I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 50

Chapter 50

8th of September 1991

Hogwarts, England

Jessica Harper had once been the pride of her class: top marks, a prefect badge, and a quiet, relentless ambition that seemed bound to take her far. But a year after graduation, her dreams of shaking the wizarding world had fizzled out like a wet wand. Job applications went unanswered. The rare interviews she scraped together ended in polite rejections. Too Muggle-born. Too unconventional. Too… Jessica.

Now, she stood outside Professor McGonagall’s office, her patchy coat and scuffed boots a testament to her year of magical unemployment. The letter summoning her here was crumpled in her pocket. A request to meet in person? Surely not a job offer. Probably a bureaucratic check-in, like when the Ministry sent owls about proper wand safety.

She drew a steadying breath and knocked. The sharp sound reverberated down the stone hallway, momentarily making her wish she hadn’t bothered.

“Enter,” came McGonagall’s voice, crisp and unmistakable.

Jessica pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office was unchanged since her school days—a labyrinth of bookshelves crammed with tomes and magical instruments, all presided over by a stern oak desk. But today, sunlight streamed through the tall windows, glinting off polished brass and casting warm streaks across the floor. Jessica couldn’t help but notice the strange vitality in the air, as if the room itself had recently been given good news.

Behind the desk sat McGonagall, her expression unusually light. The trademark severity was still there, but there was something else—a quiet triumph, perhaps. She gestured to the three chairs arranged before her desk.

Jessica hesitated. Two of them were occupied.

The first was taken by Aihan Wen, a Ravenclaw from Jessica’s year. Aihan sat as though the chair had been designed for her alone, her posture perfect, her robes impeccable. Jessica vaguely recalled her as the daughter of some sprawling pureblood dynasty in China - from a secondary branch. Powerful, polished, and utterly indifferent to her classmates, Aihan had glided through Hogwarts with the grace of a swan that knew the lake was hers by divine right.

In the second chair sat a woman Jessica recognized instantly: Raven Silversmith. Raven had been a prefect three years above her, known for her dazzling academic achievements and a knack for Transfiguration that bordered on genius. Rumor had it she’d just returned from studying in France, though her calm poise suggested she hadn’t so much returned as descended.

Jessica’s stomach flipped. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong in the same room as these people. She looked down at her boots, trying to fold herself into the shadows of the space.

“Miss Harper,” McGonagall said briskly, breaking her reverie. “Take a seat.”

Jessica sank into the remaining chair, feeling like the underdressed extra at someone else’s play.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” McGonagall said, her tone betraying the faintest edge of excitement. “Albus Dumbledore has established a new institution of magical education. A University.”

Jessica blinked. That… wasn’t what she’d expected.

“A university?” she repeated, hoping the words might make more sense aloud.

“Indeed,” McGonagall said, her mouth quirking ever so slightly upward. “A center for advanced magical research and teaching, designed to push the boundaries of our understanding. I will serve as Chair of Transfiguration.”

Jessica’s brain hiccupped on the words "boundaries" and "understanding," but Raven, who had straightened visibly, leaned forward with shining eyes. “A university for magic. That’s—well, it’s brilliant.”

McGonagall inclined her head slightly. “I thought you’d think so. Miss Silversmith, given your Mastery, you are being offered the position of Postdoctoral Researcher. You will teach and conduct research under my supervision.”

Raven’s face broke into a radiant smile. “I—thank you, Professor. I’m honored.”

McGonagall turned to Jessica, who was trying very hard not to shrink into her chair. “Miss Harper. I am offering you a position as a Graduate Student. Fully funded. Five years. You’ll pursue a Mastery in Transfiguration and write a thesis. Your duties will include assisting with teaching.”

Jessica stared, her thoughts tangling like a badly cast knot-tying spell. “You… want me? To… study? Here?”

“Yes,” McGonagall replied with a sharp nod. “I’ve seen your potential. Despite your current… situation, you are precisely the kind of mind this institution needs.”

Jessica swallowed hard. “I—yes. I mean, yes, absolutely.”

For a moment, McGonagall’s expression softened, and she leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the desk. “The work will be difficult. It will demand every ounce of your creativity and discipline. But this is an opportunity to truly change the way magic is practiced and understood. Research, Miss Harper, is the frontier of our art.”

Jessica nodded so furiously she felt her neck crack. “I won’t waste it.”

Aihan, who had remained perfectly silent, gave Jessica a fleeting glance. It wasn’t quite disdain, but it wasn’t far off. Jessica resisted the urge to stick her tongue out.

“Well, then,” McGonagall said, standing and gesturing toward the door. “Prepare yourselves. The next term begins in three days, and there’s much to be done. Miss Silversmith, Miss Harper, welcome to the future of magical education.”

As Jessica left the room, she felt Raven’s hand brush her shoulder. “Congratulations,” Raven said with a warm smile. “Looks like we’ll be working together.”

— — - -

8th of September 1991

Hogwarts, England

Fred and George Weasley crouched behind a tapestry that reeked faintly of mildew, their hearts pounding like kettledrums. The corridor beyond was a sea of shadows, each one pregnant with menace. It wasn’t just dark—it was alive.

“Fred,” George whispered, clutching his twin’s sleeve like a child holding a security blanket, “do you feel that?”

Fred squinted into the gloom. “Feel what?”

“The... the presence.” George’s voice dropped to a terrified hiss. “It’s her, Fred. She’s here. Watching.”

Fred’s eyes darted nervously. “Don’t be ridiculous. Mum’s not omnipresent. She’s not—”

A torch flickered at the far end of the corridor, and Fred flinched so hard he nearly dropped the box of stink bombs.

“—She’s not a bloody eldritch horror,” he finished, though his voice lacked conviction.

George’s gaze flickered toward the torch. The flames licked upward in a strange, undulating motion, casting unnatural shadows across the stone walls. For a fleeting moment, one of those shadows looked like a towering, writhing figure with far too many arms.

“Fred,” George croaked, his knuckles going white as he gripped his wand. “The shadows are moving.”

Fred turned, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and outright panic. “Of course they’re moving! That’s what shadows do!”

“No,” George said, his voice trembling. “They’re... moving toward us.”

Fred dared a glance and immediately regretted it. A particularly sinister patch of darkness seemed to slither across the floor, its edges curling like tentacles.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, shoving George. “Move! Go!”

The twins scrambled out from behind the tapestry, skittering like startled spiders. Their grand plan to glitterize the Slytherin dormitory was unraveling faster than a poorly cast knitting charm.

“Okay, okay,” Fred gasped, pressing his back against the cold stone wall. “Calm down. Shadows don’t attack people. Mum doesn’t control the darkness.”

“Are you sure about that?” George shot back, his eyes darting around the corridor as if expecting a shadowy Molly to materialize with rolling pins for hands.

Fred didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure.

They crept forward, every creak of their shoes on the flagstones making them flinch. The air felt heavy, like the castle itself was holding its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a door groaned on its hinges.

Fred froze mid-step. “Did you hear that?”

George nodded, his face pale. “It’s her. She’s summoning... something.”

Fred shot him a glare. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” George hissed. “You remember that bedtime story she used to tell us? About the Bog-trawler of Knockturn Alley? ‘Doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t eat. Just waits...’”

“That was to make us clean our room!” Fred snapped. But now the thought had taken root, and he couldn’t help imagining his mother, whispering dark incantations into a cauldron of soup, summoning something ancient and wrathful to hunt down curfew breakers.

A faint scraping sound echoed down the hall.

“Fred,” George whispered, clutching his arm. “The walls are breathing.”

Fred tried to steady himself. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not! Look!” George pointed at the nearest wall, where the flickering torchlight made the stone seem to shift and pulse, like the lung of some vast, slumbering beast.

Fred swallowed hard. “It’s just... optical illusions. Lighting. You’ve been reading too much Lovecraft.”

“Lovewho?” George asked, but Fred didn’t answer because he was now convinced the torches themselves were whispering. The soft crackle of flames sounded far too much like words—words in a language he didn’t understand but felt in his bones.

“We have to go back,” George said, his voice barely a whimper now. “We’ve got to.”

“We can’t!” Fred hissed. “The prank—”

Another creak echoed, closer this time. A shadow darted across the corridor, low to the ground. Fred and George whipped around, their wands drawn.

“What was that?” Fred asked, his voice high-pitched enough to shatter glass.

“I think it was... something crawling.” George’s face was now a mask of pure terror. “With too many legs.”

Fred backed into him, trembling. “What has too many legs and haunts Hogwarts corridors?”

“Mum!” George yelped, gripping Fred’s shoulders. “Mum when she’s really angry!”

That did it. The twins turned and bolted down the corridor, their stink bombs forgotten. As they ran, they were certain they could hear her footsteps behind them, soft but inescapable.

Every shadow seemed to reach for them. The castle walls loomed taller, impossibly high, the corridors twisting and narrowing like some great serpent coiling around its prey.

By the time they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, Fred and George were panting, their faces pale and their hair wild.

“Password?” the Fat Lady asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Flibbertigibbet!” George gasped.

The portrait swung open, and the twins scrambled inside, collapsing onto a couch. For several long moments, they just sat there, staring at each other.

“I told you,” George finally said, his voice shaky. “She knows.”

Fred nodded solemnly, his face set in grim determination. “We’ve got to be smarter next time.”

“Next time?” George croaked. “There won’t be a next time. If she doesn’t kill us, the shadows will!”

— — —

8th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor, England

“Move the garlands to the left,” Celia Andersen instructed, her voice ringing through the opulent grand hall of Dumbledore Manor. She leaned on one hip, her tailored blouse hugging her chest like it had been enchanted for perfection, the deep neckline showing just enough to tease without crossing into scandal. “No, wait—back to the right. And please, someone tell me why those lilies are looking so... wilty. We’re hosting wizards, not funerals.”

“You’re hosting chaos,” Andromeda Tonks cut in, stepping out from behind a towering column with her usual air of cool command. Her emerald-green robes, subtly fitted, skimmed her curves and belted at her narrow waist, showing the hint of a toned belly she certainly didn’t flaunt, but didn’t hide either. “And His Badassness, as you insist on calling him, isn’t paying us to bicker over floral arrangements.”

Celia tilted her head, her raven-black waves cascading down her back in soft, glossy tumbles. Her sharp blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she placed a hand on her hip, emphasizing the slit in her skirt that revealed long, sleek legs. “Paying us? Andromeda, darling, we don’t get paid. We get ‘the honor of serving greatness.’ Or so you remind me every time I want hazard pay.”

Andromeda’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smile, but her sharp cheekbones and cool grey eyes held steady. “The honor should be enough for you, Celia. Not all of us need constant attention to feel valued.”

“Attention? From you?” Celia shot back, her grin widening. She turned to oversee the house-elves again, her voice breezy. “I’m flattered, Andromeda, truly. But we both know there’s only one opinion in this room that matters.”

Andromeda’s shoulders stiffened beneath the elegant drape of her robes, which flowed down to accentuate her poised and firm backside as she stepped forward. “Warlock Dumbledore expects excellence, not theatrics. He trusts me to deliver.”

“And yet he trusted me to plan the decor,” Celia quipped, her tone light but pointed. “I think that says something, don’t you?”

Andromeda’s sharp gaze flicked to Celia, taking in the younger witch’s self-assured stance, the subtle curve of her toned belly visible through her blouse, and the sway of her hips as she directed the elves. If Celia’s confidence was a firework, Andromeda’s was steel—refined, unyielding, and carved by decades of hard-won experience.

Celia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “By the way, those table settings? Brilliant idea. His Badassness is going to love them. I hear he has a soft spot for anything you touch.”

“What are you implying?” Andromeda demanded, her tone frostier than the enchanted snowflakes Celia had charmed to twinkle overhead.

Celia grinned wickedly, the gleam in her ice-blue eyes as sharp as her wit. “Oh, nothing. Except that you do seem to stand a little straighter when he’s around. And you blush whenever he gives you a compliment. Very dignified blushing, of course.”

Andromeda’s cheeks flared red, but she lifted her chin. “You’re ridiculous. I serve Warlock Dumbledore with loyalty and respect. Any... admiration is purely professional.”

“Professional,” Celia repeated, drawing out the word with a teasing lilt. “Right. Nothing to do with the way his robes sit perfectly over those broad shoulders. Or the way his shirt sleeves—when he bothers to roll them up—show off forearms that could charm the wand out of anyone’s hand.”

Andromeda’s mouth opened, then shut, her face going from pink to crimson. “That is entirely inappropriate!”

“And yet,” Celia continued, leaning slightly closer, her perfume—citrus and vanilla—subtly intoxicating, “here you are, sputtering like a schoolgirl. Admit it, Andromeda. You’ve noticed. His muscles, those tattoos that shift like they’re alive... It’s okay. He is kind of spectacular.”

“Enough!” Andromeda snapped, the authority in her voice momentarily silencing even the house-elves. “This is a reception for diplomats and scholars, not an excuse for your ridiculous fantasies.”

Celia straightened, clearly unbothered by the outburst, and gave a playful shrug. “Relax, Andromeda. I’m just saying, it’s no crime to have eyes. The man is a legend, after all.”

“Then let us honor him by focusing on the task at hand,” Andromeda said icily, her blush still betraying her composure. She turned sharply on her heel, her robes sweeping behind her and emphasizing her confident, purposeful stride.

Celia watched her go, smirking as she turned back to the decorations. “Oh, I’ll focus,” she murmured to herself. “But this party’s not the only thing sparkling tonight.”

Andromeda’s footsteps clicked sharply against the marble as she disappeared into another part of the hall, but her mind lingered on Celia’s words. She wouldn’t give them power. No, this was about duty. About loyalty. About honoring the vision of the greatest wizard alive.

But when the decorations were complete, and Warlock Dumbledore finally entered to survey their work, Andromeda resolved to look him squarely in the eye. And only in the eye. Probably.