The Diary of Aberforth Dumbledore: Bitterness, Blood, and the Shadows Between Wars

An Entry from the Private Journal of Aberforth Dumbledore

Editor’s Note

The following pages were discovered wrapped in a goat-hide satchel behind the bar of the Hog’s Head Inn after renovations in 2002. Though unverified by the author himself, the handwriting, tone, and occasional goat references leave little doubt as to their authenticity. What follows is a rare, unvarnished glimpse into the private thoughts of one of the Second Wizarding War’s most reluctant, yet essential, heroes.

October 3rd – Hog’s Head, Evening

I’ve never been one for diaries. Too sentimental. Albus used to write in those elegant little leather books, filling them with grand ideas and flourishes like he was auditioning for history. Me? I’ve got beer stains on my pages and words that’d make a banshee blush. But sometimes, when the pub’s empty and the fire’s low, I think maybe it’s worth putting a few thoughts down. Even if no one ever reads them.

It’s strange how the past hangs about. Like smoke. Doesn’t matter how often you open the windows — it lingers. And in my case, the smoke smells of goats and regret.

On Albus

People think I hate my brother. I don’t. Hate’s too clean a word. What I feel for him is knotted, ugly, complicated. A mixture of admiration and the kind of fury that keeps you up at night. He was brilliant — I’ll give him that. Could charm a room into silence with a single smile, while I was left in the corner polishing glasses. But brilliance has a cost, and Albus always seemed to think someone else should pay it.

He played his games with Grindelwald, and Ariana was caught in the middle. We both lost her that day, but somehow, the world forgave him quicker than I did. They made him Headmaster. They gave him orders and titles. Me? They gave me a pub license and a quiet corner to drink in.

On Ariana

She was the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. Too much magic in her, and no way to tame it without breaking her. I used to sit by her in the evenings, reading stories about brave witches and noble wizards. She liked the ones where nobody died. There aren’t many of those.

The day we lost her… well, that’s burned into me deeper than any curse. Albus avoids talking about it. I don’t avoid it. I can’t. Every goat bleating outside the pub reminds me of how I tried to keep her world small enough to be safe, and how I failed anyway.

On the Second War

I didn’t plan to get involved. Wars are for heroes, and I’m no hero. I kept my head down, served my drinks, listened. But information flows through the Hog’s Head like firewhisky through a leaky barrel. I heard things. Passed them along. Maybe that made a difference.

When Harry Potter and his friends came to me, looking for a way into Hogwarts, I didn’t hesitate. Not for Albus. For Ariana. For the chance to protect the kids still inside those walls, the ones who had no choice but to fight.

I opened that secret tunnel. Fed the fighters who came through. Smuggled out the injured. Watched children turn into soldiers overnight. Don’t talk to me about glory — there was none in it. Just grit, blood, and stubbornness.

On the Night of the Battle

I fought. Not because I wanted to, but because it came to my doorstep. Spells flying, screams echoing off the stone, the air thick with the stench of burning. I don’t remember who I cursed, who I stunned. Just flashes — Neville’s defiance, Minerva’s steel, the way the younger ones held their wands like lifelines.

And then… quiet. Too much quiet. You start counting the faces you’ll never see again. That’s when you realise victory’s just another word for “not everyone died.”

Final Thoughts

I still don’t forgive Albus. Maybe I never will. But in the end, we both fought for something worth fighting for — in our own ways. He had his grand plans; I had my goats and my pub. Funny thing is, both played their part.

So here’s to the stubborn ones. The bitter ones. The ones who aren’t in the history books, but without whom the story would’ve ended differently.

“Not all battles are fought on the front lines. Some are fought in the shadows, behind a bar, with a wand under the counter and an eye on the door.”

If anyone ever reads this, don’t make me out to be a saint. Just remember that I did my part. And that I kept the fire lit for those who needed it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the goats are bleating again. Probably tangled in the washing line.

— Aberforth Dumbledore

Order of Merlin, None of Your Business
Proprietor of the Hog’s Head Inn
Keeper of Goats, Memories, and Grudge.