Chapter 551: The Old Man of the Hog's Head
Sean pushed open the weathered wooden door, the peeling paint flaking off under
his touch.
Inside, the scene was the polar opposite of the Three Broomsticks. At the
Broomsticks, the bar was a beacon of light—clean, polished, and inviting. The
Hog's Head, however, was a single, cramped, and profoundly filthy room that
reeked of stale ale and a pungent, overpowering smell of goats.
The few bay windows were coated in layers of grime so thick that daylight could
barely penetrate them. Stubs of candles flickered on rough-hewn wooden tables.
At first glance, Sean thought the floor was made of packed dirt, but as he
stepped inside, he realized it was a stone floor hidden beneath centuries of
accumulated filth.
"What d'you want?"
The barkeep was a tall, thin, and remarkably grumpy-looking old man with a mass
of long, stringy grey hair and a matching beard.
"I said, speak up! What is it?" he barked impatiently.
Sean noticed immediately that the man's sleep hygiene was non-existent. Deep,
dark circles underlined his eyes, and his lids sagged with exhaustion. His
gnarled hands were currently clutching several vials: the pale blue of a Calming
Draught, the shimmering purple of a Dreamless Sleep Potion, and even a tin of
Patented Daydream Charms—the latest novelty from the Weasley and Green Workshop.
"You're suffering from insomnia," Sean noted quietly.
"I don't need a boy to tell me what I already know," the old man hissed. He
seemed to clear his head for a second, squinting as he scrutinized Sean. "Now,
what is it?" he repeated, his voice cold as the Highland wind.
"Butterbeer," Sean said.
As he waited, Sean observed the room. In the Hog's Head, the patrons seemed to
share a common culture of concealment. There weren't many people inside, but
those who were there sipped their drinks with hoods pulled low, their bleary
eyes peeking out from the shadows of their robes.
At the bar, a man sat with his entire head wrapped in dirty grey bandages.
Despite the covering, he was methodically pouring glasses of a smoking, flaming
liquid—Firewhisky—into a narrow slit where his mouth should be.
Near the window, two hooded figures spoke in thick, guttural Yorkshire accents
over mugs of Butterbeer. In a dark corner by the hearth sat a witch whose face
was obscured by a heavy grey veil, hiding even the glass of mead in her hand.
"Sold out," the old man grunted.
Sean glanced at the two wizards clearly drinking Butterbeer three tables away.
"And the Firewhisky?" Sean asked.
"Sold out."
The old man reached under the counter and pulled out a copy of Dreams and
Deities, along with a small sketch of a black cat. He tucked them away as if
hiding a treasure.
Sean looked at the "Mummy" drinking Firewhisky, then back at Aberforth. "I
suppose you're out of mead as well?"
The old man, who had been trying to look bored, suddenly looked intrigued. "Aha.
Congratulations, boy. You got it right."
Sean could feel the wave of concentrated hostility coming from across the bar.
He maintained eye contact, refusing to blink, until Aberforth was the one to
finally look away.
"Always the same... those eyes..." Aberforth muttered. He began to ignore Sean
entirely, focusing on comparing the labels of the sleep potions in his hand.
"Hmph... his favorite little student..."
He grumbled a few more unintelligible words before raising his voice. "Be off
with you. You won't be gettin' a drop of anything in this pub."
"Favorite student?" Sean repeated under his breath.
A vision of Albus Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in his mind.
"I believe... I have something to tell you..." Sean started to say.
"GO ON! OUT!"
The old man stood up straight, his voice booming with a sudden, sharp authority.
"I'm busy today! I've got no time for schoolboys!"
He clutched the copy of Dreams and Deities to his chest, his rough exterior
betraying a desperate, careful focus.
The other patrons didn't dare interfere with the landlord's temper. They simply
dropped their silver Sickles into the wooden till. The drawer slid open and shut
automatically, swallowing the coins with a metallic snick.
Aberforth stole a furtive glance at the young wizard through the corner of his
eye as Sean turned to leave, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Strange one, that..." Aberforth whispered to the empty room. He looked at the
potion bottles and thought of the dreams he could no longer reach. He closed his
eyes and sat in the silence of the gloom.
The moment Sean stepped out of the Hog's Head, the biting wind caught his scarf.
Behind him, he heard the heavy thud of the door locking. Aberforth was clearing
out the pub, ushering the remaining customers into the snow. Those who were
kicked out seemed used to the landlord's whims.
"How many days has it been now?" one patron grumbled.
"Who knows? Since when did he start liking to sleep during the day?" the 'Mummy'
replied.
The two vanished into the swirling white storm. As the windows were shuttered
one by one, the Hog's Head was consumed by shadows. Darkness crept from the
eaves to the very edge of the final window.
There, a single sliver of soft light remained.
Aberforth stood by the sill, muttering to himself as he reached for the latch.
Just as the afternoon sun struck his pupils for the final time, his hand froze.
"Good morning—or rather, a very bad one—Mr. Dumbledore."
A black cat sat perfectly poised on the windowsill, looking for all the world
like a refined gentleman.
The sunlight draped over its fur like a gossamer veil. Its small nose twitched,
and its emerald, slitted eyes glowed with a hypnotic, ancient light.
Aberforth went rigid. His breathing hitched for a few seconds before turning
heavy and ragged. His long grey beard trembled.
"If I am unwelcome..."
The cat pressed a paw over its tail. Its cool, detached tone was perfectly
polite yet unmistakably distant.
"Please—come in!"
Aberforth's voice was a guttural roar. His throat felt so tight that a proper
sentence was an impossible task.
Back inside the darkened pub, the Black Cat sat perched on Aberforth's shoulder.
The old man moved with extreme care, as if carrying a fragile piece of crystal,
his eyes constantly darting toward the portrait of the girl on the wall.
Identical... exactly the same... Aberforth whispered in his heart.
"Good morning... Divine Sir," he managed to say. He forced himself to speak; he
knew he couldn't let this creature—this "God" from the legends—leave.
"It is a poor morning, Mr. Dumbledore," the cat repeated.
Aberforth's forced smile faltered.
"I bring you a message from her," the Cat said. He leaped down from the old
man's shoulder and onto the wooden table, ignoring the "suddenly available"
bottles of fine spirits.
"To hide the truth from those who linger in longing is a cruelty I will not
permit. I am here to tell you of her life—of her wandering and her waiting.
Should there come a day when you meet again, you will know the depth of the
solitude her soul endured for this moment. Only then will your reunion be given
its true, incomparable meaning."
The Cat's tail curled upward. From within the thick, dark fur, a shimmering
silver basin—a Pensieve—materialized as if by a sleight of hand.
Aberforth swallowed hard, his eyes wide.
In a daze, he leaned over the basin. He saw her.
In that moment, the gruff, legendary rebel of Hogsmeade humbled himself to the
very dust. He was a broken man again, but for the first time in a hundred years,
his heart was ready to bloom.
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