Author: Lucinda
Rated: T for teen, some bad words and violence.
No current pairings. Viewpoint character is Aberforth Dumbledore
Disclaimer: I hold no legal rights to any characters, settings or content of the Harry Potter series. Aberforth, Hogsmeade, the Hog's Head, Hogwarts, dementors and the Death Eaters belong to JK Rowling.
Set during the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
..ps..als..ps..als..ps..als
Death Eaters were marching on Hogsmeade, accompanied by a dozen giants, dementors and what he suspected were crowds of inferi. The last year had worn down people's spirits, their courage and will to resist. Worn away their hope. Maybe more than the last year. Come to think of it, it had been worse the last fifteen months, but more like taking something from a simmer to a boil, rather than a completely new dish.
This was going to be ugly. People would die. More might wish they had died, and he doubted it would be mostly the right ones dying. He suspected it would mostly be the students at the castle and the villagers dying, and the Death Eaters laughing at them come morning.
Little use as Aberforth had for most muggles, he had less use for Death Eaters. Most were a bunch of stuck-up fools too busy prancing around mocking those who hadn't inherited heaps of gold from their ancestors. They didn't bother doing anything useful or productive themselves, caught up in showmanship, politics and rivalries. How many of your ancestors had magic didn't matter so much as how they'd treated each other, and more than a few of the most pure families had health problems because of it.
Breeding livestock too close for too many generations caused health problems. The same could be said for humans, it just took longer to show. Some of the pureblood families had long since reached the point where it showed. Others were reaching that point at more of a meander, but it still showed if you looked. He hadn't met a pureblood yet who didn't have something odd, either in mind or body. Extra toes, odd shaping to the body, fussy guts or weak lungs, whole families with allergies to this or that, and then their heads… Don't even get him started about how messed up some purebloods were in the head! As a bartender, Aberforth saw quite a bit, much more than most of his clientele suspected.
He'd learned a long, long time ago that blood purity didn't do anything for magical ability. Oh, there were advantages for purebloods, because of their ancestry, but not magic. Because their family had been magical for generations, they knew how things worked, they knew where to go, who to talk to. They knew the laws, often having been involved in writing them, and how to twist them. They had relatives who knew people in useful places, or were people in useful places. They might have generations worth of collected journals and hints and tricks for a certain area, like the Ogden's and their brewing, or the Woolsey's and Malkin's with their tailoring. They'd had generations to work on gaining money and holdings, with far fewer taxes than the muggles. Those things added up to a better starting point in the magical community.
They didn't give someone stronger magic, or more intelligence. Or ethics and honor, blood purity did nothing for honor or ethics.
His brother had forgotten that, if Albus had ever learned. But then Albus had flung himself into the ivory tower of academics and dabbled in the hazy fantasy world of politics instead of spending time in the real world. Focusing on those with the useful political connections – mostly purebloods with the occasional half-blood of impressive skill – and the rare new blood of breathtaking potential. Trying to nudge and meddle and guilt everyone into moving towards some nebulous plan 'for the Greater Good', a plan and good which he didn't think Albus ever took the time to explain. From what he'd gathered, his older and definitely not wiser brother didn't even bother to explain why people should do certain things in certain ways, they were just supposed to trust Albus. And remember to give those who oppose you chance after chance, because they might change their ways and… how did he put it, 'come to the light'.
Bugger that, and bugger Albus' greater good.
Aberforth believed people needed to understand consequences, regardless of how far back they could trace their family, regardless of how often their great grandpa and great grandma had been cousins, and regardless of how much gold they had at Gringotts. They needed to understand some things weren't acceptable, and some things carried a price beyond gold or a little bit of ache from quidditch. They should have a sense of what should or shouldn't be done that traced back to honor and ethics instead of prestige and legal definitions.
Not that he considered himself a great man. He was a wizard of average power, limited ambition and probably average intellect. He'd never moved past his OWLs due to family crisis, and had started working in a pub at sixteen. He'd managed to save enough coin to go from working in someone's pub to owning his own, but… he'd never married, never had a family. Never been a great or highly respected wizard.
There had been a scandal concerning goats… and that had been the end of Aberforth's attempted self study in further Transfiguration. Never sneeze in the middle of a casting, it was… it was a very bad idea. Assuming you survive what magical surprises result, and the embarrassing rescue by snickering aurors, then you have to endure all the whispers and rumors.
Now Death Eaters and their allies were intending to attack the village and school. He had no doubts his brother had left his own plans firmly stuck in the heads of as many of the remaining staff and students as possible, and most of the villagers were stuffed with Albus' ideas about being the better men and giving forgiveness and second chances. To people who would kill them, or toy with them before killing them, or perhaps keep their pretty daughters or pretty sons, depending on the scum's tastes, alive to play with longer term.
As he'd said, bugger that.
Aberforth looked at the sad gathering of aging wizards in his pub. Most of them were old, none of them had impressive families or fortunes or fancy ancestries. They were considered the wretched dregs by those who had those things, and aging, has-beens and never-weres by those with less fortune. Few had more than OWLs, and he doubted most had even considered… No, old Fabby Tanner had once had big dreams. Before she'd been seduced by a Weasley and cast out of her family for the resulting pregnancy. Before she'd found herself a 'fallen woman', a single mother who'd been cast aside for someone with a dower and a fiercely protective father.
"All right, you sorry lot. Death Eaters are marching on Hogsmeade, no doubt figuring to step right over us and on to the school. They expect us to either scatter like mice or be cut down like wheat, and then to move on to the students. To destroy anyone who won't follow their way." Aberforth pulled out a box of sobering potions, placing it on the counter.
"I say to hell with them and their master. I say we do what we can to take as many of those fancy bastards out as possible." Aberforth then pulled out the boxes he'd gathered over the years of weapons and wands he'd taken from rowdy drunks.
"What can we do? We're just a bunch of useless drunks," old John grumbled.
"Sobering potions?" Fabby asked, taking a few steps closer. "Do you think any of us have much of a chance?"
"I figure if the good folk think so little of us," Aberforth began.
"We know they do," called Stubby Jones.
"What will those dark bastards think? Do any of us think they'll consider us worth living?" Aberforth finished.
There were a variety of comments and grumbles. Most of the people seemed quite aware the Death Eaters wouldn't be impressed by them. They would see nothing of even minimal value to their precious Dark Lord or his cause. Just a bunch of old and drunk people of little status, questionable talent, and no money.
"They'll kill us as a warm up," grumbled Conk. Rumor was Conk had once been a quidditch player, though nobody knew for what team, what position, or even what year. For that matter, nobody was even sure if Conk came from his first name or his family.
"What are you planning, Aberforth?" asked old Mundy. The man was more used to moving stolen goods than fighting, something of a family profession. Despite most of them knowing what old Mundy did, he'd never been caught by the aurors, unlike his grandson.
"They're planning to kill us, if they notice us at all. We're all as good as dead," hissed Patch, a former auror who never revealed his name, or if he had a family. They rather doubted he did, or maybe his family had just decided to pretend he was dead. He'd lost one eye, parts of his ears, two fingers from his left hand, had bad knees, and more scars than unmarked skin. He also had an abundance of colorful tattoos over his arms and chest, perhaps more of his body. He'd once admitted to thinking he could hide scars under tattoos when he was younger.
"So if we're dead anyhow, why not go down fighting?" Aberforth countered.
"Not like we have anything left to lose," grumbled Fabby.
"I got sobering potions. I got wands and knives and every other thing I've taken away from rowdy bastards over the years. I might have some potions to numb pain," Aberforth ducked down to check under his bar before pulling up a few bottles. "Ahh, here they are."
Several of his patrons were moving closer. The boxes of knives and weapons was being sorted through, things being passed about with appreciative murmurs.
"How well do they go together?" asked Patch.
"For a few hours, no problems. After that there starts being ingredient interactions. Take them both and you'll be able to move like you were at twenty, but you might be dead by sunrise." Aberforth admitted. "Either's fine on their own."
"We're already dead by sunrise," someone muttered. "Might as well make it count."
His regulars, all of them rejected and counted as nobodys by the wizarding world, with an average age nearing eighty, made various sounds of agreement. First the box of sobering potions was removed from the bar, passing from cluster to cluster until every single vial was gone, the empties left on the table, often dropped into empty mugs. Once sober, they began clustering the boxes of wands and weapons, discovering with surprise and delight that the boxes were enchanted to hold more than they appeared. Much, much more.
Aberforth had collected thirty nine wands over the years. He'd stopped counting the knives at a hundred, and that had been decades ago. There were also a few swords, some axes, dozens of brass knuckles, and more than a few clubs. He wouldn't swear to the edges on any of them…
"Bring that over, if there's one spell I can do in me sleep it's the knife sharpener," called Stubby Jones. Stubby, who'd spend over sixty years working as a butcher… Yes, he'd know how to make and keep knives sharp. A new knife was expensive, but sharpening an old one just a matter of a few moments or a couple words.
"What else have you got under the bar, Abe?" Fabby asked, a wand in one hand and a freshly sharpened ax in the other.
"Pull out those special box I left you, Abe. The smugglers won't need 'em and we might." Mundy offered.
Abe pulled out his own box, with blood replenishers and burn paste. He doubted they'd be useful in the fighting, but if anyone survived to tend to wounded they might be a good thing to have. Then he pulled out Mundy's box, the one he'd begged not to let any legal authorities see.
Mundy pulled out a small amulet, which Abe recognized as a signature based magical key. Opening the box, Mundy revealed a collection of restricted potions. Potions for strength, for speed and reflexes. Potions that might let a wizard fight toe to toe with a troll for a while. Not that said wizard wouldn't feel it and pay later, but…
"Dunno how they'll interact with anything else," Mundy began.
"Nothing that won't give us at least a few hours," old Milly Treacle insisted. She'd made money brewing potions for a long time, and Aberforth couldn't remember her being young enough not to have grey hair. "Bugger your chances for seeing sunrise if you take either of 'em and the pain blocker, but none of us can expect that anyhow."
With that, old Milly pulled out a vial of the strength potion, and one of the speed and reflex potion. Then she grabbed a clean shot glass from behind the bar and found an empty area. First she poured the strength potion into the shot glass, then added two drops of something dark purple she pulled from her sleeve. After a moment, she muttered something and put in three more drops and called, "two drops to drop about forty years. It lasts four hours and you may as well get back double after that, but that only matters if you live 'till then."
Her little flask soon vanished making the rounds of the bar. She turned back to her shot glass and added the speed potion. The whole mix turned a brilliant fuchsia, glowing softly. Milly raised the glass for a moment before slugging it back in a single swallow.
When she turned around the woman didn't look more than thirty, and her eyes had taken on the same brilliant fuchsia color. "I'll see all of you tomorrow in Valhalla."
She took up a pair of axes, now sharpened to a fine edge thanks to Stubby. "I never did learn much combat magic. Gran always swore by a swift blade over spells. Guess it's too late now."
Not a single one of them was about to have old Milly Treacle show them up when it came to courage. While not everyone had taken some of her purple elixir, everybody had a weapon, and most had wands as well. They moved out of the Hog's Head, determined to make a difference. While they could try to stop it, not a single Death Eater, or any of their minions would get by to hurt the students.
Aberforth felt like his bones were humming, hopped up on a mixture of pain blocker, speed potion, and Milly's purple elixir. He doubted he'd make it to midnight, but he was already old, and he'd rather go down fighting than cowering in his bar.
At the least, they could take some of those bastards with them to judgment.
The Death Eaters didn't notice the bar patrons slipping out of the hog's Head and spreading around Hogsmeade. Not until a destructive crossfire of cutting and blasting spells along with a few incendios demolished their inferi shock-troops. Not until old Milly launched herself at one of the werewolves with axes flying and a blood-curdling shriek.
Meanwhile, Stubby and old John had taken one of the giants down, knife flashing as he carved at tendons, removing flesh from bone with all the skill his decades of butchery had taught him. Patch and young John had turned to another giant after the inferi were dropped. Mundy was setting every twitching piece of inferi on fire, figuring that while they might not be able to do much when chopped apart, he didn't reach old by counting on 'might'.
Fabby was launching spells at a Death Eater with long blond hair while hacking at another werewolf with an ax.
Conk had taken the club dropped by the giant Stubby and old John had dropped, a club nearly as big as he was, and launching himself at the enemy. Everything suggested he'd once been a world-caliber beater and was picturing every Death Eater and werewolf as an offending bludger. Turns out giant's clubs were decent shields as well as weapons.
The lot of them were fighting like top-notch aurors in the prime of health. They were still outnumbered four to one, but they were making an impact. A rather brutal impact with broken bones and ruined limbs.
For a few moments, Aberforth wondered if they might have a chance. If the no-doubt illegal combinations of potions running through them would let them take down all of the enemy, even if it killed them – and those potions mingled in such a way that it surely would.
Then one of the giants managed to hit old John with his club. Fabby and Patch took that giant out, but a trio of werewolves dragged Patch down. The amount of blood suggested he wouldn't be getting back up, though they might not either. A Death Eater caught Fabby with a spell that left most of her midsection a dripping empty hole, though she managed to bury her axe in the coward's skull before she collapsed, a plum colored spell dropping another werewolf screaming to the ground.
A cluster of Death Eaters had old Mundy on the ground, circling around him while taking turns with the Cruciatus. He didn't know what caused the blinding-white fireball, but Mundy managed to take seven of the bastards with him.
A pair of werewolves had managed to separate Conk from the club, though he was doing his best to fight them with fists and fury. Abe could see a pair of Death Eaters raising wands. No, Conk wouldn't live long enough to worry about werewolf bites.
He flung himself towards the nearest knot of Death Eaters, raw magic flowing from his wand. The wood felt warm, humming to match his bones. Spells, whispered and screamed for years as the only way to safely harness magic were ignored in favor of wrestling the magic into accordance to his will. His will that these wretches be stopped. His wand spat lightning and fire, stones flung themselves into Death Eater bones.
He could feel the spells approaching him, and with all the boosts from the potions running through his system, Aberforth even managed to dodge some. He even managed to twist some of the spells around and send them at his assailants. The air around him glowed with the sheer quantity of magic.
He could feel his death approaching from every direction. He gasped, the air burning from the many spells, from the fire.
But I haven't done enough! Someone needs to protect the children! It can't end like this… not with so many of them still approaching the school.
Seventeen different hostile spells, one of them the Killing Curse and another Fiendfyre intersected Aberforth Dumbledore. A man with four different potions running through him, with incompatibilities and lethal side effects. In a place near enough to the intersection of five magical lines of power converges that the raw magical power available was so high nobody born within thirty miles of Hogwarts could be anything less than a squib.
Reality tore, and the resulting explosion leveled Hogsmeade. It killed three more giants and every dementor within twenty miles. The entire left flank of Dark forces were vaporized. Battle plans of the opposing leaders were thrown into disarray.
And the essence of Aberforth was flung through energies such that time and space were no more meaningful than red and yellow.
End Pottery Shard: Aberforth's Last Stand.
I'm considering expanding this into a longer story. I'd be curious to see other people's thoughts on expanding this.