Everybody Breaks
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Abberforth grimaced as he knocked back several mouthfuls of the cold tea he had brewed the previous night. The bitter taste lingered unpleasantly on his tongue, but he refused to waste what he considered a perfectly decent cup. Reheating it with a charm seemed an unnecessary hassle, especially given the effort he'd already expended trying to appease the rowdy drunks who had been congregating in his pub. That's what he got for not retiring for the night.
The usual patrons had become ten times more dismal and irritating in the wake of the Death Eaters' brutal massacres over the past fortnight. It had been a wretched start to the summer. He had hoped for less chaos in his bar, but instead, 'saintly' Albus had been steering even more miserable souls toward him, claiming The Order of the Phoenix was offering refuge. A warning would have been fucking nice, but he had given up expecting consideration from his brother ages ago.
"Mrruh," the soothing chirp of a greeting snapped him from his thoughts, and a plump tomcat landed with a soft thump on the table where Aberforth nursed his tea.
"Mornin' to ya as well, Fleabag," he groused, rubbing at his temples. The cat didn't wait for an invitation, butting its head insistently against Aberforth's hand, its purring vibrating in the stuffy air. "Yeah, yeah, I know yer probably starving." He must have forgotten to feed the creature last night. He had spent too long trying to shake off the pitiful wails of the young couple who took refuge in his bar, courtesy of Albus's incessant meddling. Damn his brother for volunteering his help without his knowledge. Damn the Order for having nowhere better to put them! Moody, on Albus' order not doubt, had claimed something about an 'unlikely hiding place.' Ugh.
But most importantly, damn his bleeding heart for not saying no to the whole ordeal. They should never have been forced to find shelter in his pub. A bar wasn't exactly a place for children; even if the nineteen-year-olds last night were technically adults, there was no bleeding difference!
He had enough of grating teenagers during the school year, which wasn't even counting the ones far too young to attempt to step foot in this joint. Memories of Albus' unruly students flooded his mind, their ceaseless chatter and defiance twisting in his gut, amplifying his resentment toward this unwelcome situation. At least the refugees were out of his hair for the moment. Maybe his pisspoor self would achieve some semblance of peace for the rest of the summer, not that he expected to get that lucky.
"Miaow." The feline proclaimed loudly before scurrying back to the ground and bolting to the back door.
"Aye, I'm comin' ya mangy beast," he grumbled, heaving himself out of his chair. A chorus of protests echoed through his joints, the dull aching signalling the toll of age. He followed the frantic patter of Fleabag's tiny feet, snagging the unopened can of tuna from a failed attempt at the cat's forgotten dinner. He unlocked the door with a wave of his wand that he wouldn't be caught dead without in this day and age. One had to be careful, especially with the crowd he sometimes got in his pub. Not that he was an Alastar Moody level of vigilant, but he had no desire to face the grim consequences that came with carelessness again.
Jerking the door open, he stared blankly for a moment, a pit forming in his gut. For the past twelve years, especially if Aberforth had gone and dared to miss a meal, the pest would jump outside and paw at its empty bowl like the world depended on it. Yet this morning, the hungry cat was nowhere to be seen. Instead, it had raced off, leaving Aberforth unsettled. He wanted nothing more than to slam the door and brush off the cat's strange behaviour as some sort of female feline lingering nearby or someone having spilt their leftovers at the front of the shop. But that dreadful sensation, like a cold hand gripping his heart, wouldn't let him escape with feigning ignorance.
"Oh, for the love of Helga," he muttered, snatching his hat and stepping out into the day. He set off in the direction Fleabag had dashed off, knowing from experience his gut feelings rarely misled him, a fact that often left him wishing otherwise. The delicate impressions of soft pawprints in the dirt guided him farther than he had anticipated venturing this early in the day. A quick glance at the sun hanging high in the sky suggested that his notion of 'early' might not align with the rest of the world. As a pub owner, his nights stretched long and chaotic, and any day he managed to awaken before noon felt like a miraculous feat in his line of work.
Now, Aberforth had seen many things in his long life. And drawing nearer to the shops abandoned at this time of year, for a moment, he figured this was one such circumstance he had faced too often. While Fleabag typically didn't bolt for drunks passed out, maybe this one had catnip on their person or something. Aberforth toyed with returning to his pub and leaving Fleabag to get food from the drunkard. However, his still-waking brain caught on to a disturbing fact. That isn't an adult lying flat on the ground in a pool of vomit.
"Merlin, help me," he swore, thoughts of the inconvenience of deviating from his regular morning routine evaporating. "Kid! Hey, kid." For one horrific moment, he thought the child was dead. Suddenly, it wasn't some unidentified youth he was looking at; it was his sister's crumpled body. "Ariana," he choked, stumbling forward quickly.
Then the figure groaned, and Aberfoth nearly collapsed in relief. Gathering his emotions, he drew his wand and cast a vanishing spell on the sick. A drunk kid was something he had faced before, though he had to admit during summer and in such a state was a new one. With the fear of death gone and the image of his precious little sister burned in his retinas, he none-too-gently nudged the child with his boot.
The boy sprang to life, his untamed amber eyes locking onto Aberforth's with a feral ferocity. However, the shadows of the kid's past, much like Aberforth's, dissipated in an instant and the lad's fierce gaze melted into bleary confusion.
"W-what?" the barely audible squeak made Aberforth scoff. Ah, yes, the hungover 'fuck my life' tone. He knew it well.
"Had one too many?" Aberforth couldn't help but roll his eyes at the blank look he got in response. He wasn't sure why the sight of the child, cocooned in a thick tangle of blankets, tugged at heartstrings which should have been rusted immobile years ago. He couldn't deny it was a pitiful sight. The more he considered it, the more he noticed something about the scene that nagged at him, hinting the poor kid might not be a stranger to sleeping on the streets. Unfortunately the child's vulnerability stirred something profound and long forgotten within Aberforth. Damnit.
The child's dark circles under vacant eyes served as a stark indicator of the sleepless nights endured. Yeah, sleep doesn't come easy to me either, kid, he thought, finding it impossible to harden his heart against such a feeble kid in desperate need of help. Oh, he was going to regret this; he knew he was. But he couldn't ignore the boy's plight. "Alright. On your feet. You can come back with me to my pub. I got a strong concoction that will knock your socks off, but it will help with some of that hangover."
When the child made no inclination to move, Aberforth considered retreating from the bizarre situation again. Linda's place is considerably better suited to housing a kid... No doubt the urchin boy needed some motherly affection or a good ear pull, depending on his attitude once he recovered from his bender. And Rosie, Linda's twenty-something niece, would probably have better luck getting through to this brat about how drinking yourself stupid wasn't 'cool.'
Come to think of it, Linda mentioned a strange kid staying at the Three Broomsticks for a few days with what looked like no adult supervision. The skittish boy had vanished the day she tried to question him, which was even more reason to leave this mess to her. Chances were high that the lad before him was the quiet one she had mentioned.
Then the kid's already peaky face went alarmingly white as he let out a strangled cry, toppling over and landing flat on his face. Oddly, the kid didn't even try to catch himself. Maybe the brat's significantly out of it? Still...something wasn't sitting right with him.
Aberforth had heard many different cries of pain from himself and Ariana. And the type shouted by the kid didn't seem to be born from some headache or upset stomach. The sharp, desperate note to the high-pitched shout left his skin crawling. He might have eventually reached the proper conclusion without evidence, though he always had been slower than Albus. But his guesswork became pointless when blood, at a concerning rate, seeped through all the layers the kid had wrapped around him.
He didn't stop to think, the alarm hammering into him all over again. Aberforth just scooped up the kid and bolted to the Three Broomsticks, which was closer and cleaner. The boy let out distressed whimpers and kept sucking in sharply, evidently trying to keep quiet. Yeah, no, that sure as hell is a massive red flag!
"Good boy, Fleabag," he praised, memory unhelpfully jumping to the kid-sized grave he spent most of his young adult life visiting weekly. "Hang on, kid, we're almost there." Not bothering to slow down, he kicked the door open, immediately catching Linda's attention.
Aberforth counted his blessings that Hogsmeade was usually so empty in the summer. Even the ordinary townsfolk took to visiting family or travelling while no customers were around. The current solitude and the well-kept Three Broomsticks made it a simple task for him to find a recently clean table to deposit the wounded child on. Without a sterile hospital bed around a sanitized surface would do in a pinch. And if his suspicion about the alarming amount of blood the child must be losing to show through all those layers was correct, they needed to act swiftly and decisively.
Everything sort of sped up, and at the same time, it got all hazy. Aberforth knew he was shouting some direction at a panicking Linda; he just hoped it was a wise one. He found out it was when she all but chucked scissors at him due to her fast spellwork. Thankfully, they didn't impale him, and he began cutting.
Peeling back layer after layer, the kid not so much dressed as bundled, he finally reached the final flimsy covering, able to see the deep bloody stains covering way more of the sheet than he would have liked. Knowing he might have to strip the kid completely but not wanting to jump to that unless necessary, he cut a large strip down the final sheet, peeling back the fabric on the other side to reveal deep gouges across the kid's torso.
Shit. I fucking hate being right.
There wasn't much decency in an open bar, but after Linda dropped some sort of first aid kit on the table, she immediately closed the blinds and locked the place down. Aberforth kept his focus on the gaping gashed, a deep disgust filling him. Something gutted this kid!
The injuries were so severe that the spell work he had set to uttering was barely adequate in saving the kid's life. There was no simple recovery from injuries that bad. He didn't think it could get worse but soon realised he had jinxed himself when there appeared to be a resistance to the spell casting. Not that he was anywhere close to a healer, but that seemed to suggest a dark creature inflicted these wounds, meaning he couldn't completely heal them with magic alone.
"If one of Hagrid's pets came this far out... I'll kill the oaf," he vowed darkly, unsure what else could have caused it. He remembered in disturbing detail how a decade back, an adult was attacked by one of those blasted Acromantula and later on bragged about it at his bar. The wizard waved the picture around, and Aberforth had not opted to see it so much as he had been given no other choice. Needless to say, the kid looked worse off than the gouged arm the man had received from those creepy spider pincers, but the similarities were there.
"What do you need, Aberforth?" Linda's quivering voice did nothing to help his nerves, but he could respect that she was trying.
"You know any analytical spell. The kid's got a sheet wrapped around him tight, and I don't think he has anything on underneath. Pretty sure these wounds are the main problem, but they aren't staying closed too well." At that moment, he noticed a glimmer on the kid's skin. He gently touched his finger to whatever was smeared across the kid's chest, having missed it prior due to how bloody the boy still was. The boy's muscles spasmed and quivered from the pain. "I think someone tried to help him. Piss poor attempt, mind you...but this seems..." He smelled his now glistening finger and then, hating his life, touched his tongue to it.
"Aberforth!"
"Pffuh, as if you had a better idea? I think it's a healing salve. That might be the reason the kid is still alive. At least he's out cold for this."
Oh, him and his big mouth!
As if solely to prove him wrong, the kid woke with a start. Wide amber eyes met his gaze briefly before they grew wider still. The kid's eyeballs looked ready to pop out of their sockets. And wouldn't that just be the last thing we need? The panicking part of his mind seemed determined to add unhelpful commentary. Pull yourself together, nitwit!
Another skill he learned from Ariana was becoming adept at noticing when panic was completely taking over. She had experienced fits so often; nearly as frequently, he ended up the only one who could calm her. So it wasn't a surprise when the boy Freaked out. Displaying an impressive yet concerning pain tolerance, the kid, rather uselessly, began flailing his limbs.
This ill-timed action revealed Aberforth had not ceased stupidly missing critical information today. For if the child's abdomen was injured, it was nothing compared to his little hands ripped to everloving shreds. Specks of blood splattered against Aberforth's cheek, coming from the mangled flesh that looked like it had been forced through a meat grinder. Damn, he felt ill. Understanding dawned on him that if he hadn't found the kid, he very well could have been spending the next few years crouched beside an unfamiliar child-sized grave.
Sheer adrenaline must be what was keeping the lad going. With the boy's current state, Aberforth hadn't expected the kid to fight so fiercely. The stubborn child waged a pointless battle, considering the boy couldn't get himself to sit up and, therefore, had no hope of reaching them. It was probably best to let the kid tucker himself out; he would pass out soon...hopefully. But no...that would be too damn easy!
The insane lad blew Aberforth's mind for the third time that day as he somehow managed to wrench himself upright! Dear Helga, someone put this wreck out of his misery before he kills himself. A loud yet pained shout followed, warranted after such dumb action. Only the kid didn't crumple. Instead, he spun his head wildly, looking like he had half a mind to bolt.
"Robyn! Robyn, it's Linda. You're at the Three Broomsticks again. Please calm down," the woman shouted, spreading her hands wide in surrender. Aberforth lowered his wand as Linda's words seemed to have an effect, unsure how to feel that the boy before them was indeed the withdrawn one the woman had mentioned to him prior. Who the hell is this kid, and where did he come from?
"W-what?" the boy croaked. Aberforth winced; the poor lad sounded like he had screamed himself hoarse. An unpleasant image of some street kid being gouged by a rampaging Acromantula and then shouting for hours, uselessly because currently Hogsmeade was practically a ghost town, entered his mind. He would give Fleabag triple the tuna when they finally made it home.
"Found ya half dead outside. You're damn lucky to be alive right now." He probably shouldn't press the issue so much. It was doubtful the kid had anything to do with getting so severely injured. But heart-pumping fear, which definitely wasn't some misplaced protective impulse, had a way of making one cranky.
"S-sorry," the boy stammered. It took Aberforth a second to realise the lad was still sitting up.
"Lay back down!" he barked, a little surprised and perhaps even concerned when the kid did so immediately. Damn. You better start tallying up all these bloody red flags. But he didn't have time to ponder the many concerning things he was discovering about the lad.
"Robyn, what happened?" Linda asked, reaching for the boy's hand before remembering she couldn't grab one to comfort him. She went white and glanced at Aberforth imploringly. Oh fuck! He should probably get started healing the mutilated appendages. He couldn't even fathom how much agony the kid must be in. Maybe the lad had already taken a pain potion? Damn, they should probably figure that out so they didn't accidentally overdose him. Could someone overdose on pain potions? He was nearly sure the answer was yes.
This shit just keeps getting 'better and better,' doesn't it. Aberforth even considered contacting Albus for a moment, but his brother rarely answered him, and he knew the man was busy with the Order. He would just have to handle this himself... somehow.
"Don knnn," the lad slurred, eyes rolling into his head momentarily. Linda gasped, her hands quickly covering her mouth. Aberforth tensed, ready for the kid to start seizing or something equally unpleasant and outside his jurisdiction to fix. But those glazed eyes appeared again, doing their best to focus on the woman practically bending over him. Aberforth started casting again, figuring his strengths lay there, whereas Linda's lay in interacting with the child.
"Okay, dear, you just take it easy." Linda's genuine tone anchored the kid's attention even if he thankfully couldn't notice how the woman's eyes glistened, perfectly mirroring the child's fear and pain. "I'll go alert a ministry official, and we can get you to St. M--"
"NO," the kid yelped and proceeded- how Aberforth sure as hell didn't know- to roll himself off the table. Both bar owners had been so taken aback by the kid's visceral fear and urgency at Linda's perfectly reasonable statement that neither reacted fast enough to catch the boy.
Dammit, this kid's starting to give me a migraine. Holy Helga, it will be a long day; he could feel it in his bones.
"Pretty sure he knocked himself out. Might have opened his precariously healing wounds again as well," he remarked blandly, still slightly shocked and sluggish. He wasn't good in emergencies. That's why he ran a bar while his brother ran a school and an army! Aberforth scrubbed a hand across his face, taking a deep breath before heaving the kid back onto the table. Sure enough, the boy had passed out. Thank Merlin for small mercies.
"What should I do?" the middle-aged woman asked tearfully.
Yep, here comes the bloody migraine.
"Well, I think it's fair to say we don't contact the ministry as a starting point." He focused on returning to work on what remained of the kid's hands. He might have disregarded the boy's wishes if the wizarding world had not been amidst war. As it was, he couldn't be sure the kid didn't have a damn good reason to avoid the authorities. It also couldn't be ignored that the lad was by himself. Maybe he was on the run? A horrible thought occurred to him, and he had to quickly pull a chair forward so he didn't collapse onto the now blood-marred floor.
"What if this is dark magic?" he forced the poisoned words out of his mouth. A dark creature, while horrific, seemed at least in the realm of a freak accident. Dark magic, on the other hand, came from a dark wizard. And while many horrors had already come from this war, the mutilation of a child had not yet been one of them, not that he was aware of.
Linda cried out in surprise and ran to the windows to see if someone had followed the lad. Her movements were frantic and determined, contrasting the barkeeper's usual laid-back orderliness. "I don't see anyone. Do you think we should contact the Order?" she asked, her voice tinged with urgency.
The problem was he didn't know who to contact. Albus was definitely out of the country. Most of the Order members were not professional healers or Aurors. They were just desperate people fighting a hopeless fight. He tried to remember what Poppy would be up to. If he remembered correctly, she visited her family over the summer, and the Pomfreys were spread far and wide. Not to mention, there wasn't exactly a direct mode of communication.
Sending his patronus risked distracting someone during a fight, which could become lethal. He wasn't about to invite more blood on his hands. Aberforth knew of only one safe house the Order frequented, just one in case of an emergency. But it was nowhere close, and he wasn't the best at apparating. He didn't even feel bitter about it because as much as he begrudged giving his brother credit, the man had undoubtedly set-up his army cleverly, limiting information should someone become compromised. Still, that currently left them in a quandary.
"I... I think we wait... for now. Unless the kid's condition becomes a matter of life or death, we wait to gather more information," he confessed, the weight of his decision heavy on his shoulders.
"Very well, you know best," Linda sighed, sounding relieved to have something of a plan.
The problem was that Aberforth was in the dark; he didn't have the answers and didn't know what he was doing at all. Well, at least some things never change.
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AN: All comments and likes are welcome, and they will help keep the motivation going to update every other week in addition to our other projects!