Back when Lily was pregnant and giving birth, she had said the same thing to James.
Perhaps all Gryffindor girls were like this—they never even learned how to spell the word "retreat."
The three fifth-year students stood firm, like warriors.
Harry said nothing and simply continued his preparations.
For the next few days, dueling lessons were put on hold, and even Neville's training was limited to warm-ups.
In the midst of heavy snowfall, Christmas arrived.
On Christmas Eve, the students who stayed at Hogwarts gathered in the Great Hall for a lively celebration.
But Harry and his friends were absent. Instead, the four of them sat inside the Hog's Head—Hogsmeade's other pub, one most students were unfamiliar with.
Unlike the Three Broomsticks, which catered to students and held some social status, the Hog's Head was to the Three Broomsticks what Knockturn Alley was to Diagon Alley. This place welcomed all wizards, regardless of whether they were successful or struggling, respected or outcast.
Harry had heard about it from Hagrid.
Hagrid liked this place—he could get what he wanted at a very cheap price.
But Harry had never been here before. This was his first time.
They walked from the central avenue, past the post office, and down a small alleyway until they reached the rundown little pub. It was even shabbier than the Leaky Cauldron. The wooden sign at the entrance, which bore the pub's name, hadn't been enchanted in any way—it stood in its rawest, most unprotected state, battered by wind, rain, and time until it was barely legible, just like the pub itself.
As soon as he stepped inside, Harry felt like he had returned to Knockturn Alley.
The pub was small and dimly lit, with no sunlight filtering through the grimy windows. The stone floor was layered with thick dirt and grime. Instead of the usual warm scent of alcohol found in taverns, the place reeked of goats.
"This place smells like a barn," Ron muttered, unable to hold back his complaint.
Neville nodded in agreement.
Harry said nothing, his gaze fixed on a painting hanging on the wall—the only clean and magically protected object in the entire bar.
The painting depicted a quiet and well-behaved young girl, not very old, with wavy chestnut-gold hair. She held a book in her arms, her pale face filled with shyness.
"Places like this are always like this," Sirius said, placing a hand on Ron's shoulder and dragging him toward the bar. "You'll get used to it."
"What's with that painting?" Hermione asked, puzzled.
Harry shook his head. "I just didn't expect to see her here."
"You know her?" Hermione frowned, searching her memory but finding no recollection of the girl.
Harry nodded but didn't explain.
Behind the bar, an old man with gray hair and a matching gray beard studied them. Like Dumbledore, he had deep blue eyes, as clear as gemstones, just as penetrating.
"What'll you be drinking?" he asked slowly once Harry and Hermione had reached the bar as well.
"Five Butterbeers, one whiskey, and one apple juice," Harry replied.
"No apple juice," the old man said, shaking his head.
"Then orange juice," Harry tried again.
"Don't have that either," the old man replied, shaking his head once more. "This is a pub, not the Three Broomsticks, where little wizards gather for a social hour."
Harry remained calm. "Then six Butterbeers and one whiskey."
The old man bent down, pulled five filthy bottles from under the counter, and slammed them onto the bar with a clatter. Then, with a lazy wave of his wand, another bottle—relatively clean—floated over from the other end of the bar and landed among the Butterbeers.
He muttered the price, "One Galleon and one Sickle."
Sirius reached for his wallet.
But before he could pay, Harry tapped his hat with his wand. A gold Galleon and a silver Sickle floated out and landed softly on the counter.
"This place charges the same as the Three Broomsticks?" Sirius reached for the whiskey.
Harry flicked his wand, and the whiskey bottle flew into his own hands, while another Butterbeer shot into Sirius'. "No, godfather, this one's yours."
"What kind of godfather drinks Butterbeer while his godson drinks whiskey?" Sirius widened his eyes in protest.
Harry chuckled.
Neville helpfully added, "Professor Black, Harry handles his liquor better than you do."
Sirius grumbled and turned to the bartender. "Where are the glasses?"
Harry tapped his hat again, and five cups floated out, lining up in front of them. The bottles tipped themselves, pouring the drinks automatically.
"Where are Tonks and the others? They're taking forever," Sirius muttered, clearly annoyed.
"I can smell that Tonks was here," Harry replied casually. "She just left—not long ago. Probably didn't find any trace of Greyback and his pack, so she went looking elsewhere."
Sirius and Neville didn't react.
But Hermione and Ron turned to stare at Harry in astonishment before glancing at the bartender, who was still wiping a mug with a filthy rag, only making it dirtier.
"Relax," Harry waved a hand dismissively. "He's reliable."
"And we need his help tonight."
The bartender finally looked up. "Did Albus tell you about me?"
"He told me about you all," Harry nodded.
The old man hesitated before repeating, "You all?" He echoed the phrase as if it were some foreign slang.
"The three of you," Harry clarified, holding up three fingers.
The old man narrowed his eyes. His voice took on a strange lilt. "The Daily Prophet always says Albus favors you. Didn't expect it to be this much."
"Has he become shameless enough to use children now?"
Harry turned away slightly and pointed to Hermione. "Allow me to introduce my girlfriend, Hermione Granger."
Hermione's face turned red. She tried to remain composed and nodded politely.
"Dear Professor Dumbledore only told me after I broke three of his ribs," Harry said, waving his wand again. Another cup floated out of his hat, and he poured some Butterbeer from Hermione's bottle, setting it in front of the bartender.
The old man picked up the cup without hesitation and chuckled maliciously. "Only three?"
"He was quick to react. If he'd been a little slower, I might've managed more," Harry said, taking a sip of his drink.
The others were thoroughly confused.
"Harry, who is this?" Hermione tugged at his sleeve.
Harry set down his cup. "This is Professor Dumbledore's brother—Aberforth Dumbledore."
Everyone stared in shock.
Sirius practically sprayed his drink all over the bar.
"You—you—you—" Sirius stammered, his voice tinged with alarm.
Aberforth waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. I've never told Albus about your little drinking escapades here at night."
Sirius sighed in relief.
"Including that time you planned to hire a dancer but ended up with a goblin," Aberforth added.
Sirius' expression turned panicked. He lunged over the counter, trying to cover Aberforth's mouth. "No—how do you still remember that—"
Aberforth pried Sirius' hand away. "I have an excellent memory."
Harry waved his wand, pulling Sirius back with a floating charm. "I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you'd stay far away from him."
"So, he's told you a lot but didn't want you to meet me?" Aberforth sneered. "Is it because he's hiding something? Or did he pretty up the truth and worry I'd expose him?"
"No, he criticizes himself far worse than I—or Professor Snape—ever could," Harry shook his head. "I'm just fulfilling a request of his, trying to mend things between you two. In this, he's very un-Gryffindor. Every time I ask, he avoids the topic."
Aberforth scoffed. "I'm supposed to be surprised he still clings to that fantasy? Or surprised that you are naïve enough to believe it?"
Harry raised a hand. "We can talk about that later.
"Tonight, we have a problem. And we need your help."
Aberforth gave a slight nod.
Harry took another sip of his drink. "According to some not-so-reliable sources, there might be a pack of werewolves attacking Hogsmeade tonight."
"That's the Aurors' job," Aberforth said, shaking his head.
Harry ignored him and continued, "Among them is Fenrir Greyback. You should know him—he's the one responsible for turning my uncle into a werewolf."
"The little Hufflepuff-looking kid with the pale face and brown hair who was always getting into trouble?" Aberforth recalled from memory with uncanny accuracy. "Remus Lupin?"
Harry nodded. "That's right."
"Professor Snape and I have been researching a potential treatment. We believe certain materials from Greyback might be useful in curing lycanthropy."
"A cure for lycanthropy?" Aberforth stared at him, clearly surprised. "That's a bold idea."
"But with your skills, a single werewolf—"
Harry shook his head. "Not just one. There could be ten. Maybe twenty. Maybe even thirty."
"Did you tell the Ministry?" Aberforth asked.
Harry spread his hands. "Only two Aurors could come. The new Minister of Magic is entirely focused on dealing with Azkaban's crisis."
Aberforth grumbled, nodding. "Alright, I'll help you."
"But you better not start a fight in my pub."
"It took years to build up this fine layer of filth," he said, watching Harry pour himself another drink.
Aberforth narrowed his eyes. "You don't sound like a Gryffindor."
"I wasn't insulting you," Harry raised his glass and gave a small toast. "I actually like this place."
Aberforth sneered, not believing a single word—not even the punctuation.
As they spoke, the door creaked open again. A gust of cold wind swept in, along with two figures wrapped in snow. They stomped their feet at the entrance before making their way over.
"Harry, Sirius, when did you two get here?"
Nymphadora Tonks greeted them cheerfully, her head of hair a bright shade of ocean blue.
Beside her stood a tall, bald wizard with dark skin, wearing a golden earring that faintly radiated magical energy.
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New fics out, one called Hogwarts: Don't Call Me a Wand Maker and another called One Piece: Farming from the Rocks Era. I will delete one based on the reception later, if both do well, I'll keep both.
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates