Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.
Twenty-Two
In the Belly of the Beast
The golden fountain in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic had been renovated since her last visit. Well, if you wanted to get technical about it, her last visit had seen the magical brethren as nothing more than shapeless clumps of metal, Ginny thought wryly. Nonetheless, gone were the golden centaur, elf and goblin who had once cavorted shamelessly in the spray. Although her adult self chafed at the subservient attitudes of the “lesser” beings, the child in her still recalled how the magical carousel had been a welcome prelude to her father’s miniscule quarters in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.
Just as Arthur’s job title had changed, so the magical brethren had been recast into a soaring version of Prometheus stealing fire from the gods. As a metaphor for the harnessing of magic, it worked well enough, Ginny conceded; but the angular stylized planes which made the androgynous hero appeal to both witches and wizards also meant that no one would ever mistake it for a living, breathing organism simply frozen in time.
Ginny stared down at the badge clipped to her crisp navy blazer. It identified her as: Ginevra Weasley Potter, journalist; appointment with H.G. Weasley. Accurate enough in the superficial way that seemed to satisfy Ministry security. How much more compelling if it had labeled her as an undercover detective, an interloper intent on routing out the Ministry’s most guarded secrets? A provocateur, as Remus would have insisted.
The sharp ring of heels on the polished marble interrupted Ginny’s thoughts. Rising to meet Hermione in a sisterly hug, Ginny allowed herself to be led briskly through unfamiliar corridors and down a back staircase in lieu of using the golden lifts.
Breathless as she turned down the fourth flight of steps, Hermione whispered over her shoulder, “Just one more floor to go, sorry. The Archive Section is not strictly open to the public, yet all Ministry records are supposedly the property of the citizens we serve. Another inherent contradiction in a structure that seems to spawn them like rabbits. Ah, here we are,” she announced, nodding towards an unmarked door in the middle of a prosaic stretch of beige. “The curator, as such, is a long-time friend of Amos’ so she was willing to grant us special privileges. Her name Abigail Creevey.”
With a sharp lift to her eyebrow, Ginny noted, “I suppose it didn’t hurt that her sons were in Gryffindor, either.”
Introductions completed in short order, Ginny found Abigail to have an easy-going manner that soon put her at ease. At Hermione’s suggestion that they begin with a broad overview, Abigail threw back the barrier that restricted access to the archive chambers themselves and bid the girls to follow.
“I could try to describe the process to you, but a demonstration is so much better,” she asserted. Opening the first frosted glass door, Abigail expounded from the relative safety of the doorway, “These are the current archives. All the open shelves are organized by Department, then Division, Bureau, Office, etc.”
As they watched in awe, files of various thicknesses zoomed down a glass chute on the far wall and then shelved themselves appropriately. “As you can see, it’s a growing organism at this point with each area color-coded for easy --” Abigail’s lips pursed in a small frown as she added, “But still prone to human error.”
With a sweeping motion of her wand, Abigail stopped the chaos within and deftly weaved her body through the documents frozen in mid-air. On the upper-most shelf, a document flagged with a lurid purple flag was trying to settle itself among the yellow section only to be squeezed out by the neighboring files.
“Accio purple,” Abigail intoned with authority then redirected it with a sharp flick towards the other purple files. Turning to the visitors once more, the files behind her resumed their aerial ballet. “It’s the sender’s magic which is sloppy,” she explained. “The files recognize each other by color; but if they are not directed properly from the start, they become confused.”
Ginny couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re like an orchestra conductor directing things with her baton,” she commented.
“Except that kettle drums don’t have a tendency to collide in mid-air,” Abigail rejoined with a sharp laugh.
“Does that happen often?” Hermione pressed as she pictured a cascade of paper which could easily bury a human being.
“Luckily, no,” admitted Abigail. “But in those rare instances, it requires members from each different department to properly reorganize the paperwork.” The sounds of whooshing air could still be heard as she shut the door behind her. “At the end of the year, the contents of the file room are reduced for storage in the historical archive section.”
Directing them towards the final glass door lettered ‘Examination Room,’ Abigail revealed a starkly white and empty chamber. “This is where we can review documents from other years. Where would you ladies like to start?”
Quickly, Ginny counted backwards in her head. The year of the Tri-wizard Tournament seemed a good place to start. “Autumn of 1994,” she told Abigail.
Abigail directed a small elf who had been hovering just out of sight to return with the next year as well. Within moments, the elf reappeared balancing two ordinary packing boxes on the tips of her long fingers as if they were weightless bubbles.
Taking the uppermost box labeled ‘1994’, Abigail placed it in the center of the empty room and returned to the doorframe. With her lips moving soundlessly, she pronounced the unlocking spell. The box trembled slightly as it absorbed the magic, then slowly unfolded outward and expanded until it filled the room to the very rafters. On all four sides, neat rows of metal shelves displayed rows upon rows of color-coded files as shallower carts holding oversized volumes wheeled themselves into the open areas of the floor. With a note of finality, a long countertop settled itself near the center as stools rose up from the tannish floor.
Stepping out onto what had once been plain brown cardboard, Ginny noted that the floorboards seemed slightly springy, like corkwood, under her feet. “Impressive,” she acknowledged as she took in her surroundings. “Each year cocooned in its own packing crate.”
“Here are the files from the Magical Creatures Department,” Hermione noted as she ran her fingers over one of the long shelves. “I recognize the green tabs. Why are these a lighter shade towards the end, though?”
“Those belong to the Office of Misinformation,” Abigail returned promptly. “See how there are only a few files? You could interpret it as not a lot of covert activities going on that year or…”
Instantly on alert, Ginny wheeled around, “Or what?”
“Umbridge was in charge of the Misinformation Office in prior years, wasn’t she?” Hermione surmised.
“Going a number of years back,” Abigail supplied. “Those shelves were practically groaning when she was in charge….But an absence of paperwork means only that.”
Catching on, Ginny’s eyes grew wide, “You mean the paperwork could have been misfiled.”
“Or lost,” Hermione supplied.
“Or deliberately destroyed,” Abigail volunteered in an ominous tone. “Consistency. In a bureaucracy such as this, that’s the first thing you learn. Within a matter of inches, each department uses up about the same shelf space each year. Even if there’s a major change in legislation, an extra eighteen to twenty inches should do it.”
“Would the legislation which imposed additional paperwork and review to employers of werewolves qualify as a major change?” Ginny prodded, catching the alluring scent of a breaking story.
“Certainly,” Abigail affirmed. “There was a quite a bit of extra inches allotted to the Werewolf Support Services that year. They provide assistance with job placements.” As Hermione’s eyes searched the green tabs, Abigail redirected her to the top shelf. “It’s in dark forest green, part of the Being Division.”
“Unlike Registry and Capture which are both part of the Beast Unit,” Hermione finished for her.
“So you’ve identified certain periods where there might have been misplacement of records?” Ginny mused.
“Now sometimes even that’s perfectly routine,” Abigail asserted. “Take a change in administration, for instance. It takes a while for things to settle back to normal. Files have a way of homing back to their nesting grounds, just like pigeons.”
“Is that what happened when Fudge resigned in favor of Scrimgeour?” Ginny posed, barely keeping her excitement in check.
Abigail nodded. “Granted that was a period of crisis and upheaval; but even taking that into account, some sections still seem mighty thin.”
“Does war generate more paperwork or less?” Hermione considered philosophically.
“I’m not certain that’s a mitigating factor at all,” Abigail opined. “But in this case, there was a complete revamping of our filing system. We used to house each department in its own separate crate, adding on to the existing years until the space was full and we started a new crate. Each lid was labeled with the beginning and ending dates. But right about the time Dolores Umbridge took over as Fudge’s Undersecretary, a new system was instituted. Each year is now allotted a crate of its own, even if it’s sent to archives only partially full. Rumor was that it made it easier for a biographer to identify the accomplishments of a particular administration.”
“Ego,” Ginny affirmed. “Fudge always thought quite highly of himself.”
“Accountability,” Hermione put forth. “Can’t be blamed for the errors of others.”
Abigail laughed. “Well, that certainly became prophetic in Cornelius’ case. He made enough mistakes of his own, I warrant. But as the direct arm of the Minister himself, Umbridge was able to repack many sections of files for safekeeping while we reworked the necessary magic….”
“Many of those files never returned to the archives, you’re saying?” Ginny urged.
“Not with any certainty, mind you,” Abigail admitted candidly. “But a good archivist just gets a feel for things. Like I said, the shelf space just wasn’t consistent -- not when you compare it with other years.”
As Hermione excused herself to retrieve some personnel records from a nearby division, Ginny fell into easy step with Abigail.
“You know I would have recognized that Weasley hair anywhere,” the older woman confided as she helped Ginny comb through folders tabbed in all shadings of green.
“Then you must know my brother, Percy. He’s always had a special fondness for reams of meaningless paper,” she added wryly as she shifted another irrelevant file to the bottom on her stack.
“And your father, dear,” Abigail observed with crinkled eyes. “Everyone in the Ministry knows Arthur, I daresay. He’s been a frequent visitor throughout the years. Why his Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office used to generate so much paperwork “ all those dead-ends and pointless leads, you see. He often joked that by the end of millennium, he would need a whole floor just to himself!”
Ginny chuckled appreciatively then supplied, “I see where Dennis and Colin get their organizational skills. They did an exceptional job of photographing my wedding a few months ago, you know. I think they were the only ones who kept their cool in the midst of all that turmoil.”
“Sounds like business as usual for them,” Abigail confided. “Even if it’s not everyday the redoubtable Harry Potter gets married. Colin, in particular, so looked up to Harry while they were at school.”
Ginny shrugged. “Harry’s not much different than anyone else. A bit media shy.”
“Dennis raved about the pet rabbit who wandered into so many of the photos. Said it added just the right note of whimsy to the formal surroundings.”
The casual words brought Ginny up short. After Hermione had recounted how posh Muggle photographers often incorporated photogenic animals in their children’s portraits, Ginny had simply reasoned the Creeveys had done likewise. “I assumed it was their bunny.”
Abigail laughed heartily. “A rogue rabbit, then. Were there a lot of woods about?”
Ginny nodded absently. “A fair amount of surrounding grounds, mostly left in a natural state. But everything’s fenced in.”
“Fences are no deterrents to rabbits; just ask anyone who ever planted a vegetable garden.”
Recalling that Tonks had started a small patch of decorative cabbages inside her private patio, Ginny conceded that Abigail’s explanation made perfect sense.
Ginny’s attention returned to her assignment as another angle presented itself to her. “What about classified documents?”
“Many of them remain in the Minister’s private archives. Especially if he feels that it may be a security risk for the information to become more widely known. You see that more in times of war,” Abigail elaborated. “Often documents become declassified at a later date and we have to integrate them into the appropriate year. I remember that vividly after Voldemort’s first rise to power; total mayhem for a number of months.”
It was nothing more than Ginny had learned from Percy. Since he was no longer the Minister’s senior assistant, he no longer had clearance to view those documents. When she’d tried to quiz him about those he’d handled personally, Percy had retreated behind the disclaimer that he could neither confirm nor deny any of her leading questions.
“What about the Department of Mysteries?” Hermione intoned with a broad smile from the doorway. “I never felt comfortable asking the Unspeakables directly.”
“Another mystery from the Department which seems to manufacture them, you mean?” Abigail put forth. “With your natural curiosity, I’m surprised you didn’t seek a post among them, Hermione.”
Hermione shrugged nonchalantly as she deposited a thin folder on the nearest table. “I prefer to be able to tell my family what I do for a living, thank you very much.”
Abigail flashed a resplendent smile as she pointed to a narrow section of glassine folders near the end of the top row. They were tabbed with some sort of iridescent material which caught the light invitingly, but there was nothing but empty air between the covers. “Take one down,” Abigail suggested as her wand commanded a small footstool to position itself in preparation.
Always one to embrace a challenge, Hermione countered, “I take it a simple Summoning charm won’t work.”
“Not without the proper clearance,” Abigail confirmed.
With a determined nod, Hermione retrieved one of the glistening folders Muggle-style. Awe painted her face as she hefted the ghostly folder. “It’s not as empty as it would seem.” She passed it along to Ginny for affirmation.
“Magical secrets,” Ginny conceded. “And if I had the proper clearance, what would have happened when the folio touched my fingers?”
“At first, nothing,” Abigail explained. “The safeguards require that you must also be within the confines of Level Nine itself or in a private viewing chamber. If you attempt to remove it from this room, it will hit you with a Stinging Hex and then blithely re-shelve --” Abigail’s words were cut short by the tolling of a melodic bell. “If you’ll excuse me, I have someone calling for me at the front counter. The shelves will automatically lock once I leave the room, but you ladies are welcome to review those binders which are already on the counter before you. I won’t be but a minute.”
As Abigail’s elfish associate waited patiently near the doorway, Hermione whispered, “Not enough on which to hang your reputation?” She indicated the thin stack of documents Ginny had amassed after a number of hours’ work.
With a twist of her mouth, Ginny shot back, “I could very well hang my entire career on this. All the way to the gallows.”
“I warned you the trail would be ice cold…”
“That’s just it. There enough here to be tantalizing without being able to pinpoint anything. These facts could be strung together in so many plausible ways.”
“And you don’t want to be painted as one of those barmy conspiracy theorists,” Hermione teased.
“That’s Umbridge’s role; we just have to unmask her before the public. But these records alone won’t do it. My programming director demanded that we corroborate our story before it aired. We didn’t have to reveal our sources, mind you; but they needed to be rock solid.”
Hermione flashed a smile that others might have labeled as self-satisfied. At that particular moment, Ginny found it inordinately reassuring. “Then you’ll be pleased to know that not a single non-disclosure contract has come to light,” Hermione announced.
Giving her a sharp look, Ginny prodded, “How were you able to go through these employment records, Hermione? If you’ve cut any corners I really need to know--”
Hermione gasped in mock affront then grinned that much wider. “All perfectly on the level, guaranteed. The employees were more than happy to supply Amos with official requests for reassignment to their previous duties.”
“And it’s standard procedure for the Department heads to review their files before making any sort of recommendations,” Ginny finished. “Are they really seeking reassignment?”
“That’s up to Amos,” Hermione dodged. “He’ll have to convince them that the working atmosphere has changed for the better, to start.”
Ginny couldn’t help giggling at their ingenuity. “Did you promise them a home-cooked meal as well?”
“No, but I’ll suggest it to Amos. Perhaps he can convince his wife. I’m not as good a cook as you are, Ginny.”
“Good thing Ron will eat shoe leather, Mum used to always say.”
Hermione punched her good-naturedly in the arm. “I’m not that bad. Ron actually takes time to chew and taste his food these days, you know… Now show me what you’ve got.”
A purchase order for outwear rated for polar extremes was first. “I found nothing to indicate that an expedition in search of the Yeti had been mounted that year,” Ginny remarked.
“I’m certain such types of exploration fall within the Department for International Cooperation,” Hermione asserted. “Besides, there’s enough gear here for a rather large contingent, children included.”
“Those small sizes could be for dwarves and elves,” Ginny refuted. “Especially if the goods were procured from a non-wizarding source.”
Hermione nodded knowingly as she perused the land leases made out in the name of the East India Mercantile Cooperative.
“These don’t seem dodgy to you?” Ginny posited. “Four land tracts and the photos show derelict factories in each case.”
Hermione frowned slightly as she turned the pages over. “Nothing to indicate how they were to be used, only the number of an appropriation which was curtailed after two years instead of five as originally intended. So far the facts dovetail with Amos’ summary.”
“I’m not sure I follow…” Ginny began as Hermione’s nimble fingers searched through the disbursement records for her Department. Then it hit her. “Of course, the Ministry uses a shell corporation in all land dealings with Muggles.”
“You’ll find the same company listed as the purchaser of the old Riddle prop--” Hermione halted abruptly. “There’s no record that any lease payments were ever made, though. Big gap in the numbering system.”
As Ginny rushed over to see for herself, the elf squeaked, “Begging your pardons, ladies, are you looking for information on a project of limited duration? One which might have required a special budget set up by the Wizengamot itself?”
Hermione smiled warmly into the elf’s over-large eyes. “Yes, indeed. How very astute of you to notice.”
The tiny elf held out her hands to indicate it was nothing out of the ordinary. “Phil is here to help. Mistress Abs has learned to delegate much in her long years of stewardship.”
“Your name is Phil?” Ginny posed as she bent over to direct her gaze more fully on the elf’s obviously feminine attire.
The elf nodded eagerly. “Short for Philemena, after my mum. She went by Mena, so I’m Phil.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Hermione asserted in a friendly manner.
“Mistresses are both looking in the wrong place, to begin with,” Phil maintained as she nimbly removed a gigantic volume from one of the rolling carts. With dexterous finger motions, the tiny elf maneuvered the tome which clearly outweighed her onto the long table in the center of the room. With a sharp crack, she Disapparated then reappeared almost immediately sitting jauntily atop one of the high stools. “Resolutions and bills presented before the Wizengamot,’ she explained as she tapped the dark cover meaningfully with her index finger.
Ginny scowled as she noted the thickness of the large tome. “Lots of pages to thumb through.”
“That’s one way to search,” Phil allowed with a dismissive shrug. “There’s an index at the back but everything is organized by date, not subject matter.”
“But you know another way…” Hermione urged only to be rewarded by an impish twinkle in Phil’s protuberant eyes.
“Not without knowing what Mistresses seek,” Phil replied matter-of-factly. “Elves have no talent for mind-reading.”
Ginny and Hermione broke out in laughter. Why Phil was just as outspoken as Dobby!
Feeling that she could trust the elf instinctively, Ginny supplied, “Werewolf internment camps. They may have been billed as -- ”
“An alternative housing project,” Phil supplied.
“You knew of this?” Hermione gaped.
“Only because of my daily duties,” Phil attested with a slight frown. “Bad precedent that. How long before elves become a nuisance in their masters’ homes?” Without waiting for a response, Phil directed them towards the line of files which displayed red and then black tabs. “Active appropriations are in red; those which have been curtailed in black.”
Within moments, Ginny had a thick file nested in her hands. Hardly daring to breathe, they spread out the paper trail before them.
“That explains how Umbridge was able to get the Wizengamot to go along,” Hermione hissed with barely banked anger. “They categorized it a government-sponsored housing project for displaced werewolves.”
“Blatant prejudice disguised as a social program,” Ginny confirmed darkly.
By the time Abigail rejoined them murmuring apologies about rampant incompetence, it was all laid out before them: a map showing the four leased sites situated in a wide arc from due east of Bristol to the northernmost camp which Remus had infiltrated. Alpha, Beta, Delta and Gamma Compounds. Rough diagrams detailed the arrangements of the living quarters and outlined any rudimentary renovations which had been necessary to make the abandoned factories habitable. It painted a grim and foreboding picture. Most ominous of all was that the legislation itself had not been repealed, just allowed to flounder without further funding.
With a satisfied grunt, Aberforth turned down the volume on the ancient wireless set that stood behind the bar in the Hog’s Head. The Friday night regulars would soon be slinking in and he needed to keep his wits about him with a roomful of renowned scoundrels.
Would Mundungus stop by as was his custom? he wondered idly as he swept the errant hay his goats always trailed in their wake. The WWN had done an admirable job of exposing Umbridge’s labyrinthine dealings with the selfless Ministry employees who had protested her master plan.
“A shell-game,” Hermione had called it as she’d outlined their plan before the Order members. “If it’s so hush-hush, then having employees sign non-disclosure statements implies there’s something that needs sweeping under the proverbial Axminster. But to suddenly find that not a single agreement made its way into the employees’ personnel files fairly reeks of a cover-up. By trying to mask her actions, that self-aggrandizing toad emphasized them that much more.”
Such a premise could easily have been overblown into a paranoid conspiracy, Aberforth noted with his habitual pragmatism, but in Ginny’s able hands it had the unmistakable ring of truth. Tucked in as a featured in-depth story, the daily news hour had ended with the young spokesman, Nigel Faircloth, airing his concerns with a humble sincerity that easily won the listeners over. It had been a good decision to use his voice and just allow the regular newscasters to supply the narration.
The second employee, Bertram, had a gravelly timbre that immediately brought a young Alastor Moody to mind. “I resigned my post with the Werewolf Capture Unit when our duties were suddenly shifted from stopping werewolf attacks to escorting those who had yet to commit any crimes to their new homes. If these chaps had trouble keeping a steady job, why could the Ministry not acknowledge that it was their very policies which were a major contributing factor?”
But the most compelling of all had been Danica’s recount of her last days in the Werewolf Registry Office. “We were all acclimated to the Ministry’s policy of barely banked intolerance,” she began lowly. “It was my job to help these unfortunate people regardless of each new questionable policy which came down the pike. But after weeks of counseling parents to abandon their children into the hands of the Ministry, I could no longer deal with the tearful goodbyes and recriminating looks from those innocent faces. Who were we to tell parents they had become redundant just because their children had been recently attacked? How was this lending them support and guidance?
“I came from a foster home myself and I know firsthand the emptiness of not having parents. What were we expected to tell these displaced urchins, anyway? ‘Mummy and Daddy have gone away? They feel it best that you come live with others?’ How was a child to not feel unwanted when his parents were alive and well in a nearby town but could only ‘spring him’ at the weekend? The whole set-up seemed too much like a leper colony for my taste.”
Danica’s entreaties were guaranteed to stir the public sentiment; an emotional reaction based on policies that were supposed to be formulated with unbiased reason. Not that bureaucracies weren’t prone to such torturous illogic; that had been one of Albus’ recurrent complaints when he stopped in to share a convivial drink. Pomegranate brandy he’d preferred, Aberforth recalled fondly, while he himself stuck with ordinary Firewhiskey.
He masked his half-smile behind a grimace as the front door squawked in protest. A hag dragged a wagonload of sandy soil with the hem of her black skirts. It was a yearly occurrence in Hogsmeade: the early spring mud turned into a thick layer of grit determined to coat every available surface. Just keeping it out of the glassware would be a challenge, Aberforth grumbled as he poured a measure of fermented dragon’s spleen and deposited it neatly before his first customer. She acknowledged his masterful wandwork with the barest blink of her colorless eyes.
A rough group of farmhands was next, claiming the back corner near the sole grimy window as they ordered their first round of ales. Firewhiskey would come next, he knew, as he double-checked that he had an ample supply behind the bar.
Aberforth had long ago discovered that his low-key approach often made him privy to secrets that would never have been voiced within hearing range of his venerable brother. Albus had always been the flashy, intellectual sort while Aberforth was perfectly content to be the salt of the earth. With that in mind, he’d devoted much of his efforts into blending into the background, allowing the Hog’s Head to maintain just the proper seedy veneer.
That was not to say he wasn’t proud that his pub had witnessed the first organizational meeting of Dumbledore’s Army. Civil disobedience in a disused back room, how utterly fitting. Umbridge’s aversion to goats suited Aberforth just fine; so unless they had been observed arriving, there was little chance of an embarrassing encounter within the confines of the pub itself.
Never one for prolonged conversation, Snape was a common enough customer; he naturally avoided the boisterousness of other watering holes when he sought to escape the persistent dankness of the dungeons. Even Flitwick was known to stop by on occasion, although his chances of stirring up a chess match were much better at the Three Broomsticks. Not to mention keeping a subtle eye on his House members, Aberforth chuckled. Minerva preferred to do likewise under the guise of Rosmerta’s renowned huckleberry tarts.
But Umbridge had shown herself to be much too high-and-mighty to rub elbows with the rest of Hogwarts society. Why Aberforth would have wagered she never set foot within Hogsmeade proper had he not caught a fleeting glimpse of her dingy rose overcoat as she sulked within a nearby alley. A scorpion who persisted in cloaking itself in spun sugar as her beady eyes categorized and criticized, dissected and demonized.
A sudden thought brought a slight frown to Aberforth’s lips. How would he respond if the Cultural Affairs Office petitioned to place a commemorative plaque in his back room? No matter how unobtrusive, such a thing couldn’t possibly be good for business. He shuddered at the idea that the Hog’s Head could become a tourist attraction. What would become of his clientele?
His establishment had never been the sort to appeal much to students. Invariably there were those who thought such a disreputable saloon would surely be lax about serving underaged wizards. He wasn’t; Albus would have roasted him and his goats if that were so. But it often took students a while to notice the resemblance between the two brothers.
It was rare that students sought to partake without their friends nearby. Afterall, what was the point of being of age if you couldn’t flaunt it? Aberforth was not so decrepit that he’d forgotten the exuberance of youth. Years later, he could still recall the impromptu party the infamous Marauders had held on the occasion of Remus’ eighteenth birthday. He’d been glad of the business that night as intermittent icy showers had convinced his more sensible customers to stay home that evening.
The lads had insisted on a roaring fire in the disused hearth in the back room. While a shearing bolt of lightning had driven Aberforth to make sure his paddock was secure, he’d returned to find they'd made quick work of clearing the chimney with a trio of well-placed Scourgify charms. The shortest of the four, Peter Pettigrew, was poised to open the flue with an expert twist of his wand.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Aberforth,” James Potter had assured him jovially. “Mum always puts the lot of us in charge of the fireplaces at home. We’re experts.”
Aberforth hadn’t minded, not really, although he’d grumbled about them ruining the carefully honed ambiance of his pub.
“We promise we’ll keep to the back room, mate,” Sirius Black promised as he shuffled a deck of cards with a gambler’s nonchalance. Behind him, Remus was enlarging a dart board he’d removed from his cloak pocket and magically attaching it to the far wall.
“What’ll it be, boys?” Aberforth demanded. “We don’t have much call for fancy drinks here, you know.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Pettigrew squeaked through a toothy grin. “We remembered to bring our own paper parasols. Moony here can’t drink without ‘em.”
“Hey!” Remus protested with a flash of pique. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ll have a Firewhiskey. Neat.”
“See there.” Sirius nodded in approval. “Moony’s a man even by Muggle standards tonight. You might as well bring the bottle, my good man.”
At Aberforth’s skeptical look, James dug a handful of gold galleons from his pocket and placed them on the table. “I have my gambling stash in my other pocket,” he added with a trademark smirk. “Hagrid assures us there’s no objection as long as we agree to deal anyone in who asks.”
As the rain rattled against the roof, Aberforth decided that it would not be a problem that night. Despite being deeply in their cups, Remus more so than the others, the lads had promptly settled up at closing time and stumbled resolutely into the dripping lane. Their off-key rendition of a bawdy Gryffindor fight song that only Sirius seemed to know in its entirety would have made Albus smile “ even as he threatened to expel them if they ever sang such lyrics within sight of the Quidditch pitch.
A week later, Remus returned alone to catch Aberforth during the slow hours of the afternoon.
“I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality,” he’d begun hesitantly. “It was a birthday I’m not likely to forget “ no matter how hard I try.”
Aberforth did his best to mask the grin the lad’s comment elicited as he polished the bar absently with his cloth. “Did my brother, Albus, think you behaved improperly? I assure you, you did not.”
“But our darts--”
“What’s a few more nicks in a stone wall? Gives it character. As long as I didn’t hear any angry bleating, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“It was more Professor McGonagall,” Remus admitted as he eased his lanky frame onto the bar stool Aberforth indicated.
“A regular paragon of virtue,” Aberforth agreed, not mentioning that Minerva had been known to drink many a lesser man under the table.
“She set us all detentions for the remainder of the week. This was the first afternoon I was able to get away.”
Aberforth had heard bits of the story from his brother but was intrigued by the spin this punctilious young man before him would lend. “Can I interest you in something? On the house, of course. I never got the opportunity to offer you a birthday toast.”
“Nothing but Butterbeer, please,” Remus allowed with a hint of shyness.
“If you insist, lad. But it might be a wee bit out of date. Don’t get much call for Butterbeer in the Hog’s Head.”
Did Butterbeer have an expiration date? Remus’ intense eyes seemed to question. “How out of date can it be?”
Aberforth scowled at the thick layer of dust that had rendered the dark amber bottle a fuzzy grey. “A decade, perhaps?”
Remus chuckled as he wisely accepted a tall glass of cider. “Might’ve constituted a lethal dose, at that. I considered putting my affairs in order when I woke up last Sunday morning “ not that I could manage a quill!”
“So your Head of House couldn’t just let that be punishment enough?”
“Well, I suppose that was partly my doing as well. James was determined that no birthday celebration should be marred by nausea and snuck off to get a remedy from the Hospital Wing before Sirius stopped snoring long enough to stop him. Madam Pomfrey was duly concerned about the symptoms James described so she accompanied him back to Gryffindor Tower. Sirius was awake by then, but only his throbbing head kept him from cursing James into oblivion, Head Boy credentials and all. Claimed his hand was too shaky to aim his wand. Pomfrey walked in at that very minute.”
Aberforth winced at the bad timing as Remus did a fair imitation of Poppy’s officious tone, “‘And why would that be, Mr. Black? Is it some contagious disease the lot of you dragged back from the Hog’s Head? You wouldn’t be the first, you know! And, Remus, I thought at least you had enough sense!’
“‘And apparently they won’t be the last,’ McGonagall’s clipped tones came from the doorway as Peter buried himself under the bedcovers.
“‘It was Remus’ birthday, ma’m,’ James offered lamely as he wordlessly downed the draught Madam Pomfrey pressed into his hands.
“ ‘Were you determined to make it his last?’ McGonagall shot back through pursed lips. ‘Seeing as how Poppy will soon have you all to rights, I expect you all to report to my office for detention at seven.’
“Not knowing when to keep quiet, Sirius offered, ‘So you’re saying that if Prongs here hadn’t attempted to seek a remedy, suffering in silence would have prevented further punishment?’
“I could hear Peter groaning under the covers as Professor McGonagall rose to the challenge in true Gryffindor form. ‘What I’m saying, Mr. Black “ and that goes for the rest of you, as well “ if you’re determined to drink as men, you’d best learn to hold your liquor. I’ll expect all of you to clear your evenings for the next four days as well. Perhaps by the weekend, you’ll have learned some manners.’”
Remus offered up a sheepish grin as he took a long sip of cider.
“Seems to me that Sirius was the one who dug you in deeper,” Aberforth observed conversationally.
Remus nodded grimly. “I could barely wait until the professors were out of earshot before I blurted, ‘Hoary hippogriffs, Padfoot, couldn’t you keep your muzzle shut for once!’
“ ‘Blimey!’ Peter grimaced. ‘Good thing the rain had let up by the time we made our way back. If we’d caught cold, that witch would have punished us for the improper use of an Impervious Charm!’”
With a barely suppressed chortle, Aberforth conferred, “Seems to me she could have deducted house points as well…”
“Perhaps.” Remus shrugged. “But the others wouldn’t have made such an extraordinary muck of things if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Your eighteenth birthday, I recall.”
“Not just that.” Remus hesitated briefly as he stared into the depths of his tankard. Making up his mind, he supplied, “They were determined to cheer me up after my girlfriend broke up with me the day before. I never got a chance to invite her to the festivities.”
“Doesn’t sound like the type of party she would have enjoyed.”
“We had something a bit different planned originally. Only I couldn’t see celebrating at all, to tell you the truth. Not after the way she derided me up one side and down the other.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why was that, lad? What had you done that was so spectacularly wrong?”
Remus sighed deeply into the golden liquid before him. “I told her the truth, the whole truth, and expected her to understand.”
There was no need to elaborate; Albus had long ago shared the secret of the Shrieking Shack. “I take it she didn’t.”
“Not even remotely.” Remus shook his fringe as if to rid himself of the memory. “At least she agreed not to tell anyone else. Claimed it would make her look bad.”
“Everyone gets their heart broken, lad. If your friends are able to look past your minor failings, there’s bound to be a girl out there who will, too.” At the sharp snap of Remus’ head, Aberforth pressed his advantage. “You’re thinking that a confirmed bachelor like me is unlikely to know much about women.”
Caught short, Remus issued a mirthless laugh. “Not me, sir. Wormtail -- I mean, Peter “ is prone to make such off-handed remarks; I like to think I have better manners.”
“You do at that, son,” Aberforth proclaimed with amusement lacing his tone. “Just bear in mind that my reasons for leading a bachelor’s life differ radically from those of my brother.”
As more and more customers drifted listlessly to their shadowy corners, Aberforth found himself seeing to their diverse needs without much conscious thought. His memories remained mired in the past as he considered how long his encouraging words to young Remus had taken to bear fruit. More than a decade, closer to two, he concluded, wondering wordlessly how the man found the energy to persevere in a world so dead set against giving him a fair chance.
It had been on the cusp of spring, Aberforth recalled vividly. Hogsmeade had been drowning in mud from the snowmelt as the sun did its feeble best to soak up the extra moisture. Even strewn with hay, the lanes were barely passable. Too many slick patches to allow even the most intrepid wizard to Apparate with any dignity from one spot to another.
Had Remus even realized what an unprecedented honor it was to have been allowed to Floo directly into the Hog’s Head? Albus always groused what a nuisance it was to deal with the Floo Network directly, but cutting corners required a tremendous amount of effort “ even for a wizard as ingenious as Albus. Make that devious, Aberforth amended with a hint of a sad smile.
In the middle of a somnolent afternoon, Remus had tumbled onto the worn flagstones, his lanky frame full of pent up nervousness. So much like an overgrown schoolboy, yet there was a fiery cast to his eyes that fairly made the air hum with determination. Pity the witch or wizard who stood in his way that day, Aberforth remembered thinking. Remus had been hell-bent on success or annihilation “ there would be no middle ground.
When he returned a few hours later, mere minutes before the Floo connection was set to expire, he’d been wreathed in smiles. Despite the fresh mud which liberally splattered what was obviously a new shirt, Remus was so lost in the clouds that Aberforth had spoken to him repeatedly before getting any sort of a response. He’d known then that no matter what other obstacles flung themselves into his path, Remus had been successful in finding the sort of acceptance he’d always sought.
In the intervening years, it was not unusual to find Remus stopping by the Hog’s Head for a birthday toast, usually at the slowest times when Aberforth would not be neglecting his duties for a welcome bit of conversation. In the dark years after James’ and Lily’s murders, it had been a bittersweet way to commemorate happier times with his friends. Voldemort may have been vanquished for the time being, but Remus had paid an inordinate price. Judging by the man’s gaunt appearance, there were times that Aberforth barely stopped himself from suggesting that those sickles would be better served to buy groceries or a hot meal, not Firewhiskey. But the words died on his lips with the realization that Remus longed for human company just as much as nourishment.
After Dumbledore’s name had been added to the roll of fallen comrades, the tradition persisted. Tonks often came as well, toasting Sirius’ memory with gusto even though she had never met some of the others. By unspoken consent, they never mentioned Peter Pettigrew anymore, not since his ultimate betrayal had been cemented in their hearts. Aberforth still suspected Remus recalled the carefree lad of that long-ago birthday celebration, though, as he struggled to understand when such friendship had twisted itself into hatred.
With a reverberating bang, Aberforth was jerked from his reveries by the front door clattering on its hinges. A hulking figure loomed in dark relief against the evening stars, but no one seemed overly concerned.
A gruff harrumph issued forth. “Sorry ‘bout tha’, mate. Wind whipped tha’ puppy right outta me hands. Evenin’,” Hagrid offered to the assembled clientele who studiously avoided his eyes.
“Another blustery night, I see,” Aberforth returned as he retrieved Hagrid’s oversized tankard from beneath the bar. With nimble movements, he pulled an extra long measure of the golden Cumbrian lager which Hagrid preferred.
By silent agreement, Hagrid slid two silver sickles across the bar in payment. It was no more than the charge for an ordinary pint, but Aberforth didn’t believe in needlessly burdening a steady, long-time patron. After all, he reasoned, if teaching salaries were not adjusted according to physical stature, shouldn’t the Hog’s Head follow suit?
“Any games afoot?” Hagrid inquired with a reassuring pat to his waistcoat pocket.
“Only some darts, but the evening’s still young.”
Hagrid’s large whiskers sagged. “I’m not much of a marksman.”
Aberforth gave him a sly look. “What better way to have them assume you’re a clod at cards as well?”
Hagrid’s face broke out in a wide grin as he took a long swallow. “I see yer point.” Lowering his booming voice to a low rumble, he added, “Did ya happen to catch the wireless earlier?”
Aberforth nodded, unable to wholly suppress the budding grin from his lips. “Aye. That’s a fine bunch. Warriors to the end.”
“Albus would’ve been proud,” Hagrid concurred as he toasted his former friend and mentor.
The hours bled into one another as so many nights which had gone before. But every once in a while, Aberforth would catch a snippet of conversation that confirmed just how many wizards had tuned into tonight’s wireless exposé.
If anyone commented on his distracted humming, Aberforth just attributed it to the three rambunctious kids his favorite nannie had birthed the past week. Through the open doorway into the kitchen yard, he could hear their contented bleating as they savored their evening meal. After all, it was the closest he would ever come to having grandchildren of his own.