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Disclaimer: My name is harder to pronounce then Rowling's. Therefore, I am not she, and have no claim on the characters or setting of the Potterverse.

The last of the drunken wizards staggered out of the door of the Hog’s Head pub, with one last shout of “To the Boy Who Lived!”

Aberforth Dylan Gwydion Wledig Dumbledore gave a sigh and began to clear the tables, putting up a ‘Closed’ sign with a flick of his wand, and picking broken glasses from the floor.

Just as he was putting out the lights in the room with an odd-looking silver cigar-lighter, a voice he had not heard for a while came from table 4.

“Good evening, Aberforth. Please leave at least one candle burning.”

Aberforth spun around, his long, gray beard passing through a flame. He beat at the spark that had fastened itself there as if swatting a fly.

“Al-Albus,” he stuttered, “You gave me quite a fright.”

His brother, the silverhaired (and bearded), crooknosed, and bespectacled old Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, surveyed him with deep blue eyes.

“Will you not offer me a drink? I have had a rather long journey from Godric’s Hollow, and by Thestral at that, you see,” he said.

Aberforth rummaged with some bottles behind the bar desk and produced two glasses and a mug of elf-wine.

“Is it true about the Potters, Albus?” he asked taking a sip of the beige liquid. Albus ran a hand through his beard and sighed.

“Yes,” he said, “And that is in part the reason for my coming.”

Aberforth raised an eyebrow, curious.

“I am placing young Harry Potter in the care of his aunt, that is Lily’s sister, until he may enrol at Hogwarts. There is something crucial he must learn, then, and later, when I am gone, something almost as important.”

He stuck a hand in a deep pocket and withdrew a wax-sealed scroll of parchment.

“Keep this secret,” he said quietly, “Keep it safe.” Aberforth took the scroll, his curiosity intensifying.

“What is this?” he asked, looking at the seal, which did not show the Hogwarts coat of arms as he expected.

Albus emptied his goblet. “It is my will, or testament if you prefer,” he stated promptly, “The seal will open on the moment of my death. I trust you to contact the people this document concerns, and read it to them within a month of my funeral.”

He got to his feet and levitated his goblet to the sink. “And now, Aberforth, I must leave. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Wait,” Aberforth exclaimed as his brother prepared to Disapparate, “How do you know you’re going to pop your clogs first?”

Albus gave a sad smile. “I am much older than you, and, of course, I have many more enemies.” He turned, walked to the door, and turned again.

“By the way, brother,” he said, “Could I perhaps borrow that Put-Outer of yours?”

The sunlight shone on the white tomb, almost blinding the black-clad mass of students, teachers, Ministry officials, and friends of the deceased Headmaster.

The funeral of Albus Dumbledore was a spectacular, glorious farewell.

Aberforth, from his seat to the right of Auror Ferdinand Dawlish, thought he saw truer grief in the faces of the students and staff, than in the crocodile-teared eyes of Scrimgeour and his colleagues.

One young face in particular seemed more sorry for Albus’ death than the others.

With black hair, green eyes, round spectacles and of course his famous scar, Harry Potter met Aberforth’ s gaze and held it for a second.

The barman of the Hog’s Head pub thought about the opened parchment lying on his desk.

He wondered if Harry’s eyes could take more grief after reading it...

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