Tristia [Aurelius Dumbledore/Credence Barebone]

II. Praesentes dies

Aberforth turned right from the desolate main street, sliding into the back alley. His heart skipped a beat of relief when the disputable house emerged from the night to greet him with its earthy warmth. He grabbed the boy's waist even tighter and hastened the steps, reassured at the sight of the wild boar's severed head that was leaking the rest of the blood it contained to the white cloth around it. He will need to get it changed soon. He ignored the sign telling off the nosy clientele and pushed the doorknob forward. The familiar smell pierced his nose, the mix of soil, goat's hay, and various questionable liquids spilled over the tables. He walked across the darkened room to seat the boy on one of the empty chairs and continued to light few of the candle stubs on dirty windowsills. Light rose and filled the room with grim shadows of the empty pub.

Aberforth walked over to the bar and moved bottles and glasses lying around to make a space to lay his elbows against the counter. Weary eyes found one of the cups, still half-filled with honey-colored liquor, and hands immediately reacted to the clear command coming from above. Once emptied, he filled it again, this time to the edge. Without any delay, he took care of this one as well. The room looked ghastly without its murmurs and whispers of the customers, walls pressing down on him, drowning him in his own thoughts. Time was passing around him like a river and he soon found himself over an empty bottle. The familiar warmth spread into every inch of his body, leaving a faded memory of good liquor.

Finally, he took the time to look at the embodiment of the misfortune again, sleeping in a chair near the tables, long hands reminding a slim spider were hanging down, while lanky legs stretched forward under the desk. The boy was quiet now, his head bent backward with purple lips slightly opened. Black eyes, a gift from his mother without a doubt, were sulking into the skull that was covered by a thin, nearly transparent layer of skin. Aberforth's gaze was running along the dark veins showing through and suggesting a picture of forest streams departing and merging again, creating a complicated web of black threads on the boy's face while carrying the poisonous blood. In this family, the Dumbledore blood has not brought them any happiness. Aberforth sighted. He did his math. If he considered Aurelius to be born sometime between 1900 and 1901, the boy must have been a little over thirty now, 31 or 32, perhaps. However, he could not have spotted any signs of that age on the young wizard. The unexperienced innocence and boyish confusion were still there, even in unconsciousness, mixing in with the naïve air vibrating from around him.

When the wizard neared the boy, a tearing noise pierced his ears, forcing him to take a few steps back, hesitating. The bird was sitting on the backrest of a shabby wooden chair, surrounded by dirtied ancient furniture. The creature was watching him carefully. Such a majestic animal appeared nearly inappropriate for the room and there was something deeply unnatural in the sight. Aberforth lifted his hands to the air and approached the boy, slowly, eyes fixed on the Phoenix. When there were no further protests from the creature that invaded the Hog's Head Inn, he looped the hands around the boy's waist again and lifted him gently. Aurelius has not even tried to stand up this time, his head and limbs hanging limply, resigned to fate. The old wizard could feel the young man's chest rise quickly with every feeble and irregular breath, as if there was a bird trapped inside the boy's ribcage, fighting its way out. Aberforth pulled the body and set out for the stairs, a tall wooden mountain, an obstacle to be conquered.

There was no room prepared for the boy yet. He had left in a hurry yesterday, ambushed by a sudden urge, nearly pushed out of the bar's door by his own mind. The time it took to see off the grumpy customers seemed in that haste like an eternity, and additionally, he needed to feed the goats quickly. But now there were two shadows standing in the hallway, lost between the three rooms the first floor offered, and a decision was required. Suddenly, he felt like there was too much time in one life for a man to waste. Realizing how unprepared he was, Aberfoth's eyes had measured each of the doors suspiciously before stepping into the one furthest from the staircase. Unlike the stone tiles below, the floor here was made out of wooden plates complaining of the heavy steps in low squeaky noises. The wizard entered his own bedroom, narrow and dusty, but best fist for the occasion. They walked by the window, darkened by long-standing grime that has nearly become part of the glass, to finally reach their destination.

He sat the kid on the unkempt bed, the old mattress bending downwards under the sudden pressure. The moment his body lost the support of the older wizard, the boy collapsed forward. Aberforth cursed, his hands catching the weak shoulders. He lowered himself down on one knee in front of Aurelius, propping the boy's head against his chest to keep him somehow upright, while freeing him from the layers of clothing. The heavy coat gave way rather easily, but the intricate brocade waistcoat is where the true fight began. While untying the side fine chains and ribbons, the wizard's clumsy fingers were awkwardly battling the buttons that kept emerging out of nowhere. The manner of clothing, type of fabric, colors, all of it kept vividly reminding him of Gellert himself. Aberforth imagined himself as if undressing a lifeless doll, played with and tossed aside, cutting Gellert's puppet strings with every button he had undone.

When he freed the boy out of the fabricated cell of clothing he tossed the waistcoat aside, revealing a stone blue shirt underneath. Holding the face in both palms, he lifted the boy's face to finally put him on the bed properly. There were few blankets there and Aberforth noted to himself to buy some more the following day. He would never let Ariana stay in a room like this. The wizard got up and looked around the room miserably, hands moving up and down like someone who would like to do something but has not figured out what the something is yet.

He turned to learn that the Phoenix reached them from downstairs in a few minutes, nesting in one of the blankets by the boy's feet. Flaming feathers were darkened by ash, now piling on the bed and smearing the duvet under him. The creature's eyes were sharp and vigilant, watching Aberforth with what appeared to be a tender sorrow. Hollow and dull grief sprouted in Aberforth's heart as well, forcing his face into a sorrowful grimace. He had descended into a wooden chair next to the kid, watching the bird before both of their stares focused on the boy.