Hogsmeade was far more bustling than Wyzett had imagined.
After all, Diagon Alley was just a single commercial street, while Hogsmeade was a true wizarding village—wide open, with shops and homes woven together and a vibrant sense of daily life.
Locals strolled along the lanes, greeting one another with easy warmth and discussing the latest headlines from The Daily Prophet.
Dumbledore's voice, low and steady, pulled Wyzett from his thoughts. "This way, if you please!"
Wyzett hurried to keep up as they entered a rather shabby, slightly grimy pub. A battered sign swung above the door, painted with a blood-splattered boar's head.
"We'll head round the back," said Dumbledore, his tone suddenly light, as he led the way around a giant barrel embedded in the rear wall. He pushed open a back door, and a pungent whiff of mutton assaulted them.
From inside, a cacophony of shouts, the crash of breaking glass, and the scrape of chairs tumbling over spilled out through the walls—punctuated by the occasional curse.
"Let's wait for him upstairs!" Dumbledore suggested, waving a finger with casual ease. Heavy crates blocking the inner doorway slid aside as if by their own accord—undeniably the work of nonverbal, wandless magic.
Thanks to Professor Flitwick's notes, Wyzett was beginning to grasp the basics of nonverbal spellcasting. Still, he knew he'd need plenty more practice before he could hope to replicate that night's silent magic.
After all, Transfiguration required the least from an incantation; the words served more as a focus, a prompt to help the wizard channel knowledge and intent into the spell. That was why spells like Vineaforma could be used as Transfiguration incantations.
The layout here was much like the Leaky Cauldron: a bar on the ground floor, with rooms for rent above.
Dumbledore moved with practiced familiarity—opening a door, flicking his wand to dismiss the Disillusionment Charm, pulling out chairs, pouring tea, and unwrapping sweets in one seamless flow, as if he were at home.
"Sit down, won't you?" he called, waving Wyzett over. "No need for formality here—relax, enjoy yourself."
Wyzett nodded, lifting the steaming cup and blowing gently across the surface. "Headmaster Dumbledore, may I ask… why are we here?"
Dumbledore produced two Lemon Drops, his voice gentle. "Occlumency—do you remember?"
"I do!" Wyzett took a sweet. "Professor Quirrell once suggested I try learning Occlumency. He said it might help lessen the influence of Dark Magic on my Obscurus."
"It's a most advanced magical discipline," Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard. "It can do many things… How much do you know about Occlumency?"
"I've only found a handful of books in the library," Wyzett admitted. "Just the basics, really. It's a technique for resisting mental intrusion—shutting the mind to block magical invasion, and to shield oneself from magical influence."
"Very versatile, isn't it?" Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling.
At that moment, another voice cut in.
"A skilled Occlumens, if prepared, won't be fazed by a Stunning Spell."
A tall, thin old man with a grey beard and flour-dusted robes strode in. His voice was rough, and his cuffs were stained with what looked suspiciously like blood.
"Didn't expect you so early!" he grunted.
Wyzett stared, flicking his gaze from Dumbledore to the newcomer. Aside from a rougher voice and those bloodied cuffs, the two men were nearly identical—their faces, beneath their beards, remarkably alike.
How could they look so much alike?
Noticing Wyzett's astonishment, the tall man yanked out a chair and sat, introducing himself first.
"Name's Aberforth Dumbledore—the little-known brother of this illustrious, world-famous Headmaster Dumbledore."
There was something of Professor Snape in his tone—a dry, mocking edge.
"He's not unknown," Dumbledore replied with a gentle smile. "He's simply content with his life as it is. He's helped me more than I can say, and I'm deeply grate—"
"I don't need you to dress things up for me!" Aberforth snapped, then turned to Wyzett.
He rolled up his bloodstained sleeves, pinched his greasy collar, and brandished a grimy rag.
"See, kid? I'm just a barkeep. And listen—the Hog's Head is nothing like the Three Broomsticks. This place is rough around the edges, so brace yourself!"
Dumbledore's smile didn't waver. "Every wizard, no matter their path, can carve out something unique in the pursuit of magic. Never underestimate—"
"Who brought who here today, eh?" Aberforth cut in, raising an eyebrow. "Why don't you let him make his own choices for once?"
"Why must everything be arranged by you? It's always been this way—how many lives do you intend to steer?"
Dumbledore drew a deep breath, his smile slipping, a hint of weariness in his eyes. "You're right… Wyzett, what do you think?"
Aberforth's expression soured as well, his breathing ragged. From time to time, he stole glances at his brother.
The tension between the two was palpable, and Wyzett's curiosity was piqued. He'd been watching them closely, picking up on odd turns of phrase and subtle gestures.
Their relationship was a tangle of distance and tension, yet bound by something neither could—or would—speak aloud. It was as if they shared a wound: ugly, festering, and impossible to heal, forever binding them together in pain.
In truth, Headmaster Dumbledore trusted Aberforth deeply—why else would he smooth things over and speak kindly of him? But Aberforth seemed to despise such gestures, always cutting straight to the truth and demanding authenticity—not just from himself, but from his brother as well.
"My time's short, boy. Tell me what you really want!" Aberforth barked.
Wyzett stood, though his mind was still whirring.
He'd spent the holidays thinking and talking with Luna, and his outlook had shifted, just a bit.
Isn't life itself a lesson?
Even outside the walls of Hogwarts, away from the formal classroom, there was knowledge to be found—if you kept your eyes open.
Perhaps meeting Aberforth was an opportunity in disguise…
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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