The day of the funeral, the ground was slick with rain and their footsteps squelched on sticky patches of mud as they trudged their way to the burial. He only remembered blurred flickers of fragments of that day—the sky was gray and thickly marbled with purple clouds that grumbled threats of rain, and when it did rain Aberforth let the water dot his glasses and blur his vision, numbly putting one foot in front of the other. Something inside him dimly realized that he could have clarified his vision with a simple flick of his wand, but that sounded like something his brother would do—and he hated that thought.
So he defiantly glowered into his damp glasses and trailed after the funeral procession.
It was often, unfortunately, that he would come downstairs to find his mother backed away, hands up in a gesture of surrender, while his younger sister cried in panic as magic crackled and sizzled like ozone about her, the magic that was once hers to control now threatening to destroy her.
And it was often that he would be the one to dash to her, soothe her, smooth her hair and take her out to feed the goats with their mother's weary face mouthing a 'thank you' at his back as he gently led Ariana outside.
And it was often that his brother—ever prestigious, ever brilliant, ever superior, would be sitting up in his bedroom, either scrawling out letters to professors and potioneers or with his nose in a thick, musty book.
It was also often that he was told he should be more like Albus, studious and diligent and open. But at that point in time he was content. He wasn't prefect or Head Boy or top of his class, but he was Ariana's favorite, and that was enough.
A little tufty-haired man in plain black wizards' robes was the one that they chose to send Ariana off, but Aberforth had not one jot of attention for this man who had never met his sister in his life. He simply stared at the bone-white grave now sitting innocently in a recently dug up mound of dirt next to his mother's grave, clenching and unclenching his fists.
"—a life tragically cut short—"
Tragic, Aberforth thought, shooting a resentful look in Albus's direction. Yes, it was that all right. His brother was also standing in front of Ariana's grave; his fingers laced, his head bowed, rain dripping down his cheeks. To everyone who passed by, he looked like a grieving elder brother, but Aberforth knew better. A short spurt of heat swelled in his chest when he looked at Albus and remembered him bringing that boy into the house, and the heat crawled up into his throat and scalded his eyes when he remembered that day, where there were jets of light flying in every conceivable direction and confused shouts and a small blonde girl draped motionless on the floor—
On the day their mother had died, Aberforth had been out buying goat food. It had been early summer, and the sky was a cloudless blue and the temperature was pleasantly warm. He even found himself humming as he walked home to find his sister sitting by herself on the fence of the goat pen.
"Hullo," he said brightly as he set his bags down. "Where's Mum?"
Ariana said nothing, simply stared into space with those vacant blue eyes, and Aberforth had shrugged it off. His sister sometimes slipped into bouts of complete silence for hours at a time, so he hadn't thought much of it. He had begun hand-feeding the goats, inviting Ariana to come join him, when he felt a tug at his shirt.
"What is it?" Aberforth had asked, scratching the ears of his favorite goat, Basil.
Ariana had stared up at him with searching blue eyes eerily like Albus's and then said in a low voice, "I didn't mean to do it."
"Do what?" He'd asked airily.
Ariana fidgeted uncomfortably. "I didn't mean to," she repeated pleadingly, and his fingers faltered on the sudden shrill note in her voice, that note that told him that her wild magic had once more turned against her.
"What?" Aberforth had asked, slowly pivoting as heavy stones of dread filled his stomach. "What didn't you mean to do?"
Ariana had taken his hand. "I'll show you," she said, and tugged him away from the goats, across the yard, and into their house.
In their house where their mother lay dead, neck neatly snapped, her hair shaken out of her bun and flowing in dark sheets across the floor.
Aberforth's breath suddenly tangled in his throat.
"I think I made Mummy fall," Ariana said, looking down at their dead mother. "I told her to get up, but she hasn't. It was an accident. Can you fix her, Aberforth?"
Aberforth couldn't speak. She'd made tea for herself and her children. Some of the china cups had smashed, and the tea had gone cold.
"Aberforth?" Ariana asked insistently. "Aberforth, maybe you could write to Albus. Albus will fix her."
With burning eyes and skin, Aberforth somehow managed to nod. "I think I'll do that," he said in a choked voice.
He'd never told a soul how Kendra Dumbledore had really died—if he had, Ariana probably would have been whisked off to St. Mungo's to a ward for hopeless cases—but he'd always figured his brother, at least, had guessed. He could see it now, in the way he looked at the two graves, mother and daughter, his blue eyes swimming in sorrow. But looking at his brother's face made his fists twitch and Aberforth had to look away because it was Albus, Albus and Grindelwald, he was convinced to had brought them to this gray, rainy day in front of these two tombstones, the remnants of the Dumbledore family. A gleeful, mocking face framed by golden curls flashed through Aberforth's thoughts and he had to grit his teeth and screw his eyes shut because of thinking of him made him want to break something. Thinking of that boy who had fled the day after the incident and not stayed to pay his respects.
Aberforth had known perfectly well that Albus certainly wasn't one to look after Ariana. He'd always known. So in the aftermath of Kendra's funeral, he'd presented an explanation about how he didn't care about school or grades; and that by right, he should stay here and be Ariana's caretaker. But Albus had been firm. At the time, he'd only had two more years left at Hogwarts and Albus had told him several times that Kendra would have wanted him to complete his education and that he could take care of Ariana just fine on his own.
So he'd reluctantly gone off to school. And to his surprise, Albus had seemed to do all right for a few weeks. He'd gotten letters from both his brother and his sister, telling him how they were fine and he needn't worry.
But then Albus stopped writing.
Aberforth worried about this for a few months, and was only given the answer when he returned home for the summer holidays.
Grindelwald.
Gellert Grindelwald. Former student at Durmstrang. Great-nephew of Bathilda Bagshot, a renowned magical historian. And dangerously brilliant, as brilliant as his brother. And now that Albus had an equal to talk to, it appeared his younger siblings did not matter.
Grindelwald frequented the Dumbledore house much more than Aberforth would have liked. And after a month of seeing too much of him, a strong dislike for the Grindelwald began to root itself inside him. Grindelwald ignored Aberforth. He filled Albus's head with dangerous ideas about Muggles and the wizards' place in society. And worst of all, he was cruel to Ariana.
Aberforth tried countless times to stand up to Grindelwald, but he would simply laugh and sweep Aberforth out of the way. Grindelwald didn't pay Aberforth any attention, not until that day—
Almost everyone at the funeral had taken their leave. Thunder had begun to grumble all around them, and lightning slashed the sky in half. A downpour roared down upon them, but Aberforth still didn't move.
It had been clear they were planning to leave for somewhere, and so in late August Aberforth stood up to Grindelwald.
The rain churned the dirt of Ariana's grave into brackish water swirling around their feet.
"You can't move her," he said, standing in front of the blank-faced Grindelwald and Albus, proud of his voice for not trembling. "So you had better give it up. Wherever you're going to make your pretty speeches and whip yourselves up a following, she can't go—so you either give up or leave," he said in Grindelwald's direction.
He was now practically blind. He couldn't see a thing through his glasses, but he didn't care because this meant he couldn't see his sister's grave, which he had unwittingly dug on that muggy August night.
He thought he saw a flicker of something like malice in Grindelwald's gaze, but it was quickly gone.
"Stupid little boy," he said with an eerie smile stretched across his face. "Don't you see? Once the Muggles have learned their place and wizards can come out into the world once more, your sister won't have to hide."
And yet the day after, he had immediately gone into hiding.
Angry words were forcefully exchanged. Grindelwald whipped out his wand, but Aberforth pulled his out too late. One moment Grindelwald had his wand pointed at him, and the next there was liquid fire clawing through his veins.
More people were beginning to disperse, until only the two Dumbledores, Bathilda, the tufty-haired wizard and a few others were left.
He caught blurred images of Albus mouthing something while stabbing his wand, but Grindelwald almost lazily conjured a shield. From the ground, Aberforth murmured, "Petrificus Totalus," and a pale jet of light flew past Grindelwald's arm—
The rain began to pass, leaving everything glittering with the sunlight reflecting off the water.
Soon all Aberforth could see were violent flashes of light as he shouted every spell in his possession, firing jinxes and hexes blindly in every direction—
Aberforth mopped his face with his sleeve.
—And then there was a soft, small cry, and Aberforth immediately lowered his wand, crying out in horror when he saw his little sister on the ground, killed by one of them.
Grindelwald left the next day.
Grindelwald.
The liar.
The genius.
The killer.
The boy his brother had brought into the house.
"It's your fault," he spoke in a horrible, gravelly voice.
Brilliant blue eyes looked up to meet his.
"It's your fault," Aberforth repeated, "that she's dead."
Albus looked at his younger brother.
Aberforth's fists twitched.
Albus looked back at the grave.
Then there was the delicious crunch of a broken nose and the pleasantly warm gush of blood seeping through Aberforth's fingers. Albus did nothing as Aberforth punched him, just squeezed his lips together and dabbed at the blood trickling from his nose.
And then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded and pressed his lips to the cool stone of Ariana's grave, and walked away.
And Aberforth was left alone to stew for many years as his brother won prizes and became headmaster of Hogwarts and eventually defeated Grindelwald. No one ever really remembered him, not when he was in the shadow of his famous, brilliant, and generous older brother.
But he was Ariana's favorite.
And for him, that was always enough.
That tufty-haired wizard really gets around.
Thank you for reading!