Boy with the Red Scarf

Aberforth wiped down yet another glass with his dingey rag, contemplating the lad who’d been sitting at his bar top since the bar opened around noon. The boy, maybe fresh out of Hogwarts, looked to be the softer sort. His posh clothing, cravat and cufflinks included, were already in some disarray when he entered the Hogshead, head bowed with dark circles underneath dull grey eyes.

That was over 14 hours ago, and it was now time to close for the early morning.

Despite calling out for his regulars to get the hell out, the lad didn’t seem to register any words around him. All day and into the wee hours of the morning, he hadn’t looked up; hadn’t acknowledged the other patrons aside from softly spoken requests for firewhisky. The delicate looking boy had initially requested wine, to which Aberforth brusquely asked, “Does this seem like a Diagon Alley dive, boy?” 

Even then, as his drinks arrived they were nursed reluctantly, the boy gazing down into the amber liquid more often than truly drinking. The boy was in full wizarding garb despite the balmy summer weather- a little Lordling no doubt. Aberforth has had the vast displeasure of meeting one Sirius Black- this lad was definitely not that hellion, but he did carry a strong resemblance. If the Blacks were all named for stars, this one- for how could he be anything but a Black- looked to be a dying one.

With a huff, Aberforth faces the last straggler remaining seated. “Look, lad, you need to be off now,” he states firmly, giving the boy with his best withering glare. “Time to get home to your family.”

The boy flinched.

Aberforth studies the lad as he looks up from his mostly-full, grubby glass, blank eyes on a grave face, staring out at something past Aberforth's shoulder. The boy softly grasps at a red scarf with gold edging, feeling the fleece texture as though it were a tether to keep himself from floating away.

“Do you have a brother?”

Now it’s Aberforth’s turn to flinch backwards, unwelcome thoughts coming to him at the mention of the word brother. Hot rage flashed to the front of his mind, as it always does. Rage at Albus and his scheming, Albus and his utter selfishness, his recklessness, manipulating, conniving-

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business boy,” he responds with a hard tone, brows drawn together in consternation.

The boy, however, is not cowed by the anger he incited. He absently nods after a brief flash of complex emotion- regret and something Aberforth doesn’t quite catch- before he pulls on a somewhat broken pureblood mask.

“Would you mind if I tell you something?” The boy begins slowly, then hastens his words in fear of being rebuffed, “Please, I need to tell someone and I-” Here he swallows thickly, eyes finally shining brighter and clutching tightly at the scarf he held close to his chest, “I have no one left to tell.”

Despite the opinion of many, Aberforth does indeed have possession of a heart. Typically, more for animals, though children as well- and this boy looks younger than he has all day despite being of age in Wizarding Britain, guarded hope in his pleading gaze as he looks to his elder for something. For solace. Due to his bleeding heart- how could he turn out someone who was practically still a child, delicate features drawing uncomfortable comparisons to his sweet Ariana- Aberforth huffs out a sigh and gestures for the boy to say his piece.

Relief shining through, the lad unwinds the scarf from his hands and neck, setting it on the countertop and lightly petting the soft material. “My brother gave me this before I even started Hogwarts,” here he licks his lips, glancing up to see whether Aberforth was still listening. “It was a horrid year for me- after he went to school, I was alone for most of the days.  Since he sorted Gryffindor”-likely Sirius Black then, Aberforth surmises with his face remaining carefully neutral, never heard of another Black in Gryffindor- “my mother went a little mad. In her displeasure, she refused to send him anything with his own house colors- she refused to send him anything and all. Wouldn’t even let me send him owls anymore.”

His eyes remain locked on the scarf, lost in memory for a moment before resuming his tale. “Despite all that, when he returned home for Yule break, he brought me a present.” Here that lad lets out a watery chuckle, “though not before giving me a tongue lashing for not responding to his letters. He never even considered that I had been barred from correspondence until I told him all about how mother had been since his sorting.”

Aberforth tries to refrain from commenting or making any sounds, feeling sympathy for the boy. Despite being Pureblooded himself, the Dumbledores were one not of the Noble houses. He dealt with the dark and deadly underbelly of the Wizarding world on a daily basis, but the upper echelons of Pureblood society had their own reputation of cruelty toward their young.

“He never had to worry too much about being enough for our parents before then,” the lad continued, “he was the heir, the proud, strong firstborn son. I was the spare.” Again, his eyes seemed to dull as he looked away from the scarf. “All this to say, he brought me what would be his last present. And it wasn’t even really from him!” The lad looks up in frustration, “His new best friend, his new brother,” he spat out, “had his mother get Sirius two sets of red scarves and mittens to match his house colors. And Sirius, the prat, says to me, ‘I figured you could start representing our new house early.’ As if I had ANY real choice in where I could be sorted.” Rage brought bright spots of color to the boy’s grey cheeks during his story, grief painting his features and real tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as he raggedly took a deep breath before saying so very softly, “I never get a choice- in anything. He took any choice away from me.”

Aberforth allows the boy his silence after that. It’s not as though he needs to get to sleep anytime soon, being a night owl. The lad obviously just needs to speak to someone, even if it’s a scraggy old bartender. Though it did bid the question of where the boy’s friends could be. Family was obviously not an option he could rely on.

Could he really be so alone? Aberforth wonders dully, continuing to wipe the countertop in order to not burden the boy with his full attention.

“I can’t find the mittens,” the boy abruptly speaks, voice creaking out weakly. “I couldn’t find them, and I couldn’t-” a pause, “I couldn’t ask Kreacher, since he’s still recovering.” 

The hell is a creature?

The boy seems to have said all he could for this time, resting his head down on the scarf folded on the bar top. After some time, Aberforth ventures, “Is there anyone I could floo for you, lad? I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

The boy looks up, resting his chin on the scarf for a moment before gathering himself and straightening his robes. “It’s perfectly alright,” he murmurs while steadfastly avoiding looking toward Aberforth. He pauses carefully before gently picking up his scarf, winding it slowly around his neck, “I have somewhere I need to be tonight.”

Aberforth does not like his bearing, processing the strange determination in the lad’s tone and then does something very out of character for the ornery bartender. He walks around the counter and places a large hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“If you need to talk again lad,” he begins carefully, bending down to look into those expressive eyes- getting on the younger's level as he hadn’t done since last speaking with Ariana, “you are free to come back whenever you need. I’m not a great comfort to most, but I’ll lend an ear if you need it.”

He feels the skinny shoulder sag slightly, the boy’s frame losing tension somewhat as the lad turns to face him with a small, honest smile of gratitude.

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” he says softly, though now some of that determination has given way to a lost quality, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then, Aberforth does nothing more as the lad almost floats out of his pub, red scarf catching the wind lightly as the door opens into the deep dark of night.

When Sirius Black comes to the Hogshead some weeks later and drinks himself deaf and blind to the world, he wonders whether it has anything to do with his little brother.

When James Potter enters to gather his spiraling adopted brother, face distraught with grief, Aberforth supposes he won’t see the younger lad again anytime soon.

When Aberforth hears the news of a missing Regulus Black, he wonders if he should’ve done more.