Harry Potter and the Norse Gods

{8} Potter Hunt

STORM'S POV

They were arriving tonight - the Hogwarts students. It was a pity, really. I had been enjoying roaming the castle, Hogsmeade, and the surrounding countryside without tripping over students, but that was never going to last.

Following the events at the Gaunt's old house, I hadn't gone back to the Burrow. Albus had sent for my things after Day 3 when he realised I wasn't leaving until I got answers from him.

Why did he put the ring on?

What was going to happen now that it was destroyed?

Why had he decided to wear it?

They were all very good questions, in my opinion, and ones I deserved answers to. Apparently he thought otherwise.

Even when he was young, Albus had been extremely closed off, especially when it came to anything personal. Surprisingly - or maybe not - Gellert had been his closest confidant ever, and that probably hadn't changed in recent years. He was still as closed off as ever, he had only gotten more cryptic in his old age.

I sighed, stuffing my hands into my pockets. I glanced back at the castle looming over the surrounding area. Despite its enormous size, I still felt trapped inside its walls, so I had spent most of my time not pestering Albus in the grounds, which I had become reacquainted with the year prior. I hadn't ever been to Hogsmeade in that time, however. That had been on purpose, but I had decided that since one Dumbledore brother was being annoying, I should go and complain about him to the other.

Plus, alcohol.

I wasn't eighteen, not physically, but it wasn't like I could get drunk easily or die from liver damage, and Aberforth probably wouldn't care even if I was underage. He was responsible like that.

No one looked twice at me as I walked through the village, and no one tried to talk to me either. The closer to The Hog's Head I got, the less and less people I saw. I wondered faintly how much business Aberforth actually got, but then dismissed the thought a moment later as the bar came into view. That wasn't my problem, and I had more than enough to deal with.

I didn't get as many odd looks walking into a bar with the appearance of a fifteen-year-old as I thought I would. It probably said something about the kind of customers the bar attracted, and about the owner himself, who was standing at the counter cleaning horrendously filthy glasses with a rag like he was a muggle.

Aberforth didn't notice me as I approached. I sat down on a barstool opposite him, waiting silently until he looked up.

"What'ya want?" he grunted, finally placing down the glass and glancing in my direction.

He immediately did a doubletake.

"Rory?" he exclaimed.

I shot him a pointed look.

"Storm," he corrected himself.

"Much better," I commented.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here?" he inquired.

"Long, long story."

"Well, what are bartenders for?" he said, smirking.

"I was under the impression it was alcohol," I deadpanned.

"That too, but..."

"As long as both are on the table."

"I think you're technically underage," he pointed out.