— — — — — —
"Wait."
Tom hurriedly blocked Grindelwald, who was practically glowing with excitement and ready to sprint off. He sighed, half amused, half helpless.
"Seriously? You hear Aberforth's name and get more worked up than when you see Newt."
Grindelwald shot back, "You know exactly how much I can't stand that arrogant idiot, so don't pretend you don't get it."
And with that, he unloaded all his pent-up grievances about Aberforth in one breath: "He's the root of every problem! Even Ariana's death is tied to him!"
"All he ever did was use 'family' to chain Albus down. He had plenty of time to go home and play big brother instead of letting everything fall apart and Ariana die for it. And what does he do after all that?"
"He pins every last bit of blame on me and Albus, like he wasn't at fault at all. But he was the spark that lit the whole thing. He shouldn't have been there in the first place!"
"..."
To Tom, the Grindelwald in front of him was basically a wronged housewife in full rant mode, bitter enough to fuel some extremely dark cursework.
"Old G, don't dump everything on him. Given Ariana's condition back then, by the time you and Dumbledore conquered the world and basked in your glory, she'd have had grass three meters tall growing over her grave."
"That…"
Grindelwald choked. He couldn't find a comeback, so he changed the subject. "Didn't you want me to deal with Aberforth? Why are you suddenly defending him? And what did the old goat ever do to you?"
"He didn't do anything to me."
Tom shook his head and handed over the book he'd been holding. "We've got Percival's remains, but I'm worried something might be off. I want to confirm again. For that, I need blood from a Dumbledore."
Grindelwald flipped the book open, quickly spotting the spell Tom had mentioned—Bloodline Tracing.
There were plenty of magical methods to confirm family lineage and keep the metaphorical milkman at bay, but most required living subjects. A spell that allowed matching a corpse to a living person was rare.
Grindelwald instantly understood the plan, and felt a flicker of disappointment.
He really had hoped Aberforth had somehow offended this grudge-hoarding brat. Would've made future bullying so much easier.
A shame. He'd only get to enjoy it once.
Still, once was also ok. Grindelwald agreed without hesitation.
---
The Hog's Head Inn
Aberforth was muttering curses while wiping tables with a rag that was somehow dirtier than the floor.
Spring had already come and Hogsmeade's weather was absurdly pleasant, yet business was as miserable as ever, and Aberforth was starting to question whether it was worth staying open at all.
The culprit? Tom. Or more precisely, his Astra something Guild.
The Hog's Head had never thrived on its booze or its charming atmosphere, which was on par with a back-alley dumpster. Its draw was always that it offered a place for wizards who lived in the grey—or downright black—parts of society to meet and trade.
But now, eighty percent of that crowd had moved to the Guild. Many of those once-shady trades had become officially sanctioned, with Guild guarantees making transactions safer than back-room deals. Naturally, people stopped coming here.
The ones who still did either had questionable identities or wanted to do things that crossed the Guild's bottom line. They were all dangerous types, so Aberforth had to stay constantly wary in case he got dragged into something catastrophic.
It was six in the evening—dinnertime—and the bar had only a handful of wizards spread across two tables, each concealed under cloaks and whispering through privacy charms.
Creak—
The battered wooden door was shoved open hard enough to make it groan in pain. Several guests instinctively turned toward the entrance.
One look and their faces changed.
"Gr-Grindelwald!"
Aberforth snapped his head up at the shout. Sure enough, there he was—white hair, smug posture—standing in the doorway like he owned the place, scanning the filthy bar with open disdain.
"People actually live in dumps like this?"
He originally wanted to sneer something about whether humans really ate here, but then remembered Tom visited fairly often. To avoid getting on the bad side of a very petty person, he toned it down at the last second.
Even so, that one casual line made Aberforth explode.
"What the hell are you doing here! We don't welcome power-hungry maniacs. Get out!"
The customers stared at Aberforth like he'd grown a second head. Was the man suicidal? That was Grindelwald—the dark wizard who once held off hundreds of Aurors by himself!
"So many years later, and your mouth still stinks just as bad."
Grindelwald didn't get angry. He just glanced at the customers still frozen in their seats. "Do I need to ask you to leave?"
Clatter.
In a flurry of chairs and limbs, they scrambled for the windows, too terrified to use the door. They smashed plates and cups on their way out, and were gone within seconds.
Aberforth's expression darkened.
Those bastards broke his dishes, didn't pay, and fled.
He glared at Grindelwald, who had casually found himself a seat and looked perfectly at home. Rage burned in Aberforth's eyes, but he didn't make a move. He was short-tempered, not stupid. His brother wasn't here, and if things turned violent, he'd be the one to die.
He wanted Grindelwald dead—but the feeling was mutual.
If Aberforth weren't a Dumbledore, Grindelwald would've killed him many times over by now.
"What do you want," Aberforth finally spat.
"Just visiting an old friend. Doesn't matter if I'm welcome."
Grindelwald lazily produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. When he poured, the liquor chilled itself to the perfect temperature. One glass drifted toward Aberforth in midair.
"What's wrong, scared to drink?" Grindelwald raised a brow. "You think I need cheap tricks for someone like you?"
Aberforth snorted, grabbed the glass, and downed it. Meanwhile, his other hand was busy under the bar, sending a distress message to Dumbledore.
Grindelwald watched the entire thing, amused.
Keep waiting. Your brother's busy discussing next year's tournament with the visiting professors. He won't be coming.
Dumbledore had relaxed over the years, lulled by Grindelwald's lack of trouble-making. He would never expect a sudden assault on Aberforth.
"So you came all the way here just to buy me a drink?"
"Of course not." Grindelwald smiled faintly. "I wasn't invited, and one drink is my apology for barging in. You think you're someone I'd treat to a nice drink?"
"If you know you're not welcome, then get out," Aberforth snapped, anger sharpening his voice. "You disgust me. Whatever you want, go bother him instead!"
"More than a century has passed and you still haven't grown at all." Grindelwald frowned. "When faced with someone you can't beat, I don't need you to grovel, but you could at least show basic respect."
Aberforth barked a laugh. "If you've got the guts, kill me. You want my respect? Fine—kill yourself right now and I'll praise you ten times."
Grindelwald inhaled slowly. If Aberforth weren't Albus' brother, if he weren't Ariana's brother... sigh~
The silver links of the blood pact silently twined around Grindelwald's hand. The pressure and sting against his skin dampened his killing intent.
What a nuisance.
That was why he was still talking instead of simply striking. Because of the pact's restraints, he couldn't attack first. He had to provoke Aberforth into making the first move.
With anyone else, goading them into attacking a Dark Lord would be nearly impossible. But Aberforth… was not a problem.
"Aberforth, you know, when I was young, I had a question."
Grindelwald refilled his glass, not caring about Aberforth's reaction. "I wondered if you were really a Dumbledore. I even had people thoroughly investigate your parents just to see if you were adopted."
"Lacking Albus' brilliance is one thing, but you don't even have a tenth of his mind. You're hot-tempered, volatile, and think everything revolves around you."
"Compared to Ariana, a girl barely fourteen, you were the childish one."
"You dare mention Ariana!"
"Shut up and let me finish." Grindelwald's cold stare froze Aberforth's rage in place.
"It wasn't until your son, Credence, appeared that I finally confirmed you were indeed a Dumbledore."
"He has more talent than you, yet he's even dumber."
"Are you bragging?" Aberforth's voice was icy, no longer shouting. "You killed my sister, then you set your sights on my son. You turned the Dumbledores upside down. And what did you get out of it?"
"Locked in Nurmengard by my brother's own hand. Now you crawl out again like a clown breaking his own vows, desperate to feel relevant."
"You've never understood reality."
Grindelwald moved like a ghost. One moment he was sitting, the next he was right in front of Aberforth. The old man tried to raise his wand, but Grindelwald slammed his arm down.
"Do you really not know whose spell hit Ariana? You've just been running from it. I deflected Albus' curse, and you tried to take a cheap shot. Instead, you ran straight into the spell I'd knocked aside. The blast from both spells killed Ariana. Tell me I'm wrong."
Aberforth trembled violently, lips moving, but no words came.
The devil's whisper pressed on.
"And Credence? If you hadn't abandoned his mother, how would an Obscurial have ever formed? If I hadn't brought him back from North America, you'd have died never knowing you had a son."
"Aberforth," Grindelwald murmured, "the tragic fate of the Dumbledores was crafted by your own hand."
"AAAAAAAAHHHHH—GRINDELWALD!"
.
.
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