I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 49

Chapter 49

7th of September 1991

Hogwarts, England

Blaise Zabini was lounging in the Slytherin common room, one leg draped over the arm of his chair, flipping lazily through a book he wasn’t really reading. The murmur of conversation hummed around him until the door to the common room creaked open, and all sound abruptly died.

Everyone turned to look.

Harry Potter stood in the doorway, hair sticking out in every direction like it was trying to escape his head, his face streaked with soot, and his robes showing clear signs of battle damage—scorched hems and all. He looked like he’d just gone twelve rounds with an angry Hungarian Horntail and lost spectacularly.

Blaise lowered his book, his eyebrows shooting up. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Harry shuffled in, blinking like he was still processing what had occurred. “Dumbledore dueled me,” he said, his voice flat and disbelieving.

Blaise sat bolt upright, slamming the book shut. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He gave me this piece of cloth,” Harry explained, gesturing vaguely, “said it was mine. Then he challenged me to a duel for it.”

Blaise stared, slack-jawed. “Dumbledore—the Dumbledore—challenged you to a duel?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Then he won, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Blaise repeated, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s the most powerful wizard alive! Of course, he won!”

Harry didn’t seem to hear him. He continued in the same dazed tone. “Then he took the cloth back.”

Balise's eyes narrowed. “Wait, wait, wait. He dueled you, beat you, took back what he gave you—and then what? Congratulated himself?”

Harry blinked. “No. He gave me 200 points for Slytherin.”

The entire room froze. A second of silence passed before Blaise clapped his hands once. “Let me get this straight,” he said, standing up as if trying to pace his way through the madness. “He gave you a thing. Fought you for it. Took it back. And then gave you 200 points?”

Harry nodded. “Pretty much.”

Blaise stared, then burst out laughing, doubling over. “You’re kidding me. You’re eleven! Did he forget that?”

Harry flopped onto a sofa, leaving a soot streak on the cushion. “I think he forgot a lot of things.”

— — —

7th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor, England

Edmund Trant checked the clock for the third time. Eighteen minus five. He leaned back in his well-worn chair, his weight making it groan under the strain. What on earth is the old Warlock up to now?

Dumbledore’s invitation sat on his desk, the parchment thick and bearing the unmistakable scrawl of his Patron. Forty-eight years of service and loyalty, and the man had never once summoned him to his personal home. Their rare meetings had always taken place at Hogwarts, surrounded by the scent of ink and candle wax, punctuated by the distant echo of chattering students. But now, this? At the infamous Dumbledore Manor?

His secretary, a young witch with an upturned nose and a constant air of suspicion, poked her head into the office. “Sir, shall I prepare your tea?”

“No need, Miss Crowther,” Trant replied, waving her off. “In fact, you can leave for the evening.”

Her eyes widened as if he’d just announced the Ministry’s dissolution. “Sir? But you—”

“I insist,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “The world will keep spinning without me for one evening. Go home.”

Still perplexed, she hesitated, then scurried out with her satchel clutched to her chest, casting puzzled glances over her shoulder. Trant allowed himself a brief chuckle. His long hours were infamous; the idea of him cutting a workday short was nearly scandalous.

He reached for the envelope again, tracing the embossed seal with his thumb. Why now, Albus? What’s changed? Since the man’s astonishing transformation weeks ago—a phenomenon that had left even the wizened Heads of Department speechless—Dumbledore had maintained his usual enigmatic distance. For someone as notoriously laid-back about managing his clients, the timing of this summons was... intriguing.

Trant rose, his cane tapping against the polished floor as he crossed to the fireplace. With a pinch of Floo powder, he tossed it into the flames, which roared green. “Dumbledore Manor,” he said clearly, stepping into the swirling blaze.

He landed with a grunt, stumbling slightly as his boots met the cobblestones of a circular platform. Straightening his robes, he looked around, and his breath caught.

The garden was alive in a way that felt almost unnatural. Plants of every hue swayed as though reacting to his presence, their blossoms shifting colors under flickering green torchlight. The air thrummed faintly, not with noise, but with magic—a sensation that raised the hairs on his arms. Pathways carved from shimmering black stone stretched outward, leading to the heart of the estate. And there, towering over the landscape, stood Dumbledore Manor.

It was an architectural marvel, perched at the edge of a jagged cliff. Polished white stone columns framed enormous glass panes that reflected the churning sea behind him. Vines with luminous blossoms crept up the walls, their glow pulsing faintly as if they carried the very magic of the ley line beneath them. Statues flanked the entrance. Their expressions were unnervingly lifelike, their presence more watchful than decorative. The sight was arresting, but Trant’s instincts sharpened as he caught movement on the path ahead. A shadow approached, heavy boots crunching on the gravel. He gripped his cane tighter. “Who’s there?”

The figure came into view—a broad man draped in a long, armored coat that seemed equal parts ceremonial and battle-ready. Black leather shimmered with intricate rune etchings, and metal pauldrons gleamed coldly under the torchlight. A heavy sash crossed his chest, and a massive, rune-inscribed tome hung at his hip. It wasn’t until the man’s mismatched eyes came into focus—one ordinary, the other rotating unnervingly in its socket—that Trant recognized him.

“Master Auror Alastor Moody?” Trant blinked, startled. “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?”

The corner of Alastor Moody’s mouth twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Trant,” he greeted, his gravelly voice as unyielding as his demeanor. “I wondered if I’d run into you tonight.”

Trant gestured vaguely at Moody’s attire. “I’ve seen you in some questionable robes, but this... this is... different.”

“Times change,” Moody replied, his tone short, but not unfriendly. “I’ve left the Aurors.”

Trant frowned. “Left? You’ve been an Auror as long as I’ve been at the Ministry. What’s this about?”

Moody shifted his weight, the tome at his side clinking softly against his armor. “I’m Master Inquisitor Moody now,” he said,“Head of the Ordo Hereticus. And recently appointed to the Board of the Society of Overseers for Crimes Against Sorcery - the SOCKS.”

“The SOCKS?” Trant’s brows rose so high they nearly vanished under his hat. “You’re serious?”

Moody’s magical eye swiveled, fixing Trant with a penetrating gaze. “Deadly.”

Trant opened his mouth to reply, but Moody cut him off. “Warlock Dumbledore’s waiting for you at the entrance. Best not dawdle.”

And with that, Moody strode past, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel, his crimson sash trailing behind him like a scar. Trant, his lips pressed thin, swallowed whatever question he’d had and turned back to the looming manor.

The broad steps felt like a climb toward judgment, each one revealing more of the intricately engraved doors at the summit. They opened as he approached, seemingly drawn back by unseen hands. Standing in the entrance, backlit by the warm glow of the hall beyond, was Dumbledore. The transformation was striking. His Patron radiated vitality, his posture upright yet relaxed, as though he carried no weight at all. Gone were the flowing robes of an aging scholar; instead, he wore a sleek, high-collared suit adorned with ornate embroidery, its dark fabric punctuated by patterns that seemed to move with his breath. His cropped silver hair and sharp blue eyes completed the picture of effortless renewal.

“Edmund,” Dumbledore greeted, his tone casual, almost as if addressing an old friend rather than one of his most loyal clients. “Come in. You must be thirsty after the journey.”

Trant inclined his head slightly and stepped inside. The air was warm, tinged with subtle aromas of herbs and citrus. Dumbledore led him to a polished bar tucked against the side of the grand hall, its surface gleaming under soft lamplight. Trant hesitated as Dumbledore moved behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves.

“Let me make you something,” Dumbledore said, pulling a slender glass from the rack. “Cocktail, perhaps?”

Trant blinked, caught off guard. Warlock Dumbledore, making him a drink ? By himself ? “Warlock, I—”

“Nonsense,” Dumbledore interrupted, already reaching for a bottle that sparkled faintly. “Consider it my way of apologizing for being so... hands-off these past few months. Years. Well, decades.” He gave Trant a faint smile, one that might have seemed sheepish if it weren’t paired with the ease of a man entirely in control.

The process was mesmerizing. Dumbledore moved with unhurried precision, combining liquids and powders that shimmered with faint hues of magic. A twist of his hand added the finishing touch, and he slid the finished drink across the counter with a small flourish.

“To our long association,” Dumbledore said, raising his own glass, its contents glowing faintly gold.

Trant lifted the glass, his hands steady despite his inner astonishment. He took a tentative sip. The taste was vibrant, the warmth spreading immediately through his chest. “Thank you, Warlock.”

Dumbledore waved him toward a set of chairs near the window. “Let’s sit,” he said, lowering himself into the seat with a grace that belied his newfound youth. “We have much to discuss.”

Trant followed, settling into the plush chair opposite his Patron. The view through the glass was breathtaking, the cliffs falling away to the sea, the waves crashing far below. Dumbledore began to speak, his voice measured yet casual, as though the weight of the world were a minor inconvenience. Trant listened intently, his own drink barely touched in his hands. But then he froze.

Through the glass, the ocean seemed to boil. A shadow rose from the depths, monstrous in scale. Tentacles, thick and scaled, broke the surface, lashing the water into chaos. The body followed—a towering, grotesque mass covered in blackened scales that drank the light. Its multiple eyes gleamed like distant lanterns, each swiveling with unnatural precision. When its maw opened, rows upon rows of teeth glinted, catching the last rays of the sun.

“Warlock!” Trant’s voice was tight, the first real panic he’d shown in years. He jabbed a finger toward the creature, his drink forgotten. “We’re under attack!”

Dumbledore turned his head lazily, following Trant’s trembling hand. His reaction was... laughter. A deep, unhurried chuckle rolled from him as though this were no more alarming than a stray owl.

“Oh, that?” Dumbledore said, waving a hand. “That’s just Mr. Pudding Honeybug The Destroyer of Worlds. He’s harmless.”

Trant’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed, “Harmless?”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink as though discussing the weather. “Well, he can probably sink a nuclear aircraft carrier,” he admitted. “But he’s quite docile when fed regularly. Keeps the riffraff away.”

The beast let out another roar, shaking the glass in its frame. Trant gripped his chair, his knuckles white.

“You keep... that as a pet?”

“He’s a wonderful guardian,” Dumbledore said, smiling faintly. “Very loyal. Like scratches, and takes his job seriously.”

Trant swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the creature as it slowly descended back into the waves, the water calming as it disappeared beneath the surface. The silence that followed was deafening. Head of the Department of Magical Transportation nodded mutely, taking another long sip of his drink.

Dumbledore set his glass down, the faint clink echoing in the quiet room. His sharp eyes locked onto Trant’s, their brilliance unsettling. “The world isn’t shifting, Edmund—it’s being torn apart. And when the dust settles, I don’t intend to be standing on the sidelines. I plan to write the new rules. The only question is: will you be there to help hold the pen?”

Trant swallowed hard, his hands gripping his cane like a lifeline. “I’m with you, Warlock,” he said, the weight of his words heavy. Dumbledore leaned forward, his grin sharper than any blade. “Good. Because the old guard doesn’t know it yet, but they’re finished. Their castles are built on sand, and I’m about to turn the tide. Stay close, Edmund. When this is done, they won’t even remember who tried to stand in our way.”

One thing was clear: the wizard in front of him truly was Albus Fucking Dumbledore, and his reputation as the most powerful wizard in Britain was not exaggerated.

— — —

8th of September 1991

?, England

"Why me?" Bill Weasley groaned, his fingers scrambling for a decent grip on the cliff face. His boots slipped on a patch of loose gravel, sending a cascade of stones clattering into the abyss below. He clung harder, refusing to admit—out loud—that he was absolutely whining.

Ahead of him, Albus Dumbledore, bare-chested and inexplicably glowing with vitality, hauled himself up the rock wall like a seasoned mountain goat. His silver beard fluttered majestically in the breeze, and the sun glinted off his muscular shoulders and shifting tattoos, which looked as though they were arguing with one another about the best route to take.

“Why you?” Dumbledore repeated, pausing mid-climb to give Bill an annoyingly serene smile. “Because Celia is busy organizing tomorrow’s party, and Alastor is torturing—I mean training—the new recruits.”

“Couldn’t you have sent someone else?” Bill huffed, gritting his teeth as he tried to find a foothold that didn’t feel like certain death. “Like someone with wings? Or a death wish?”

Dumbledore chuckled, effortlessly hoisting himself up to the next ledge. “Bill, my boy, where’s your sense of adventure? We’re scaling one of the most breathtaking cliffs in the magical world! Using magic would rob us of this... primal experience.”

Bill muttered a string of curses under his breath, none of which could be repeated in polite society. “I didn’t realize primalmeant suicidal. You do know we could just Apparate, right? Zip, zap, we’re there. No sweaty palms. No falling to our deaths.”

Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, as though considering this for the first time. “Apparating is for pussies,” he finally said, the twinkle in his eye practically audible.

Bill was too winded to argue, which was fortunate, because at that moment, a sound erupted from the cliff above—a deafening, guttural roar that made the stones beneath his feet tremble.

“What was that?” Bill asked, his voice pitching upward like a terrified owl.

Dumbledore, maddeningly calm, glanced toward the source of the noise. “Oh, that? Sounds like... hmm. Either a dragon or a yeti with anger issues. Could be both. A drayeti! Marvelous.”

Bill froze, his grip tightening on the rock. “A drayeti? You’re joking, right?”

Dumbledore resumed his climb, whistling a jaunty tune. “Only one way to find out! Come along, Bill. Time waits for no wizard.”

Bill stared after him, his stomach twisting in knots. “Why did I say yes to this?” he muttered, shifting his weight precariously. “He said, ‘Join me, Bill! It’ll be grand, Bill!’ He didn’t say, ‘Climb cliffs and die by drayeti, Bill!’”

“Less whining, more climbing!” Dumbledore called down cheerfully, already halfway to the top. “And keep your chin up! If we survive this, you’ll have quite the story to tell at tomorrow’s party.”

“If I survive this,” Bill muttered, clawing his way upward, “I’m spiking the punch.”