the order of the pint || a & a
Albus’ note was the first Aberforth had heard about Caradoc Dearborn’s apparent disappearance. He did not, after all, frequent the Order Headquarters- he avoided it almost as fastidiously as he did the Ministry, actually- and those who knew about his involvement with the Order were few and far between. Rumors of an Order member not coming home weren’t the sort of things that found their way to his ears. Aberforth liked it that way. Keeping the Order at arm’s length was, he figured, the only reason he remained sane after being dragged into the messy little child’s army at Alastor’s behest.
But Dearborn, well, Aberforth didn’t know the man beyond his occasional presence in the Hog’s Head, and a vague sort of idea of his relationship to various shady characters that lurked in the pub’s corners, but he hadn’t been as annoying as some of the other young ones running about throwing themselves into the line of fire. It was a shame the kid was probably dead by now. And if he wasn’t, probably better off were he dead. Aberforth didn’t envy the idea of spending over 24 hours in the company of a bunch of masked, curse-happy arseholes.
Life, however, went on. The Hog’s Head was having a fairly slow evening, something Aberforth was not particularly put out about. He was more than happy to spend his time flipping idly through a copy of the Daily Prophet and nursing a pint behind the bar. And his patrons, what few there were that day, were keeping to themselves, hunched over grimy tables and glasses containing alcohol of all stripes. This was the pub as Aberforth liked it the most, quiet and peaceful and just a bit too dark.
The door opened, creaking in protest the way it always did when moved at anything more than a snail’s pace, and Aberforth finished the line he was reading of an article about the Wizengamot’s latest decisions before letting his gaze slide up to the approaching wizard. He didn’t bother to bite back his sigh.
Arthur Weasley was unmistakable. His hair was a frankly ridiculous shade of red, and Aberforth, who was not one to be concerned about his own not-inconsiderable height, found him irritatingly tall. In his experience, Arthur was both far too cheerful far too often, and, what’s more, was one of the idiots who thought Albus and his Order hung the moon. Aberforth stared over at the wizard, one eyebrow creeping upwards questioningly, and took a sip of his pint, not breaking eye contact. “Weasley,” the name was a begrudging greeting and an acknowledgement wrapped up into one, “Do you want a drink or are you just here to take in the scenery?”
