It is a grand old house. It lies on a ridge and is most notable for its illustrious old bomb shelter - one almost entirely unique among its magical neighbors, lying with the precision that could only accompany an ignorant wizard's flight of fancy, in the large field behind the house. The living space is in itself moderately more sensible, but he does not live in the living space so much as the bomb shelter. The bomb shelter is safe - he has read so in some dusty magazine of times past - and there is nothing he wants more than that safety.
No. Not now.
The man stares morosely at his hands, and then the cracked and grimy mirror overhead. A reflection stares right back at him, angry and wild. His face is blank, his mouth stubborn. It pounds its fist against his own, and he feels his maturity slip away to leave exposed a disgruntled two year old, unaware that the person staring back at him is not a separate entity. And thus he claws away, empty inside.
Since her death that has been the feeling of choice. He has trained himself to do some simple commands - eat now, Aberforth; you need to get some sleep now, Aberforth - but the meaning is gone. Perhaps that's a bit melodramatic, really; it was only a matter of time, anyway, but he feels hatred for Albus sear up into his throat, begging to release itself in his tears. But he won't cry - not now, when he has given up everything else already.
And perhaps he'll learn to forgive Albus, too, someday. Fight for the common good or whatever else Albus likes to say. There's been a portrait commissioned, now, of Ariana, and although he won't like it, he'll do what she says. Always do what she says. She always has that effect on him, calming or whatever else. She won't - wouldn't - hate Albus.
Good, sweet, kind Ariana, why did you die?
His empty glass hits the floor, and it shatters.