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Hogwarts: King of Fiendfyre
Hogwarts Bloodline Wizards
Sean pushed open the peeling wooden door.
Inside was nothing like the bright, warm Three Broomsticks. The Hog's Head was a small, dim, filthy room that smelled strongly of goats.
Thick grime coated the bulging windows, letting in almost no light. Stubby candle stubs flickered on the rough wooden tables.
At first glance Sean thought the floor was packed dirt, but when he stepped on it he realized it was stone—buried under centuries of dirt and stains.
"What'll it be?" the bartender growled. He was a tall, thin, bad-tempered old man with a wild tangle of long gray hair and beard.
"Speak up. What d'you want?"
Sean noticed the heavy bags under his eyes. The man clearly hadn't slept well. He clutched several potion bottles—pale blue Dreamless Sleep, shimmering purple Draught of Peace, and even a few Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Daydream Charms.
"You've been having trouble sleeping," Sean said.
"I already know that," the old man snorted. He seemed to wake up a little and squinted at Sean.
"What'll it be?"
"Butterbeer," Sean answered.
He glanced around. The few customers in the Hog's Head all seemed to enjoy hiding their faces. Most sat hunched over their drinks, eyes glassy with drink.
At the bar, one man had his entire head wrapped in dirty gray bandages. He still managed to pour a smoking, flaming drink through a gap in the wrappings.
Firewhisky.
At a table by the window, two hooded figures spoke in thick Yorkshire accents over their butterbeers.
In a dark corner by the fireplace sat a witch in a thick gray veil that covered both her face and her mug of mead.
"Sold out," the old man said.
Sean looked at the two wizards drinking butterbeer.
"Firewhisky, then?"
"Sold out."
The bartender swept Dreams and Gods and the black-cat drawing off the counter.
Sean glanced at the mummy-like wizard sipping firewhisky, then back at Aberforth.
"Honey mead sold out too?"
The old man had been staring at the tabletop like it owed him money. Now he looked almost amused.
"Oh, congratulations. You got it right."
Sean felt the thick wall of hostility. He stared straight at Aberforth until the old man finally looked away.
"Always the same…" Aberforth muttered, comparing the potion bottles in his hand. "Hmph… that old fool's favorite student…"
He spoke with open impatience. "Off you go. You won't get a single drink here today."
"Favorite student?" Sean repeated quietly.
Dumbledore's smiling face flashed through his mind.
"I think I should tell you—"
"Off you go, off you go—" Aberforth suddenly straightened, voice rising. "I'm busy today—"
He picked up Dreams and Gods again and began reading with surprising care, the gentle motion clashing hard with his rough appearance.
A few patrons dropped silver Sickles into the wooden cash box on their own. The drawer slid open by itself, swallowed the coins, and snapped shut.
Aberforth watched the small wizard leave with a frown.
"Odd one…" he muttered, staring at the potion bottles and thinking of dreams that had never returned. He closed his eyes in silence.
The moment Sean stepped back into the snowy street, the wind snatched at his scarf.
Behind him, Aberforth was herding every last customer out of the pub. They seemed used to it.
"How many days has it been?" one grumbled.
"Who knows? When did he start sleeping during the day?" the bandaged wizard replied.
The two vanished into the blowing snow.
As the door and windows slammed shut, the Hog's Head sank into darkness.
Blackness crept across the roof and down to the last window, where a soft glow still leaked out.
Just like always, Aberforth muttered to himself and reached for the window latch.
At the very last second, when the daylight stabbed his eyes, his hand froze.
"Good morning, Mr. Aberforth," a black cat said politely, sitting upright on the windowsill like a proper gentleman.
Sunlight wrapped the cat in a faint golden haze. Its small nose twitched, and its emerald-green vertical pupils were both elegant and mesmerizing.
Aberforth stood rigid. His breathing stopped for a few seconds, then grew ragged. His long gray hair and beard trembled.
"If I'm not welcome…" the cat began, one paw resting neatly on its tail. Its cool, polite tone carried a clear distance.
"Please—please come in!" Aberforth almost roared the words.
His throat felt blocked; he could barely get a full sentence out.
Back inside the Hog's Head, the black cat perched on Aberforth's shoulder.
The old man carried it with extreme care, eyes flicking constantly toward the black-cat portrait on the wall.
Exactly the same… exactly the same…
Aberforth whispered the words inside his head.
"Good morning… Mr. God," he forced himself to speak. No matter what, he could not let this small, seemingly harmless cat leave.
"Good morning, Mr. Aberforth," the cat repeated.
Aberforth's forced smile froze.
"I bring her thoughts, Mr. Aberforth." The cat leaped onto the wooden table and examined the suddenly appearing bottles of liquor. "Hiding from those who long for you is cruel. I will tell you everything—her wandering, her waiting. One day when wizards meet again, they will know the loneliness a soul endured for this reunion, and that moment will be given meaning beyond compare."
The cat's tail curled. A silver Pensieve appeared out of thin air, as if pulled from the fluffy tail like a magic trick.
Aberforth swallowed hard.
In a daze, he felt as though he were seeing her again.
He lowered himself, lower and lower, all the way into the dust, but his heart was full of joy—joy that could make flowers bloom even from the dirt.