Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 443 The Goat and the Eccentric Old Man

In the evening, in Hogsmeade, the two walked in from the village entrance.

A few pedestrians walked sporadically on the street, wrapped in robes and walking with their heads down. The March wind still carried a chill, causing the shop signs to sway gently.

The Honeydukes shop window was lit with colorful lights, and several little witches came out of the shop carrying paper bags, the bags sparkling with colorful icing.

Three brooms were lit, and the door opened and closed, with laughter and the clinking of glasses mingling together as they drifted out.

Regulus followed Dumbledore across the main street and into a narrow alley.

The further we walked, the darker it became, and the more remote it became. The stone walls on both sides were covered with moss, and the stone slabs under our feet were worn smooth and shiny. There were puddles of water at the base of the walls, reflecting the gray-blue sky above.

At the end of the alley, a low, sloping stone house nestled in the shadow of two taller buildings. Its windows were covered with decades of ash, and the light that shone through was murky and had a sour yellow hue.

A crooked wooden sign creaked as it hung on an iron frame. On it was a chopped-off, aged wild boar head, missing one eyeball, the remaining one tilted and staring at the road.

Dumbledore pushed open the crooked wooden door.

The wood grain on the door panel was black and shiny, and it felt sticky to the touch. The hinges creaked and screamed, and the inside looked even more dilapidated than the outside.

The stains on the floor formed a layered structure, with the bottom layer probably as old as a bar, sticky to the touch.

Behind the bar hung an even larger wild boar's head, its pair of glassy eyes staring blankly at the doorway, and spiderwebs hanging from its ears.

The tables and chairs were crooked and not a single one could be laid flat. The chair legs were padded with wood chips and stacks of old newspapers.

The air smelled of goat, the sourness of cheap liquor, and the acrid smell of burning firewood—no better than the tavern in the wasteland.

In the corner, there were several bundles of hay. A dirty goat poked its head out, chewing on the hay, its mouth full of bits of food, its eyes even more vacant than a pig's head.

The tavern was almost empty, except for one or two hooded figures in the corner, drinking with their heads down and not looking at anyone.

The guests here all have their own reasons for not wanting to be seen: tax evaders, smugglers, wanted criminals, hiding from debt collectors, or those who were kicked out after arguing with their wives. It would be awkward to run into an acquaintance at Three Brooms.

Pig Head Bar doesn't discriminate between customers; if it did, it would have gone out of business long ago.

Regulus glanced around and twitched his lips.

The one on the moor was rough enough; I thought it was probably the bare minimum for an English pub. Now I realize the minimum could be even lower.

This place is located in Hogsmeade, next to Hogwarts, the most famous school district in the entire British wizarding world.

It was filthy and smelly, with a goat grazing in the corner, and it had been open for so many years.

There was no one behind the bar, so Dumbledore walked up to the bar and tapped the counter twice.

A gruff voice came from the back room: "We're closing!"

Dumbledore knocked again.

Footsteps approached, heavy and dragging.

The curtain was lifted, and a tall, old wizard stepped out.

He was half a head taller and more robust than Dumbledore, with broad shoulders and thick arms—a physique fit for heavy physical labor.

His long, gray hair and beard were tangled together in a messy, unruly manner, with no discernible boundaries.

His face had twice as many wrinkles as Dumbledore's, deep, red, and heavily marked by the elements.

He was wearing an old robe stained with oil, and the stains on his apron were thicker than those on the floor.

His eyes are bright blue, just like Dumbledore's, but without the half-moon lenses to block them, what's inside is more direct, and he looks more intimidating.

He saw Dumbledore, who continued moving without stopping, the dirty rag draped over his shoulder, his expression shifting from impatience to even greater impatience.

Then his gaze swept over the stranger next to him.

A young, muscular man with long, silver-white hair, amber vertical pupils, and radiating heat was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, a smile on his lips, looking like he was watching a show.

Aberforth's gaze lingered on Regulus for a moment, then he snorted.

He turned to Dumbledore, his voice much deeper than Dumbledore's, as rough as his face: "Not again?"

Dumbledore remained composed, his tone relaxed: "Good evening, Aberforth."

Aberforth went back behind the bar and picked up a cup to wipe it.

The cup wasn't clean to begin with, and the rag was even dirtier; the more you wiped, the dirtier it became.

Without even looking at Dumbledore, he said as he wiped his hands, "Who did you bring this time? The one from last time, is he lame?"

"Still lying in St. Mungo's?"

Dumbledore sat down at the bar, speaking patiently: "The last one was under a curse; it was an accident, not my fault."

"You always say it's not your fault," Aberforth said without looking up, his attitude hostile, and he sneered, "Those who were by your side either died or were crippled, turned against you, or disappeared all year round."

He paused, glancing over the rim of the glass. "Did I mention you?"

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly: "You mentioned me."

"You know that much," Aberforth snorted, finally looking Dumbledore directly in the eye. "What are you planning to have someone do for you this time? Track down the Death Eaters? Negotiate with the giants?"

Dumbledore sighed. "He's not here to do anything for me."

"Oh?" Aberforth glanced at Regulus again, his face full of disdain. "Then what are you doing here? Following around with a hundred-year-old man? To make sure he doesn't fall?"

Dumbledore's lips curved into a smile, but his words were anything but polite: "I'm not at the age where I need help yet. But this bar of yours, the doorknob was almost falling off when I came last time, and it's still hanging there."

Your level of concern for your pub is just as appalling as your attitude towards your customers.

Aberforth's blue eyes flashed, and the corners of his mouth turned down: "Mind your own business, my tavern is perfectly fine."

"Very good?"

Dumbledore glanced around, his eyes darting between the pig's head specimen, the spiderwebs, the dirty floor, and the goat in the corner, before turning back to Aberforth with a subtle expression.

"Your goat is grazing in the shop, Aberforth."

"It can eat wherever it wants!" Aberforth roared back, "It's much cleaner than your phoenix!"

Your bird is always burning things around the house, dying and coming back to life, burning again and again, leaving feathers and ash everywhere. Have you ever said a word to it?

Dumbledore corrected him earnestly: "Fox is very clean."

"Cleanliness?" Aberforth snorted. "You mean it sweeps away the ashes every time it rebirths?"

Dumbledore opened his mouth, but didn't reply.

Aberforth sneered and continued wiping the cup, scrubbing it even harder, probably thinking he had won this round.

Regulus chose a less dirty chair and sat down, crossing one leg. His amber vertical pupils gleamed slightly in the dim light, and a smile he didn't intend to take back lingered on his lips.

He didn't say a word the whole time, watching with great interest.

Aberforth Dumbledore, a figure overlooked by most wizards.

The owner of the Hog's Head, Dumbledore's brother, was suspected by the Ministry of Magic of operating illegally. During the final battle at Hogwarts, he led students through a secret passage to reinforce the pub.

He was currently arguing with his brother, holding a rag, his eyes fierce and his tone harsh.

A powerful wizard, though not as good as Dumbledore or Voldemort, would definitely be at the top level if placed in a different context.

During the Battle of Hogwarts, a goat Patronus repelled hundreds of Dementors, demonstrating a significant power gap.

Dumbledore's Patronus Phoenix is ​​certainly impressive, but Aberforth could also dispel three digits of Dementors at once.

In the wizarding world, the mention of Dumbledore's phoenix evokes images of glory and grandeur, while the mention of Aberforth's goats likely conjures up images of that unforgettable, filthy tavern and the ever-present smell of goat.

The surname Dumbledore certainly has some significance.

The phoenix is ​​practically Albus Dumbledore's personal symbol. His Patronus is a phoenix, his wand core is a phoenix tail feather, his messengers are phoenixes, he uses phoenixes for teleportation, and even the organization he founded is called the Order of the Phoenix.

The phoenix has almost become a defining characteristic of him; mentioning Dumbledore evokes the image of a phoenix, and vice versa.

Aberforth doesn't associate with phoenixes; he's close to goats, and his affinity for them is inexplicably high.

His guardian spirit was a goat. He raised goats, talked to goats, comforted goats, and plunged headlong into a goat colony, never to emerge again.

They share the same bloodline, yet one soars to the sky while the other burrows to the ground; one is noble and elegant, while the other is as stubborn as a real goat.

When people talk about it, they all say it belongs to the Dumbledore family, but the way they approach it is completely different.

There is probably some kind of talent in their blood that resonates with certain creatures, but when it fell into the hands of the two brothers, fate's aesthetics differed.

Aberforth's reputation isn't that great yet, but quite a few people know him: he's a regular at Hogsmeade, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and some wizards who operate in the Grey Zone.

The Hog's Head is somewhat famous in the British wizarding world. It's incredibly filthy, owned by Dumbledore's brother, who has a terrible temper, serves awful drinks, and has a horrible environment.

But the thing that truly made him famous had not yet happened.

In a few years, Aberforth will be prosecuted by Wizengamo for using improper magic on a goat.

The Daily Prophet reported extensively that all wizards in Britain would know what outrageous things Dumbledore's brother had done to the goat.

As for what kind of illegitimate magic it was, the newspaper was vague, leaving readers with endless room for imagination.

But one thing is certain: after this incident, the first image that pops into the mind of every wizard in Britain who has ever heard of Aberforth Dumbledore is this old man and a goat.

In English folklore, the eccentric old man and the goat have always been a peculiar combination, appearing in countless vulgar jokes and folk tales.

Aberforth happens to have both.

He loved goats, he was an eccentric old man, he spent his whole life with goats, and he never realized until his death that he had become a perfect stereotype.

Regulus glanced at the goat chewing grass in the corner, then at the sarcastic old man behind the bar.

They are indeed a perfect match.

Few people knew the inside story of the relationship between the two brothers, but he did.

Summer of 1899, Godric Valley, Ariana, Grindelwald, that melee.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald, two gifted young men, hit it off immediately, talking about ideals, changing the world, greater interests, and the wizards' rule over Muggles.

Aberforth objected, thinking his brother had gone mad, abandoning the family and spending all his time with a dangerous foreign wizard.

The argument escalated into a three-way duel, a spell flew in, and Ariana died.

No one knows whose curse killed her; perhaps it was Aberforth himself, perhaps it was Dumbledore, perhaps it was Grindelwald.

Aberforth broke Dumbledore's nose at his funeral, and the old man's nose is still crooked to this day.

From that moment on, Aberforth hated his brother’s greatness and fame, hated his titles, and Dumbledore never looked Aberforth in the eye again.

These things are heavy, so heavy that they changed the fate of many people and the course of this era.

But now is not the time to think about these things; the scene before us is more interesting.

The two old men, whose combined age was nearly two hundred, were arguing over old grievances, one sharp-tongued and the other feigning innocence. Neither of them actually lost their temper, nor did they slam the door and leave.

They've been arguing for most of their lives, and they're still arguing.

This is what family is.

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