Tristia [Aurelius Dumbledore/Credence Barebone]

V. Praesentes dies

The boy woke up several times during the night. His eyelids had fluttered like tired wings of a dying bird before opening just a little, creating a thin crevice for the dark eyes Aberforth had known so well. However, there was no thought behind them, no thought at all, they were as lifeless as a set of black beads carefully inserted into the boy's inflamed eye sockets. Aurelius was staring past him, looking at him but not seeing him. In such instances, even the phoenix opened his eyes, pressing himself on the young wizard even more urgently and offering his crystal tears. Although Aberforth fell asleep a few times, Aurelius' gasp for air urged him awake whenever the boy regained consciousness. When that happened, the older wizard seized a glass of water he had prepared earlier, and his other hand lifted the boy's head carefully. Dried lips gulped down the liquid in an instant, pleading for more in a low hoarse voice. Before he returned with a new glass, the boy had fallen asleep again.

Aberforth had spent the night in the uncomfortable embrace of the wooden chair that had overnight managed to transform itself into a torture device. He stood up and straightened his back. It was nearly morning, and keeping the inn closed could raise suspicion and attention he feared. He gave the boy last look and nodded at the bird resting among the blankets.

Once he descended to the bar, he stood there for a moment that seemed like an eternity, watching the empty room. Nothing had changed and yet, he felt as if his old life had crumbled down right in front of him. And Aberforth was not sure what was lying under the ruins of never changing days. The wizard dragged himself toward the kitchen just to prop himself against the sink. The water on his face was freezing but refreshing, and he felt his brain getting back to the good old work. The sign outside the door was turned back to its proper side, now inviting the regular guests back in, and Aberforth disappeared to grace the kitchen with his silent existence and stern reign.

He paused to think about the food the boy is probably used to. Since he had spent an unhealthy amount of time with Grindelwald, he was sure that Gellert was the answer. But Aberforth has never seen Gellert eat. Because the devil never does, he thought to himself. In fact, Aberforth was unable to visualize Grindelwald doing anything that was considered, by the general consensus, to be humane. Whenever he thought of him, Gellert was twisting the minds of others ,using his twisted words to carry the twisted thoughts born in the twisted head of the twisted madman. Just sowing his lies, over and over. But has Gellert truly believed the ideology he kept on spreading like a disease? Can Aberforth consider it lying?

"Looking lost in thoughts, Abe."

"Caesar," Aberforth nodded a greeting toward a tall wizard dressed in strikingly colorful and mismatched clothes, a hat with a sharp top sliding to a side of messy ginger locks. Caesar was presumably working for the Daily Prophet, but Aberforth had never seen him working or, in fact, writing. On the other hand, he kept seeing him diving into the dreadful atrocities the bar was offering to the tired souls of the wizarding world, and occasionally he would solve a few crosswords found in the muggle newspapers.

What Caesar was talented at, unfortunately, was talking. Caesar considered Aberforth a great listener, but the truth was there was just nowhere to run for the aged barman. Once at his personal lowest, Aberforth had considered moving far away, somewhere he would not, preferably ever, be found by this walking chatterbox with poetic abilities of a sailor. Caesar was the human fountain of gossips and observations Aberforth could not care less about. One day, the colorful wizard apparently concluded, by a cursed twist of fate, that Aberforth is the one to confine in his secrets. The barman has always considered it a poor judgment on the journalist's side. After a while, however, Aberforth had realized that wherever he would hide, Caesar would sniff him out, following the scent of Irish liquor Aberforth held so dear and refused to part with. The journalist's sense of alcohol was nearly admirable, but most of the time simply disturbing.

"My son I had no idea about is back home," said Aberforth, blank as a wall as he carried on with wiping the dust off the perfectly clean counter. "From America."

The eyes of the wizard sparkled with unexpected excitement. He leaned closer, stretching his forearms right under Aberforth's hands moving in systematic circles. "Ooh, well, look at that! I didn't know that either!"

Aberforth frowned and started dusting off the man's bright sleeves and gloves. "That you had a son?"

"No, no, that you had a son," said the wizard, not noticing the cloth on his arms. "So what brought him back?"

Aberforth was mercilessly thrown back into the recent events. "Ship," he said after a deliberate pause.

"He must have missed his British nest," replied the wizard dreamily.

They both looked around the darkened room, drowned in the yellow light of candles on the verge of their life, little flames clinging to what was left of the wax and wick. Someone was snoring shamelessly in the corner of the room, pierced by the smell of decaying hay and soil. He had no idea when the customer came. Other than that, the inn was desolate as a desert. Fragments of the broken glasses were lying around like fallen soldiers fulfilling their duty to the motherland, the Hog's Head Inn, and occasionally a mouse was parading itself on its daily walk. Finally, their glances were seized by a big splash of dubious liquid on the mutilated counter.

The splash has been there since Aberforth could remember. He suspected it had been a creation of one of his clients, although no one has really confessed to it. So it kept on thriving there, splotching around bottles. Once he had decided to clean it, but the slimy splash ripped the cloth away from his hand, tearing it to shreds. Since then, the clientele has been feeding it every so often, mostly salty peanuts.

"Yes, that must be it," said the clown, encouraged by the silence he had used to apply the sly lie across his smile like a lipstick. "So where is he?"

"He is sleeping. It was a long trip."

"I can only imagine!" Caesar squeaked and yanked his perfectly clean sleeves back. "I heard there was an Obscurial some time ago. Six years back?"

Aberforth stopped petting the wood with the cloth and looked up. He filled a glass of whiskey and pushed the drink toward the wizard. "Was it?"

"You wouldn't believe it buddy ol' pal! I was to write an article about it, but gastritis has bedridden me for a few days, so they had to send Hugh – unfortunately, the age is catching up with me. But he said the boy was fairly old."

Caesar's gastritis was a chronic and peculiar disease, suddenly coming and suddenly releasing its patient to his convenience. After a while, Aberforth figured that gastritis means hangover in the personal dictionary of the wizard. Whether the wizard knew about the link between the two conditions, he could not tell.

"I see," replied Aberforth, his eyes catching a glimpse of daylight through the windows. His fingers restlessly fidgeted and drummed a short tune against the counter.

The wizard's face tilted to peak outside as well. "Waiting for someone?"

"My brother."

The wizard gave him a puzzled look. "I didn't know you had one! Don't worry, he will find you alright behind the counter," said Caesar and lifted himself from the barstool slightly, just to violate the personal space of the barman, patting him on the robust shoulder.

"yeah...," Aberforth grunted and moved his gaze toward the staircase. "That's what I am afraid of," he murmured beneath the mustache and filled himself a full glass as well. "Tell me more about the Obscurial."

Caesar's cat eyes widened. He seemed pleased by the inquiry. 

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I swear to god I need to wake him up in the next chapter.