THIS STORY CONTAINS A HUGE SPOILER FOR HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU HAVE FINISHED THE SIXTH BOOK.

Thank you.

Anyway…

After Order of the Phoenix, I wrote a tribute to Sirius Black.
I couldn't do any less for the main death in Half-Blood Prince.

This tribute may not mean a lot to most of you, because I've never shared my Aberforth before. I played him in a role-play once, and he became this amazing character, an idiot savant if you will. He couldn't read or write to save his life, but he could draw amazing pictures… except he drew on laundry. And he often fed his results to his pet goats, which he loved. Aberforth was just about as powerful as Albus when it came to spell-casting, but he had a heck of a time remembering when to use what spell – do you cast Expelliarmus or Protego when trying to disarm someone? He absolutely adored Albus, thought his brother could do no wrong, was the best in the world. And Albus was the only one who didn't call him crazy or stupid, not even behind his back.

Rest in peace, Albus Dumbledore.
We'll handle the rest.

Socks

Dumbledore liked goats. Goats were simple. They didn't yell at you, they didn't call you a crack-pot old fool, they didn't scoff, they didn't expect anything more from you than some food and water and occasionally a pat on the head. Goats made sense. He patted a goat on the head as he walked toward his home.

Dumbledore liked socks too. He liked the way socks hid his gnarled feet from view, liked the way they clung to everything when they came out of the muggle-type dryer, liked the way they smelled before they were worn for the first time. He liked the curl of the sock, formed just so to go nicely on your feet without too many unsightly bulges or wrinkles. There was a pile of fresh laundry on the kitchen table when he stepped in. Dumbledore ran his hand through the clothes, pausing to dig to the bottom and pull out an old, faded, dusty sock that hadn't made it in with the load.

Dumbledore liked goats, so he lived on a farm. The Dumbledore Farm. His father had named it. At one point, some fifteen, twenty years ago, the Order of the Phoenix called the farm their home. Dumbledore and his brother, or just Dumbledore, or just his brother, would always be present to welcome the weary Order members, to give them moral support, or maybe a sock.

You see, the Dumbledore brothers, Albus and Aberforth, they had a huge difference. Albus would wear socks. He'd wash them, dry them, match them up and tuck them into drawers. Aberforth would create with socks. He'd pull his quill from behind his ear and dip it into whatever color ink he felt like, and he'd draw on the sock. Beautiful pictures, nonsense words, strange scribbles in a language only he could decipher. These custom-designed socks were presented with great pomp to each member of the Order.

Dumbledore looked at the sock on his hand, then started walking up the winding stairs. He climbed up and up and up, eventually pushing aside a trapdoor and stepping into the attic.

The attic was the best-kept room of the house, despite the fact that the beams of the roof were clearly visible, or the fact that the floorboards were ancient and kept in place only by an Anti-Rotting spell.

There were two windows in the attic. One large window on the west side faced the ocean. It had a beautiful panoramic view, and the sunsets were amazing. Many a couple shared their first kiss – or the conception of their first child – as they watched the sun setting the sea on fire.

The East Window was stained glass, a beautiful smoky white with a border incorporating all four colors of the Hogwarts Houses. In the very center, a magnificent phoenix, wings outstretched, rose from pearly flames.

Albus and Aberforth would play in the light of the phoenix window when they were little. Albus loved the window, loved the phoenix.

Aberforth hated it.

He thought it was beautiful, yes, but the sight of the phoenix rising from the white flames always made him shiver and turn away. He'd play with his back to the East Window, looking out the West Window at the open sea instead.

Dumbledore sighed, remembering days long past when he had played under these windows. He tightened his hand around the sock and turned to the north wall of the attic.

Left to right, top to bottom, the wall was covered with names… and socks. Dumbledore's eyes traveled over the socks, his lips curling upward despite himself. Every name had a sock. Here was Lily Potter's, a fluffy pink one with the word "B-O-I" written on it in a large, childish hand. Despite Albus' best efforts, Aberforth never really did learn how to read, but he knew enough to give Lily a tribute when he learned she was having a baby boy. Over there was James', tawny yellow with circles scribbled all over it in red ink – Gryffindor Keeper, Aberforth had declared as he handed it over. James didn't have the heart to correct the earnest wizard. There were two blue ones nearby, not identical, but both slightly charred. Gideon and Fabian Prewitt. Their socks had been recovered by the first Order member on the scene. Caradoc Dearborn's original sock was missing – his body hadn't been found, his sock hadn't been recovered. Aberforth had made a new one, white and black, with teardrop-shaped pictures in a shiny gold ink. And over here was Edgar Bones', Marlene McKinnon, Benjy Fenwick… or what was left of his sock. It had been found in nearly as many pieces as its last owner. Dorcas Meadowes had a bright violet sock – Voldemort killed her personally, that was a high honor. Of sorts. There was a spot where a sock had been torn down, a name furiously scribbled out – Wormtail, the rat. Stuck above it was a golden sock with blue whorls inked on, and the name "Sirius Black," right next to James, where he would have wanted it. It had been a sad, sad day when Sirius' name joined the rest on this wall, the wall of heroes, those who had given their lives in the fight against Voldemort. Aberforth provided the socks, Albus wrote the names.

With a few whispered words, Dumbledore adhered the sock in his hand to the wall above all the others. Levitating himself, he pulled a quill out from behind his ear and in a large, shaky, childish hand, wrote Albus Dumbledore beside it.

Aberforth let the quill fall when he finished writing his brother's name, not bothering to tuck it behind his ear. He lowered himself to the ground and began his descent. When the trapdoor closed, the attic was cast into darkness, save for where the rising sun shone through the phoenix window. The light played across the names and socks of the fallen as the sun rose, casting a phoenix image over the dead.

And from the top of the wall, on a white knee sock carefully folded over and pinned in place to make a broader canvas, a matching phoenix marked Aberforth's last gift to his brother.

Aberforth drew the window that Albus loved on the sock to commemorate him, even though he himself despised it. He knew, somehow, that the window was actually an image from Albus' funeral.

Crawler