won't be needing it anyway. Goats and me pretty much understand each other after all these years."

"Thank-you so much."

He handed the precious phial of liquid to her. "Anything else you need on your--expedition?"

"I--I don't know."

"This satchel will hold pretty damn near anything. I have a feeling you might need it," he mumbled, seeming abashed at having shown weakness to a stranger and a student to boot. He retreated, lugging the Pensieve through the curtains out of sight.

"But it belongs--to the school, doesn't it?" she called after him.

"Nar--it's mine," she heard him mutter. "And I'll lend it to you--just in case."

He re-entered the bar, rubbing his hands. "I would like to give you a piece of advice, young lady, if you will accept such from an old wayfaring warlock like me."

Hermione just blinked at him. He really did look like his brother--even sounded a bit like him, now that he'd had a chance to tell his story.

He cleared his throat and rumbled on. "I have found in my travels that it is best to always take more than you need. Magical devices of course, whatever you can get your hands on, but also anything you think might have a use--even things you can't imagine needing." He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "I have gotten out of many a scrape using nothing more than a Muggle hairpin and a ball of twine--and the occasional Dungbomb. And there are a few more things in this bag--well--they might come in handy--" He handed it to her.

Hermione remembered the oddments of Ron's that sat in her room, awaiting transport back to his house. Could any of that junk be helpful to her and Sirius? She thought not, but this wizard standing before her had had many an adventure and come away unscathed. Perhaps she would...

She shook his hand and crossed to the door. From behind her, he said, "You think you can save him? I mean we didn't always get along, but nobody should have to go through what he's suffering, even if their sins was a hunnert times worse--" It was little more than a whisper, but it brought her out of her brown study, and she gazed into the face of Aberforth Dumbledore.

"If the Headmaster says so, I'm sure we can," she breathed, feeling more confident than she had in a long time. Just try and stop us, Minister, she thought. If Albus Dumbledore himself wants us on this job, then we'll find a way to see it through.