The walk down the sloping street of Hogsmeade was slow, measured, and uncharacteristically hesitant for Albus Dumbledore. Normally, he carried himself through the wizarding village with the quiet confidence of a man whose reputation was as towering as the castle on the hill behind him. Today, however, there was a weariness in the set of his shoulders, a faint tremor in the hand that adjusted the clasp of his cloak. His steps dragged just slightly on the cobblestones, as though some invisible weight clung to his heels.
The lights of Hogsmeade glowed warmly in the dusk—bright in tavern windows, twinkling across shopfronts, casting the snow-covered street in gold. Yet for Dumbledore, it all seemed distant, muted, as if he were walking through a painting rather than reality. He had spent decades of his life mastering patience and composure, learning to stand tall in the face of war, intrigue, and impossible decisions. And yet, walking toward the crooked little building at the far end of the lane—the Hog's Head—he felt almost like a boy again.
It was not the bar itself that unnerved him, though the Hog's Head had never been an inviting place. The grimy windows and the perpetually leaning sign gave it the air of something forgotten, a relic that had chosen stubbornness over collapse. No, it was not the inn that gave him pause. It was the man who kept it.
Aberforth.
His brother had lived in this shadow for decades, keeping goats, tending his bar, living on the fringes of the wizarding world with a perpetual scowl. And Albus, for all his wisdom and reputation, could never quite meet his brother's eyes without remembering Ariana—without remembering fire and grief and the shattering of a family that had never been whole.
Now, he came not with apologies, nor with promises of reconciliation, but with a truth that might widen the gulf between them forever—or, perhaps, mend it.
He stopped before the door of the Hog's Head, the crunch of snow loud in the hush of evening. He lifted his hand, then lowered it again. His breath fogged in the air as he tried to steady himself. You have faced Grindelwald, you have faced Tom Riddle—why, then, do you hesitate before your own brother's threshold?
The answer was simple. Because Aberforth saw him not as the revered headmaster, not as the vanquisher of dark wizards, but as Albus—the brother who had failed them both.
Finally, with a sigh that felt as though it scraped the very marrow of his bones, Dumbledore pressed the latch and pushed the door open.
The familiar smell hit him immediately: damp wood, smoke, and—inescapably—the musk of goats. Aberforth's goats. The place was as dim as ever, lit by only a handful of oil lamps that sputtered and hissed, their light bending against the haze of smoke from the hearth. There were a few patrons hunched over their drinks, cloaked figures who paid him little mind. They knew enough not to stare when someone they suspected of importance entered this bar.
Behind the counter, polishing a tankard with an expression that suggested both boredom and contempt, was Aberforth. His hair was a shaggy grey mane, his beard thicker and wilder than Albus's ever had been. His eyes—icy blue, sharp, unflinching—lifted from the tankard, locked onto his brother, and did not blink.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to freeze.
Albus inclined his head slightly, an almost imperceptible bow. "Good evening, Aberforth."
The older brother's only response was a grunt. He set down the tankard, leaned heavily on the counter, and said, "Well. If it isn't the great Headmaster of Hogwarts. To what do I owe the honour? Lost your way to the Three Broomsticks, did you?"
Albus allowed himself the faintest smile. "I fear Madam Rosmerta's warmth is not what I seek tonight."
Aberforth snorted, a sound that carried both disbelief and derision. "Warmth, from me? You must be desperate indeed."
Silence followed, thick as the smoke curling from the hearth. Albus stepped forward, his boots creaking against the warped floorboards. He felt the eyes of a few patrons flick toward him, then away. Even here, in this shabby corner of the wizarding world, his presence did not go unnoticed.
"I would speak with you, Aberforth," Albus said softly. "Privately, if you would allow it."
Aberforth's gaze lingered on him for a long moment, then slid toward the back room. He jerked his chin. "This way. But mind you, Albus, I've no patience for riddles or grand speeches. Say what you mean, and say it plain."
Albus followed without protest. He had expected no less.
The back room was scarcely more inviting than the front—bare walls, a rough-hewn table, a scattering of mismatched chairs. And, of course, a goat tethered near the hearth, chewing idly on something that looked suspiciously like an old cloak. The smell was stronger here, earthy and musky.
Aberforth dropped into a chair, gestured with a flick of his fingers for Albus to sit opposite, and waited. His posture was casual, but his eyes were alert, searching, already guarded against whatever revelation was to come.
For a moment, Albus did not speak. He removed his glasses, cleaned them absently with a handkerchief, and set them back upon his nose. The silence stretched until Aberforth's patience frayed.
"Well?" Aberforth said at last. "Out with it. You didn't come all this way to share a drink and reminisce, that much I know. What trouble's brewing now, and why do you think I care?"
Albus folded his hands on the table, the lamplight casting deep shadows across the lines of his face. "You may have heard the whispers, Aberforth. Rumours in the Daily Prophet. Talk of a child—"
Aberforth cut him off with a derisive laugh. "Ah, so that's it. Yes, I've read it. Everyone's read it. The Prophet spins tales whenever they're bored. This time, they've latched onto some boy, claiming he's the next great dark lord in the making, all because he's got himself a phoenix and a knack for trouble. Oliver, isn't it? A student at your school." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me you believe half of that rubbish."
Albus's lips pressed into a thin line. "The Prophet embellishes, as it always has. Yet there is truth woven into the fabric of those rumours."
Aberforth's brow furrowed. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and waited, suspicion flickering in his gaze.
Albus drew a slow breath. "Oliver is… more than simply talented. More than simply fortunate. He is… connected to us, Aberforth. To our family."
The words hung in the air like smoke, refusing to dissipate.
For once, Aberforth did not have a ready retort. His mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head as though trying to rid himself of a fly. "What are you babbling about? Our family's dead and gone, Albus. Buried in Godric's Hollow. You, me, and the ghosts of our mistakes—that's all that's left."
"I thought so, too," Albus admitted, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "But I sought confirmation. At Gringotts."
At the name of the bank, Aberforth's eyes narrowed further. "You went prying?"
"I had to know," Albus said firmly, though guilt tugged at his tone. "I took a sample from Oliver, and the ritual revealed his lineage. Ariana's blood flows in him, Aberforth. And—" His voice faltered. For all his composure, the next words felt like lead upon his tongue. "And Grindelwald's."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the goat seemed to pause in its chewing.
Aberforth stared at him, unblinking, as though waiting for the punchline to a cruel joke. When none came, his face darkened.
"You're serious," he said flatly.
"I am."
For a moment, Aberforth simply breathed, his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. Then he barked out a laugh—harsh, bitter. "Well, isn't that just like you, Albus. To come waltzing in here, decades after you shattered this family, and tell me some boy I've never met is Ariana's child. Do you think I'll swallow that?"
"It is not speculation," Albus replied, his tone calm but firm. "The ritual revealed it clearly. Ariana… and Gellert."
Aberforth slammed a fist against the table, the sound echoing in the small room. The goat bleated nervously. "Don't you dare put her name in the same breath as his! Ariana suffered enough because of that bastard—you and him both! And now you expect me to believe—what? That somehow, she… that she…" His voice broke off, thick with disbelief and anger.
"I do not expect you to accept it easily," Albus said quietly. "I myself could scarcely comprehend it. But it is true."
Aberforth shoved back his chair, pacing the narrow room like a caged animal. His hands curled into fists, his shoulders taut with old grief reawakened. "And what does it matter if it is true? Ariana's gone. Gone! She never had the chance—never could have had the chance—to…" He stopped, turning sharply on Albus. "How is it even possible?"
"That," Albus admitted, "is a question I am still seeking to answer. Grindelwald may know more—"
"Of course," Aberforth spat. "It always comes back to him, doesn't it? Your golden boy, your great mistake. You and your schemes with him left Ariana unguarded, and now, years later, you tell me he's left us a child? Tell me, Albus, why should I believe a word of this?"
Albus did not flinch at the venom in his brother's voice. He only folded his hands more tightly together, as though in prayer. "Because, Aberforth… I have seen Oliver. I have watched him. And there is no mistaking it. Ariana's gentleness, her quiet strength—it lives in him. And yes, there is fire, too. Gellert's fire. But it does not consume him. It is tempered, guided. He is not what the Prophet claims. He is something else entirely. Something… hopeful."
Aberforth stared at him, breathing hard, his face a storm of conflicting emotions—grief, anger, disbelief. And, buried deep, a flicker of something softer. Curiosity.
At last, he sank back into his chair, glaring at his brother across the table. "If you're lying to me, Albus…" He left the threat unfinished.
Albus inclined his head. "I am not."
The room fell silent once more, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. The goat shifted, bleated, and resumed chewing, as though mocking the gravity of the moment.
Aberforth sat hunched at the table, the lamplight casting his face in deep lines that seemed carved by more than time—lines of grief, bitterness, and battles fought in silence. His fists opened and closed against the rough wood as though he were holding himself back from lashing out again. Albus, seated across from him, remained utterly still, hands folded, his expression composed but his eyes heavy.
The silence stretched on until it seemed to creak louder than the tavern beyond. Finally, Aberforth let out a ragged breath and spoke, his voice low but sharp.
"You always did have a talent for dropping bombs in my lap, Albus. Never with warning, never with care. Ariana is gone—gone—and I've spent half my life cursing the both of us for what happened to her. And now you sit there and tell me that a boy at your school is hers. Her child. Do you realize what you're saying?"
"I do," Albus answered softly.
"No, you don't." Aberforth's chair screeched against the floor as he stood abruptly, pacing across the narrow room. His boots scuffed the boards; his shadow loomed jagged across the goat chewing by the fire. "You never think about what you're saying. You're always wrapped up in your clever games, in your bloody secrets and plots. You drop truths like stones into a pond and watch the ripples, but you never wade into the water yourself. You never bloody swim in it."
Albus's voice did not rise, but it carried a firmness that cut through Aberforth's fury. "This is no game, Aberforth. It is truth. And truth does not disappear, no matter how we might wish it."
"Truth?" Aberforth barked out a laugh, bitter and hollow. "You speak of truth, but when did you ever care for it when it came to me? When Ariana died, you told me nothing. When you went off chasing glory against Grindelwald, you told me nothing. And now, years later, you come with another secret. Another confession. Tell me—" He stopped pacing, leaning over the table, his eyes burning into Albus's. "Tell me why I should believe you this time."
Albus met his gaze steadily. "Because you have already sensed it yourself. You read the Daily Prophet. You doubted, yes, but some part of you wondered. Otherwise, you would not have listened this long."
Aberforth's lips tightened. He turned away, pacing again, muttering under his breath. "Bloody Prophet. I thought it was just another one of their smear jobs. Merlin knows they love tearing people down—especially anyone tied to you. I saw that name, Oliver Night, splashed across their pages, whispering about him being some sort of heir, some cursed child… I didn't think it was anything but gossip. But now—" He stopped, his shoulders rigid. "Now you tell me it's all true."
"Not all," Albus corrected gently. "They twist truth into scandal. Oliver is not cursed, nor is he destined for darkness. He is a boy. A remarkable boy, yes, but still a boy. And he deserves honesty. He deserves family."
Aberforth turned back, eyes narrowing. "Family. You've got some nerve, Albus, to use that word. What family have we had since Ariana died? What family did you leave me when you went off playing saviour? And now you sit there and speak of giving this lad family? When have you ever known how?"
The words landed like blows. For a moment, Albus looked almost old—not in years, but in weariness. His hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly where they rested on the table.
"You are right," he said at last, quietly. "I failed you. I failed Ariana. And I have lived every day since with that weight upon me. But Oliver… he may be a chance, however undeserved, to do better."
Aberforth snorted. "A chance for you to ease your conscience, you mean."
"A chance," Albus repeated, "to give Ariana's legacy a life. To give her son what she never had: safety. Love."
Aberforth stared at him, his expression softening only a fraction. The name Ariana hung between them, pulling them both backward through decades of silence and regret.
"Safety," Aberforth said bitterly. "You think Hogwarts is safe? You think sticking him under your wing will make him untouchable? Look what's already happened. Half the wizarding world is gossiping about him. If the wrong people hear—"
"They already have," Albus admitted, his tone heavy. "Which is why we must protect him all the more."
Aberforth gave a harsh laugh. "We? Since when was there a we?"
Albus let the insult wash over him. "Aberforth… I came here because you deserve to know. Because Oliver is not just my responsibility. He is yours as well. He is Ariana's. Which makes him—"
"My nephew," Aberforth finished, his voice raw.
"Yes."
The word fell like a final stone into still water. Both men sat in its ripple.
For a long time, neither spoke. The goat bleated softly, shifting its hooves on the flagstones. Outside, a muffled cheer rose from the tavern—patrons caught in their own lives, oblivious to the history being rewritten in the back room.
At last, Aberforth slumped into his chair, his fury bleeding into something heavier, older. "Why didn't you tell the boy? Why didn't you tell him from the start?"
Albus's eyes closed briefly, as though the question itself was a blade. "Because I feared what it would mean for him. I feared what burdens it might place upon him before he was ready. I told myself it was for his protection. But in truth, perhaps…" He opened his eyes again, meeting his brother's gaze. "Perhaps I feared his rejection. Perhaps I feared seeing in him another reminder of what we lost."
Aberforth's lip curled. "Coward."
"Yes." The admission was simple, without defense.
The raw honesty startled Aberforth enough to still his tongue. For once, Albus did not dress his failings in wisdom. He did not excuse them with grand purpose. He simply sat there, old and tired, acknowledging what his brother had long believed.
"Oliver deserves to know," Aberforth said at last, his voice hard but steady. "All of it. The truth. Who he is. Who his mother was. Who his father was. You can't hide it from him, Albus—not if you expect him to trust you. And if you don't tell him, I will."
The words struck like hammer blows. Albus straightened, his composure slipping just enough to show alarm. "Aberforth—"
"No." Aberforth slammed a hand on the table. "Don't you 'Aberforth' me. You've hidden enough in your life. You've controlled enough. You'll not control this. He's blood. He's Ariana's blood, and he deserves to hear it from someone who isn't trying to shape him into another piece on your bloody chessboard."
Albus's mouth tightened. For a moment, it seemed he might argue, might assert the authority he wielded so easily in every other sphere of life. But here, with his brother's fierce gaze burning into him, he found the words withered on his tongue.
"I will tell him," he said finally. "In time. When he is ready."
Aberforth leaned forward, voice low, dangerous. "You'll tell him soon, Albus. Or I will. Do you understand me?"
Albus closed his eyes briefly, then nodded once. "I understand."
The tension in the room settled into a fragile truce. Aberforth sat back, his breath still heavy, but his expression steadier. Albus remained silent, his thoughts whirling like a storm behind his calm face.
The goat bleated again, almost as if punctuating the moment. Aberforth glanced at it, then back at his brother.
"You think this Oliver lad is hope," he muttered. "Maybe he is. Maybe he's nothing but more trouble. But if he's Ariana's, then he's ours. And I'll not have him tossed about like some pawn in your endless games. If you want me to believe you've changed, prove it. Tell him the truth."
Albus inclined his head, weary but resolute. "I will."
Aberforth's eyes lingered on him for a long, searching moment. Then he nodded, once, sharply. The decision was made.
The conversation lingered a while longer, circling old wounds and new responsibilities, but the shape of it had been set. Aberforth would not be silent, not this time. Oliver would know who he was—if not from Albus, then from the uncle he had yet to meet.
And as the brothers parted in the smoky back room of the Hog's Head, the air between them was heavy with something new—not reconciliation, not yet, but possibility.