The familiar, rustic scent of aged wood and firewhiskey filled the air inside Hog's Head Pub. Dusty glass bottles lined the shelves, and the dim lighting gave the pub a cozy, if somewhat worn, charm. The faint hum of muffled conversations mixed with the occasional clink of glasses.
Behind the counter, a gruff voice called out, breaking the relative quiet.
"Credence! Stop drinking and come help me out—or at least have a chat."
Aberforth Dumbledore, the aged bartender and owner of the Hog's Head, glanced toward the corner where a dark-haired young man sat nursing a glass of whiskey.
Aberforth's hair was now as white as snow, his beard long and streaked with gray—features that made him unmistakably resemble his famous older brother, Albus Dumbledore.
The contrast with his companion was striking. The man sipping his drink looked barely in his twenties—short, dark hair, sharp features, and an air of restrained power. But appearances were deceiving. The youthful figure was none other than Aberforth's son—Credence Barebone.
Their relationship wasn't one most would guess at a glance. Father and son? Few would believe it. Yet, wizards had their ways—magic that could preserve youth and extend life beyond normal limits.
Credence, however, needed no magic to be formidable. Once powerful enough to challenge Gellert Grindelwald in his youth, his raw talent had since been honed through years of experience. Now, he was considered one of the strongest wizards in the world.
Still, even with all his strength, he couldn't fully ignore his father's summons. With a faint sigh, Credence rose from his seat, glass in hand, and made his way lazily to the counter.
Aberforth poured him a fresh shot of his favorite firewhiskey and, with a hint of fatherly concern in his voice, asked, "How's the situation in the States? What brought you back?"
The old man's eyes, lined with years of hardship, softened as he regarded his son. Their relationship, though repaired from the shadows of Credence's painful past, was more like that of old friends than a traditional father and son. Yet the bond was there, unspoken but deeply felt.
Credence swirled the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. "The U.S. was a mess," he replied, his voice low and steady. "The goblins' uprising caught the wizarding authorities off guard, but things have settled—for now."
A cold glint flickered in his eyes. "The showdown between Dumbledore and Grindelwald took some heat off the battlefield. People are holding their breath, waiting to see who makes the next move."
Aberforth frowned, his grip on the glass tightening slightly. "And you? Why'd you come back?"
A flicker of something dark crossed Credence's face. "Because of Grindelwald." His voice dropped lower, the air around him tightening with restrained power. "I fought him."
Aberforth's eyes sharpened. "Are you hurt?"
Credence's jaw tensed, his voice laced with frustration. "No. But I couldn't defeat him."
Aberforth's heart pounded despite himself. Credence rarely showed vulnerability—so the bitterness in his voice was telling.
"I thought… if I could break the seal that's kept him caged all these years, I could finish him for good. But…" His fingers clenched around the glass, knuckles whitening. "That power… it's beyond anything I expected."
Aberforth's protective instincts surged. "You shouldn't have faced him alone," he said firmly, his voice rough with concern. "That bastard's already taken too much from our family. I won't let him take you too."
Credence looked away, the fire in his eyes briefly dimming. "He can't kill me," he said, his voice tight, "but he made sure I knew how close he could come."
Aberforth's lips pressed into a thin line, but before he could speak further, Credence continued.
"There's more. Dumbledore came to meet me in the States."
Aberforth stiffened at the mention of his brother. "Albus…" he muttered, his tone guarded. "What did he want from you?"
Credence's eyes narrowed slightly. "He asked for my help. He wants me to carry out something… for him."
The tension in Aberforth's face deepened, his voice dropping to a near growl. "And what exactly is my brother scheming this time?"
The decades of bitterness were unmistakable. Aberforth knew his brother's brilliance, but he also knew his ruthlessness. Dumbledore moved people like chess pieces—always with a greater game in mind.
Credence hesitated, his brows furrowed in thought. He hadn't decided how much to trust Dumbledore. The man was family—his uncle—but trust didn't come easily to Credence, not after his past.
"I…" he began, unsure. "He told me to keep it secret. Not to involve anyone."
Aberforth's eyes flashed. "Not even your own father?"
Credence's lips pressed together. Then—
The sudden chime of the doorbell broke the tension, and a familiar, cheerful voice called out from the entrance.
"Boss! I'm here! And I brought some good friends with me!"
Aberforth immediately looked up. His eyes softened slightly at the sight of the newcomer.
Striding through the door was Ian, his face bright with a friendly smile. Three more figures followed closely behind—two women and one man, each exuding their own unique presence.
Aberforth's feelings at the sight of Ian were… complicated. He remembered well how Ian had worked here, how he had once cleaned tables and poured drinks behind this very bar. But more than that, he knew Ian's ties—Kamar Taj and Lockhart. That made things... complicated.
Still, his gruff exterior cracked just enough to offer a warm greeting.
"Ian," he said, voice gruff but not unfriendly. "Good to see you. What'll it be for you and your friends?" He paused, then added, "It's on me today."
Ian grinned and led his friends to the counter. "Thanks, Boss! I've been hyping up your cooking, so they had to come try it for themselves."
He gestured to his companions. "Let me introduce you. This is Remy, Vera, and Wanda—my best friends."
Aberforth gave each of them a curt nod. "Welcome to the Hog's Head," he said simply. "You're friends of Ian? Then you're friends of mine."
At that moment, Ian's gaze slid to the man standing beside Aberforth—the dark-haired wizard with an aura that felt… different. Their eyes met, and Ian sensed something potent beneath the surface.
Ian asked, "And… who's this?"
Aberforth, with a note of pride in his voice, answered without hesitation. "My son. Credence."
There was a brief silence.
Wanda's eyes widened in surprise. "Wait… son?"
She blinked between Aberforth, who looked every bit a grizzled seventy-year-old, and the youthful, twenty-something figure beside him.
Her first thought, unfiltered and blunt, slipped out:
"You've gotta be kidding me. Did you get stronger with age or something?"
The absurd mental image of Aberforth somehow growing more virile with time flashed through her head.
Credence, having caught her stray thoughts through his natural Legilimency, chuckled aloud.
"Relax, little witch," he said, his voice smooth with amusement. "I'm over sixty years old. This—" he gestured to himself, "—is just a perk of my bloodline and magic."
Wanda, momentarily startled by the brush of his mental presence, narrowed her eyes slightly but let her curiosity take over. "Sixty? And you look like that?" Her green eyes sparkled with sudden interest. "How do you do it? Is it something you learned?" Her voice carried the unmistakable excitement of someone who had just found a new goal.
Vera, listening from beside her, perked up as well. A flicker of curiosity lit her usually composed expression. As a witch, the secret to lasting youth was hard to ignore.
Even Remy and Ian—while trying to appear nonchalant—were clearly paying attention.
Credence immediately caught on. Without needing Legilimency, their expressions said everything. He smirked lightly. "Ah," he said, "that's what you're all after, huh?"
Wanda's eyes gleamed. "So… can we learn it?" She leaned forward slightly, her eagerness barely restrained. "Teach us!"
Vera, more composed but no less intrigued, added smoothly, "We'd be happy to compensate you. Galleons, magical knowledge, artifacts—you name it."
Credence's eyes flicked to Vera, and a glint of approval showed in his gaze. "Smart girl," he said. "You know how to negotiate."
For a moment, he considered simply brushing them off. His longevity was deeply tied to his bloodline, something no ordinary wizard could replicate. But then his gaze shifted—to Wanda's shoulder, where the tiny white dragon, Snow, rested.
Something shifted in his expression. His eyes narrowed, and a flicker of recognition passed through them.
"…That dragon," he said slowly, his voice suddenly sharper. "It's… different."
A subtle tension crept into his posture, and his fingers twitched at his side as if he had sensed something he hadn't expected.
But before he could speak further—
The door opened once again.
A cold draft swept into the room, carrying the faint scent of forest leaves and damp earth. Footsteps, measured and deliberate, crossed the threshold.
Credence's head snapped toward the entrance, his sharp gaze fixing on the figure that entered. His eyes, burning faintly with black-red flames from his Obscurial power, narrowed as he recognized the newcomer.
A young man, clad in a black wizard's robe, with a familiar lightning-shaped scar etched upon his forehead. His emerald eyes, dark and cold, swept the room.
Harry Potter.
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