I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 46

Chapter 46

6th of September 1991

Malfoy Manor

Lucius Malfoy Apparated just outside the gates of Malfoy Manor with a crack that resonated through the stillness of the night. The air itself seemed to tighten around him, charged with the magic of centuries-old wards. He could have Apparated directly inside the Manor if he’d wanted—but doing so would trigger the ultimate security measure: a complete lockdown of the estate. That safeguard was meant for emergencies, when retreating to the safety of the Manor’s labyrinthine defenses was his only option. But Lucius Malfoy did not flee. Not now. Not ever. His appearance outside the gates was as much a declaration of his mastery over his domain as the Manor itself was of his lineage’s unassailable supremacy.

The iron gates parted for him without a sound, their movement smooth as liquid under the spellwork that only recognized him. The path to the entrance stretched before him, the pale stones gleaming faintly under the waxing moon. Malfoy Manor rose at the end of it, its grand facade stark against the sky. The windows glinted like the eyes of a beast watching the world below, unbothered by the mortal lives scurrying beneath it.

Lucius strode forward, his cane tapping a measured rhythm on the stones. In his left hand, he carried a stack of parchment—the new Chart of Hogwarts. His fingers pressed so tightly into the edges of the paper that it had begun to crumple, a small, unconscious betrayal of the rage simmering within him.The oak doors opened as he reached them, the motion smooth, almost ceremonial. The interior of the Manor was cool and vast, the black marble floors reflecting the flicker of enchanted chandeliers above. The scent of old magic, faintly metallic and always present, hung in the air.

A human servant appeared from the shadows of the hall. He moved quickly but quietly, his head bowed, his body language radiating deference and fear. Lucius preferred human servants to house-elves for certain tasks—there was something more gratifying about bending another person’s will. Like all his human servants, this one was mute, his silence a permanent condition enforced long ago. The man bowed deeply and reached out to take Lucius’s cloak, his hands trembling as his eyes darted to the cane. Like all servants, he knew his Master had a tendency to pass his anger by crucio-ing whoever was in his immediate vicinity.

Lucius didn’t speak. He handed over the cloak with a sharp flick of his wrist, a gesture that said more clearly than words that the servant was dismissed. The man obeyed, retreating swiftly, though not before Lucius caught the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Good. Fear was proper. Fear was necessary.

His cane, gripped firmly in his right hand, gleamed under the light of the chandelier. Its silver serpent handle held a secret he used to great effect: a false wand concealed within. The decoy was a calculated misdirection, an indulgent trick to make others believe his power rested there. The truth was far more brutal. His real wand was implanted within his arm, a masterpiece of craftsmanship that replaced the one he had lost—a constant reminder of his hubris when he had dared to tamper with the Dark Mark. Lucius had only taken two steps into the hall when the sound of heels clicked against the marble behind him, each tap precise, unhurried, and unmistakable.

“Lucius,” Narcissa’s voice called, her tone smooth, a soft drawl that managed to convey concern.

He turned, his expression hard, though his gray eyes flickered briefly with something less severe. She stood at the edge of the light. She wore a sheer, flowing gown of white, the fabric translucent enough to reveal her body beneath. Delicate silver embroidery trailed across the bodice, strategically placed to draw the eye without concealing much. The neckline plunged daringly, revealing the full curve of her breasts, their pale skin seeming to glow under the chandeliers. A corset of white leather hugged her waist tightly, accentuating her hips and creating an almost sculptural line. Below, the gown opened at the thigh, revealing long, slender legs, their smoothness catching the faint glimmer of the enchanted light. Her heels were impossibly high, their thin straps winding up her ankles like bindings, and as she walked, the gown shifted enough to reveal the high arch of her back and the rounded shape of her ass, perfectly proportioned and commanding attention. Her blonde hair, usually loose, was swept into a high, intricate braid, leaving her long neck bare except for a thin, silver collar fastened around her throat.

Her eyes—blue and sharp as winter ice—scanned him quickly, narrowing slightly at the tension in his jaw and the tightness of his grip on the cane.

“Lucius,” she repeated, softer this time, as though coaxing a predator. She moved toward him, each step deliberate, her hips swaying with a confidence that bordered on defiance. “You’re back. I take it the meeting didn’t go as planned.”

He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing around the silver handle of his cane. “No,” he said flatly. “Not as planned. Dumbledore.” The name was spat out like venom. “That insufferable old charlatan. Theses fucking foreigners…And that traitor Clifford Bentham. Fool. Coward. Traitor.”

Narcissa reached him, her movements fluid as she slipped her arms around his waist from behind. The press of her body against his back, warm and deliberate, was as much an embrace as it was a claim. Her hands slid up his chest, and she rested her chin lightly on his shoulder.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice low and soothing. “Did Dumbledore outmaneuver you?”

Lucius stiffened at the suggestion, his pride bristling even as the truth of it gnawed at him. “He laid a trap,” he admitted after a moment, his tone bitter. “Bentham and the others fell for it, and by the time I saw it for what it was, it was too late. The vote passed.”

Narcissa’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her tone remained steady. “What did he push through?”

Lucius raised the stack of parchment in his hand, shaking it angrily. “This. A new Hogwarts charter. A restructuring of authority, allegedly minor, but I had barely half an hour to review it. No doubt the real damage lies hidden in clauses too subtle to detect on a cursory reading. I know Dumbledore too well to think otherwise.”

Her hands slid down his chest, her fingers brushing lightly over the silver clasp of his cloak as she stepped around to face him fully. She tilted her head, her eyes locked on his. “And now?” she asked softly. “What will you do?”

Lucius’s lip curled into a dangerous smile, his grip on the papers tightening. “Now, my dear,” he said, his voice low and cold, “I will dismantle him. Piece by piece.”

— — — —

7th of September 1991

Somewhere in Scotland

Dumbledore sneezed.

Moody’s magical eye spun so fast it almost unscrewed itself, scanning the treeline, the ground, the sky—anywhere an enemy could be lurking. To Alastor Moody, a sneeze wasn’t just a sneeze. It was a warning, a curse, a signal, or even—Merlin help them all—an alchemical side effect. And when the sneezer in question was Albus Dumbledore, whose enemies outnumbered the stars, Moody’s paranoia dialed up to eleven. His mind began its familiar checklist. Death Eaters? Too obvious. Ministry spies? Possibly. That barkeep in Knockturn Alley who claimed Dumbledore owed him three Galleons from a century ago? Likely. He muttered under his breath, “Probably discussing him right now, plotting Merlin-knows-what over their sneaky cups of tea.”

His normal eye squinted suspiciously at the gathered werewolves while his magical one zoomed in and out, making unsettling whirring sounds. The werewolves shuffled under his scrutiny, a dozen of them standing uneasily in the moonlit clearing. They were a rough lot—clad in ragged clothes that barely clung to their overly large, overly muscular frames. Their faces were sharp and gaunt, their eyes a mix of exhaustion and feral intensity, and their knotted hands flexed as if itching for a fight. Every single one of them looked like they could snap a wizard in half without breaking a sweat.

Moody’s lip curled. These werewolves were supposedly on their side - according to Lupin, at least, who was the one who put them in contact-, but his magical eye told him all he needed to know: they were barely tethered to civility. Hunger clung to them like a second skin, and desperation was never far behind. Moody didn’t need Lupin here to tell him these werewolves lived on the knife’s edge of survival. Dumbledore, however, seemed entirely unbothered. He clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and commanding in the still air. Every werewolf froze, their eyes snapping to him. For a moment, the tension in the clearing was palpable, like a storm about to break.

“Thank you all for coming,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, his tone so warm it was almost disarming. Almost. “I appreciate your time, truly.”

One werewolf, taller and broader than the rest, with a chest like a barrel and scars across his face, took a step forward. His deep voice growled through the clearing. “What do you want with us?”

Dumbledore smiled, his twinkling gaze meeting the werewolf’s hard stare. “I have a proposition,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him. “A chance for you to become something extraordinary.”

The werewolves exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from wary to outright distrustful. Moody’s magical eye tracked each one, noting which had their fists clenched, which shifted their weight as though preparing to bolt, and which were already imagining ripping Dumbledore’s throat out.

“Be specific,” the scarred werewolf growled. “What’s ‘extraordinary’ mean to a wizard like you?”

Dumbledore’s smile widened. “I intend to create a…special unit, the Astarates” he said, as though that explained everything.

The werewolves looked equally confused. The scarred one crossed his arms, his muscles rippling under his tattered shirt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Dumbledore said, his voice dropping into a rich, theatrical cadence, “you will become the first of a legendary unit. Warriors unlike any the world has ever seen.”

Before anyone could press him further, Dumbledore took a deliberate step forward, his eyes sweeping over the pack like a teacher about to administer a particularly difficult exam. His hands rose, fingers splayed as if conducting an invisible orchestra, and the earth answered. The ground beneath him rumbled, a deep, resonant vibration that sent loose stones skittering. With a groan, roots and branches erupted from the soil, twisting upward as though alive. They wove together with unnatural precision, forming a circular arena that pulsed faintly with the magic holding it together. The structure exuded purpose, wild and primal, as though the forest itself had bowed to the headmaster’s will.

The werewolves froze, their predatory confidence faltering. One of the females let out a low hiss, her yellow eyes narrowing, while a wiry male took a step back, glancing nervously at the woods. Whatever they had expected, it wasn’t this.

“Pay attention, now,” Dumbledore said brightly, stepping into the ring with the casual air of a man walking into his parlor. “This is your first test - and your first lesson: every pack needs an alpha. Consider this a… practical demonstration.”

Moody, standing just outside the clearing, muttered under his breath. “Oh, this is going to be good. Or very stupid. Probably both.”

Dumbledore reached for the pendant around his neck, a simple silver charm that glinted in the moonlight. As he touched it, his flowing robes shimmered and dissolved into nothing, leaving him clad in a pair of silk Muay Thai shorts, dark blue with gold trim—and emblazoned across the front, a comically vibrant phoenix in mid-flight, flames trailing behind it like a triumphant bird on a mission. Across the back, in bold golden letters, read the words: “RELEASE THE PHOENIX”. Dumbledore’s bare torso was revealed, lean and sharply defined, his muscles honed with the precision of a craftsman. His chest rose and fell steadily, every breath measured, every sinew taut. His shoulders were broad and squared, his arms corded with muscle, his legs powerful and scarred in ways that hinted at battles long since fought. For a man who claimed to spend most of his days reading, he looked ready to dismantle an army with his bare hands.

The werewolves exchanged uneasy glances. The larger, scarred male who had spoken earlier stepped forward, his lips pulling back in a sneer that revealed too many teeth. “This?” he said, gesturing to Dumbledore’s wiry frame. “You’re the alpha? You’re kidding me, right? You’re what, a thousand years old?”

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Two points of correction,” he said, his tone light but precise. “One, I am not a thousand years old - even though I'm old enough to be your father, so you can Calle me Daddy.” His eyes gleamed. “And two…” His hands rose into a fighting stance, his feet settling firmly into the dirt. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

The scarred werewolf barked a laugh, a low, rumbling sound that made the rest of the pack shift nervously. “Alright then, old man. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t waver, but the weight behind it changed. It was no longer a gesture of politeness; it was a challenge wrapped in charm, a velvet glove concealing a steel gauntlet. Moody, watching from the sidelines with his arms crossed, let out a snort. “This’ll end in blood,” he muttered, his magical eye spinning lazily between Dumbledore and the werewolf. His normal eye gleamed with dark amusement. “Let’s hope it’s theirs.”

The Headmaster adjusted his stance, his hands still raised, and tilted his head slightly at the scarred werewolf who had stepped forward. “Come now,” he said with a theatrical sigh, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. “You lot look like mangy sheepdogs left out in the rain too long. Let’s see if you can bark as loud as you growl—or have you forgotten how to bite?”

The werewolves bristled, their hackles rising, and the scarred leader snarled. Dumbledore’s smile widened, bright and infuriating. He clapped his knuckles together, the phoenix on his shorts catching the light as if winking at them. “Well then,” he added, his voice dropping an octave, “show me what you’ve got, pups.”