I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 52

Chapter 52

9th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor, England

“It’s Albus Fucking Dumbledore!”

The whispers turned to shouts as the black shape in the sky came closer, blotting out the stars like an approaching storm. Gasps rippled through the crowd as more guests craned their necks.

“It’s Albus Fucking Dumbledore!” someone yelled again, their voice wobbling between awe and disbelief.

Jessica’s heart pounded as she squinted at the shape. “What… what is that?”

Next to her, Victor was uncharacteristically silent, his usual smirk wiped clean from his face. His jaw dropped slightly, and he squinted like he couldn’t quite trust his eyes. “That’s… no way.”

A woman cried, her voice trembling. “It’s… Albus Fucking Dumbledore. On a fucking dragon!”

Jessica’s eyes widened as the shape clarified, and sure enough, the impossible truth materialized. Dumbledore wasn’t just flying—he was perched atop the back of a Hungarian Horntail, its obsidian scales catching the faint light as it descended. The dragon’s massive wings beat with a force that sent gusts of wind rippling through the garden, threatening to uproot plants and scattering enchanted lanterns like startled fireflies.

“Oh my god,” Jessica breathed.

Victor, for once at a loss for words, simply muttered, “No way. No way. That’s not real.”

“It’s real,” Jessica hissed, pointing at the unmistakable dragon as it roared, flames flickering at the corners of its terrifying maw. “That’s a Hungarian Horntail! And… is that a person dangling from its claws?”

Sure enough, the dragon’s massive talons clutched a screaming, flailing man. His bright red hair was unmistakable even from a distance. “Oh my Godric, that’s Bill Weasley!” Jessica shouted.

“I’M SORRY! I’LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN!” Bill’s panicked screams carried over the garden, his voice cracking as he dangled hundreds of feet above the ground. “PLEASE LET ME DOWN! PLEASE!”

Victor finally snapped out of his shock long enough to speak. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is insane. Dumbledore’s gone insane.”

The Horntail began its descent, its massive wings causing hurricane-force gusts that sent cloaks and hats flying. Guests clutched at their robes, shielding their faces as the dragon’s shadow loomed over them. With a ground-shaking thud, the beast landed in the center of the garden, its golden eyes sweeping over the crowd as if daring anyone to question its presence.

Bill Weasley was unceremoniously dropped from the dragon’s claws, landing in a heap on the cobblestones with a groan. He kissed the ground immediately. “Thank you, sweet Merlin! Solid, wonderful, ground!”

Then came Dumbledore.

The man who had somehow managed to make riding a dragon look casual stood on the Horntail’s back for a moment, surveying the crowd with a faint smile. His long, deep-blue robes fluttered dramatically in the fading wind, and his silver beard glinted like starlight. Without warning, he leapt from the dragon’s back and landed gracefully on the cobblestones, his boots clicking as if he’d merely stepped off a carriage.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar.

Victor choked on nothing. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dumbledore patted the dragon’s massive snout as it growled low and smoke curled from its nostrils. “Ah, MrMcMuffin, my dear boy,” he said, his voice carrying a warm, grandfatherly tone that felt almost absurd in context. “Would you be so kind as to provide a light?”

The Horntail leaned down, its jaws parting to reveal rows of jagged teeth. With an earth-shattering roar, it unleashed a stream of fire so massive and overpowered that the crowd screamed and stumbled back, the heat palpable even at a distance. Lanterns flickered out. A nearby fountain evaporated instantly. Flowers withered under the sheer intensity of the flames.

When the smoke cleared, Dumbledore stood unfazed, the cigar now lit perfectly between his fingers. He took a slow, thoughtful drag and exhaled a puff of smoke that curled lazily into the night air. “Ah,” he said with the satisfaction of a man who had just conquered the universe. “Perfect.”

The crowd stared, frozen in stunned silence.

Bill, still sprawled on the ground, pointed a trembling finger at Dumbledore. “YOU SAID IT WAS A SAFE RIDE!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with indignation.

Dumbledore turned, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re alive, are you not?”

“That’s not the point!” Bill yelled, though it was hard to take him seriously as he clutched the cobblestones like a lifeline. His voice cracked slightly as he tried to gather the shreds of his dignity. “You said nothing about dangling me over cliffs like a squealing pygmy puff!”

Then he froze.

Bill’s gaze darted around, taking in the impeccably dressed crowd staring at him with a mix of amusement and disbelief. The enchanted lanterns cast a warm glow on rows of wizards and witches in their finest robes, some raising eyebrows, others barely suppressing laughter. He was smack in the middle of what looked like the fanciest party of the century—and he was covered in soot, his hair wild, and his voice had just cracked like a prepubescent schoolboy.

He sputtered indignantly, trying to brush himself off as though that might fix the situation. “I—this is—not—”

“William Arthur Weasley!” a voice boomed from the edge of the garden.

Bill’s face fell as his father approached, looking simultaneously mortified and stern. Arthur Weasley’s robes were simple but neat, and his apologetic smile was firmly in place as he addressed the crowd.

“Esteemed guests,” Arthur said, inclining his head respectfully. “I deeply apologize for my son’s, uh… unconventional arrival.” His eyes narrowed at Bill, who was trying and failing to appear dignified.

Arthur grabbed Bill firmly by the ear, causing the younger man to yelp. “Now, William, if you’ll excuse us. We’ll discuss your misunderstanding somewhere less public.”

“Dad!” Bill protested, squirming as Arthur began dragging him away through the garden. “You can’t just—ow! I’m a grown man!”

Arthur didn’t break stride. “Grown men don’t scream at parties, Bill.”

Dumbledore, meanwhile, seemed utterly unbothered. He took a slow, luxurious puff of his cigar, the ember glowing briefly before he exhaled a perfectly formed smoke ring that floated upward like an afterthought. His eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses as he finally addressed the crowd.

“My dear friends,” he said warmly, his voice carrying over the laughter. “I must apologize for my tardiness. Traffic was a bit… dragon-heavy this evening.”

The crowd laughed again, and Dumbledore gestured toward the massive Hungarian Horntail curled up behind him, now lazily resting its head on its claws like a cat. “MrMcMuffin here was kind enough to give me a lift. I do hope you’ll forgive the theatrics—I find it hard to resist making an entrance.”

Jessica, still awestruck, leaned toward Victor and whispered, “He’s joking, right? He didn’t need to arrive like that.”

Lord Trent, who was just starting to recover from his own shock, shook his head slowly. “This is Albus Dumbledore we’re talking about. Nobody knows when he's joking and when he is not .”

— — — — —

Albus Dumbledore, Warlock of the Age, Master of Hogwarts, and Current Victim of Party Small Talk, did his best to look interested as yet another guest approached with what he assumed was a speech they’d rehearsed in front of a mirror for days. His smile was as polished as ever, but internally, he was counting the seconds until he could escape into a glass of firewhisky—or better yet, disappear entirely.

The only thing keeping him from Apparating directly into his study was the woman on his arm.

Merlin help him, but the woman was distracting. She moved with a grace that screamed aristocracy, her long, raven-black hair catching the lantern light like silk spun from shadows. Her emerald robes, tailored with ruthless precision, clung to her toned waist and flared over hips that had no business being that hypnotic. The fabric skimmed her chest in a way that was just modest enough to be proper but still made him entirely too aware of the swell of her breasts. And her ass—well, let’s just say that the way her robes hugged it was a gift he would take to his grave.

Not that he could ogle openly. He was Albus Bloody Dumbledore, after all, not a teenage boy. But the occasional glance was impossible to resist, especially when she leaned in to whisper the latest tidbit about their next guest.

“Warlock Dumbledore,” she murmured now, her lips barely moving as her gray eyes flicked toward an approaching wizard. “Lord Whitmore. Junior Wizengamot member. Neutral, but leaning towards Malfoy for the last weeks or so. Pretends he’s important but has no real power. He’s harmless but desperate to feel significant. A handshake should suffice to make him learn towards your side.”

“Excellent,” Albus said, then leaned slightly toward her. “You know, you make me look downright competent.”

Her pale cheeks turned an immediate, brilliant red, and she ducked her head. “I—I only aim to assist, Warlock.”

Adorable. This woman could freeze a roomful of Ministry officials with a look, but one compliment from him, and she practically melted into her robes.

From somewhere nearby, he caught the unmistakable sound of Celia Andersen’s laughter. He glanced over his shoulder to see her entertaining a Wizengamot member who looked ready to crawl into her lap for approval. “Naturally,” Celia was saying, “Warlock Dumbledore values your insights above most. It’s rare for anyone to hear about the Society of Occultism, Cryptic Knowledge, and Sorcery this early.”

"Sure", Albus thought wryly. "Because my formal announcement to 350 people tonight doesn’t count."

Still, he couldn’t deny Celia’s knack for making people feel important. It was all part of the larger strategy—one meticulously crafted with Edmund Trent’s help. This event wasn’t just a party; it was a political chessboard. Every guest, from Ministry officials to neutral power players like the Bones and Longbottom families, was here for a reason. Some were loyal clients, others were potential allies, and a few were skeptics he hoped to sway.

Dumbledore was presenting himself as an alternative to the likes of Lucius Malfoy, not just as a symbol of magical might but as an economic and political force. The carefully chosen mix of clients and non-clients was meant to create a network of interwoven loyalties while subtly showcasing the benefits of associating with him.

And then there was SOCKS—his pet project and a testament to his investment in the future. The PhD students, nervously mingling with seasoned diplomats and political heavyweights, were as much a part of the spectacle as the enchanted lanterns and shimmering fountains.

Andromeda’s light nudge to his ribs broke him out of his reverie. He glanced down to see her looking slightly mortified at having touched him, her blush deepening. “Warlock,” she said softly, “Lord Wen.”

Albus turned to greet the elderly man approaching with an elegance that spoke of decades of diplomacy. Lord Wen’s long white beard was immaculate, and his golden robes were embroidered with dragons and phoenixes that seemed to shimmer in the lantern light. Behind him walked his wife, two young wizards who were new additions to SOCKS thanks to Wen’s influence, and Cho Cheng.

Albus’s sharp blue eyes twinkled as they landed on Cho. Though she carried herself with grace, her nervous glances and fidgeting hands betrayed her youth and unease. The eldest daughter of one of China’s most prestigious families, she was clearly used to expectations—but not, perhaps, to the direct attention of someone like him.

“Lord Wen,” Albus said warmly, inclining his head slightly. “It is an honor to welcome you to my home.”

“The honor is ours, Warlock Dumbledore,” Wen replied, bowing deeply. His voice was calm and measured, every word carefully chosen. “Your hospitality is unparalleled.”

Albus turned his attention to Cho, his smile softening. “Miss Cheng. It is a pleasure to meet you formally - we only met at Hogwarts.”

Cho’s eyes widened slightly, her cheeks tinging pink. “Th-thank you, Headma…I mean, Warlock Dumbledore. The pleasure is mine.”

Beside him, Andromeda’s lips quirked into the faintest ghost of approval. Albus caught it out of the corner of his eye and bit back a grin. Between her quiet power, Celia’s effortless charm, and Trent’s logistical genius, his allies were proving invaluable tonight.

“Well,” Albus said, gesturing toward the mansion. “Shall we continue? There is much more to discuss, and the evening is still young.”

And, he added to himself, if I survive another hour of this, I’ll be making a beeline for the firewhisky.

But then - he saw her.