Who: Aberforth Dumbledore & NPCs What: Aberforth has a drink with some old friends in which warnings are given and philosophy is discussed... in other words, it's four old friends talking their usual rubbish. When: 10 May 1979, very, very early in the morning Where: The Hog's Head, Hogsmeade Status: Complete
Aberforth poured himself a glass of ale and made his way out from behind the bar. It was well after midnight and there was only a handful of people left in the pub. Technically the pub was closed but Aberforth wasn’t one to throw people out; he just didn’t let anyone else in. Those that were left were those he knew by name and they were the type to just wander over if they wanted another drink. He made his way over to a group of three men sitting in one of the booths at the back. They were an odd group but they smiled and welcomed Aberforth into their midst like the old friends they were.
“Busy night tonight,” observed Rhisiart, a tall, pale vampire who was eying the goblet in front of him with curiosity.
“It’s Friday. What did you expect?” The reply came from a short, rather rotund man who looked like he had a fair proportion of goblin blood in him.
“Decorum,” the third man said with amusement. His face was a mass of hideous burn scars through which his black eyes twinkled madly. “You know Rhisiart always expects decorum.”
“In my pub?” Aberforth said with a chuckle. “That’s asking a bit much.”
“Your pub is a tip, Abe,” Rhisiart said dryly. “Have you ever considered redecorating?”
“My pub looks exactly how I want it to, priss,” Abe replied, arch amusement written all over his face. “If you don’t like it, go to the Three Broomsticks.”
Rhisiart shuddered theatrically. “You know I can’t stand that woman.”
“That’s because she keeps drooling on your pretty velvet brocade jacket,” the burned man teased. “It’s a modern tragedy, really.”
“It’s impossible to get drool out of velvet, Marcus, you know that,” Rhisiart said with dignified calm.
“Beides I don’t think it’s his velvet jacket that she really wants to drool on,” the half-goblin said with a wicked grin that revealed sharp, pointed teeth. “Perhaps something a little lower?”
“We can always rely on you to lower the tone of the conversation, Aknot,” Abe said with a laugh.
“It’s what I’m here for,” Aknot replied smugly.
Rhisiart tapped a finger against the side of his goblet and gave Aberforth an arch look. “Aberforth Lancelot Ethelred Michael Dumbledore, what have I told you about doing this?”
Abe looked amused at getting his full name from the vampire. “You’ve told me many times not to tap a vein for you.”
“Precisely,” Rhisiart said with an arched eyebrow as the other two men looked on with open amusement. “And every time you ignore me.”
“What’s a pint or two between old friends,” Aberforth said unrepentantly. “I can spare it.”
“That’s not the point,” Rhisiart said, exasperation edging his voice. “You don’t need to do it.”
Aberforth leaned back in his seat and took a long drink of his ale. “I know. I want to. There’s a difference.”
“Give it up, Rhisiart,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “You’re not going to win this argument. You never do.”
“You are quite irritating, Aberforth,” Rhisiart said with a long-suffering sigh. He raised the goblet to his lips and took a sip, savouring the liquid as though it was the finest vintage.
“Thank you,” Abe replied then he grinned, an expression that made him look years younger. “Though watching you right now does gives me the creeps.”
“Good,” Rhisiart said archly. The vampire hesitated then put the goblet down. “Are you still talking to your brother?”
Aberforth snorted. “I can’t keep the nosy bastard out of here.”
Rhisiart nodded as he turned the goblet around “And does he still run that oh-so-secret group that you’re a part of?”
Aberforth went very still then leaned forward. “Maybe. Why do you ask?”
Rhisiart gave a small mirthless smile. “Greyback’s active.”
Aberforth snorted derisively. “I know that. He’s got his hands on one of those interconnected journals that are such the rage at the moment. He’s been spewing his vile crap all over them.”
“No, Aberforth. He’s active.” Rhisiart arched an elegant eyebrow.
“Bloody hell,” Aberforth muttered under his breath. “What the bastard doing?”
“I don’t really know,” Rhisiart replied. “I don’t move in the circles he’s targetting. They aren’t the more... responsible circles though.”
Aberforth muttered under his breath for a moment. None of the words were overly complimentary. “Can you find out?”
Rhisiart shrugged and took a sip of the warm blood in his goblet. “I can try but I will make no promises. I am not overly welcome in those groups. I have always openly disapproved of what they do. But I will do my best.” The vampire paused and sighed. “If it is any consolation, I doubt he will be successful in whatever it is he is doing. The vampires he’s talking to may be crude and crass but they are still vampires. By and large, we don’t particularly care for werewolves.”
“Why not?” Aknot asked, wiping away the foam mustache he’d grown during his last drink from his tankard.
“Their blood tastes vile,” Rhisiart replied. “Which isn’t that surprising. They are vile.”
“Enough of that,” Aberforth growled, shooting Rhisiart a sudden glare that clearly surprised the vampire.
“Trouble?” Marcus asked.
Aberforth grimaced and waved a hand in apology at Rhisiart. “I know a young werewolf. He’s a good lad. I like him... and I trust him. He got a nasty reaction from someone who was supposed to be a friend. They teach them a load of crap these days. Send the children out terrified of werewolves and other Dark creatures instead of teaching them proper respect.”
“You’re biased, my friend,” Rhisiart said with quiet affection. “Is it really that bad that they fear us? Especially with people such as Greyback and those idiot vampires I was talking about running around. A little wariness isn’t a bad thing.”
“Why tar all of you just because of a few bad apples?” Aberforth said staunchly.
“Because the bad apples are truly dangerous?” Rhisiart replied.
“Your metaphors are making me hungry,” Aknot said then he shook his head. “Abe, you know it’s better that magical folk are wary of Dark creatures. You’re a strong wizard, especially in the area of Charms, and you’re known to be friendly to those who are generally shunned which means you have a protection that others don’t. You’re in a unique position. Most don’t have the advantages you do. It’s better if they’re wary and on guard.”
“Not with a friend. Not with someone they’re supposed to trust,” Aberforth insisted.
“He’s got a point,” Marcus said, taking a sip of his Firewhiskey. “But it’s hard to fight a reaction that’s been drummed into someone from childhood, whether it’s logical or illogical.”
“If the boy is what you claim for him then he’ll have friends who will stand firmly beside him,” Rhisiart said calmly. “And if the one who reacted badly is truly a friend, they will come around and stand by him as well. If they do not, then they are not worthy to be his friend. It is as simple as that.”
Abeforth eyed the vampire sceptically. He didn’t know how old Rhisiart was, the vampire always dodged that question rather artfully, but he did know that his age was numbered in the hundreds of years rather than tens. Sometimes that age gave the vampire the wisdom of ages, sometimes he just seemed out of touch. Aberforth wasn’t sure which was the case here.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Aberforth said, leaning back in the seat again and taking a long drink of his ale.
“Of course I am,” Rhisiart said with amused smugness. “I’m always right.”
There was a moment of silence then the other three men turned towards the vampire.
“It’s that so?” Aknot said, a look of unholy glee growing on his face. “Oh, you walked right into it there, my friend.”
Matching expressions were growing on the faces of Aberforth and Marcus and Rhisiart eyed them with world-weary amusement. A moment later the three men were competing to tell stories of precisely when and where Rhisiart had been wrong, wrong, so very wrong, the more serious subjects left behind.