Chapter 21

-He Was My Equal-

-Albus & Aberforth

Merry Christmas to something-like-love.

Challenge Details: This was written for a challenge set by cupid-painted-blind, in which you had to pick three objects to include in a fic. The objects I chose were a bottle of whiskey, an old book and a silver coin.

He turns up on Christmas Eve, his eyes fixated on his shoes and his auburn beard hiding any emotion that spikes his thin, flat mouth, with a simple nod and the request of a Firewhiskey. It's got to be way after midnight, sometime in those hazy hours that linger between the beginning of the morning and dawn. Aberforth watches from behind glassy eyes as his brother collapses at a table, bottle clenched in one hand and head rested on the other. Damn, he's only thirty-one, and look at him, he's dying.

A book is slipped from his pocket, the pages are frayed with the ghosts of family and friends, Aberforth recognises it from here. Albus was always into the idea that love ruled supreme, and his brother thought it kind never to shatter his fairytale. It was all an illusion, absolutely ridiculous, Aberforth thinks, as he traces his sodden cloth over the glass again and again; repetition is soothing, only someone who believed in the "greater good" could believe that rubbish, andshut up Abe, you're only jealous because he neglected you in favour of the world.

This isn't Christmas, it's damn hell.

"What brings you here, Albus?" he asks, his words are clipped and his voice falters. It's a mark of how much their relationship has changed, because fourteen years ago Aberforth would have snapped and torn shreds off his brother with words and used that incredibly pathetic nickname, Al.

"I want a drink." Albus holds up his Firewhiskey as though it is the saviour of the world, but he cannot help but allow his eyes to drift down towards his photo album. Aberforth notices this, and snatches it quickly (Albus never had any physical skills; the only lifting he ever did was pick up those damn heavy books he and Gellert were obsessed with).

"Want a drink, or depressed about the fact that it's Christmas and all you have is memories?" There, now their usual relationship is back in the picture.

Aberforth flips through the photo album. Gellert, Gellert, Gellert. Ariana, in all her innocent and heartbreaking glory. Gellert.

"You're wallowing."

"Give it back, Abe." Albus' voice is worn, and it creeps Aberforth out, because he was once so full of life.

"You do know Gellert loved you, right?"

"Just give it back." He's resisting the truth. Aberforth can't help but sigh, because this is typical Albus, even photos of the damn German sneak who killed his sister are more important than his brother.

"He loved you, simply because he could use you, and you're damn gullible, and seriously Al, you need to get over it. He's gone."

Albus leans over the table, the very tips of his auburn beard dangling in his Firewhiskey, and stares at Aberforth, who is still clutching the dirty rag tightly in his fist.

"You don't understand Aberforth." Any hint of candidness is gone, and Aberforth receives the same look as his brother gives students, because Albus is so formal and he treats his students as well as he treats you.

"He was my equal."

There is a sharp pause, the space between words spewing from mouths filled only with ragged breaths and the swigging of Firewhiskey.

"Merry Christmas."

Albus slides a single silver coin across the table, shiny and glittering in the moonlight that fought its way through the dusty windows (Aberforth reasons that he should probably do some cleaning), and marches out, with not a single look back.

There is so much Aberforth wants to say, so many unspoken conversations that shouldn't be lingering in the air like they are, and yet he does not have the courage to call his brother back. It's one of the reasons Albus made a better Gryffindor than him.

--

(Two weeks later, Albus returns, but he leaves the book at Hogwarts this time).