The Difference

War had hardened Aberforth Dumbledore into a man of marble: solid, firm, unwavering and almost unforgiving. But he was not a perfect statue. He was chipped in some places, had his fair share of scratches. Admittedly, he looked crudely sculpted, with some parts missing, as though he had shattered into a million pieces and been put back together by someone who didn't know what they were doing.

He had endured hard times, and it showed, especially in his deep wrinkles and sorrowful blue eyes. His pub, however, his pride and joy, showed his reflection better than any mirror could ever hope to do.

It was just as he had left it when, heart pounding, he had argued with Death Eaters - something Albus would have done. A couple of days ago, the thought would have made him cringe, anger ignite in his chest like fire, red-hot; now, he felt something like pride, for himself and his brother, uncurl from the pit of his stomach, almost suffocating him with its volume.

Aberforth cleared his throat to the empty room, forcing the sudden tears away. He swept his gaze other the dusty tables, grimy walls and rotting floorboards. Inhaled the scent of goats he had come to love. Then, with a nod, he set about cleaning the place up.

War had taught him a lot - about life, about liberty, even about love. He had learned not to think, not to feel, only to fight on his every instinct, ignoring distractions and focusing on getting through the battle. Perhaps he wouldn't come out unscathed and perhaps allies would be few and far-between, but he would live.

There was a difference, he had found, between fighting for a reason, and fighting for yourself. Albus had known. Ariana had known. Grindelwald had known. But it had taken Potter - who not only knew, but believed - to teach him what it really was.

A few hours later, Aberforth sat in a chair in front of an upstairs window. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a portrait of a little blonde girl smiling sweetly, her face innocent. He smiled as well, although she couldn't see him.

The pub downstairs was clean, spotless. Sunlight shone through sparkling windows, the wood looked brand-new, and dust no longer clung to the air. It was a new start, a happier one, just like it was for Aberforth and the rest of the Wizarding world.

So maybe Hogwarts, in the distance, was in ruins, a tomb for more than fifty people - brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters. The list was almost never-ending. He thought that if he listened hard enough, if the stillness was silent enough, he could hear the anguished sobs of those who lad lost those they loved...

But the sun beamed down on Hogsmeade, many others were celebrating, Death Eaters were being rounded up, the Dark Lord was dead, and, most importantly, Aberforth had forgiven his brother. Things were falling into place like the pieces of a puzzle.

The difference was knowing when to give up: Being knocked over and letting yourself get trampled by life, and wiping the blood off your face and standing tall, ready to fight to the death.

A/N: For Rozzy0's Day After the Final Battle Competition. My second entry of two. It took forever to get inspiration, so I asked for a phrase - "knowing when to give up" - and then, when still nothing came, a character - Aberforth. I literally wrote this in about twenty minutes or so at three in the morning, and I'm more than a bit surprised with how good it is. Not being arrogant, just saying that I usually write crap at three in the morning.

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~whispered touches

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or places mentioned in this story. They bleong to J.K. Rowling and her affiliates. No copyright infrigement is intended. Duh.