Introduction

I’m not a man of letters, or one fond of all that book-learning. For that you’d have needed to speak to my brother �“ the high and mighty Albus Percival Wulfric Brian (or is that Wulfric Percival Brian �“ I can’t remember) Dumbledore, who as everybody knows was the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Anyway, I wasn’t like him. Never had been and never would be. People think I was jealous of him... think it was hard to live under his enormous shadow... but I wasn’t bothered. I’d rather sit in my pub, serving customers, wiping tables and cleaning slop trays than dealing with Ministers and nobs like that.

Aberforth Bertram Fulke Kevin Dumbledore ... see I have an impressive sounding name too ... I just never use it ... not like him. Most of you probably haven’t heard of me. If you have it will be in connection with him, or else it will be because you remember a certain story that a newspaper ran several years ago about me. I’ve never responded to its mucky claims, just held my head high and got on with pulling pints, and after a while it died down and the sneering stopped. Albus was right on that occasion.

‘Best not respond, Aberforth, after all they cannot prove anything and the truth is more harmful,’ he told me. I suppose he was right, but at the time, I wanted to punch the editor of that particular newspaper and break his nose.

It’s different now though. I was awarded the Order of Merlin, Second Class for fighting at the Battle and for my undercover work at the Hog’s Head (Ha! Those Death Eaters weren’t aware that I kept a record of their every transaction �“ Minister Shacklebolt found that information invaluable!) But this is my first step back into the limelight since the unfortunate incident and I should have known that Rita Skeeter would be there to dig up the dirt.

“Goats, Aberforth,” she screeched as I left the Ministry awards ceremony clutching my medal. “Tell us about the goats.”

The other journalists stopped talking, switching their attention away from even Molly Weasley, who’d received Order of Merlin, First Class that day. I opened my mouth to grunt something at the Skeeter woman but then stopped. It was as if Albus was placing a calming hand on my shoulder, because I kept walking and then Apparated back to my pub.

Of course, Miss Skeeter turned up the next day. I caught her outside in my goat pen with her quill and parchment, trying to interview the goats.

“They’re goats, Miss Skeeter. You won’t get the story out of them. They can’t talk!” I bellowed at her.

Immediately I knew I’d said too much. She smiled slyly at me. “There is a story then?”

“Nothing to say,” I replied and walked back to my bar.

She’s been after me for a story ever since. Interviewing customers, door-stepping acquaintances, and badgering people I’m proud to call friends. Rosmerta told me she turned up at the Three Broomsticks only last week and was pestering the Hogwarts pupils. Well, that’s too much. Spreading lies to those kids who don’t even know the story and who now look away when I pass them in Hogsmeade... far too much.

“Shall I talk to her?” I asked Neville. (Neville Longbottom �“ I think your readers will know him, everyone knows Neville now.) “Set the record straight.”

Neville snorted and spat his beer across the bar. Hastily he tried to mop it up with his robe sleeve. I picked up a bar towel and, pushing him away, mopped up the spill.

“She won’t set anything straight, Aberforth,” he replied dryly. “Rita Skeeter will skew your story and make it look as if you were doing the worst possible thing to that goat. She’ll probably make out you were in love with it or something.”

I must have jumped back, or looked startled because Neville stopped talking and looked at me very closely. “Uh... Aberforth ... you weren’t in love with Flossy, were you?” he asked nervously.

I looked about the bar; it was still busy and I couldn’t speak freely. “Nev, will you come into the back room after closing time, and I’ll tell you everything?”

Neville swallowed, but he’s not a brave Gryffindor for nothing, so he agreed. I did notice he started drinking Gillywater after that, to keep a clear head, but I was grateful for that. I’d decided there and then that I needed someone to write my story, to tell the truth behind the story of Aberforth Dumbledore and the Enchanted Goat.

[Editors note: Change this to ‘Aberforth Dumbledore: A Love that Dare Not Bleat its Name.’ ]

***
I was forty-five when I met her. I was on holiday at the time, taking a walking tour of the Lake District. In those days, I used to enjoy pretending to be a Muggle for two weeks. I’d find myself a nice Muggle pub, one that did bed and breakfast, and set out to explore the mountains and lakes in the area. I never took anyone with me as I liked being alone. When you keep bar, you find yourself listening to people all the time, so I’d use my holidays to get away from the moaning. The Lake District in those days was perfect. Now it’s full of foreigners ... Americans and the like.

[Editors Note: Cut this ... it will offend our subscribers in Salem.]

I’d finish my breakfast, take a walk to Lake Windermere and sit watching. I used to take a fishing rod with me, and try to catch trout. Let me tell you, it’s bloody hard fishing the Muggle way. I was sorely tempted to shout ‘Accio!’ a few times, but obviously I couldn’t show the other anglers my own way of fishing or the Ministry would have been after me.

(Make sure you mention that I never broke any rules when fishing �“ don’t want to be in trouble again)

This particular year, I was staying at the ‘The Goatherd Inn.’ The landlord, a Muggle called Tommy Parsoner, had taken over the pub a year before. He had a wife (Margie) and three daughters, although only one �“ the eldest �“ lived at home. She was in her early thirties and a handsome girl. I couldn’t understand why she was unmarried, but I was told by her mother, that she’d lost her fiancé in The Great War (that was a big war the Muggles fought more than ten years before) , and now there was no one who’d have her because she was far too old. I grunted something at that point because Muggles can be so stupid about age, and Margie looked at me thoughtfully.

“Flo,” I remember her calling. “Come over and speak to Mr Dumbledore.”

Her daughter walked over looking weary, but she was grateful for the chance to sit down and rest her feet. Her dad was strict and ran a tight ship. If his daughter wouldn’t marry then he expected her to work for her keep.

She looked at me, and smiled shyly, as I extended my hand.

“Aberforth Dumbledore,” I said gruffly.

“Florence Parsoner,” she replied as she shook my hand.

It was a brief handshake, but it precipitated so much more. Florence sat with me for the rest of the evening, after Margie had shooed Tom away to the cellar to stop him glowering and the next morning at breakfast, I noticed an extra sausage on my plate. She winked at me as she served me, and I blushed.

“Where are you going today, Aberforth?” she asked as I finished my second cup of tea.

“Thought I’d check out Tarn Hows,” I replied.

“Oh, Coniston way. That’s quite a journey. How will you get there?”

I had, of course, been planning to Apparate, but couldn’t tell her that, so I told her I’d walk.

“That’ll take you all day and all night,” she said giggling. “Are you sure you don’t mean Blelham Tarn? That’s just up the path behind the pub.”

Of course, I hadn’t meant Blelham Tarn, no one would really get those two confused, but I nodded my head.

She smiled and slid into the chair next to me. “It’s my day off today. Would you like me to show you the way?”

I glanced up to see Margie watching us and smiling. Tom looked at me suspiciously, but I could see he’d been told not to interfere. I turned my face towards Florence and replied, “That would be nice, Miss Parsoner.”

Florence was good company, and she knew how to pack a picnic basket. She did talk rather a lot on our walk up to the tarn, but as a barman, I’d learned a long time before how to look as if I were listening. And her voice was pleasant, not shrill at all. We arrived at the tarn, and I set down the basket. Florence opened it, produced a blue rug, which she spread on the grass.

Rummaging around at the bottom of the basket, she suddenly laughed and pulled out a bottle. She handed it to me, and I studied the label. It was her father’s home-made elderflower wine. Uncorking it, I poured us two glasses.

“Careful, it’s strong stuff,” Florence warned, but I grinned at her.

“I’m a barkeeper, I think I can handle it,” I replied, and knocked back a sizeable amount.

Readers, I have tasted dragon strength Firewhisky, Elf- made wine, Mermish gin and the strongest of the lot, Lethifold Mead. All of these should have stood me in good stead, but none quite pack the punch of Tommy Parsoner’s elderflower wine. A warmth stole over me, a feeling that all was right in the world, and, as I refilled my glass, I started to realise what an attractive woman Florence Parsoner was. I wondered if she’d kiss me.

I should remind you that this was nineteen-twenty-nine, and in those days, good girls did not kiss men they barely knew (not like today, all those flibberty-gibbet girls from the school, draped around a different boy each week.)

[Editors Note: Keep that in. I don’t think any ‘flibberty-gibbet girls’ read Stirring, anyway.]

So when she leant towards me and slowly kissed me on the lips, I was surprised. Obviously, Florence was not a good girl. I kissed her back. (I’m a Gryffindor; it would be unchivalrous not to.) She kissed me again and soon we were enjoying more than I’d expected.
. . .
[ Editors note .... Cut for reasons of decency... This is a family newspaper after all ...]

As we lay in each other’s arms, dozing in the sun, I felt Florence jerk awake suddenly. I opened one eye to find her hastily rearranging her petticoat. “What’s up?” I asked fuzzily.

“My dad. I can hear him calling. Quick hand me my blouse, Aberforth,” she hissed, casting worried looks to the top of the hill.

As I gave her the blouse, and noticed to my horror that there were approximately twelve buttons for her to fasten before she looked decent, and struggled into my breeches, my hand came into contact with something beneath the rug. My wand. It must have fallen out of my jacket pocket when I was disrobing. I saw Florence fumbling over her buttons, heard Tommy shouting for her, and acted instinctively.

I don’t know why she took that form. Albus told me later that it could have been because goats were on my mind. I don’t remember thinking about them as I Transfigured her. All I can remember is the feeling of panic as Tommy stepped onto the hillside, and my utter relief, when this goat appeared in front of me.

“Meh!” Florence brayed in alarm. I put my hand out to calm her, but startled at the sight of her father she ran off into the nearby copse.

“Mr Dumbledore,” he called sternly. “Where is my daughter?”

I stood up. “I’m not sure,” I replied, truthfully. “I fell asleep in the sun, after some of your rather potent wine, Mr Parsoner. I seem to remember her saying she fancied a walk over the next hillock. Perhaps she left.”

He glared at me, but could see no sign of his daughter or of any improper behaviour, so he sat on the grass next to me, and uncorked the wine.

“It is strong, Mr Dumbledore. Perhaps you should have just had a small glass,” he suggested.

I glanced towards the copse; Florence was poking her head out of the bushes, and seemed to be calling for me. Then she saw her dad and scampered off again. Tommy drained his glass and stood up. “Well, Mr Dumbledore, I’d best be off now. No doubt, I’ll see you back at the pub this evening. Perhaps you’d care to join myself and Mrs Parsoner for an evening meal sometime. I’m sure Florence would be pleased as well.”

I nodded dumbly and then watched in relief as he left.

“Florence,” I called as I ran towards the copse. “Florence, where are you? I can explain everything. Come on, love. Don’t be angry with me.”

As I scrambled through the bushes, cutting my face and arms, I saw a sight ahead of me that made me groan. There in a field was a goat, but she wasn’t alone. It was a field full of goats �“ white goats just like Florence.

“Oh, my love. Which one are you?” I cried in despair.

I sank to the floor and gazed at them all. There had to be thirty goats in that field and I had no idea which one was Florence. Of course if I’d been my brother, I could have cast the counter-spell very easily, but I wasn’t Albus and I’d long since forgotten how to Transfigure anything back. To be perfectly honest with you all, I was very surprised I’d managed to turn Florence into anything at all. Albus said it was instinct taking over, and that magic sometimes guides us in extraordinary ways.

I did hate it when he was right.

At last, I got to my feet, ready to take action. If Florence wouldn’t show herself to me, then I would have to find her. Smiling grimly, I remembered that she had a peculiar mole on her shoulder blade so I walked through the herd, stroking each goat and parting the fur at the top of their back. The twentieth goat was Florence. She looked at me mutinously, and then took a bite out of my arm. I backed away quickly and withdrew my wand. I hesitated. How on earth was I going to change her back? And would she ever forgive me?

Then I made a decision �“ the wrong one as it turned out �“ but I made it for the best reasons. Leading Florence away from the herd, I walked her back to the picnic rug. I ran my fingers over her ears, they were very soft and silky. She glared at me. I cupped her pointed face in my hands and looked deep into her beautiful brown eyes. “Florence,” I whispered. “I’m sorry about this, but I’m going to have to modify your memory, so you don’t remember any of this. But just before I do, I want you to know that you’re a very attractive woman and an extraordinarily beautiful goat.”

I lifted my wand and had just cast the Memory Charm when suddenly I heard a loud crack behind me. I groaned inwardly as I recognised the voice of Cornelius Fudge, then a junior Ministry official.

“Aberforth Bertram Fulke Kevin Dumbledore,” he intoned. “I’m charging you with use of magic in front of a Muggle thereby endangering the Magical Secrecy Act and ...” He stopped. “Where is the Muggle? We need to deal with her.”

“What Muggle?” I said in surprise, trying to show no fear. The punishment for breaking the Secrecy Act in those days was a year in Azkaban. By turning Florence into a goat, I’d broken the law about as far as anyone could.

Fudge turned his furious eyes on me. “There was magic performed here, and there was a Muggle here, Dumbledore.”

I shrugged. “No one here but me and Flo- er �“ Flossy,” I said indicating the goat.

Fudge narrowed his eyes into slits. “That goat, what exactly were you doing to it?”

“No-nothing,” I stammered, but Fudge was on a mission now. He yanked my wand out of my arm, and cast Priori Incantatum. Immediately I saw the Memory Modification Charm emerge from my wand.

“Why would you want to modify a goat’s memory, Aberforth?” he asked dangerously. He glanced at my hand, which had strayed to Florence’s ears again. Florence looked up at us both, glassy-eyed.

I had no explanation. If I told the truth, I’d be jailed, so I kept my mouth shut and giving Florence a last stroke on the ears, I Apparated away with Fudge to the Ministry.

***

It was Albus who saved me. He turned up at the Ministry, dressed in his finest purple velvet suit, and demanded to be shown to my cell. I told him everything. He didn’t laugh (although I thought I saw him smile when I described the mole), but told me what to say. Then he Apparated away to find Flossy ... er ... Florence.

In the end, I pleaded guilty to casting an ‘Inappropriate Charm’ on a goat, and was given a fine. I didn’t elaborate, but people made up their own minds. I was also barred from going near any goats for five years, especially in the Lake District, which meant I couldn’t go back and find Florence.

Albus managed to find her and changed her back very quickly. She remembered nothing about the day, except for taking a walk up to Blelham Tarn with a handsome gentleman. They’d drunk her father’s elderflower wine and then fallen asleep. She told Albus she’d had a curious dream ... but it couldn’t possibly be true ... because magic didn’t exist.

I often think of Albus smiling at that point and telling her something confusing that stayed with her for the rest of her life.

Five years later, I returned to ‘The Goatherd Inn’. It hadn’t changed much, and I was anxious to see Flossy ... er ... Florence again. I walked in and there she was, behind the bar.

“What can I get you, sir?” she asked as I approached.

“Just a pint,” I replied. I looked at her closely and she stared back.

“Do I know you?” she asked, as she pulled my pint and set it down in front of me.

Her left hand rested on the bar next to mine. I wanted to press it to my lips, but something made me stop. She was wearing a ring. Florence was now married.

“No,” I replied, sighing. “I’ve never been here before.”