Here’s two hundred words for Aberforth. Set in the Hogshead about 25 years after the previous drabble.
“A Deal for Aberforth”
Aberforth wiped down the bar again. It hardly helped, the surface was so scarred, but it gave him something to do.
He jumped as the door behind him opened and his boss stepped from his office.
“Need to talk to yeh, Dumbledore.” Mackay’s cigar waggled but didn’t fall from his mouth; it never did.
Aberforth followed him into the backroom.
“Rosier an’ Crabbe both offered more’n you.”
Blanching, Aberforth swallowed. He might have to sell his goats to raise money.
“And dinnae think o’ sellin’ off yer goats. Those shilpit creatures wouldna bring enough.”
“How much more?” He hated asking Albus for a loan, but Aberforth knew he’d make up the difference if possible.
The chair groaned ominously as Mackay sat. Removing his cigar from between clenched teeth, Mackay flicked a long, heavy ash on the floor.
“How lang yeh worked fer me, Dumbledore?”
“Eighteen years, nine months.”
Mackay nodded. “Yer a dour body, but yer true. These English pureblood nyaffs, on t’other hand …” Mackay made a face, shoving his stogie between his teeth again. “If yeh agree, yeh can buy sixty percent o’ the pub wi’ what yeh have noo, an’ ten percent each year after.”
“It’s a deal.”