Shameless self-promotion: if you like this fic, or even if you think its concepts could be written better (trust me, I agree), please feel free to check out my AO3 WIP, birds of a feather, under my penname Darkfromday.

~Multi-Faceted~

XIII: Power

"Here he comes!" Aberforth called derisively. "The greatest wizard of the age. See how powerful he looks when he lifts his finger for a tankard of mead!"

"Enough, please," Albus retorted, with a significant bite in his voice. He stood in the doorway of the Hog's Head, and abruptly felt exhausted. "If you would like me to leave, you need only say so—I do not have the patience for your rancor tonight."

"Don't have the stomach, more like. Never have—"

The jab rankled, so much that Albus turned in a swirl of robes, lifting his hand to wandlessly push open the wooden door. The same power his brother mocked crackled around him as he made to leave.

"Oh for Merlin's—Albus. Albus, you sensitive old codger! Get your arse in here and sit."

He almost didn't obey—but there were not many places he could go in this day and age to unwind without being accosted. With a loud exhale, he made an about-face and cut through the chairs haphazardly strewn across the floor, sliding into his preferred seat on the far left end. There wasn't much point to the preference since the hour was late and the bar was empty, but old habits reigned.

A glass of what appeared to be butterbeer slid down to meet him, only just halting before it would have slid off the edge and shattered. "Take the edge off," Aberforth grunted; "you're scaring away my customers."

"There is no one else here."

"And why the hell d'you think that is? Cowards felt you coming a mile away."

Albus sipped at the glass without really tasting it. Drained it easily, thoughtlessly. Not that the alcohol would have helped much even if the sweetness had registered. His anger still flowed effortlessly through him, licking at his insides and darkening his thoughts.

"Stop brooding," his brother demanded, with a meaningful scowl. "You've got no right to be angry."

The glasses on the counter nearby rattled. "Don't I?"

"Not if I don't know what for. Why're you storming through town anyway?"

"That is hardly your business."

"Drunk, then," Aberforth said wisely, though that didn't stop him from filling another glass for the headmaster, sliding it down the counter too. "Or finally lost what was left of your senses after all these years. Well—in case you forgot, your precious school is back that-a-way."

"The only way I might take leave of my senses, or forget," Albus sniffed, "is if you had given me something stronger than this."

Aberforth barked out a mean little laugh. "Oh, certainly!" he added; "let's go ahead and give the mighty Albus Dumbledore some firewhiskey, or even Dragon's Breath, and see how well that goes! As if you and I don't vividly remember the shitshow that was the winter of 1966—which you still owe me for, by the way."

In truth, Albus had settled the tab for that particular, er, mishap twice already—but Aberforth would just pretend he was behind several payments and demand more Galleons the following month. It wasn't as though his brother didn't have enough to hate him for, so Albus concluded that Aberforth kept the bill open out of spite.

That was as much as he cared to think of it. Albus was not much of a drinker, certainly not a heavy one, but this evening he responded to the familiar jab with nothing more than pointed silence and a sip from his newly-filled glass.

"Keeping quiet about your tab isn't gonna reduce it," Aberforth said.

The headmaster tensed again, and his voice deepened in warning. "Aberforth, would you like me to leave? If so, please inform me and I will happily spend my gold elsewhere. But I will not ask you again to please, for one evening, keep your venom to yourself."

"Oh, piss off then!" the bartender snarled. He stepped closer at last, so that they were nearly nose-to-nose. "This is my bar and I'll say whatever the hell I want in it. If I want to call the great Albus Dumbledore out for having a tantrum on my property I will! I don't care if Merlin himself crawled from his bloody grave right now and told me to leave you alone. You need to either spill your problems right now or—"

He had more to say, certainly, but Albus did not let him finish.

Or rather, Albus' magic didn't let him finish. At that very moment, every single window on the front end of the Hog's Head cracked straight down the middle, letting great gusts of air in, and every single tankard Aberforth Dumbledore had just cleaned and laid to rest in the back exploded into tiny fragments.

Aberforth himself didn't flinch, because he was busy standing very, very still. "What the hell—!" he hissed between his teeth.

"I warned you," Albus interrupted, in a tone that was more like a growl, and more hostile than any he had ever used on his flesh and blood. "Though perhaps I should have rephrased. You are welcome to say whatever you wish, but tonight it will not go unanswered. I have plenty of time and incentive to finish my tantrum."

"Not in my bloody bar, you won't—"

"Oh, certainly not." His eyes were as frosty as his expression. The broken glass all around them trembled on the dusty floor. "Shall we take our disagreement outside?"

Aberforth's hand twitched toward his robe pockets, toward his wand—Albus deliberately followed the move with his eyes, before moving back to his brother's face. Go on, he broadcasted. This is what you wished for. Why delay? For the first time in decades, he was ready and willing to duel him.

He would even let Aberforth strike first, in the interest of fairness.

But no spellfire came, and his brother did not move toward the doors. Instead he took a very big breath, as if he were trying to inhale all the patience in the world, and waved his right hand at the bar's windows. They repaired themselves in an instant.

Fitting, Albus thought darkly despite himself. I destroy, and he remakes. It has always been our way.

"Albus. What on earth's crawled up your bony arse and died tonight?"

He did not answer properly this time, either—just chuckled cynically. "I believe that is still not your concern. Unless it is now your policy to serve as a comforting ear to all your patrons?"

"You know damn well you're not just another customer in my bar."

Yet I have not been considered your brother for nearly a century.

"I was attempting," he said at last, "to reckon with how five decades' worth of work to foster and bolster all that is good in our society has instead resulted in a cowardly magical government that would rather watch good men die in the shadows than admit that evil has risen once again."

Aberforth made a hissing sound through his teeth. After repairing a single tankard, he dumped a respectable amount of mead in and drained it in about ten seconds. "What exactly did the Ministry do this time?" he sighed.

"They have placed their own countrymen in the line of fire. Lord Voldemort has returned to life and power, and Cornelius has just finished irreparably destroying one of the two primary witnesses able to prove it."

Aberforth's hand clenched around his drink.

"...you wanna run that by me again?"

"I believe I was quite clear."

"You-Know-Who is back?"

"Yes."

"He has a physical body?"

"Thanks to a willing agent and my unwilling student, yes."

"And the Ministry knows this?"

"They refuse to know," Albus corrected, with the bite back in his voice. "I passed all the information I received from Harry Potter on to Cornelius at the first opportunity—"

"—wait, Harry Potter was involved in all this? Again? Merlin's tits..."

"—and Cornelius' response," he continued firmly, ignoring his brother's colorful language, "was to have one of his dementors perform the Kiss on Barty Crouch Jr., the agent partially responsible for returning Voldemort to power and fully responsible for endangering Harry's life. His further testimony is now lost forever."

Aberforth swore softly.

Personally, Albus did not think the rude words he uttered were strong enough.

"You think Fudge is in league with him?"

"No, I do not. I'm sure you will agree that Cornelius does not have the—shall we say—brainpower or magical ability to be useful to Lord Voldemort in any official capacity. But that does not mean that Voldemort will not take advantage of his willful blindness to bolster his forces and push our world back toward the sorry state it was in two decades' past."

"Can you please stop saying that tosser's name in here?" Aberforth grumbled—but he made no move to protest anything else which was said.

Your cowardice is disappointing, Albus nearly said—but even that seemed too venomous, and he was used to others' unnatural fear of Tom Riddle's pseudonym. So he let it lie.

"So Fudge is sticking his head in the sand. Well—so what? I don't bet you waited on his okay to contact your little birds in the Ministry, give 'em the real story."

"My proactivity matters little if only a handful of employees are empowered with the truth and the power to head Voldemort—" he ignored his brother's snarl. "—off before he can regain a foothold and resume his quest to destroy Magical Britain. You know Cornelius will not be content to simply withhold his aid. He will enlist the old families, the courts, the newspapers, and any other parties he thinks may fall in line with his message."

"Sheep falling in behind the sheepherder and all that."

But Aberforth did not sound perturbed enough for Albus' liking.

"Surely you understand the magnitude of what is happening."

"Sure I do. Same thing that happened before, when he last rose to power. And the same thing that happened with Grindelwald and the ICW before him."

The reference was pointed, meant to wound as always; but Albus' mind was on other matters, and he ignored the jab.

"What's the big deal?" Aberforth persisted. "Stupid people being stupid? Water's still wet. Quit pretending you can't move mountains all by yourself, Albus. You've got more than enough power to overrule the foolish."

"No I do not," Albus growled, "not in numbers like this! And not without the guarantee of damage to those I have sworn to protect."

Aberforth opened his mouth to scoff—and paused instead. "...So there it is."

The butterbeer had begun tasting more sour with each sip. Albus kept drinking it anyway, stubbornly, because it didn't taste any worse than the fear and anger curdling steadily in his gut.

"It's taken you long enough, but you've finally got it, haven't you? That it doesn't matter how powerful you are if everyone around you suffers from your arrogance."

I have known that for nearly a hundred years.

"...Or if one person suffers in particular," Aberforth added, sounding suspicious. "This tantrum isn't about those bumbling Ministry buffoons at all, is it? Or the Dark Lord and his ilk. It's about Harry Potter."

After being provoked so many times and hating the feel of it, Albus had done an excellent job remaining silent until that name hit the air again—but just the sound of it made his hands shake around his glass.

"Hah! I'm right. You're trying to protect the boy from the wolves, huh?"

I have been protecting that boy, Albus thought, for nearly fifteen years now.

Or at least I hoped I was.

But he didn't say any of that aloud, which perhaps prompted his brother to offer him a far sharper stab in the gut.

"Pfft. Haven't you realized yet that the ones you swear to protect are generally the ones who come off worse than if you'd left the job to someone else? If you really wanted Potter safe you should've left him to someone that doesn't break every kid he touches."

Fury swelled in Albus yet again, dangerously heating his glass and his hands with it.

"Speak ill of my past failure with Ariana all you wish, Aberforth," he said, quietly but deliberately dangerous. "You have every right. But you are out of your depth when it comes to discussing my efforts to shield Harry Potter. I have laid every possible protection on him that magic can provide; I have put myself visibly between him and any that would harm him. You are ignorant to what I would sacrifice to keep him safe."

"Am I?" Aberforth bit back. "Somehow I doubt it. Seen how far you'll go for myself, haven't I?"

For a long moment they glared at each other.

Albus broke first, looked down and away; his anxiety about Harry was a constant demon in his thoughts, draining his will and confidence.

"There is no one else," he murmured. His meaning was arrogant, but clear: no one else is strong enough to protect Harry from all the forces converging on him.

And still, I do not feel strong enough.

His brother sighed, pouring himself another generous helping of mead. "If there's no one else that can protect the boy so well as you, then he's done for. Why are you here moaning about it?"

Albus started to say so I may drink until I forget I am powerless—but something recently said sparked brightly in his mind. And his companion noticed.

"...no," Aberforth said abruptly.

The headmaster carried on as though he hadn't spoken. "Aberforth... I believe Harry might benefit from a different kind of powerful wizard looking after him."

"No."

"Your network of spies is unparalleled. Your position at the edge of society, physically and socially, allows you an ear into conversations others would not hear. Your indifferent persona invites truths from the minds of the Darkest of men."

"I said no, Albus, damn you! Don't get me involved with shepherding your little lamb."

"A lamb that has already saved us all once, and may well be the key to saving us again."

"Do you see me up at that school playing crackpot old teacher?" Aberforth snapped, his cheeks flushing with anger instead of drink for the first time. "I'm not on Hogwarts' dime or yours. I don't want anything to do with your little munchkins. And unless my math's wrong, Harry Potter is still of munchkin age."

Despite himself, Albus found himself chuckling. That didn't lessen the dark look on his brother's face any, but he couldn't help the image that had just flashed in his mind of a much younger Harry, almost swimming in a handmade Christmas sweater, looking up at him with open, trusting eyes.

At fourteen going on fifteen, Harry could hardly be said to be that tiny little boy anymore. Yet he needed Albus' power—no, Aberforth's power—more than he had before.

"I am not asking you to insert yourself openly into Harry's life," he said. "For one, Harry would not trust you if you tried to; he is understandably suspicious of outsiders and hangers-on. I am simply requesting that, should you cross paths with him on a jaunt to Diagon Alley in the summer, or if he finds his way into your territory during the school year, you will... be extra-aware of him. Watch his movements, and those who might take advantage of them."

"Like you."

Albus snorted. "Outside of protecting them from danger, I have no interest in dictating where a teenager might spend his or her time—and the same goes for Harry. Yet it is impractical and impossible for me to be his shield in every public setting."

"But not so impossible for a broken-down, pissy old bartender like your brother." Aberforth spit the word, lest Albus think the acknowledgement came from a place of affection. His own blue eyes were blazing, even through the haze of alcohol. "You ask too much of me."

"I am aware. But I have no other options, as you so succinctly pointed out. 'If no one else can protect the boy' as well as me, or you, then he really is done for."

He pinned his rougher, younger, superior brother with his gaze, making the message loud and clear. If it cannot be me, then there is no one else I would trust besides you. I need you.

Aberforth glared back again, not giving an inch at first. He was puffed up with drink and indignance. But as their staring contest held, he began to look guiltier. It was as though some outside force was leaning on what was left of his conscience, reminding him uncomfortably that while there were precious children long lost, there were also still living children left to protect.

Perhaps an outside force was reminding him.

"Please," Albus entreated. It was the last card he had to play.

His brother growled (there was really no better word for it) and tossed his mug aside, heedless to the way it slid away, toppled off the end of the bar and shattered.

"Fine! Fine. I'll look after your little project if he wanders in here. And I'll make sure my patrons leave him alone. But don't you dare expect me to—to trail him to the Forbidden Forest, or go hiding around corners to watch him when he's in Hogsmeade! I'm not a damned babysitter."

The headmaster relaxed, and looked up at him with shining eyes. "Thank you, Aberforth."

"Whatever."

"Truly, I am in your debt."

"As always. Which room should I clear out for the boy this summer?"

Albus blinked, puzzled. "Well... none. The protection he gains from staying with his relatives during the holidays still holds strong. To place him here immediately after term ends would jeopardize that protection forevermore, at a time when it will be most harshly tested."

"Hmmph. What good's you having me 'protect' the boy when your little plan means I won't see him again until September next?"

"The world is unpredictable," Albus replied vaguely. "Moreso now that Voldemort walks among us. I would prefer to have you at the ready now in case this summer brings us... unpleasant surprises."

Aberforth harrumphed again, but didn't deny the possibility. Not with more than one enemy to battle.

Albus stood, and with a sympathetic wave of his wand repaired the rest of the damage they had caused to the bar. His personal time was long over, his anger was spent, and his business (unexpected though it was) was concluded; it was time to go home. And perhaps find some more constructive place to vent my frustrations, for future occasions.

"I am grateful for your help, Aberforth," he said, quietly but with all the sincerity he had. "And I understand your reluctance. I know you still do not trust me—"

"Damn right I don't—"

"—but you may trust that in this I will not fail. Do your part, and I will do mine. Harry Potter will remain safe and sound."

Aberforth just waved him on, in the universal symbol for get out of my bar.

Albus did just that, turning and sweeping away toward the front doors for the second time that night. His mind raced past the Wizengamot and Ministry meetings he would need to conduct in the coming weeks, the traces he would need to reactivate for Voldemort and his free followers, and the press releases he would have to lean on foreign papers to publish. So much to do, and so little time. But he wasn't so preoccupied as to not hear his brother's parting shot:

"—And he's not getting any Firewhiskey from me, Albus! Not a single damn drop!"

(Sorry about the delay. I just really, really hate Aberforth, which makes him difficult to write.)