Palette

“What is that?” “Nothing.” “I know it’s not. What is that?” “Oh, leave me alone, will you? Everything is perfectly fine.” “That’s a load of bulshit,” an indignant silence follows. “Or a pile. Yeah, that’s more like it. A pile of bulshit. You know, a big steaming pile of…” “Oh, stop that! It’s nothing I’m telling you.” “U-huh.” A long exasperated sigh follows, the one that he’s so good at. It doesn’t impress the younger boy who’s still looking with his bright and unapologetic eyes at the other. “It’s Mrs. Bagshot, alright?” “Alright. And what does old Batty want from you? Does she have another boggart in her attic?” “I wish! She wants me to show her nephew around.” “That doesn’t sound too bad.” “But it is! Imagine how time-consuming this might turn!” “Don’t be an ass. You can sacrifice an hour of two for the greater good.” Albus sighs again but now it is a sigh of defeat. He leans closer and suddenly hugs Aberforth. “Thank you.” “Oh, get lost, Al…” Aberforth grumbles but he takes a deep breath and smells lavender on his brother’s hair.

***

“What is that?” “Nothing.” Aberforth watches Albus pacing around the room. He looks like a storm that for some reason got caged in four walls. His hair is loose, forget the neat ponytail he usually wears, and magic is swirling around him in the never-ending tornado. The comb flies around in a futile effort to do its job with the hair, the books are following him like birds, their pages rustling, and one pair of shoes after another are marching around the bedroom like perfect soldiers during the parade. It’s only when Albus leaves that Aberforth realises that his brother was nervous, just like a girl preparing for a date. He stays in his brother’s bedroom, waiting for Albus to return, and inevitably falls asleep. He wakes up when the mattress sinks under someone’s weight, he’s too sleepy to think about the time though he notices that the sun is already rising, and he moves closer to Albus, nuzzling face in the auburn wave of his hair. “Something is wrong,” Aberforth thinks but he’s already falling asleep again. It’s the smell. The smell of lavender on Albus is mixed with something else.

***

“What is that?” “Nothing.” “Come on. Spare the bulshit for your stupid fans, Al.” “It’s the boy… I fear he’ll become trouble.” “The one you went to see in London?” “Yes. In an orphanage.” “How old is the lad?” “Eleven.” “A wee lad who might be still pissing himself makes you worry… you’re growing old, Albus. Old and dumb.” The smile on his brother’s lips is quick and nervous. “I hope that is the reason.”

***

“What is that?” Albus doesn’t reply. No nothings, and Aberforth feels his heart sink. If it isn’t nothing, then it is something. And something is bad. “What is that?!” he demands now, his eyes opening wider. “Albus, don’t fuck with me now.” “I am sorry,” Albus says quietly. “I… wasn’t myself.” Aberforth grabs his brilliant brother in his arms and the pure force of his grip makes Albus sigh. There’s pain under his breath. Aberforth always knows when something’s wrong, and he doesn’t need to see the hand of this brilliant fool, the hand that turned black with the curse, to know that this time it is the wrongest of the wrongs. Albus smells of lavender, but Aberforth smells a fragile note of decay as well. He closes his eyes and cries silently.