Beside the dimly lit corridor, Ian first darted away to cast a Disillusionment Charm upon himself. Cloaked in near-invisibility, he hurriedly crept back, pressing against the ancient, mottled stone wall. Peering through the murky light spilling from the shed door, he observed the heated exchange inside.
Albus Dumbledore and his younger brother, Aberforth Dumbledore, were locked in a fierce argument.
"If you hand it over now, perhaps I can still forgive your carelessness."
"I told you, I don't have it! I don't even know what exactly you're hiding, aside from that letter. I haven't seen anything else in that blasted box!"
"No one but you knows about that letter. Do you honestly think I wouldn't use Legilimency on you? Or have you grown so foolish that after stealing something, you'd cast a Memory Charm on yourself?"
"Merlin's beard, Albus! You're impossible! I was only curious. You never tell me anything, so I went looking for answers in your office."
"Aberforth, I did that for your own good. Some truths would shatter you. You're not ready. Give it back, and I'll tell you everything when the time is right."
"I didn't take anything, you insufferable old bat!"
...
Ian had stumbled upon quite the spectacle, one that few students, or even professors, would ever witness. As Aberforth's patience snapped, he swung a furious punch, and Albus, for all his usual poise, returned the blow without hesitation.
There were no flashes of wandlight, no spells flying through the air. Just the dull, unmistakable thud of fists meeting flesh.
It was a proper brawl.
The echoes of their scuffle reverberated down the corridor.
It was absurd, really. The venerable headmaster of Hogwarts, the embodiment of wisdom, and his equally elderly brother, owner of the Hog's Head Inn, rolling about like quarrelling schoolboys in the Owlery.
"Hoot! Hoot!"
The owls, rudely roused from their slumber, flapped their wings in protest. With startled screeches, they scattered toward the high windows, attempting to escape the absurd clash. But the Dumbledores were utterly oblivious, consumed by their furious struggle.
They might have been old, but they were still wizards, making them resilient, stubborn, and not above a bit of fisticuffs when provoked. Though their movements were less agile than in their youth, each blow was determined, aimed squarely for the other's face.
There was no holding back.
And it was no mere mock fight.
Ian was certain he saw blood in the dim light.
"Merlin's pants! Teeth! Whose teeth were those? Were they Albus's, or Aberforth's?" He barely contained a snort of disbelief. How he wished he had a wizarding camera, a self-writing quill enchanted to capture every ridiculous detail of this ridiculous fight. This was the sort of scene that would become legend if ever exposed.
Indeed, it seemed Hogwarts had a strange tendency to reveal its most astonishing moments when least expected. The Boy-Who-Lived and his friends had often stumbled upon secret plots this way. And now Ian had his own tale to tell.
Yet, the main and the most important question lingered.
"Should I step in?" He had assumed the brothers were quarrelling over the letter he had delivered. Maybe revealing himself would clear up the misunderstanding. After all, he could easily prove he was just the messenger. If anyone doubted him, he could fetch a hundred letters and photographs next time, so long as the fee was paid.
One person, a hundred letters each.
However, upon witnessing the two elderly wizards wrestling like schoolboys, Ian dared not reveal himself. He feared the two furious brothers might drag him into their brawl.
He wasn't sure he could bring himself to punch an old man. And judging by the way they were fighting, Ian even suspected he might not stand a chance against the hundred-year-old headmaster.
"You're mad!"
Albus Dumbledore's silver hair was tousled, strands falling over his face, though his deep blue eyes retained a measure of restraint. In contrast, Aberforth was visibly consumed by rage, his fury driving every move.
"Without your cursed spells! Do you think you could best me?" Aberforth's face twisted in anger, his fists slicing through the air with alarming force, each blow echoing with the frustration of years gone by.
"I know you still hold resentment towards me, but that does not justify stealing my—"
Albus Dumbledore's words were abruptly cut off as Aberforth lunged again, his bloodied fists swinging with relentless aggression.
Finally, Albus Dumbledore's restraint gave way. Whatever composure he had clung to snapped. Provoked beyond reason, he retaliated.
It was undeniable that Albus Dumbledore was not only a master of magic but also a formidable duelist. Though he rarely resorted to physical confrontations, even in his age, he moved with surprising strength and agility. Years of refined magical discipline had lent him an edge that Aberforth, despite his stubbornness, could not match.
Aberforth began to falter.
The air was filled with the harsh sounds of struggle.
But Albus Dumbledore, deaf to reason, drove his brother to the ground. Pinning him beneath his weight, the headmaster struck with uncharacteristic fury. From the shadows, Ian's breath caught, and a chill ran down his spine.
He had never seen Albus Dumbledore like this.
The soft glow of the moon outside illuminated the older wizard's expression. No longer merely frustrated, his face twisted with a terrible blend of anger and anguish. Whatever had set this fight into motion, Ian could now see it was about far more than a stolen letter or photograph.
The echoes of memory stirred in Ian's mind. He recalled the painful truths Albus Dumbledore had once shown him. Understanding now seeped in. This childish brawl was a reflection of something far deeper, a manifestation of long-buried emotions, unresolved guilt, and fractured bonds.
It was not truly about the letter or the photo within.
It was about decades of resentment, the weight of blame, and wounds that had never truly healed. Albus Dumbledore had borne the crushing responsibility of the past, as an elder brother, as a man who had made choices that haunted him.
But had the revered headmaster, this symbol of wisdom and patience, really never resented Aberforth?
Of course not. He had merely suppressed it, burying every ounce of pain and fury beneath the facade of control.
The stolen photo was nothing more than the spark that ignited the wildfire. Aberforth's unrelenting accusations had torn open the carefully concealed scars that Albus Dumbledore had tried to forget. And Aberforth, with his stubbornness and bitter memories, refused to let them fade.
It was also true that Aberforth's own hatred had not diminished. In his eyes, Albus Dumbledore was the one responsible for Ariana's death. That belief had festered over the years, driving him to lash out now.
Perhaps, despite the fragile peace they had maintained, neither brother had truly moved on.
"Interesting," Ian muttered under his breath. "Aberforth still hasn't mentioned the Resurrection Stone. He's tight-lipped as ever. Maybe that photo really was taken by him."
Ian observed the brawl between the two elderly wizards with morbid fascination. The raw display of emotion left him both uneasy and intrigued. Yet, amidst the chaotic struggle, he noticed Aberforth had never once mentioned the counterfeit letter Ian had delivered. Perhaps Aberforth suspected that Albus Dumbledore could use the Resurrection Stone to uncover its secrets?
Maybe he planned to study it in secret once he retrieved it.
From this perspective, it was clear Aberforth had never truly believed Albus would delve into his memories. His cunning far exceeded the clumsy, rough demeanor he usually displayed.
"I still can't fathom how he found out I have the Resurrection Stone," Ian thought, his eyes fixed on Albus Dumbledore, who now sat slumped against the wall. Across from him, Aberforth lay sprawled like a limp rag, breathing heavily.
The moment Albus Dumbledore's weary gaze lifted toward the door, Ian's heart jolted. His legs reacted faster than his mind, and he fled without a second thought.
(To Be Continued…)
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