I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 47

Chapter 47

7th of September 1991

?, England

The Head Unspeakable’s stride was brisk, his umbrella tapping the floor with a precise rhythm that echoed faintly through the corridor. His sharp features betrayed little emotion beyond focus, his eyes glinting behind thin, wire-framed glasses. The tailored lines of his dark suit hugged a frame that was built more for command than combat—broad shoulders, a strong chest, but a thickness at the waist that spoke to indulgence or neglect.

The corridor itself, draped in deep red velvet, seemed to draw the sound from the air, leaving his footsteps and the soft tap of his umbrella as the only reminders that he moved at all. Light came from sconces spaced irregularly along the walls, casting uneven illumination that heightened the suffocating silence. At the end of the hall was a door, smooth and unmarked, with no lock or handle visible. He adjusted his grip on the polished curve of the umbrella’s handle, his lips tightening momentarily before he stepped through.

Inside, the room unfolded in quiet strangeness. Glass cabinets lined every wall, filled with dolls that stared back at him with wide, painted eyes. Some were beautiful, dressed in gowns of lace and silk, their porcelain faces frozen in serene smiles. Others were grotesque: stitched monstrosities with crooked mouths, one-eyed wooden figures, and limp, ragged things that seemed half-finished or abandoned mid-creation. The faint smell of lavender lingered, cloyingly sweet but unable to mask an undercurrent of something acrid, metallic, and alive.

At the center of the room sat a woman in a white dress, her back to him. Her braid, long and red as freshly spilled blood, fell over one shoulder, the ends brushing the fabric of her chair. Her bare arms moved with a languid rhythm as she brushed the hair of a doll cradled in her lap. She was a slender silhouette against the stark room, her every motion economical yet oddly hypnotic. The doll’s crimson hair shimmered in the soft light, almost a mirror to her own.

The Head Unspeakable stopped a measured distance away, bowing his head just enough to satisfy propriety. He knew She did not like inefficient protocols.

“Your Highness,” he said, his voice even but reverent. “I have something to report.”

“Speak,” she said simply, not pausing in her work.

He straightened, resting his weight lightly on the umbrella’s handle. “The Hogwarts Board meeting has concluded. Dumbledore has acted decisively.”

The brush continued its slow glide through the doll’s hair. “Has he now?” she murmured. “And what toy has he claimed this time?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “The Board has been rendered powerless. Dumbledore orchestrated a name change for the school. The school is no longer ‘Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’ It is now ‘Hogwarts School of Magic,’” he said, the weight of the revelation lending gravity to his words. “This invalidates all documents tied to the original name, including the Board’s founding charter. Their authority is gone. Dumbledore now controls Hogwarts entirely.”

The brush stopped briefly, and resumed its path. “Clever. And what does our dear Albus think he has gained?”

“Everything,” he replied. “The curriculum, the staff, the wards, and…above all, control of the Leyline beneath the castle.”

The brush stilled again, this time resting on the doll’s hair. “The Leyline,” she repeated, almost thoughtfully. “One of the four Great Ones in Britain. So he’s claimed the thread of ancient power for himself?”

“Yes, Madam,” the Head Unspeakable said, though his voice tightened as he spoke. “But there is more. Dumbledore himself has... changed.”

Her hand hovered over the doll, and though she didn’t turn, he could feel her attention shift entirely to him. “Changed?”

“He appears younger,” he said. “Stronger. His magic feels amplified. It’s as though he has discovered... something new.”

“And your theory?” she asked, her voice smooth but weighted now.

He hesitated, then offered what he knew was a dangerous guess. “The Philosopher’s Stone. Could he have taken it?”

She laughed quietly, the sound soft but cutting, reverberating faintly in the room. The dolls seemed to lean toward him in their cases, their unblinking stares more alive than before. “The Stone?” she repeated. “No. Albus has no need for Flamel’s trinket. It would be beneath him to steal it. And the Stone is not…”

The Head Unspeakable frowned, faintly vexed but unwilling to show it. He waited for her to continue, but she did not. “Then how has he done this?”

“He understood entropy,” she said, the words falling from her lips as though they answered everything.

He bristled internally but forced himself to remain composed. “Entropy?” he repeated, frustration seeping into his voice.

Her hand moved again, smoothing the doll’s dress as if the question had not been asked. “Something beyond you,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Let us say Albus has discovered how to defy natural decay. Clever, yes. Surprising, no. He was always a bright boy.”

The Head Unspeakable swallowed the urge to press further, though his pride stung under her dismissal. “Does this make him a threat?” he asked, his tone more clipped than before.

“A threat?” she echoed, her voice touched with amusement. “Albus is clever, but cleverness is not strength. Especially in our world, where knowledge…knowledge is most dangerous. No, he is still a boy, playing with fragile puzzles. Let him have his castle and his Leyline. It changes nothing.”

The doll in her lap was placed gently onto the table beside her, its painted eyes seeming to pierce into the Head Unspeakable. “Watch him,” she said. “Report back when something of real consequence happens.”

“Yes, your Highness,” he said, bowing deeply before retreating. The door clicked shut behind him, and he exhaled slowly, loosening his grip on the umbrella’s handle.

— — —

7th of September 1991

Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts, England

The Slytherin common room hummed with subdued energy, the kind that thrived in the late evening hours when plots ripened and secrets whispered themselves into existence. Harry Potter sat on a plush leather sofa near the fireplace, its green flames casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls. The air smelled faintly of aged parchment and something that might have been mint tea but was probably more sinister. Beside him, Blaise Zabini lounged with the effortless grace of someone who belonged, his long legs stretched out and his expression tinged with mild amusement. He was quite tall for an eleven years old, and Harry had to admit he was a bit jealous.

Across from them, a few seats away, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis were locked in their usual card duel, the air between them filled with sparks and swirling smoke as the enchanted deck twisted and flashed. Daphne’s hand shot forward, slapping a gleaming gold card onto the table with a confidence that bordered on theatrical.

“Checkmate,” she said, her smile just shy of smug.

Tracey groaned, tossing her remaining cards into the air where they fizzled out in a shower of pink sparks. “You’ve got to be cheating. No one’s this good.”

Daphne leaned back in her chair, tilting her head with practiced ease. “Cheating is for people who lack talent. You, however, should consider it.”

Harry, watching them from the couch, smirked faintly. Daphne’s calm precision and Tracey’s lively complaints made for an amusing contrast. Daphne’s icy composure and occasional glances his way hadn’t escaped him either. It was the look of someone sizing up a valuable asset. In Slytherin, nothing was casual—not even friendship. And Aunty Andy had told him about his special identity as the boy-who-lived…and the link of their family to Dumbledore.

“She’s always like this?” Harry asked Blaise under his breath, keeping his voice low enough not to carry.

Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. “Pretty much. Daphne’s all about the long game. Her dad’s the same—Ariston Greengrass. Heard of him?”

Harry frowned. “Name rings a bell.”

“Wizengamot bigwig,” Blaise explained, his tone laced with casual disdain. “He chairs the Economic Commission. Does business with everyone—Malfoy, Dumbledore, whoever’s got the gold. No lofty ideals, just commerce and power. It’s why Daphne plays everything so close to her chest. Runs in the family.”

“Sounds charming,” Harry said, glancing at Daphne, who was shuffling her cards with unnerving precision.

“Charming isn’t the word,” Blaise replied. “Useful, though. The Greengrasses don’t pick sides—they buy them.”

As if on cue, Daphne glanced over, catching Harry’s gaze with a faint, inscrutable smile before returning to her cards. Harry couldn’t help but feel like a piece in a much larger game—one he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to play.

Tracey, oblivious or simply unconcerned with the room’s currents, threw her hands up. “I’m done for the night. Let’s see how smug you are when you’re out of chocolate frogs tomorrow.”

Daphne didn’t bother to look up. “I already restocked.”

Harry turned back to Blaise, shaking his head. “I think I prefer your brand of charm.”

Blaise grinned. “And that, Potter, is why we get along.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. His attention wandered across the room, landing on Draco Malfoy, who was sitting rigidly on a high-backed armchair near the far wall. Draco’s chin was tilted upward, his hands clasped in his lap, and his entire posture radiated an air of strained grandeur.

Harry frowned. “Is he... constipated?”

Blaise burst out laughing, a short, sharp sound that made Daphne glance over in curiosity. “Not constipated, Potter. That’s Draco’s ‘noble and regal’ face. He’s trying to look like the heir of some ancient dynasty. Unfortunately, he ends up looking like he’s eaten one too many sour Bertie Bott’s Beans.”

Draco’s gray eyes flicked toward them, narrowing in irritation. “I heard that, Zabini,” he drawled, his tone as cold as the Black Lake. “For your information, I have a perfect posture. A Malfoy always carries himself with dignity.”

“Dignity?” Blaise repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Looks more like indigestion.”

Harry suppressed a laugh. “Come on, Blaise. Lay off him.”

Draco straightened further, his pale cheeks coloring faintly. “I don’t need your protection, Potter,” he snapped, his voice trembling between indignation and exasperation. “And Zabini, I’d like to see you attempt to look half as regal.”

“Regal?” Blaise smirked. “Oh, I can do regal. Just not... whatever that is.”

Before Draco could retort, the room plunged into an uneasy silence. Every head swiveled toward the doorway as Professor Severus Snape entered, his robes flowing behind him with the effortless drama of a brewing storm. His piercing gaze swept the common room, sharp enough to make even the most confident student sit up straighter. For the past few days, Snape had been... cheerful—or as close to cheerful as anyone dared to describe him. It was deeply unsettling. Severus Snape, looking satisfied, almost content? The notion had thrown the entire Slytherin house into a state of quiet paranoia. If Snape was in a good mood, it could only mean trouble for someone else—and the question of who hung over the room like a guillotine.

For a moment, no one dared move or speak. Even the enchanted cards seemed to hang midair in anticipation.

“Get back to your scheming and backstabbing, instead of staring at me as though I’m a Dementor on your doorstep,” Snape said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The students snapped back into action, their conversations resuming in hushed tones, though the atmosphere remained taut. Harry, however, couldn’t tear his eyes away from Snape. He hadn’t seen the man since the incident in Potions class when Dumbledore had humiliated him in front of the entire class for targeting Harry.

Snape’s gaze landed on Harry, and his lips curled into something that might have been a smirk or a grimace. Harry gulped audibly. Next to him, Blaise shifted in his seat, watching the interaction with muted interest, while Draco perked up, looking uncharacteristically giddy.

“Potter,” Snape said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “The Headmaster wishes to see you. In his office. Now.”

Harry’s stomach sank. He nodded quickly, rising to his feet. “Yes, Professor,” he muttered, shuffling out of the common room with as much dignity as he could muster under the weight of Snape’s piercing gaze.

The door closed behind him, leaving the room eerily silent. Snape stood still, surveying the remaining students like a hawk appraising a flock of particularly unimpressive sparrows. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile—not kind, not amused, but sharp and disconcerting, like the first glint of sunlight off a razor.

Every student froze. The room’s collective unease thickened, a tangible thing pressing down on them.

Inwardly, Snape reveled in the moment. In two days, Dumbledore would announce the launch of the Specialized Outstanding Curriculum for Knowledge and Skill—SOCKS. The ridiculous acronym couldn’t diminish its brilliance. At last, Horace Slughorn would take over the tedious lower-year classes, leaving Snape free to teach only the sixth and seventh years—the competent, the promising, the students who might one day master the art of potion-making. No more cauldrons erupting like volcanoes of incompetence. No more explaining the basics to empty-eyed fools. Just excellence. Just peace.

The thought sent a rare, twisted joy curling through him, and before he could stop himself, a laugh—a low, unnerving cackle—escaped his lips.

A fifth-year boy let out a strangled scream and dove under a chair, clutching its legs for dear life.

Snape’s gaze lingered on the boy, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly. He turned sharply, his robes billowing, and swept out of the room without a word.

Behind him, the whispers began immediately.

“Snape was smiling.”

“No—laughing. What does it mean?”

"Do…Do you think he may have…found someone?"