Chapter four: The most dire distress

2 and 3 May 1998

For the first time in months, the grey mist covering Hogsmeade like a shroud had lifted, allowing the last sunrays to splash the evening sky with vibrant pink and orange.

Inside the Hog's Head, a brown mouse scuttered down from the cobweb-covered windowsill and across the dusty floorboards. It paused under the heavy oak table to nibble at a few stale crumbs, its beady black eyes darting back and forth. Suddenly, the inn door flew open, sending the mouse dashing to its hole. Aberforth Dumbledore strode in, his stringy grey hair matted around his face, his robes and beard singed. After grabbing a glass and a bottle of Blishen's Firewhisky from the counter, he sat wearily at the table, finally allowing himself to feel the aches in his old bones.

The battle had been fierce, and even though Voldemort had finally – finally ! – been vanquished, their victory left a bitter taste in his mouth. They had spent the best part of the day tending the wounded and cleaning up the dead, readying them for burial. Filling his second glass, he thought of all the young lives that had been lost. Brave they had been, no doubt, but at what cost?

Just as he was considering lighting a fire to take the edge off the evening chill, he was startled by a loud rap at the door.

"Aberforth! Open up! Quick, noo!"

He strode up to the door and let the young healer in. Her copper hair was in a tight bun and covered with a white headscarf, and her robes were splattered with blood.

"Morag? What – "

"Someone's grievously wounded at the Shrieking Shack. I need one of yer goats. An' I sure could do with a dram of firewhisky too."

"One of my goats? What for?" he scowled.

"Milk an' blood for a wound-healing potion. Dinnae fash yersel', I willnae take much blood an' I'll make sure not tae hurt yer girl."

"Hang on, lass. Who did you find? Death Eaters have been meeting in the Shack. Wouldn't you rather be helping more deserving people up at the castle?"

The healer drew herself up to her full height and held the barman's piercing blue gaze as she recited with perfect diction, "I will not discriminate against any patient, no matter their age, sex, ethnic origin, creed, social or magical status, but endeavour to relieve their suffering, guided solely by their needs and giving priority to the most dire distress. I took that vow, Aberforth, an' the most dire distress sure is whit I found. I didnae ask nae questions when ye needed me tae treat that embarrassing wee disease of yers, neither. Now will ye help me or nae?"

A heavy silence hung over them for a moment, then the barman reluctantly grunted, "All right. Take Jeannie, the white one with a brown head. Her milk's rich and I'm guessing that's what you need. She's in the shed in the back, can't miss her, she's the bossy one. She'd better be healthy when you bring her back, though. You can have what's left of that Blishen too," he added, nodding to the half-full bottle on the table.

"Ye have ma thanks, Aberforth." She grabbed the bottle and headed for the shed. The goat greeted her like a long-lost friend and Aberforth watched them walk briskly away. Then, he closed the heavy shutters and took himself to bed.

A loud hammering at the door caused him to jump up in alarm. A glance through the landing window told him he had slept till noon. As he hurried downstairs, the hammering went on, and he bellowed, "WHAT NOW? Can't an old man catch some rest in peace?"

He unbolted the door and found himself face to face with Harry Potter and his two sidekicks, the Granger girl and the youngest Wesley boy.

"What do you lot want this time? It's not like you need me to sneak into the castle again, is it?" he thundered as he let them in.

"We're terrible sorry to bother you, Mr Dumbledore," Hermione explained, "but we found one of your goats at the Shrieking Shack –"

"I know where my goat is. What's that to you?"

"Please, sir," Harry answered calmly, "We need to get into the Shack, but your goat is not letting us. It charges at us whenever we try to get close. We tried using the passage from the Whomping Willow, but it's blocked. It looks like the tunnel caved in during the battle."

"What business do you three have at the Shack?" Aberforth asked suspiciously.

"Sir, we are looking for the body of Professor Snape –" Harry started.

"That murderous traitor? Is that who's hiding in there?" hissed the barman.

"Professor Snape wasn't what he pretended to be. He was acting on your brother's orders the whole time."

"Was he, now? Did my brother's orders include a request to be murdered in cold blood? I know Albus had a funny way to go about things, but that's a bit much to believe, don't you think, Potter?" Aberforth spat scornfully.

"If you'll just let me explain, sir." Harry persisted. "Please."

"All right. Sit, and say your piece."

Harry, Ron and Hermione sat around the heavy table, and Harry recounted what had happened at the Shack two nights earlier, and what he had discovered in the Pensieve.

"I figure Professor Snape deserves a decent burial, after all he's done and everything he's gone through", he concluded.

Aberforth remained quiet for a long while, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet Harry's.

"Listen, boy. I'm about to tell you something that you and your two friends would be wise to keep to yourselves for the time being. Can I count on you lot to keep your mouths shut?"

The young people exchanged wary glances, then Harry nodded.

"Have you heard of Morag Duncan?"

"Never heard the name", Ron muttered.

"I have," stated Hermione. "She's a healer. Madam Pomfrey mentioned her while I was helping her dress a student's wounds yesterday. She said Miss Duncan's healing skills would be welcome at a time like this."

"Right she is," said the barman, "and I think Morag would've gone up to the castle to help in any way she could, if she hadn't been busy elsewhere. It so happens that she dropped by yesterday, saying she'd found someone badly injured at the Shack –"

"- Professor Snape?!" Hermione gasped. "But we saw him die… At least, he was dying! He was losing so much blood! How could anyone survive such an injury?"

"Sounds like it could indeed be Snape, based on what you just told me, Potter," the barman continued. "Now, you're right, lass," he nodded to Hermione, "bitten by that big ugly snake, I wouldn't bet my goats on his chances of survival. Even with Morag looking after him. So that's one reason to keep it quiet. Another reason is, the Ministry'll be making all sorts of enquiries before long. And with Snape's murky story, he'll be investigated, wounded or not. If what you said's true, Potter, it's fair to let the man recover before he's got to face Ministry officials."

"Miss Duncan – Morag – does she know who he is?"

"That I don' know, lass. She didn't tell me. She took a healer's oath and that means discretion. It also means she must heal whoever needs healing, no matter who they are."

"At least we don't have to do anything now," Ron said. "I didn't fancy trailing that greasy git's body back to the castle."

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed indignantly. "Have you not heard anything Harry told us? Professor Snape was on our side!"

"So?" Ron shrugged. "He was still an ass most of the time when we were his students. I can't think of a bigger bully than him, frankly. Even in his own House."

"You're talking like such a bratty schoolboy!" Hermione snapped. "I think he deserves some respect for everything he did! And Harry thinks so too, don't you, Harry?"

Harry, absent-mindedly tracing shapes on the dusty table, did not reply straight away. Then he slowly rose from his chair and nodded. "Right, thank you for the information, sir." He said to Aberforth. "We'll be on our way now, they need us back at the castle. Sorry for bothering you."

As they left, Hermione put her hand on the old barman's arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you for everything you've done, Mr Dumbledore."

Glossary of Scottish words and phrases

Dinnae fash yersel' – Don't worry
a dram – a glass of alcohol (usually whisky)
nae – no
wee – small