I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 45

Chapter 45

6th of September 1991

Hogwarts

Albus Dumbledore materialized in a flash of fire and smoke in Celia Andersen's office, the familiar scent of burning wood briefly filling the air. The burst of flame faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind nothing but the faint warmth of his arrival. Celia, sitting behind her floating, transparent glass desk, didn’t even flinch. Her focus remained on the parchment in front of her, her expression cool and composed as ever.

Without looking up, she greeted him with a sharp, amused tone. "Ah, Your Flashiness has returned. Should I fetch a fire extinguisher, or was that just a warning shot?"

Dumbledore chuckled as he brushed a lingering ember from his sleeve. "You know I only appear with a bit of flair when I want to make an entrance, Celia. It keeps people on their toes."

She finally glanced up, her sharp gaze settling on him with a flicker of dry amusement. "Of course. The day you walk through a door like a normal wizard will be the day Hogwarts turns into a Muggle high school."

He smirked, stepping closer to her desk and lowering himself into the chair opposite her. “Well, I’d hate to ruin your expectations now, wouldn’t I? Besides, where’s the fun in being predictable?”

Celia's eyes sparkled briefly with amusement before she shifted back to her professional demeanor, crossing her legs under the floating glass desk. "Predictable, perhaps, but always effective," she remarked, her voice effortlessly smooth as she turned her attention back to the papers she had been reviewing. "I assume your meeting went as planned, Your... Persuasiveness?"

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, folding his hands comfortably over his stomach. "Indeed, it went quite well. The professors have accepted the Research Chairs, and it seems my charming ways have worked their magic again."

Her lips twitched at the corners, a subtle smile breaking her otherwise composed face. "You do have a way of making people say ‘yes’ to the most... complicated of requests. Speaking of which," she continued, glancing at another parchment on her desk, "the PhD candidates from India and China will be here in about a month."

"Ah, excellent," Dumbledore replied, his tone playful but filled with satisfaction. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a brief flash of amusement crossing her face as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs again. The floating glass desk provided a full view beneath, but she moved without any self-consciousness. As her legs shifted, her skirt rode up slightly, revealing the sheer black garter belt holding up her stockings. The smooth expanse of her thighs was fully visible now, and as she parted her legs slightly, the lack of panties became unmistakably clear. Celia remained utterly unbothered by the display, as if it were the most professional posture in the world. Her pubic hair, carefully groomed into a neat, dark line, was visible just above her parted folds, which gleamed faintly under the soft lighting of the room.

Dumbledore noticed, of course—he was far too perceptive not to. But instead of lingering, his gaze remained focused on her eyes, though his smile did turn a little more playful. "You do have a knack for keeping things... visible, Celia. I must say, it’s quite a talent."

Her lips curled slightly, acknowledging the subtle jab. "I prefer transparency in all things, Your Brilliance," she responded, her tone completely professional despite the charged atmosphere. "It avoids confusion and keeps communication clear."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, the pun coming far too easily. "Indeed, nothing clearer than glass, I’d say."

Celia leaned forward slightly, adjusting a stack of parchment on her desk, her movements unhurried and deliberate. "I also took the liberty of placing the books from India in your private library. I like to stay a step ahead."

“Of course, you do,” Dumbledore said, his voice softening, though the playful glint remained in his eyes. "That’s why I value you so much—you make sure everything is perfectly... laid out.”

She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, her skirt inching up again, revealing the delicate straps of the garter belt. Her pussy remained partially visible, her thighs slightly parted beneath the desk, though she behaved as though this exposure were completely normal, part of the day-to-day. "I take pride in my efficiency," she replied, her tone light but carrying a subtle edge. "It’s my job to make sure you’re always prepared for anything, after all."

Celia's confident demeanor evaporated the instant the grinding of the gargoyle’s pivoting echoed through the room. Her eyes widened in alarm, and in a flustered attempt to regain some decorum, she jolted upright, accidentally catching the edge of the glass desk. Papers fluttered to the floor, and she scrambled, nearly losing her balance as she tugged her skirt down with one hand while attempting to retrieve the scattered documents with the other. Just as she managed to pull herself back up, a strand of hair escaped her tight updo, dangling messily in front of her face. She let out a soft, exasperated gasp, struggling to regain her usual poised appearance just as the door began to creak open, her cheeks tinged with a faint, uncharacteristic blush.

Albus Dumbledore stood up from his chair, his robes sweeping as Clifford Bentham entered the room. The man stopped short, caught in the threshold as though he'd stumbled into something far greater than he'd anticipated. And in a sense, he had. The very air around Dumbledore seemed to hum with a silent power. His presence was not merely felt, but absorbed—like standing before a thunderstorm, just before the sky breaks.

“Clifford,” Dumbledore greeted warmly, though his voice carried an undercurrent that made it clear this was no ordinary meeting. “I trust you're ready to settle into your new role?”

Bentham swallowed, managing a tight nod. He could feel the weight of Dumbledore’s gaze on him, as if it bore into him—not out of hostility, but from the sheer force of the man’s presence. "Y-yes, Warlock Dumbledore. I... I’m honored to be part of this."

Dumbledore moved forward with a casual elegance, his eyes gleaming as he approached. “Honored, yes. But it’s not just about titles, Clifford. The work we do here—it requires something more.” He paused, letting his words sink in, his gaze piercing and kind all at once. “It requires loyalty. And trust.”

Bentham nodded a bit too quickly, his pulse quickening. Dumbledore’s words, though spoken softly, seemed to reverberate inside his chest, stirring a nervous energy. There was something about standing in front of a wizard like Dumbledore—something that made you feel incredibly small and insignificant, yet inexplicably important. Fear and admiration swirled in equal parts in Bentham’s gut, his respect for the man growing in tandem with his anxiety. He could feel the magic in the air, the invisible threads of it brushing against his skin, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I will not let you down, Headmaster,” Bentham managed, his voice unsteady but firm. “You have my word.”

Dumbledore’s smile widened, but there was a gravity behind it. “Good,” he said softly, his tone suddenly quieter, more intense. “I don’t doubt your intentions, Clifford. But understand this—loyalty to me means loyalty to something much larger than any one of us. It means standing for the future of Hogwarts, for the future of our world.” His words were hofneyed with charisma but carried the sting of authority beneath them, a delicate balance of praise and warning.

Bentham blinked, nodding, his admiration now colored by a touch of fear. The sheer magnitude of what Dumbledore was saying—of what he stood for—felt overwhelming. There was no room for failure. Dumbledore was not a man to cross.

Dumbledore stepped back slightly, his smile softening into something more approachable. “Now,” he said with a touch of brightness returning to his voice, “you’ll need to coordinate with William Weasley and Minerva McGonagall. They will guide you through the early stages of your responsibilities—timing is key, and we have much to achieve before the term settles.”

Bentham’s face lit up with a mix of relief and determination. “Of course, Headmaster. I’ll make arrangements immediately". He bowed his head, gratitude radiating from him. “Thank you, Headmaster. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m certain you won’t,” Dumbledore replied. “Now, off you go, Clifford. The clock is ticking, and there is much to be done.”

Dumbledore watched the door close behind Bentham, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. Turning back to Celia, he arched an eyebrow, his voice low and laced with that familiar, teasing warmth.

“Now, where were we, Miss Andersen?”

— — —

6th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor

Sirius gripped the metal bar, his breath coming in short, fierce bursts as he pushed himself through yet another set. His muscles strained, his focus absolute, as if each pull-up could bring him closer to his goals—or perhaps closer to easing the fury burning inside him. Harry. Pettigrew. The names bounced around his mind, fueling his every movement, the mere thought of his godson strengthening his resolve, and the image of that traitor's face hardening his jaw. Dumbledore had told him that once he was back in shape, he…

“Go, Master Sirius! You’re almost there, almost at twenty!” came an enthusiastic chirp. A tiny yellow-clad house elf, Lala, was hopping up and down, her wide eyes gleaming as she counted every one of his pull-ups with the gravity of someone watching an epic duel. Her red-clad companion was clapping excitedly, his large bat-like ears flapping with every cheer.

“Strong as a chimera, you are!” Po squeaked, his voice bright and shrill. He beamed up at Sirius with all the loyalty and admiration of a true fan. “No one else would keep going like this, not even a dragon!”

Sirius exhaled through gritted teeth, forcing himself to ignore the elves’ shouts as he pulled himself up one last time, feeling the burn all the way to his shoulders. Just as he reached for a towel, a searing flash of light filled the room, accompanied by the unmistakable crackle of fire, and he shielded his eyes against the sudden brilliance. As the flames receded, he lowered his arm, blinking into the new figure standing before him. It was Albus Dumbledore, but not quite as Sirius had seen him before.

He wore a long, flowing black coat, hanging in elegant lines that gave his presence a cool, impenetrable air. A fitted vest buttoned over a dark, tailored shirt lent him a touch of authority, while small, dark circular glasses obscured his eyes, casting a shadow over his expression but hinting at the intensity behind them. He held himself with a quiet power, hands loosely clasped behind his back, his head cocked in mild amusement at the scene before him.

And, above all, he was bald.

“Warlock Dumbledore,” Sirius said finally, catching his breath, though his brow lifted with barely concealed surprise.

Dumbledore held up a hand. “Not ‘Warlock’ today, Sirius. Today, you may call me… Morpheus.”

Sirius blinked and replied, “Alright then… Morpheus”.

Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile. “Not quite.” He inclined his head toward the small yellow house elf at his side, Lala, who beamed up at Sirius with a proud, almost parental glow. “It was Lala here who insisted I see for myself how diligently you’ve been working on your health. Quite the advocate, she is.”

Lala’s face practically glowed as she tugged at her bright yellow tunic. “Master Black’s heart strong as lion’s now!” she chirped, her small hands clapping together. “Lala makes him eat good, and Lala make sure he run every day.”

Po, the red-clad elf beside her, nodded enthusiastically. “Master Black’s lungs strong as dragon! He breathes like wind, even if it smells very bad!”

Sirius couldn’t hold back a small chuckle, a glint of warmth reaching his eyes as he glanced down at the enthusiastic house-elves. “Well, with these two watching over me, I’ve had little choice in the matter. Even if I wanted to slack, they’d drag me through every step.”

Dumbledore’s gaze shifted back to Sirius, and his face grew serious, though a glimmer of humor lingered in his eyes. He extended his hands slowly, palms facing upward, revealing two capsules lying on each. One, a brilliant red, shimmering with a strange, entrancing glow. The other, a deep, tranquil blue.

"You have a choice to make, Sirius"

Sirius stared at Dumbledore, who stood before him in a coat so dark and sweeping it looked like he’d skinned a Dementor on the way in. The bald head gleamed under the flickering light like a polished Snitch—a comparison Sirius immediately regretted because it almost made him snicker, and this didn’t feel like a moment for laughing. No, Dumbledore wasn’t inviting mockery. Not today.

Sirius' eyes darted between the pills, then back to Dumbledore, whose expression was unreadable. He hadn’t seen Dumbledore like this before. It wasn’t the twinkling-eyed man who cracked dry jokes at Ministry expense. This was someone else—someone older, sharper, and very serious. Sirius’s mouth went dry.

“Alright,” he said, the humor in his voice now more of a shield than a weapon. “What happens if I take the blue one? I sprout angel wings and live happily ever after?”

Dumbledore’s gaze didn’t waver, and Sirius suddenly felt like a schoolboy caught trying to charm his way out of detention. “The blue pill,” Dumbledore said, lifting it slightly, “is the path of tranquility and justice. Take it, and I will personally reopen your case before the Wizengamot.”

Sirius straightened, his sarcasm momentarily forgotten. He stared at the pill, its cool glow reflecting in Dumbledore’s glasses. “You’d do that?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “Drag the Ministry through that mess? Risk your neck for me? People…people would see it as you having failed to protect one of your client…not that I'm blaming you, but…”

The Warlock nodded. “Yes. Your innocence will be irrefutable. The Ministry will have no choice but to clear your name. You will reclaim your title, your dignity, your freedom. And,” he added, his voice softening ever so slightly, “you will stand beside Harry openly, as his godfather. As you were always meant to.”

Sirius swallowed hard. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. The thought of walking freely again—of being able to hold Harry close without looking over his shoulder—was enough to make his chest ache. But then his eyes flicked to the red pill, its glow fierce and unrelenting, and something old and stubborn inside him stirred.

“And the red?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Dumbledore’s expression shifted just slightly. His lips curved into a faint smile—not kind, not cruel, but something in between. He lifted the red pill, and it seemed to pulse in time with Sirius’s heartbeat.

“The red,” Dumbledore said, his voice dropping a fraction, “is not the easy path. It is not justice or tranquility. It is fire. It is courage. It is revenge.”

Sirius’s heart quickened. “Revenge?” he echoed, leaning forward. “What does that mean?”

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, the light catching on his bald crown like a particularly clean Snitch again. His smile grew just a fraction wider, sharp as the edge of a blade. “The red, Sirius…