Anthem of Lamentation

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Aberforth spent the following day in a restless haze, his thoughts swirling around the boy's absence like a tempest. Each relentless hour stretched into an eternity as he replayed the last six days in his mind, grappling with an overwhelming sense of guilt. Where could the lad have gone? Initially, he had convinced himself that the child was simply running late, preoccupied with his concerns for Pandora. But as the sun dipped below the horizon the next day, his anxiety morphed into dread, whispering dark possibilities in his ear. What if someone had attacked the kid on his way back? His heart sank when he finally confirmed with Mrs Vance their inability to find Robyn when the funeral ended.

He had immediately dismissed a troubling but foolish notion lurking at the edge of his thoughts—that the kid had simply left with the Fortisma Cube after recognising its worth. No matter how many times he twisted the problem of the kid’s disappearance around in his head, ramming the jagged edges until it re-opened wounds centuries old, he kept coming to the same conclusion: 'Robyn' had overheard him discussing the child's fate with McGonagall—had witnessed the betrayal.

By the time Aberforth acknowledged that the Deputy Headmistress wouldn't be gracing him with her presence in person, he had hastily scrawled a letter to Mrs Vance, his heart heavy as he inquired if Robyn had shared any news with Pandora before his abrupt departure. The next day, Minerva's patronus relayed that Order matters had delayed her. The silvery cat spoke about how Dumbledore would reach out and explain more once they confirmed it was or wasn't the child they suspected, reminding him to keep 'Robyn' at the Hog's Head. The void left in the pub’s atmosphere rebuked him; he didn’t bother responding, unwilling to admit he had lost the boy.

On the third day of 'Robyn's' disappearance, the already stifling air around Aberforth grew heavy with despair as Pandora and her mother arrived, bringing with them their weighty distress. Speaking with a heartbroken Pandora only deepened his fears he was to blame as she recounted how Robyn had slipped away from the funeral early without saying goodbye. His worries were confirmed when Mrs Vance shared the letter she had received from Robyn and, as instructed, passed along to her daughters—expressing regret for his abrupt and rude departure, his confession of feeling unwell at the funeral, and the intention to return to his parents for the remainder of the summer. The apology’s eloquent language didn’t match the childish scribble, proving the kid was at least alive. Aberforth hadn't the heart to admit 'Robyn' wasn't his nephew; instead, he covered for the boy for some damn reason and told Pandora she would reconnect with her friend at Hogwarts—if 'Robyn' even attended the school... There were so many unanswered questions, and the uncertainty haunted him like Ariana's memory had for years. 

For a fleeting moment, Aberforth dared to believe that the solemn funeral had nudged Robyn toward home and the runaway had patched up any misunderstandings with his family. How stupidly optimistic he'd become in his old age. But no, he knew with cold certainty the brutal truth: his desperate attempts to get the boy proper help—his instinct to ease the massive burdens resting on those small shoulders, ones far surpassing the pub owner's ability to handle—had likely driven Robyn away. How fucking tragic! 

As the days passed, Aberforth embraced sorrow’s oppressive and familiar cloak. He bore impatiently the heavy foreboding which convinced him he would never see the boy alive again. In the darkest recesses of his thoughts, where self-loathing lazed and brought with it memories of Ariana's tender embrace, he envisioned the worst: that the boy had been captured, subjected to the cruel machinations of Death Eaters, tortured and possibly murdered. In that terrifying moment of clarity, he couldn't help but think that he had sealed Robyn's fate just as surely as he had once sealed his own sister's.

While Aberforth preferred not to drink excessively, he didn't have the emotional capability to handle all this shit, and it showed in the ever-depleting stock of liquor in his bar. He approached the bottles with a heavy heart, examining his choices in a haze of frustration. In this state, he noticed a flickering call from someone attempting to reach him through the Floo Network. He approached the fireplace haggardly, his head pounding painfully from sleepless nights haunted by nightmares as a snarl of irritation twisted his features.

His dreams were often filled with horrors, though this one had been new, starring Ariana's lifeless form, her sorrowful voice echoing his failures, only for it to transform into the bloody, pleading face of the boy he had let slip away. With every step he took toward the writhing child, Robyn seemed to drift further, a heartbreaking and endlessly frustrating loop—a pathetically poetic nightmare, bringing a less intense throb of guilt that was all the more persistent for its newness. 

When he finally discerned who was initiating contact through the green flames, the anger he had been suppressing flared up anew. The tension in his chest tightened—exactly what he needed. He had been looking for a good fight!  

"What the hell do you want?" he barked, his tone blunt. Maybe he could try to be personable, but Albus knew the risks of waking him at the ass-crack of dawn. Sure, he had been up this early for the past six days, making an involuntary loop of Hogsmeade trying to kill the hope that persisted as strongly as the guilt did… but his brother better not know that.

Albus greeted him with an air of unruffled, casual calm as if they were merely acquaintances sharing a polite exchange. "Good morning, Aberforth," he called, his voice rich with a serene cheerfulness that only infuriated Aberforth further. His brother always appeared unflappable, a bastion of composure, leaving the younger Dumbledore the unhinged one. Well fine, he sure felt like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

"I'm not in the mood for pleasantries," he groused, battling the impulse to sever the connection. "So what the hell do you want?" 

Though he couldn't discern every minute facial expression on Albus's flaming, flickering visage, the man would still pose an enigma even if he could. But Aberforth would have bet his supply of ale that his brother was wearing that familiar grimace—one that played the victim as if Aberforth didn't have a damn good reason to be perpetually short with his older sibling. It marked a familiar and maddening dynamic, highlighting the growing chasm between them, the one present long before their sister's passing. 

"Why must you assume I want something?" Albus questioned, his voice weary and laced with exasperation. Oh, so the prat wanted to play games, did he?

Aberforth scoffed scathingly, making his disdain plain as day. "Just get on with it," he snapped in warning.

The man's heavy sigh crackled with embers, carrying as much heat as the fire that transported the message. Now, they were getting somewhere. Aberforth resisted a bitter grin but privately entertained the satisfaction that surfaced whenever he baited his ordinarily unshakable brother, a game perfected over the years. He thrived on stirring Albus out of his saintly facade and getting the man to drop the bullshit. The only other person who had come close to rattling those chains was Grindelwald, but Albus had better have severed ties with that creep for good, so he didn't count.

"Why must you always…" Albus began bitterly but paused, stifling the words with a more profound, resigned sigh. "Yes, well, I don't have time for this now. Minerva informed me that you unknowingly housed Remus under your roof for part of the summer. Am I correct in assuming he disappeared sometime last night?"

"It was six nights ago," Aberforth muttered, taking a stab that the unknown name was right even as an unjust sense of pleasure rose in him at the thought of Albus being mistaken about the timeline. However, he mirrored his brother’s frown; neither spoke of the disasters that unfolded whenever Albus miscalculated. The last time his elder brother had erred, a catastrophic fallout followed—an event Aberforth still struggled to suppress. 

"I see," Albus mused, falling silent for a moment, leaving the younger Dumbledore’s anxiety heightened to painful levels.

"And do you care to share the details with the idiots who don't possess your oh-so-impressive intellect?" Aberforth's voice dripped with sarcasm, his cutting delivery failing to mask his growing fear. He didn't know why he bothered hiding what he felt from his older brother, who had the uncanny ability to see through him as proficiently as Aberforth could glimpse Albus' own troubled heart. If the man detected the same bullshit in him as he often spotted in his brother, then he honestly doubted Albus' sanity for bothering to keep up communication with him, as sparingly as it was.

“I confess, I had rather hoped it wouldn’t be Remus Lupin, even though we already confirmed with his family he’s been missing,” Albus’ offputting weary sigh, more talking to himself than his brother, left Aberforth with a sense of foreboding. 

Wait…what? Lupin? As he processed the kid’s full name, the surname sent tremors through him. It represented yet another casualty of Albus Dumbledore's mistakes—a bitter reminder that lingered in Aberforth’s mind, mingled with faint memories of rowdy teenagers acting like they owned the pub. It was a common occurrence over the decades, but those three stood out, as some did now and then, burrowing their way into his heart—well, one of them had, at least. The two brothers had done nothing to endear themselves to him, though the chips had been stacked against them from the start; their resemblance to the relationship he shared with his brother always left him bitter. "Albus," he growled warningly, noting the man going all pensive on him. He didn't have all day for this farce, and he suspected neither did Remus, though what Aberforth could do about it was beyond him.

"I suppose the details do not matter at the moment. It is the outcome that is of vital importance." Then bloody act like it, he thought bitterly to himself, but for once, he held back the verbal sparring, waiting on tenterhooks. "As I'm sure you recognise the surname, Remus Lupin is the son of Lyall Lupin." Ah, not the one he would have gambled on, but it's not like he kept track of the students he deemed noteworthy—no, that marked one of Albus' many jobs. "There is a long story there, but I'm sure you still remember the tragedy." How could he forget? Flashes danced in his head, highling the uncertainty his brother had worn back then, the man cloaked in doubt as he stumbled into the Hog’s Head, dripping wet and confessing his mistake in a shaky tone as if Albus possessed sincerity rather than the sole desire to imprison Aberforth with the hefty burden. He made a choked noise of agreement, wishing to avoid that depressing topic for the foreseeable future. "I suppose Remus Lupin's lycanthropy should come as no surprise then."

The revelation struck Aberforth like a bludger to the gut, and a chill crept down his spine at the magnitude of his ignorance. He was a downright moron! How had he missed the signs? How could he not have considered the kid to be a werewolf? Well, it's not like that was a fate he would wish upon his worst enemy. But now, knowing the boy's identity meant he knew exactly what that poor kid had survived. "So he's the lad that—"

"Yes," Albus answered shortly, his sharp tone betraying a fleeting touch of guilt—conveying Aberforth had, for once unknowingly, stumbled across one of the few instances his brother possessed a conscience in that cold rationalising heart of his. Good. If Albus hadn't felt remorseful about that, well, their next meeting would have held more than just Aberforth doling out the yearly punch to the face.

"Right. So…" Aberforth shifted the ominous piece in his mind, the severity of the situation threatening to suffocate him. "Fuck!"

"Quite. I would send Minerva or Poppy, but both are currently occupied, though the matron will be on her way shortly. Keep your floo open." It wasn't as if Aberforth ever bothered to close his channel. But the urgency behind his brother's request overshadowed the obstinacy that usually accompanied such commands. "You will find Remus within the Shrieking Shack, attached to the Whomping Willow—"

Aberforth's mind raced, halting at one alarming detail.

"You mean the Shrieking Shack whose real purpose you refused to tell me about? The same one you claimed to ban ghouls to two summers ago?" he growled, fury brewing in his chest. "How old is this kid exactly, Albus?"

"You can immobilise the branches by targeting a large knot in the trunk. If I'm lucky, you'll have about half an hour to reach the boy. I suggest you leave now."

"Wait just a damn second! Why don't you come here and get the kid yourself? You're talking through the floo, so just step through the bloody fireplace and make it happen. The kid doesn't—"

"Aberforth—"

"No! You don't understand; I already fucked it up; I know it's a phenomenon you aren't familiar with, but we normal folk do it quite often," he spat, an agitated buz coursing through his bloodstream, made worse by how pissed he was at Albus...and himself. "The kid doesn't trust me... not after he caught me talking to Minerva." Not that Aberforth blamed Robyn, dammit, Remus. Hell, if anything, he remained more impressed than ever by the resilience and brilliance of the lad…of course, that wasn't mentioning the brat's sheer stupidity and ego.

Only he knew deep down the kid didn't act from a place of arrogance but desperation. However, he deliberately shoved that unsettling thought aside. What the fuck was Lyall playing at? Or Lorence, for that matter?

"I'm afraid I'm much too busy at the moment." 

Bullshit!

"Well, what if I refuse to go?" He challenged, aware of his bluff's transparency but needing confirmation of Albus' true feelings for the boy. Was the child genuinely valued or merely one of many ‘important’ pawns sacrificed by the 'chess master' in the relentless game for the greater good?

"Then you will have another child's grave to visit," Albus replied, his tone deceptively mild, diminished by a trace of guilt that did nothing to dull the blow such harsh words brought. Aberforth's blood boiled!

"He's your student and responsibility, NOT mine! Roby-Remus trusts you—though Merlin knows why he should. But he doesn't trust me anymore." The bitterness poured out as Aberforth's mind conjured vivid images of those brilliant amber eyes shining with adoration at the mention of Albus. Thank Helga that he had kept his last name out of the equation under the guise of being petty. He grew physically ill anytime he spotted such unchecked admiration in the many sheep for slaughter his brother had cultivated over the years.

"Be that as it may, I have other lives hanging in the balance as we speak, and I trust you will be adequate in this instance."

A calculated risk—Aberforth had learned long ago he was yet another piece on the chessboard, much like all the rest. He accepted this reality, yet the knowledge of it still hurt like hell. His brother was such a bastard! Well, Albus wasn't the only one who could call a bluff, and Aberforth possibly held a trump card. He had a sickening notion that Remus' importance surpassed that of a mere student, and his brother perhaps viewed the kid as a vital tool who might change the tide of the war if it lasted that long. Holy Helga, Aberforth hoped it didn't come to that.

"I'm no healer. You didn't see how bad the kid was when I found him bleeding to death."

"I have some idea."

"Oh really?" Aberforth scoffed, the doubt heavy in his voice. He couldn't even picture his brother visiting Remus after a full moon. Deep down, he recognised Albus's cowardice, an aversion to genuinely caring that mirrored his desperate struggle to do the same. But as with everything else, his brother had easily mastered the skill, surpassing Aberforth's pitiful attempts. "Did you know he can barely use his hands still?" The kid had continued to struggle with full mobility six days ago, hinting there existed unrepairable nerve damage. Dammit!

"His hands?" Albus questioned wearily, surprisingly still invested in the conversation. Yeah, Remus was noteworthy to the headmaster, alright. Poor kid...

"They were mangled to shreds, each little finger—" his voice almost broke, but to prove Albus had a heart, Aberforth had to feign indifference. This charade had shaped their interactions for years. "—broken and bleeding. I did what I could, but he'll probably never fully recover from that kind of damage."

Albus emitted a sound of discontent and unease before pressing on in a softer, more hesitant tone. Good. "As I mentioned, Poppy will arrive within a few hours. You simply need to hold on until then. I have faith in your abilities, even if you struggle to have faith in yourself."

Screw you. Whose fault is that?

"And if I'm not able to? You must see that you’re gambling with this kid's survival rather than coming here yourself! He's going to panic when he sees me," he argued, unable to hide his worry, the genuine concern spilling forth. Aberforth's mind flashed back to the terrifying moment when the severely injured kid somehow managed to sit in his condition, desperately trying to escape, possessing a feral fierceness about him even while he bled out. It made much more sense now, especially considering Greyback had gotten his grimy paws on the kid. A lump lodged in Aberforth's throat as he met Albus's steely gaze; both men engaged in a silent duel of wills. Who among them would crack first? Tradition told Aberforth it would be him, but he fought anyway.

"I am confident you can win his trust if you talk about the similarities between him and Ari—"

"Don't you dare mention her! How dare you!"

"Aberforth—"

"No! Don't pretend to be remorseful or insinuate that I should have moved on from her death by now."

"That's not—"

"No! Screw you." Aberforth admitted he was losing this battle. Albus would be 'reasonably' upset should Remus perish. Still, the man would wash his hands of the disaster, ignoring his complicity, likely seeking out another tragic werewolf child to mould into a spy. Fucking hell!

Aberforth hadn't even known Remus for a month, yet he'd formed a fierce protective instinct for the boy, dwarfing anything Albus could offer. Ever since their sister Ariana had died, Aberforth believed his brother had sacrificed essential pieces of his heart, stifling his humanity to pursue power. Or perhaps it had begun even earlier, with Albus' friendship with Grindelwald; at that point, he had put the entire Dumbledore family on a path to destruction.

"What do you want from me, Aberforth?" Albus asked, his voice tinged with frustration and resentment. Oh, of course, Aberforth was the ludicrous one. But time was of the essence; he needed to reach the boy before Remus attempted something foolish—like trying to use magic far beyond his capabilities to heal and inadvertently harming himself. Damn it all!

"I'll go save this kid because I'm a better man than you could ever hope to be. But I want you to visit Ariana sometimes, to stand before her grave, and think about whether you want to see another kid's grave because of your choices, as you so callously suggested earlier. Better yet, ask yourself how many small graves you're willing to create before you're satisfied and before you start seeing people instead of pawns."

Albus released a weary sigh, and before he could respond, Aberforth knew his brother would bring up the age-old argument they had been having for nearly a century already. "Sometimes for the greater good--"

Seething with indignation, Aberforth severed the connection, knowing he should have done so a long time ago. Albus might be content gambling on someone else's life, but he certainly wasn't. Shuddering from how badly he'd messed up with Remus, the pub owner staggered away to the unhappy chorus of his knees popping in protest, and he attempted to collect himself inwardly. He needed to find a semblance of calm before he approached the Shrieking Shack because as much of a bastard as Albus was for bringing it up, the man, per usual, was also probably right. Regaining Remus's trust would demand a vulnerability he had never before willingly displayed—sacrificing a piece of his soul that he hid from the world. Ironically, Aberforth understood the pain of betrayed trust better than most—maybe they could bond over that instead. Although as much as he wanted to shatter Remus' trust in Albus, he knew he couldn't, wouldn't, not while the boy attended Hogwarts…

The Shrieking Shack loomed large in his mind—it had only appeared two summers ago... Fuck him sideways; the damn kid hadn’t even started his third year yet!  

"Stay here, Fleabag," he ordered sharply, clenching his fists at his sides, signalling his desperation to resist the urge to hurl something or lash out in rage. Instead, he gently nudged the cat aside as he approached his sister's portrait, the familiar weight of grief and anger mingling within him.

Aberforth's fury was twofold: he was not only enraged that Albus had dragged him into his web of convoluted plans but also infuriated that his brother's newest pawn had somehow become entangled in his heart. And yet, despite the quick and unwise bond he'd formed, he would never rise above his helplessness, powerless to save the boy from Albus' machinations. The thought twisted painfully in his chest as he navigated the secret passage that snaked from his pub to the castle, understanding that none of it mattered if he couldn't save the kid from himself. 

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Remus stirred awake, as always; pain coursed through him like lightning. Amidst the familiar agony, he took a moment to register that Madam Pomfrey likely wouldn't appear. Perhaps McGonagall had been unable to reach her, or maybe the adults had assumed he would find another place to transform. It even crossed his mind that his uncle had lied about the werewolf's location, hoping to avoid trouble—or worse, wishing for his nephew to bleed to death in excruciating isolation. The possibilities overwhelmed his mind, and he tortured himself with them. Maybe he was so insignificant that everyone had forgotten about him entirely or, perhaps worse, didn't care enough to trouble themselves with him any longer. 

Alone. The resounding silence echoed around him, suffocating and unyielding. A choked cry escaped his lips as he cursed the wolf, who only became satisfied when it tormented and tried to impale him. In his despair, an unsettling thought crept into his mind; perhaps the wolf didn't just loathe him as much as he did, but it despised itself with the same intensity Remus resented its existence. A shudder ran through him—the disturbing possibly dismissed as ravings from blood loss.

With a deep breath, he gingerly stretched out his fingers, grateful they appeared no worse than before his transformation. A sigh of relief escaped him as his hand made contact with the still-intact Fortistama Cube. Guilt should have washed over him for not returning the invaluable artefact Aberforth had entrusted to him, but in truth, he felt nothing of the sort. Without its aid, he would have resorted to the painful techniques he had tried the previous month, and he knew his hands wouldn't have survived more damage. A wet cough racked his chest, a searing pain punctuating the moment.

Remus didn't need to touch the deep gashes, sluggishly oozing, to know they existed. His blood-slick fingers fumbled with the smooth cube. It took a full minute before he found the button and another several before he could muster the strength to press down on the mechanism hard enough to release his belongings.

In a sudden flurry, various items tumbled from the cube's now-gaping mouth with a clatter, scattering remnants of his life across the floor. As his tattered cloak fell across him, frustration blossomed as he concluded his wand had become an unreachable casualty in the chaos.

He sifted through the debris with painstaking care, blinking past the blinding misery threatening to engulf him. The importance of locating his wand lent him the strength to move, yet he knew turning his head would likely set off a debilitating wave of agony which would render him unconscious. Usually, fainting would be an unpleasant option; this time, however, it could very well become a death sentence and, therefore, wasn't a possibility. As much as he yearned to unleash the hard-won spell he had so desperately worked on mastering—even if it wasn't perfected yet and may lead to severe interior damage—he understood patience was essential.

"H-Hope," he gasped, switching hands as he continued his slow, insufferable search, his fingertips brushing the dragon egg’s smooth surface. "M-m-glad y-you're safe." The relief was short-lived, as another spasm seized his body, followed by another wet cough. That certainly wasn't a good indicator. Had he knicked his lungs? The wolf usually wasn't quite that vicious, but as miserable as Remus had been this summer, the monster seemed content to put them both out of their misery for once.

Suddenly, a sharp awareness struck him, the fine hairs on his arms and neck standing on end. He wasn't alone in the shack! Panic surged through him as the instinctive paranoia possessed him, convincing him Greyback lurked in the shadows. He nearly blacked out, forcing himself into a sitting position as the urge to scream bubbled within him. But he had to suppress it; he knew from experience the sound would attract the sadist's attention. Blinking through the haze of fiery pain and dizziness, Remus’ blurry vision cleared. A figure emerged through the entrance of the Shrieking Shack, a hand pressed firmly over their mouth and…beard. Dumbledore?

Relief flooded his senses, instant and overwhelming; he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He battled the temptation to unravel and start sobbing like a little kid. Someone had come for him! He wouldn't have to endure this torment alone after all. But that wave of comfort quickly morphed into trepidation. What if Dumbledore was disappointed in him? What if the headmaster's anger kept him from returning to Hogwarts? 

Before he could catch himself, tears streamed freely down his cheeks. "I'm s-so…sorry, Dumbl—"

"It's not…" the man began, his voice thick and laden with an unmistakable familiarity that sent a chill down Remus' spine. It was different from his headmaster's but achingly similar, evoking an unsettling sense of dread within him. Horror encircled him; how was this even possible? Had he been discovered so disturbingly easily? Why was Aberforth here?

The distrust and terror must have been apparent, for Aberforth raised his hands, palms open, in a gesture of peace. "Calm down, kid. I'm here to help, okay?"

Help? The word echoed in Remus's mind, completely absurd. No, this could not possibly be a beneficial meeting. How could some random wizard from Hogsmeade possibly be offering assistance? More likely, he was here to unearth the truth, to seek evidence that he had harboured a monster and would now call the ministry. Remus had doomed himself; he felt utterly trapped, and while Aberforth had betrayed him before, this time, the motivation oozed malicious intent rather than a misplaced desire to help. "L-leave," he managed to choke out, his voice barely a whisper, as the sting of misery clawed at him with each ragged breath. His tears flowed unchecked, blurring his vision.

"Ah, kid…" Aberforth sounded…heartbroken? The man took a tentative step forward, but Remus instinctively recoiled, letting out a guttural cry that pierced the stifling atmosphere. He inched himself further away, aiming to reach the dented cabinet behind him, relief coursing through him that his wounds were across his chest rather than his abdomen; otherwise, he feared he might have collapsed into a helpless, whimpering heap by this point. Not that I'm much better off, he thought to himself, making sure to cover as much of his bloody, scarred body as possible.

He wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of this situation. He couldn't pretend to be anything but a monster, his haphazard surroundings vilifying him as powerfully as his wounds. Yet his mind spun in a chaotic haze, incapable of accepting reason, desperately searching for some reasonable explanation. Even though Aberforth's expression was not anger, a shard of sunlight illuminating his tear-streaked cheeks, Remus' swirling dread couldn't believe differently. How could he possibly trust this man?

"P-please, don't… don't hurt me," Remus' voice trembled as he uttered mere wisps of hope. His only way out relied on the slim possibility that Aberforth might have once cared for 'Robyn' enough to walk away. Maybe the man could be persuaded to ignore his existence if the werewolf convinced Aberforth that he would never return to Hogsmeade... "I w-won't….you w-won't ever see me again." His stammered plea echoed in the cramped room as he rushed to save himself from an existence imprisoned in Azkaban or being put down like a mutt.

"Holy Helga," Aberforth muttered, his voice low and filled with deep sorrow, not the usual mild irritation Remus had come to expect and find comfort in. It sounded as if the man had been struck in the gut and could hardly mask his pain. Some flicker of understanding sparked within Remus' frantic mind, but nothing coherent formed—only a vague decision to wait and see what unfolded. As anxiety lessened slightly, he felt himself teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. He had to quit hyperventilating; anything would be preferable to being completely helpless with an uncategorised threat.

Determined not to succumb, he forced himself to steady his erratic gasps, transforming them into deeper, albeit painful, puffs punctuated by a few hiccuping sobs he attempted to muffle. But it seemed to draw Aberforth's attention back to him and away from inspecting the monthly damage the wolf inflicted on the shack, the proof a monster lay before him.

"No…dammit, no kid, I'm not going…." Aberforth let out a choked sound somewhere between pained and furious. Remus flinched, instinctively shrinking back further, causing the man to flap his hands helplessly without moving further to approach him. "Okay… let's… let's try this again," Aberforth continued, his tone softer yet strained. "I'm here to help. Dumbledore sent me. I know you heard me talking to Miner…er, McGonagall. She figured out your real name and contacted your headmaster. Madam Pomfrey is on her way; I'm supposed to keep you alive until then. So will you let me do that for you, kid?" The raw sincerity in Aberforth's words couldn't be faked, but the werewolf's deafening disbelief drowned out any chance of trust forming.

"W-why?" he croaked, his voice trembling with doubt. He grappled with the notion that perhaps, in their desperate attempt to aid him, McGonagall and Dumbledore had placed faith in a source unworthy of it. Could he trust that Aberforth was telling the truth? Perhaps this man merely wanted him calm to deliver him to the ministry more easily.

"Why? Why what?" Aberforth sounded exasperated. "No, no… that's a fair question, I guess. Because I want to help, kid." The word 'kid' hung in the air, a reminder of...something important. Remus attempted to cling to it, but the echo of 'he knows I'm a monster, he knows I'm a monster now' roared louder in his mind.

"P-please," he gasped, his voice laced with desperation, unsure what he was truly pleading for. Darkness threatened to engulf him, the world around him becoming a hazy blur of shapes and shadows. Aberforth misinterpreted his quiet whimper for consent and stepped closer, throwing up his hands in frustration when yet another strangled cry escaped Remus' lips as he scooted backwards like a frightened animal. The cabinet pressed into his back at last, providing support not a moment too soon. Even if the werewolf couldn't keep himself upright any longer, he was determined to feign strength, another hard-won lesson from his days with Greyback.

"Damn, okay, look, I didn't want to have to…" Aberforth suddenly paused, and that moment of silence resonated ominously in Remus' ears. His eyes darted to his wand, hysteria broadcasting his movement clearly as he desperately reached for it, his hands trembling. "No, I didn't mean… Dammit, Aberforth, get it together," the pub owner muttered the second part, the familiarity of the moment alone preventing Remus from risking a feeble attempt to summon his wand, which undoubtedly would have resulted in his collapse. Of course, the fact that he wasn't sure he could even muster a spell at the moment also stayed his shaky hand.

"I had a sister," Aberforth began slowly, his voice heavy with wariness, mirroring the caution Remus felt creeping into his bones. The shared hesitancy felt oddly comforting to the werewolf for a moment. "She… well, she was hurt by Muggles badly after they caught her using underage magic as a fucking six-year-old. They tormented her, and they…they assaulted her. Those bastards terrorised her to the point she resisted using her magic on purpose ever again."

As Aberforth spoke, the shadows of the man’s memories seemed to envelop them, and for an instant, Remus forgot the crushing weight of his own dire situation. The thought of a young witch suppressing her magic horrified him; he'd heard the chilling rumours about the dire consequences that awaited those who stifled their gifts.

Aberforth paused, grimacing as if lost in disturbing recollections, then offered a knowing nod. "Yeah… it… wasn't great, as you can imagine. The point is, she was young, a child, and she would lash out at unpredictable times, raging and hurting those around her. But I never blamed her. She was just a little kid, trapped in unspeakable anguish that she lacked the tools to bear, suffering a burden she should never have had to endure," he continued, his voice tightening with an undercurrent of frustration and the fierce need to validate his sister's struggles. The sharp edge in his tone indicated he anticipated pushback or condemnation for his loyalty to his sister, suggesting such cruel responses had occurred before. Remus remained silent, managing a small, understanding nod, his brow furrowed in sympathy for the young girl whose portrait now hung in Aberforth's study.

Then, the actual argument became apparent. Remus winced, suddenly aware he had stepped into a rhetorical trap. Aberforth leaned closer, his intensity unwavering. "Just like you, kid. You remind me so much of her. But this…" He gestured expansively around, his eyes widening as he seemed to notice the extent of the blood and damage in the shack for the first time. "It isn't your fault, not even close. Society sucks, and I can only imagine the prejudice you've faced. But I don't see you as a monster or undeserving of love, regardless of whatever bullshit self-loathing narratives you've tangled up in that big brain of yours. Let me help you?" Aberforth's plea was steeped in desperation, his eyes searching for the smallest opening in the werewolf's defences. 

Remus studied the old man closely, peering with eyes that may be glowing eerily as he analysed Aberforth's expression, which held nothing but sincerity. Deep within him, the werewolf wanted to protest, but he knew his options were non-existent. After all, Remus had plenty of experience with appeasing monsters, enough to identify when someone meant him harm. While he didn't trust Aberforth entirely, the man clearly didn't belong to the group of threats the werewolf had faced before. 

"O-okay," he stammered, surprised at the alleviation surrendering brought.

The audible sigh that escaped Aberforth was filled with relief, accompanied by a genuine "Holy shit, thank you, kid, thank you," that resonated like a lifeline thrown into stormy waters. This heartfelt expression shattered the last remnants of Remus' defences, and with the significant blood loss beginning to take its toll, he felt the darkness closing in. He succumbed to unconsciousness before Aberforth could reach him, his final thoughts a silent plea that when he awakened, he wouldn't find himself in Azkaban's cold grip, left to cling desperately to what little remained of his shattered life.