I don't have the superlatives for this fic; I only wish I did -- I wish I could write a comment good enough to serve as a tiny payment for the splendor of your writing and your understanding of human character. I've probably read a thousand HP fics, and this one is one of the very, very best. It's theatrical and extreme in the best of ways, and moving beyond words, and funny ("showed him naked Albus again," hahaha), and searingly painful.
In canon, Aberforth may pass as only a goat-herding barkeep, but here you've shown the man for the poet he is (the others are sidelines). I knew from the second I read that audacious and wonderful sun/eggyolk metaphor that I was going to find language that would play like a symphony, with all the soaring strings and soul-tearing clarinet riffs and pounding tympani and haunting whispered flute that I could want.
I keep thinking of bindweed and how you entwine it throughout the story as an effective symbol of the insidious and complex ties of human love and relationships, alternately gentle and fierce and totally inescapable unless one burns it wholly, and even then, the ash remains, and there's no escape, which is fine, because not even the Aberforths and the Snapes of the world actually want to slip that halter completely.
I want to write at least 1000 words in reply here, quoting lines and savoring metaphors and squeeing over the many details and bits of genius that have made such a powerful impression on me, but reveals would happen before I could finish saying all that I'd like. So I'll stop here and merely say that this story has seriously blown me away, and I can't thank you enough.