Ordinary Dumbledore

Regulus's spectator gaze was too obvious; he made no attempt to conceal it.

Aberforth looked over, sized him up, frowned, and then turned to Dumbledore: "Hmph, this one doesn't talk much this time, better than the last one who could brag."

Last time, that guy talked to me about international affairs all night, and before I even got comfortable, he was telling me how to run a bar.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "The last one was a scribe from Wizengamot; he wasn't very good at conversation."

"Wizengamot?" Aberforth scoffed. "Those bunch of clerks who can only read official documents, what do they know? They can't even recognize all the drinks in a bar, and they want to teach me how to run one?"

Dumbledore's lips twitched.

He was also from Wizengamot, and even the Chief wizard. He almost said it, but then swallowed it back and sighed.

Regulus found it amusing, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two old men before finally settling on Aberforth.

Once you've done something wrong to the goats, you'll know what Wizengamot will do.

Aberforth snorted, pulled a rough earthenware bottle from under the bar, uncorked it, poured half a glass of murky liquid into a dusty glass, and pushed it toward Dumbledore.

"Drink up, homemade gin, you can't find this anywhere else."

Dumbledore looked down at the liquid in the glass.

The glass is cloudy and slightly greenish; it smells pungent, with a mixture of pine needles and alcohol; and there are faint, unfiltered sediments at the bottom.

He picked it up, took a sip, and maintained a normal expression for half a second before subtly changing it.

Blue eyes blinked twice, lips tightened and then loosened, Adam's apple bobbed, and he struggled to swallow the sip of wine.

"... The flavor is very unique."

Aberforth sneered, "Unique? You mean it tastes awful?"

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes slightly, neither nodding nor shaking his head, his Adam's apple bobbing as he suppressed the rising nausea.

"From now on, I'll only sell this here. Customers have no choice but to drink it."

Aberforth slammed the earthenware bottle down on the bar, stared at Dumbledore with his blue eyes, then poured himself a glass, took a big gulp, and remained expressionless.

"Want Butterbeer? Go to Honeydukes. Want to flirt with Madam Rosmerta at Three Broomsticks? Turn left when you leave."

Regulus's lips twitched.

They only sell the worst-tasting ones; customers want something better? They can find that elsewhere.

This business philosophy is so pure that it makes you wonder how this bar survives.

It probably refers to the business of the Order of the Phoenix. The Hog's Head Inn is the Order of the Phoenix's secret outpost, intelligence station, and sanctuary. No matter why you come in, you have to order a drink.

Not ordering is disrespecting the boss, and disrespecting the boss is disrespecting Dumbledore. As for whether he can drink it or not, the boss can drink it anyway.

Everyone who runs a monopoly is arrogant. Aberforth probably didn't know the word "monopoly," but he understood the business very well.

"Speak," Aberforth said, his hands resting on the bar, his blue eyes fixed on Dumbledore, his tone unfriendly, "What is it this time? What do you need my help with? Is someone else dying?"

He began reciting Dumbledore's titles with obvious annoyance. "Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Hogwarts Headmaster, President of the International Confederation of Wizards."

With so many titles hanging around, what's the point of just sitting here? Every time you come here, you're cleaning up other people's messes. Whose mess is it this time?

Dumbledore looked up, his voice weary. "I was just passing through and wanted to see you."

Aberforth snorted heavily and turned his head away, "Passing by? Looking at me?"

He reached up and pulled another bottle of wine from the shelf, bit off the cork with his teeth, took a swig, and muttered, "Whatever. You never stay long after saying something like that."

Dumbledore opened his mouth.

Regulus turned his gaze, his vertical pupils gleaming with undisguised mockery, and the corners of his mouth curled up even higher.

Dumbledore sensed it, turned his head to look over, his blue eyes flashed, and he looked a little uncomfortable.

The greatest white wizard, revered throughout the international Wizarding World, was rendered speechless by his own brother's retort, and then the boy saw right through him from beginning to end.

He coughed lightly, trying to regain some composure. "Aberforth isn't usually this talkative."

Aberforth added coldly from the side, "You brought people here just to shut me up?"

Dumbledore shut his mouth.

He picked up his glass, took a sip, and then turned to Regulus, his blue eyes showing a hint of embarrassment mixed with a stubborn refusal to admit it. "He really isn't usually this talkative."

Regulus grinned and gestured with his chin toward Dumbledore.

You go ahead, I'll just take a look.

Dumbledore placed his glass back on the bar, his tone returning to its usual calm. "Aberforth, how's things at Hogsmeade lately? Anything unusual?"

Aberforth looked at him coldly. "Just ask what you want to ask. Don't try to beat around the bush with this principal's rhetoric. There are no students here to listen to your performance—are you even a student?"

He turned to Regulus and yelled, "Are you some damn student?"

Dumbledore's eye twitched.

Regulus didn't respond, waving his hand at Aberforth with the same expression.

You two continue, don't involve me.

Aberforth snorted, probably thinking there was no point in continuing the insults; his brother was thick-skinned and he could never be exposed no matter how much he cursed him.

He tidied up the glasses on the bar, wrung out the rag, and then suddenly turned and walked towards the backyard.

"The goats haven't been fed yet, you two can stay here by yourselves."

He ripped open the curtain and disappeared behind the door leading to the backyard.

The goat chewing grass in the corner followed, its hooves clattering on the floor, and it ducked under the curtain.

The tavern fell silent.

Regulus turned his gaze from the goat to Dumbledore's face and teased, "Is this how your family treats guests?"

Dumbledore picked up the glass of wine poured by Aberforth, took a sip, and said in a relaxed tone, "He was just exercising his rights as a brother."

Regulus grinned. "What rights?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes curved behind his half-moon lenses. "A constant reminder, day after day, that I'm just an ordinary person."

He stood up, went around behind the bar, bent down, and rummaged through the cabinet.

The place was a chaotic mess with a unique character; bread and Cheese were mixed together with a half-open bottle of gin, half-cut pickles sat on the cutting board, and the back of the knife was stained with yesterday's stale Butter.

Dumbledore found a gap among these things, pulled out the bread and Cheese, and found a relatively clean knife.

The bread was cut crookedly, Cheese was cut into irregular sizes. It was placed on a chipped earthenware plate and brought over to the table.

Regulus picked up a piece of bread and took a bite.

Hard, cold, rough, and dry, but edible.

He chewed on his bread, his gaze sweeping over the run-down tavern.

Crooked tables and chairs, a floor stained with decades of dirt, a wild boar head specimen with a vacant stare, and a few bundles of hay in the corner.

Dumbledore sat opposite him, looking quite at ease, as if this filthy, run-down tavern was his most comfortable place.

That's probably true.

In front of his brother, he didn't need to be the world's greatest white wizard; he only needed to be an old man who would talk back when challenged, feel embarrassed when exposed, and feel awkward when his students saw his embarrassing state.

"What are you looking at?" Dumbledore looked up, his blue eyes showing a hint of wariness.

Regulus looked away, picked up another piece of bread, and grinned. "It's nothing."

It was getting late when Aberforth returned from the backyard.

He glanced at the two people who were still at the bar, then at the half-eaten food on the bar, and snorted.

Then he took a rusty key from the wall, slid it across half the bar counter, and Regulus caught it.

"Upstairs, at the end of the Corridor, the bed is broken, the bedding is old, take it or leave it."

He glared at Dumbledore again. "You know where you want to sleep."

Regulus stood up and went upstairs by himself, while Dumbledore remained sitting there.

As he passed Aberforth, Aberforth didn't even look up, his voice hoarse, carrying a weary sarcasm. "So young, following him, don't expect a good ending."

Regulus raised his chin, waved the key in his hand, said nothing, and went upstairs.

A small room at the end of the Corridor.

Small and narrow, a metal-framed bed was placed by the window. The bedding was indeed old, but there was no musty smell. Although they said they didn't care whether they slept in it or not, they still washed it.

I don't know if they'll charge me for the room if I come with the old man; he didn't bring any money anyway, so the old man will pay for it.

He twitched the corner of his mouth, and a silent Cleaning Charm flicked from his fingertips, removing the grease stains from the key.

The walls were covered with faded wallpaper, and a chandelier hung overhead, its shade filled with dead insects. The light was so dim that it could barely illuminate the outlines of the furniture.

The window faces the back alley of Hogsmeade, where you can see the roof of Honeydukes in the distance, and further still, the towers of Hogwarts Castle, their hazy tips peeking out in the moonlight.

He stood by the window, wiping the dirt and grime off his long, silvery-white hair.

The fight in the Wasteland had left me covered in dirt, and there were still a few bits of heather stuck in my hair. I patted it clean and washed my face.

Professor McGonagall's Permanent Transfiguration was indeed reliable; the scorch marks on the vest have been repaired, the scratches on the cuffs have disappeared, and the fabric is back to how it looked when I left this morning.

He took off his robe, shook it out, and hung it on the iron rack at the foot of the bed.

Aberforth's cursing and swearing came from downstairs, interspersed with the clanging of pots and pans.

Footsteps sounded at the door, Dumbledore pushed the door open and came in.

He walked to the window, his back to the door, the moonlight shining on his white hair.

Regulus sat on the edge of the bed. "Your brother..."

Dumbledore turned around, a hint of amusement in his voice. "He's not actually a bad person."

Regulus didn't respond to that question, but changed the subject. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

Dumbledore turned around, raised an eyebrow, and a look of interest flashed in his blue eyes. "What do you want to do?"

"Let's go check out the Werewolf."

Regulus got up and went over, pushing the window open a crack. The night breeze blew in, ruffling his long, silvery-white hair.

"That mining village north of Yorkshire, I got some stuff there a while ago, let's go check it out."

Dumbledore's eyes lit up.

Regulus didn't elaborate on what he had done, but with a smile on his lips and a relaxed tone, he said, "Tomorrow is the full moon."

"Okay," Dumbledore said cheerfully.

He recalled his previous conversation with Regulus about Werewolf; the boy had probably been thinking about it all along.

He didn't ask for details; he said he'd go check tomorrow.

He nodded, turned and walked towards the door. Reaching the door, he turned back, winked, and said, "Get some rest, Geralt."

"Good night, Professor." Regulus waved.

The door closed, and the footsteps faded into the distance down the Corridor.

Regulus leaned against the headboard, listening to the sounds downstairs.

Aberforth was still tidying up downstairs; the occasional clinking of cups and saucers could be heard, along with his muttering, probably still cursing Dumbledore.

After a moment of silence, he cursed a couple more times.

The beds at Hog's Head Inn were really bad; the springs were uncomfortable against my back.

Edgar Tom endured the full moon among Werewolf, and the Guardian Will of Bellatrix planted an anchor deep within his soul.

We should have already made it through one full moon last month; tomorrow will be the second.

If the anchor point is successfully established, Edgar will be the first Werewolf to remain conscious on the night of the full moon.

The application of the Guardian Will to Werewolf —the blue and white light, the gentle power—is probably what Dumbledore would love to see most.

Although I've already made a good impression on the old man enough, and there's no need to go any further, some things, once done, should be seen by others, especially by those who can understand them.

This was my first time reviewing my experimental results, and also a chance to broaden the old man's horizons.

Regulus rolled over and closed his eyes.

I'm going to see the Werewolf tomorrow.