Harry took the letters, and the owl imdiately hopped into Aberforth's arms.
There were three people in the room—all not to be ssed with.
Not because of their actions, but because of Hedwig. As the queen of Hogwarts' owlery, Hedwig had laid down the law: delivering letters was fine, but no owl—or cat—was allowed to approach her master Harry under false pretenses, looking cute or begging for food.
Any owl that tried would be turned over to Crookshanks. That ginger, squashed-faced cat was a notorious owl-hunter. Even Hedwig and Bows couldn't beat him one-on-one; unless they tead up, no one stood a chance.
This particular owl hadn't been beaten—yet. But it had seen one of its colleagues get walloped. Three predators—two owls and a cat—had ganged up on a mail carrier who'd simply nuzzled Harry and asked for so owl treats. They pinned him to a wall and gave him a solid thrashing. They hadn't gone too far, just enough to remind everyone: unauthorized possession of Aunt Petunia's owl snacks was strictly forbidden.
The poor victim lost five tail feathers and sulked around the Ministry's owlery for days. Only after a few of his colleagues smuggled him so treats did he perk up again.
Snape, by comparison, was too cold—even colder than the ice water he was drinking.
The owl had just flown in from outside, but still shivered under his gaze.
Dumbledore might've looked like an easy mark, but the owl knew better. He was gentle, yes, but his presence alone was intimidating—even for birds.
So of the four people in the room, the owl chose the most approachable: Aberforth. It flapped into his arms and snuggled in.
The letters were short.
After reading his, Harry glanced at the one in Dumbledore's hand. "Sa contents."
"Looks like Scrimgeour is really panicking," he added.
Dumbledore nodded. "Given the circumstances, I don't bla him."
Snape looked between them, confused. "What are you two going on about?"
"The Wild Hunt has appeared," Harry said bluntly. "And they've taken soone."
"You think Scrimgeour's panicking..." Snape murmured, mimicking Harry's tone. "Did the Wild Hunt capture Thicknesse?"
Harry shook his head and gave him a surprised look. "Why would you think that?"
"If it were Thicknesse, Scrimgeour would be thrilled. His biggest headache resolved by an act of God."
Snape frowned.
Dumbledore glanced at Aberforth. "The ones captured were Miranda Goshawk and Bathilda Bagshot."
"I'm sorry about Goshawk," Aberforth said gruffly. "But Bagshot... frankly, she should've been taken long ago."
"Huh?" Harry was puzzled.
He knew both nas well. Any Hogwarts student would.
Miranda Goshawk was the most celebrated Charms master of the century—author of the Standard Book of Spells, used from First through Seventh Year. Even Professor Flitwick privately admitted she was better than him.
Bathilda Bagshot might not be as beloved by students, but she too authored core curriculum—A History of Magic.
Both were exemplary witches.
So why did Aberforth look so bitter?
"It's... complicated," Dumbledore said tactfully.
"Bagshot was that bastard's aunt," Aberforth said flatly. "After he got expelled from Durmstrang, he had nowhere else to go. Ended up at his aunt's for a holiday."
"That was where everything went wrong."
"If Bagshot had been snatched by the Hunt back then, none of it would've happened."
Dumbledore remained silent.
Harry shook his head. "That's not exactly true."
Aberforth shot him a dangerous glare.
"He was searching for the Deathly Hallows. Whether or not Bagshot was around, he would've co to Godric's Hollow eventually," Harry said softly.
Aberforth froze.
"He had the Sight," Harry reminded him.
Aberforth clenched his fists. Over the years, he'd dread countless tis—of Bagshot dying, of Grindelwald never finding a reason to visit Godric's Hollow. Maybe Albus would've just sulked at ho for a while. Maybe Aberforth could've beco a Hogwarts professor in peace. Maybe Ariana...
Maybe his family wouldn't have—
"Harry, you shouldn't have told that," Aberforth said quietly, fists shaking.
Harry looked him in the eye. "Living in the past ans you'll never move forward."
Aberforth didn't respond.
"Why did they take them?" Snape asked, baffled.
Those two witches were old—Goshawk maybe seventy-five—but neither had ever been involved in political movents. Not with Grindelwald, not with Voldemort.
"The Wild Hunt isn't stupid," Harry said, finishing his icy drink, the cold biting his teeth. "They're probably starting to take an interest in our world."
"Magic is will made real."
"Crouch, or Voldemort, or their mysterious ally, likely let the Hunt know—our magic might control the White Frost."
"They want Elder Blood to escape the Frost—but if they can master it? I bet they'd love that."
"To conquer a world, you need to understand it."
"And what better way than with a historian and a Charms master?"
Dumbledore quietly vanished the water in his cup and set it next to Harry's. "So we're officially at war with the Wild Hunt now?"
Harry nodded. "Let's go. Looks like we're headed to Godric's Hollow."
"Oh—Albus," he added as they stood. "Don't forget to seal that passage."
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