Disclaimer: I am not J. K Rowling. Therefore, Harry Potter is not mine.

Something I thought of when I re-read Deathly Hollows, when it mentions in Chapter eighteen, the "coffin-side brawl" between Dumbledore and Aberforth, it made me think of how something similar happens in Hamlet. (Dorky of me, yes?) A little short, but I hope you enjoy!


A punch in the face. The resounding crack of bone.

These are the things that communicate what words cannot.

Albus' blood drips freely on his black mourning clothes, staining the bleak stones on the ground. The blood splattered like ink.

Aberforth's fist is bleeding too, split at one of the knuckles. That doesn't stop him from lunging at his brother again, rage filling his stomach and pulsing through his body like venom. He wants to fight, lash out. He doesn't bother to reach for his wand- casting a spell would not be the same.

And he can't do it, not after...

Because in his older brother's face, Aberforth can see him, that other boy who caused all this. And there's an irrational part of Aberforth that thinks Albus is crying for him, for their shattered friendship, not for Ariana.

Ariana, his little sister, lying in a coffin, auburn hair splayed about like a tangled halo. He remembered how she liked it when he brushed it.

Ariana, hands clasped in front of her, petals strewn all around her. A coffin full of flowers.

Ariana, who shouldn't be dead, but is about to vanish beneath the still-wet ocean of mud, and it's all his fault.

Relatives grab at Aberforth, a pointless action, because the damage has already been done. Disgust, grief and shame well up within him, but he won't look at Albus. A cold wind rushes through the trees, the sound oddly grating, like a hiss. It is starting to rain- Aberforth imagines Ariana is crying. He had always hated it when she cried.

And what would make her cry more then to see her brothers fighting like enemies?

But Albus does not move. Not even to stem the flow of blood, falling freely from his now-broken nose, a bruise already forming on the crooked bridge. The blood is disturbingly vivid against all the grey, a testament to everything, or so it seems.

Albus notes, with a sickening jolt, that Ariana would have wanted Gellert there, too. She had thought he was her friend. The irony of this makes him want to weep.

Aberforth's breathing is heavy. The relatives and friends trickle away, little of them that there are. Albus turns to the grave, silent, numb.

Both of them are grateful for the rain, because it is easier to tilt their heads up to the pearly grey sky and let it wash the salty tears off their faces.

Aberforth sneaks a glance at his brother, raising his hand to his mouth and wiping at it with his swollen knuckle. Albus looks back, one of the lenses on his glasses cracked.

Without Ariana, they are standing at opposite sides of the river.

And they do not know how to go back.


I have no idea why I put off writing this for so long. Ah well.

Go ahead and tell me what you thought. :)