Aberforth Dumbledore didn't like anyone knowing his business, which is why he minded his own. His life was comfortably predictable. He fed his goats—there was nothing inappropriate about them, despite what Albus had always thought—tended to the bar, and spent the odd afternoon with some of his schoolmates from Hogwarts.
He didn't have many friends from school. Aberforth was teased quite a bit for being sorted into Ravenclaw; his classmates found it funny that the "dumber Dumbledore" was in Ravenclaw whilst the great, intelligent Albus was a Gryffindor. The friends who stayed with him through all that torment were still his friends, but when they married and had children, they had less time for Aberforth. They often asked if Aberforth would ever settle down, as if settling down was a required act of adulthood. Aberforth always said no—he'd never met a woman who had piqued his interest for more than two weeks, and he had never wanted children.
His decision was reinforced after Ariana and his niece, Athena, had both died sudden deaths in their youth. He had seen too much death to ever want to bring another life into the world. No, Aberforth didn't wish for anything, and he certainly didn't want the same life as his peers. Hidden away in the Hog's Head, hardly anyone asked him if he was the brother of the Albus Dumbledore. No one thought that Albus' brother would end up working in a dirty bar with a substandard reputation.
Whatever others' perceptions were, Aberforth Dumbledore was content with his life.
Then, on one seemingly ordinary January day in 1972, his life took an unexpected turn.
A woman he'd never seen entered his bar hours before anyone usually showed up. She was wearing a disconcerting assortment of clothes, all wool and stripes and polka dots and loose threads. The woman was clearly eccentric, but her smile caused Aberforth's stomach to flip.
She smiled at him in greeting. "I'm aware this is likely more of a drinking establishment, but do you have any pies or soups I could order for lunch?"
"Er—we technically have a menu," Aberforth replied, scratching his head.
The woman seemed amused. "Technically? Should I find somewhere else to eat?"
"No, no." Aberforth gestured to all of the open seats at the bar. "Feel free to take a seat. I'll scrounge up a menu."
She sat and then said, "Am I to take it your customers don't usually eat?"
"Not usually," Aberforth admitted. "They've usually eaten by the time they show up 'ere, and if they do order something, it's chips. Our fryer gets a lot of use, but not our oven."
"Mmmm," the woman hummed, and Aberforth raised his eyebrows as she placed her somewhat tattered handbag on his definitely dirty bar top. "It'll be nice for your cook to have something to do, then. The menu?"
Aberforth rummaged underneath the bar. Behind various steins and mismatched glasses, he found one. He rubbed it with his apron, but the dust seemed to cling to the plastic covering. "Here ye are."
"Thank you." The woman looked the menu over with apparent interest. After a few moments, she said, "I'll have a cheese and onion pie, if your cook is feeling up to the task."
"I'm sure he is," Aberforth said, snatching the menu back.
How had he never noticed how dirty those menus were? He'd have to fix that.
The woman smiled knowingly. "You're the cook, aren't you? You're just going to heat up a pie you brought in frozen from one shop or another?"
Aberforth didn't know what it was, but he liked her.
"Yeah," Aberforth confirmed, somewhat apologetically, "but I order 'em in from Iain McGregor's up in Lochinver. McGregor has the best fish and game…" he trailed off. "I guess that doesn't matter if you're getting cheese and onion, but McGregor's version is better than the Leaky Cauldron's, I'll have you know."
"I look forward to tasting it. I'll have a Gillywater with it, please."
"Sure thing." Aberforth opened the refrigerator, withdrew a Gillywater and placed it on the bar. "I'll be right back with your pie."
"Cheers."
When he returned with her meal, Aberforth had the strange desire to continue talking to her.
"I'm Aberforth," he said. He tugged his beard, unable to think of a reason to stay near her while she ate. "If ye need anything, just give me a holler."
"You can stay, you know." She gestured at the open space around her. "No one else is around, so I can't imagine where you'd go. Besides, I don't mind the company."
Aberforth grinned. "If we'll be talking whilst ye eat, I wouldn't mind knowing your name."
"Arabella," she said, piercing her pie with her fork. "Arabella Figg."
—
The sixth time she visited him for lunch, Aberforth asked why she came to him, and not any of the other eating establishments in the village with better reputations.
"I come here for our conversations."
Something prickled at Aberforth's heart, but he pushed it aside. "Now you do, but the very first time—why did you come here? Why didn't you go to the Three Broomsticks like every other self-respecting witch?"
Arabella bristled. "I prefer to avoid the Three Broomsticks."
Well, that was intriguing. Most folks preferred to avoid his establishment. "Why's that?" he asked, leaning over the bar.
She looked directly into his eyes, swallowed her bite of pie, and said, "I'm a Squib. There's too much magic in there, what with the students, professors, and Ministry workers. From what I hear, your patrons conduct their magic dealings in secret. My lack of magic isn't noticed here."
Aberforth knew exactly what she meant: the Hog's Head was somewhere you went when you didn't want to stand out.
"Ah," Aberforth replied roughly. "You're not wrong about that."
"I'm not usually wrong," she commented wryly.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "For calling you a witch. I assumed, and I didn't mean to insult you."
"You didn't. You couldn't have known—it's not like Muggles could find your bar. I appreciate the apology, though." Arabella smiled gently, and Aberforth swore he lost himself in the grey depths of her eyes.
On her eleventh visit, Aberforth thought he owed her a secret of his own, and he told her so.
"What's your secret, then?"
"My name is Aberforth."
She smiled against her bottle of Gillywater. "Yes, I'm aware."
He glared at her. "I'm Aberforth Dumbledore."
"You're a Dumbledore?" she repeated. "That's your secret? Why on earth would I care?"
Aberforth just stared at her with his mouth hanging open.
"Honestly, Abe," Arabella said, so exasperated that Aberforth almost missed the nickname. "You don't give one shite about my blood or what magic isn't within it. Why would it matter to me what your last name is, or who you're related to? It's not like I have any children who'll be attending Hogwarts. I don't particularly care about the Headmaster."
Aberforth whispered, "Most people think I'm just Albus' brother. The brother of the incredible wizard who saved our world. I'm not used to anyone seeing me as anyone other than that."
"Well." Arabella eyed him over the top of her glass. "You're not my brother, are you? What would you want to be with me?"
Aberforth wasn't quite sure what possessed him, but he said hoarsely, "Anything you want, Arabella."
She raised her eyebrow, and that was that.
Without words, he extended his hand. He was surprised when she took it and followed him up the dingy stairs to his small, cramped bedroom. He was even more surprised when she began to undress, saying, "Let's not dilly dally, Abe. You have a bar to run."
He was stunned when she fucked him more thoroughly than he thought possible, and downright flabbergasted when she showed up every day for the rest of the week, hungry for lunch and then some afternoon delight.
After that, Arabella was in his bed almost every afternoon, and Aberforth came to realize just how discontented his previous contentment really was.
"I like this, you know," Arabella said softly one evening in bed. She traced a meaningless, wandering pattern on his chest. "When we're just us—just Ara and Abe."
"I like it, too," Aberforth replied honestly. "I think I like it more than I've liked anything in a really long time. You're my–well, you're my biquette."
"Biquette?" she repeated. "What does that mean?"
"It's a French expression. The word usually means 'goat', but it can also mean 'sweetheart'." Aberforth's cheeks turned pink. "If you're okay being called that, that is."
"It's perfect, Abe. I'd love to be your biquette."
—
Their relationship—that's what it was, Aberforth realized—was not without its rocky patches. They were officially what the children called "on-again, off-again".
Their biggest fight happened in August 1974, when Arabella mentioned that she wouldn't mind moving in with him.
"You want to—you want to move in here?" he asked, more bewildered than anything else. "I live above a bar with a small kitchen and a shower so small we can't shower together." He laughed sardonically. "I have little money and consort with unsavoury patrons every day. Ara, I have nothing to offer."
"You have yourself to offer," she said gently. "You, Abe, are not nothing."
"But this—this shouldn't be the life you want!" Aberforth sputtered. "You should want more than a little bachelor's apartment above a bar!"
"Why aren't I allowed to know my own mind?" Arabella sighed and leaned her head against the wall. A chunk of peeling paint stuck to her hair, but she paid it no mind. "Honestly, Abe. Besides, this isn't a shack. I think it's rather homey. Once I add a few photos and blankets, it will be quite respectable."
"Arabella." Aberforth released a breath that caused the hairs on his moustache to stick up. "You have your cats. They couldn't come and live here. That would be a, a—a health and safety hazard with the food downstairs!"
"Trust me, my cats would not be the only health and safety hazard in this establishment," she replied dryly. "Would it be so bad to live together?"
"No, not really."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I really like you—hell, I think I love you," Aberforth admitted, seeing the truth of it. "I don't want to screw with this good thing we've got going on. We do well, you and I. You have your cats, and then you come for lunch, and we spend time together until the bar gets busy, and you go home."
"Fine." Arabella pursed her lips, clearly unhappy. "I'll leave it, but I'm not happy about this. I'd have been happy with you here. I know it."
Aberforth didn't realize it, but he had the same flaw as his brother.
Neither Dumbledore ever thought they were good enough on their own.
—
That, in the end, was why they ended things in 1978. Arabella wanted more, more, more than Aberforth was willing to give. She wanted a real partner in more than stolen afternoons and cheese and onion pies. She wanted someone to wake up beside, someone to soothe her nightmares, someone to smile at over the burnt toast on the breakfast table.
It wasn't that Aberforth didn't want that. He simply refused to believe he could have it without fucking it up.
"You know," Arabella said bravely and resignedly the last time she left his bedroom, "you were enough. I would have happily taken you and the bar and the cramped space and the smell of ale. But I won't settle for being treated like a mistress when I want a partner, Abe."
And so, that was that. When she left, Aberforth felt a piece of his heart break away, but he ignored it.
He successfully ignored it until Albus came to him and asked for help with his blooming Order of the Phoenix during the holiday season in 1978. Aberforth didn't know where his brother got off, thinking he could just create a secret vigilante force with no repercussions, but that was Albus' way. To simply do, and then worry about evading the consequences.
The only reason Aberforth agreed to help was Minerva McGonagall. He would never understand why McGonagall had married his brother—Aberforth certainly couldn't see the appeal—but she was kind. She was kinder to Aberforth than he deserved, and whether he liked it or not, she was now his family. Her son had been murdered at the hands of Tom Riddle, just like Albus' daughter. Aberforth thought that if he helped Albus with his blessed missions—his revenge—maybe they'd spare some lives, and Albus would make it home to his wife in one piece.
For some reason, in this instance, he couldn't ignore that feeling—that care, that obligation for another person—that Arabella had shaken loose in him. So, Aberforth helped his brother to help Minerva. Albus was pleasantly surprised to have an ally in Aberforth, and if he had suspicions about his brother's reasoning, he didn't voice them.
One year later, Albus turned up at the Hog's Head. Instead of asking for information, he wanted to speak to Aberforth alone.
"What, are ye goin' to kill me?" Aberforth asked. The Firewhisky he had drank with one of his patrons slurred his speech. "I dunno know why you'd choose now, o' all moments, but–"
"I'm not here to kill you," Albus interrupted loudly. "Merlin, Abe. I just wanted to let you know that Arabella Figg showed up at Hogwarts asking to volunteer for the Order of the Phoenix."
That shocked Aberforth enough that he managed to make his tongue work normally. "Where the hell did she even hear about that?"
Albus crossed his arms, clearly pleased to know more than his brother. "She said you told her. Apparently, you wrote her a drunken letter one night. Have you told anyone else about the Order? Do I need to be concerned for our safety?"
"Albus, I don't even remember writing a damn letter. I don't even think I own an owl. I only write to you, and I use that damn phoenix of yours when I do."
"You must have an owl. You order food and beverages for the bar."
"My suppliers send me their owls, and I fill out the order forms." Aberforth scratched his head. "Huh."
"Huh indeed," Albus said disdainfully. "In future, please keep better track of what you say and to whom you say it."
He turned to leave, but Aberforth had a lingering question. "Wait, Albus?"
"Yes?"
"Did you let Ara join?"
Albus smiled softly. "No, I didn't. I thought it would be too dangerous for her."
"Because she's a Squib?"
Albus chuckled at his brother's accusatory tone. "Partly. I certainly wouldn't want to face a Death Eater without a wand."
"And the other part?" Aberforth asked.
"She clearly loves you," Albus answered. "I wasn't going to risk someone who loved you for my own interests. Not again."
With that, his older brother left in a flurry of violet robes.
Soon after, Aberforth called Arabella on the Muggle telephone she had made him install when they were still together. She answered only to say that she would talk to him in person.
"You rang?" Arabella called as she entered the Hog's Head. She took a look around. "I see you still don't have patrons earlier than six o'clock."
"You were the only patron who showed up before then—you were the most reliable patron I ever had."
"That's nice of you to say," Arabella commented. "Now, why did you call?"
Aberforth exhaled a long breath before saying, "I can't believe ye went scrambling to my brother."
She didn't seem surprised that he had found out. "I wanted to help, Abe. You help Albus. You feed him information."
"Information I get because I live over and own a bar. I'm not going out of my way to die for my brother."
"I could have lived over the bar," Arabella said softly. "You turned me down."
The truth of her remarks settled unpleasantly in Aberforth's stomach, like a stone settling into the ocean floor.
"You're right," Aberforth agreed. "I did."
Arabella's smile tightened. "Good day, Mr. Dumbledore."
—
He didn't see her again until 1985.
She showed up unannounced at the Hog's Head for lunch like no time had passed. "Hello, Aberforth."
"Arabella?" he asked, disbelieving. "What are you doing here?"
Her hair was greyer, and her clothes slightly more dishevelled, but it was his biquette standing before him, no doubt about that.
"I thought I'd have a cheese and onion pie and some Gillywater," Arabella said, sitting at her old seat at the bar. "I have something to tell you."
Aberforth raised his eyebrows, but fetched the food and her drink. "Now, what brought you here?"
"I'm moving. Rather far away, as it turns out. I thought you'd like to be informed."
"You're moving?" Aberforth asked. His throat felt tight. "Why are you telling me this?"
She arched an eyebrow. "As I said, I thought you might want to know."
"But why are you moving?"
"I just came from Hogwarts, where I had a meeting with your brother. I am moving to Surrey as a favour to Albus. Well, really, I think it's for Minerva McGonagall, but that doesn't really matter. The point is, I'm moving."
Well, that's a new one, Al, Aberforth thought. Sending my lovers to Surrey.
"Abe?" she asked gently when he didn't reply. "Are you all right?"
"I'm confused," Aberforth said, shaking his head. "Why the fuck would my brother send you to Surrey?"
"Language," Arabella tutted. She hated the language he used around the bar and his patrons. He had tried to stop, once, but that was back when he lived a life where someone cared enough about him to correct his bad habits.
"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Why, in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph is my brother sending you to Surrey?"
She rolled her eyes. "He's not sending me there. He asked me to go. It's a favour to help the Order, and it'll put Minerva's mind at ease."
"The Order?" Aberforth cried. "That's been disbanded since 1981 when that Potter boy destroyed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"
"Yes, but Albus and Minerva need my help. It's something I am uniquely qualified for, and I want to help."
He scowled. "What are ye moving to Surrey for?"
"I'm just going to watch over things, that's all."
Aberforth took a moment to think. "So Albus asked you to move to Surrey to 'watch over things' for the Order, but this task is also personal to Minerva?"
"Yes, exactly." Arabella smiled. "That's about the size of it."
"I see." Aberforth clenched his jaw. Albus would only re-engage the Order for two people: Minerva and Harry Potter. As this was a favour for Minerva, Aberforth had no doubt that this whole debacle concerned the Potter child.
Aberforth knew about the complex history between Harry Potter and his brother and sister-in-law. For over a decade, Aberforth had believed that his niece, Athena, and her husband, Dalton, had died in a werewolf attack. Then, one day, Albus had deemed his brother worthy of the truth and turned Aberforth's world upside-down.
He told Aberforth that Athena and Dalton hadn't died; instead, they had been de-aged and sent forward in time with new identities. They became Lily Evans and James Potter, respectively. That made Harry Albus' grandson, and since Minerva was James' biological mother, she, too, was Harry's grandparent by blood.
The whole situation was bloody complicated. Aberforth typically wouldn't give one fig about time travel, de-aging magic, Minerva's first marriage, or what eventually brought Minerva to Albus' wedding bed.
However, this was his own niece—and her son. Despite his best efforts, Aberforth couldn't blame his brother for wanting to protect Harry Potter. He loved Athena too much to wish anything but the best for her child, and he knew Albus and Minerva felt similarly.
"If this is about what I think it's about," Aberforth said finally, "then I understand. I really appreciate you telling me. I hope we can part as friends this time 'round."
The grin Arabella wore caused Aberforth's heart to squeeze. "We can part as very good friends."
—
Shortly after Arabella moved, Aberforth received a letter from Albus.
Abe—Arabella tells me that you have your suspicions about why I asked her to go to Surrey. If you want confirmation—I'm going to assume you're correct in your assumption—feel free to come to the castle. Oh, and Arabella wanted me to suggest that you visit her at her new home. Be careful where you Apparate. It's a Muggle village, after all.
Aberforth raised his eyebrows as he found her address written below Albus' note. He took one quick look around the bar—it was an early Monday morning—to find it empty.
"I bet that's why you sent this now, Al," Aberforth murmured. "Always forcing fate, you are."
Summoning his courage, along with two Gillywaters and two cheese and onion pies, Aberforth left for Little Whinging.
And so began the revival of the love affair between Aberforth Dumbledore and Arabella Figg.
—
Their second act came with its challenges, but Aberforth had never been happier. He willingly spent whatever nights he could at her house in England, and when her schedule allowed, she joined him at the Hog's Head.
"Perhaps things are better this way," Arabella told him one night. Her house was infinitely more comfortable than his bachelor's apartment. "We couldn't move in together, even if we wanted to. My work is here, and your work is in Scotland."
"And my heart is with you," Aberforth murmured. "Maybe that's all that really matters, in the end."
Eventually, Aberforth even got Albus' permission to tell Arabella the truth about Harry's identity. He left out some details, but she knew enough that Aberforth finally felt fully honest and open with his paramour.
He wasn't dragging Albus' past along with him, and for the first time in a long time, Aberforth felt free of the pain his brother had brought him.
So one night, over Chinese takeaway and IRN BRU, Aberforth took a step he never thought he'd take.
"I know you have a good thing going here in Little Whinging," Aberforth started, gripping her hand where it lay on the table, "and I think we're actually better apart—living apart, I mean—than when we live together. In the same city. It's good not to be together all the time." He swallowed roughly. "Oi, I'm butchering this."
"Butchering what, exactly?"
"This proposal," Aberforth answered quietly. "I would like to marry you. I know it's taken me bloody long enough to get here, but I would like very much to be your husband."
"I'd very much like to be your wife, Abe."
"Really?" Aberforth laughed. "I never thought this would happen."
"You did everything you could to prevent it," Arabella remarked, not unkindly. "All you needed was a woman stubborn enough to break down all those walls."
"Speaking of broken walls, I visited Albus. I got his permission to give you this." Aberforth fished around in his pocket until he held up an engagement ring. "This was my mother's, and I'd like you to have it."
"Of course I'd like that. That's a wonderful gesture, Abe. Thank you." She kissed him sweetly. "I admit that I'm surprised Albus didn't give it to Minerva first."
"Who knows why my brother does what he does?" Aberforth shrugged. "The ring was available, and I can think of no one better to wear it than you."
"I'm very grateful." Arabella took the ring from his hand and slipped it on her finger. "It's perfect."
"I'm happy you think so."
"One question: are you absolutely sure that you don't object to me staying in Little Whinging? I know you said we're doing better in this arrangement, but a marriage-by-Floo could get tiresome."
"Of course I don't object to you being here. You're happy here, and that makes me happy." Aberforth wore a wry grin. "Plus, you're taking care of my great-nephew. I might not show it, but I care about Harry's welfare. And, if you moved, Albus might kill me. I don't want you to be a widow for a long time yet."
Arabella smiled. "There we have it, then. I'll be Mrs. Figg-Dumbledore soon enough."
Soon enough, it was. They decided to get married rather quickly. Four months after his proposal, they found themselves at a Muggle register office near Little Whinging.
"It can't be in Little Whinging," Arabella had argued. "What would we do if anyone saw us? What if Harry saw us? You look like Santa Claus, for Heaven's sake."
Their ceremony was quiet and quick, but it was just how Aberforth wanted it. The wedding wasn't what he cared about, not really. He cared about the marriage. He cared about watching Harry play in the driveway from across the road. He wanted to work with Arabella to clean up the Hog's Head so students would eventually be comfortable visiting for lunch. He hoped to build a life with this woman—his wife—in his heart and by his side.
After their wedding, they headed back to Arabella's house and settled comfortably on her couch.
"Oh, there's a note here from Minerva," Arabella said, snatching the letter off her coffee table. "She's inviting us to her family home to celebrate our wedding."
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but that'd be nice. I wouldn't mind spending time with another married couple, even if one-half of the couple is Albus."
Arabella smiled. She had worked with Minerva to broker a truce between the two brothers, and it hadn't been easy work. "Abe, if the you I had met that day in the bar could see you now, I doubt you'd believe that any of this has come to pass."
"That's true enough, but I wouldn't change it. Not for the world. You're ma biquette," Aberforth murmured. "Much has changed over the years, but never that."
"No, never that." Arabella smiled softly. "Now, you should be heading back to the bar. I'll see you tomorrow morning?"
"All right, love." He kissed her gently before standing and making his way to the fireplace. They'd had it connected to the Floo network, which was a proper blessing in Aberforth's mind.
"Ara?" he asked as the flames turned green. "Don't worry about cooking tomorrow. I'll bring the usual pies for lunch."
With that, he Flooed back to the bar, her parting smile imprinted in his memory.
FIN.