Pushing open the peeling wooden door,
Sean stepped into a scene completely unlike the Three Broomsticks.
The Three Broomsticks always felt bright, clean, and warm, centered around its great polished bar. The Hog's Head, by contrast, was just one small, dark, filthy room, thick with the smell of goats.
The few bay windows were so grimy with years of dirt that barely any light made it through, and rough wooden tables were lit only by little stubs of candles.
At first glance, Sean thought the floor was packed earth. Only when he stepped on it did he realize it was actually stone buried beneath centuries of grime.
"What'll it be?"
The barman looked like an ill-tempered old man, with long gray hair and a matching beard.
He was tall and thin.
"Well? What do you want?"
he asked impatiently.
Sean noticed at once that the man clearly hadn't been sleeping well.
The dark circles under his eyes were heavy, and his eyelids drooped as if weighed down. In his hand he was holding several bottles: the pale blue one was a calming draught, the one with the faint purple glow was Dreamless Sleep Potion, and Sean even spotted a Daydream Charm trinket from Weasleys & Green's Joke Shop.
"You've been having trouble sleeping lately,"
Sean said.
"I already know that."
The old man snorted. He seemed to wake up a little more then, and narrowed his eyes as he looked Sean over.
"What do you want?"
he repeated coldly.
"Butterbeer,"
Sean said.
He glanced around by instinct and quickly noticed that in the Hog's Head, wizards seemed especially fond of hiding their faces.
There weren't many people here at the moment, but they were all quietly drinking, half-drunk eyes visible under their robes.
At the bar sat someone whose entire head was wrapped in grimy gray bandages, though he was somehow still managing to pour a smoking, flaming liquid down through a slit in the wrappings over his mouth, one cup after another.
He was drinking Firewhisky, the wizarding world's particularly strong spirit.
At one table by the window sat two hooded figures speaking in thick Yorkshire accents, drinking butterbeer.
In a dark corner by the fire sat a witch with a heavy gray veil covering both her face and the goblet of mead in front of her.
"Sold out,"
said the old man.
Sean looked at the two wizards drinking butterbeer.
"What about Firewhisky?"
Sean asked.
"Sold out."
The old man swept Gods and Dreams off the counter, along with the black cat illustration beside it.
Sean glanced at the mummy-like man drinking Firewhisky, then looked back at Aberforth.
"Then I suppose mead is sold out too?"
Up until now, the old man had been all but pretending Sean didn't exist, but at that, he seemed almost interested.
"Oh, congratulations. You guessed right."
Sean could feel the hostility radiating off him. He silently held the old man's gaze until Aberforth was the one who looked away.
"So it's like this again… the same kind of eyes…"
The old man muttered to himself, then busied himself comparing the potions in his hand.
"He was always that one's favorite student…"
he grumbled, then said in a voice thick with impatience,
"Go on. You won't be getting any alcohol here."
"Favorite student?"
Sean repeated very quietly.
A smiling Dumbledore floated through his mind.
"I think… I should tell you…"
Sean started to say something.
"Go on, go on—"
The old man suddenly straightened up, his tone much harsher now.
"I'm busy today—"
He picked up Gods and Dreams again and started reading it with careful attention, which stood in striking contrast to his rough appearance.
A few drinkers still inside didn't dare disturb the landlord. They simply dropped silver Sickles into the wooden till themselves.
The drawer slid open on its own and swallowed the coins.
Out of the corner of his eye, the old man stole another glance at the young wizard, who by then had already left with a frown.
"Strange…"
the old man muttered.
He stared at the potion bottles, thought of the dreams that had finally returned after so long, and quietly closed his eyes.
The moment Sean stepped back out of the Hog's Head, the cold wind snatched at his scarf.
He watched Aberforth shove the rest of his customers outside as if driving them away.
And those customers, strangely enough, all seemed used to it.
"How many days has it been now?"
one of them muttered.
"Who knows? Since when did he take to sleeping in the daytime?"
the mummy-like wizard replied.
Then the two of them vanished into the blowing snow.
As the door and windows were shut one by one, darkness began climbing over the Hog's Head in thin black threads.
It spread from the roof all the way down to the final window—
the only one still glowing softly.
Aberforth, muttering to himself like always, reached for the window frame.
But just as the sunlight struck his eyes one last time, his hand froze.
"Not a very good morning, Mr. Aberforth."
A black cat was sitting on the windowsill like a perfect gentleman.
The sunlight draped it in gauze. Its little nose twitched faintly, and its green slit-pupiled eyes were elegant, yet full of a captivating force.
Aberforth froze where he stood. After several seconds, his breathing grew heavier and heavier, and both his long gray hair and beard started trembling.
"If I'm not welcome…"
The black cat pressed its tail down under one paw. Anyone could hear the politeness—and distance—in its cool voice.
"Please—please come in!"
Aberforth practically barked it out.
His throat had closed up so badly he could hardly force out a proper sentence.
When the black cat entered the Hog's Head again, it was perched on Aberforth's shoulder.
Aberforth carefully carried it back inside, glancing over and over again at the illustration.
Exactly the same… exactly the same…
he kept muttering to himself.
"Good morning… divine sir."
He forced himself to speak.
No matter what, he could not let the small cat in front of him leave.
"Not a very good morning, Mr. Aberforth."
The black cat repeated itself.
The smile Aberforth had just managed to force out froze on his face.
"I bring her thoughts with me, Mr. Aberforth."
The black cat leapt down onto the wooden table and glanced at the different drinks that had "suddenly appeared."
"To hide each other from those who long for one another is cruel. I will tell you everything about her—her wandering, her waiting. If one day wizards meet again, they will understand the loneliness a soul must endure for that reunion to happen, and that one moment will gain a meaning beyond compare."
The black cat curled its tail, and a silver basin—a Pensieve—appeared from within the fluffy tail as if by magic.
Aberforth swallowed hard.
For a moment, dazed, it felt as though he had seen her.
And he himself seemed to shrink lower and lower, all the way down into the dust—yet there was joy in him, the kind of joy that could make flowers bloom out of dust.