I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 41

Chapter 41

6th of September 1991

Hogwarts

The Senior Unspeakable, who had been watching with a steady, unreadable gaze, finally spoke. “This meeting is adjourned. The vote will take place in half an hour.”

There was a scraping of chairs as everyone stood, the tension shifting as they prepared to leave. Amelia Bones immediately moved toward Andromeda, her expression one of keen interest. Augusta Longbottom and Bartemius Crouch weren’t far behind, clearly eager to discuss the implications of what they’d just heard. And then, to everyone’s surprise—perhaps most of all to Malfoy—Dolores Umbridge made her way over as well, her simpering smile plastered on her face. She had clearly decided that currying favor with Andromeda was a good thing, now that she was a Black.

Patil, watching the scene unfold, felt a flicker of curiosity. How had Dumbledore managed to reinstate Andromeda as a Black? With Regulus dead, Sirius in Azkaban, and Narcissa no longer part of the family by name, it should have been impossible. Yet here she was, as if the past had never happened. It was a puzzle, one that intrigued Patil as he left the main room and headed for one of the adjacent chambers where private conversations could be held.

Wen entered shortly after, his expression as inscrutable as always. The two men exchanged a brief, firm handshake, the gesture one of mutual respect rather than warmth. There was no need for small talk between them.

“How many?” Wen asked directly, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion. Ah, so the chinese also had made the deal with Warlock Dumbledore.

Patil didn’t flinch. “Two admissions per year at Hogwarts, and one every three years at the Institute,” he lied smoothly, knowing full well he was downplaying the deal he’d secured—three admissions per year at Hogwarts and one every two years at the Institute.

Wen’s smile was faint but unmistakable. “Four per year at Hogwarts,” he said, his tone carrying a subtle note of victory, “and one every year at the Institute.”

Patil's expression remained carefully neutral, though he couldn't entirely dismiss the irritation gnawing at him. Wen had outmaneuvered him, securing a better deal, but Patil refused to let it show. In truth, the machinations of Wizarding politics held little interest for him—those games were his cousin's domain, the Indian - and family's - ambassador who reveled in such intrigue. And he hated his cousin. Patil’s focus was singular: securing the best education for the future Patils and their allies. His seat on the Hogwarts Board was simply a means to that end, a tool to be used rather than an obsession to be fed.

When Dumbledore had approached him with an offer of more student placements, Patil’s initial interest had been piqued, but not overly so. He already wielded enough influence to ensure spots for his own. But Dumbledore had spoken of more than just student slots; he had outlined a grander vision. The SOCKS Institutes, advanced research opportunities, and the establishment of PhD programs under the guidance of luminaries like Flitwick, McGonagall, Sprout, Snape - and Dumbledore himself, the charm and transfiguration Master, the student of Flamel, the genius alchemist—these were concepts that had caught Patil’s attention.

This wasn’t about just getting the family's children into Hogwarts. This was about creating something that could outshine even the esteemed institutions of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, where rival families sent their offspring. Testing this vision with a few children from the secondary branches of the family made sense. If Dumbledore’s ambitious plan worked, if the education provided under this new framework proved as valuable as it promised to be, then Patil could expand the opportunity to the main branch. It wasn’t just about influence anymore—it was about securing a future where the Patil name was synonymous with excellence and innovation in magical education, a legacy that would endure for generations. With that goal in mind, Dumbledore had Patil’s vote—and it wouldn’t matter if the board ceased to exist after today.

Patil had always been attuned to the nuances that others missed. He knew how the Unspeakable would interpret motions and treaties with ruthless literality. Magical contracts were interpreted thusly, very differently to the interpretative techniques of their muggle equivalent. That’s why the seemingly minor change from "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" to "Hogwarts School of Magic" had caught his attention. Officially, it was depicted by the long-ass parchment as a progressive step, shedding outdated gender biases and categories of magics. But Patil saw the deeper consequence. This name change wouldn’t just be symbolic; it would invalidate every document that referred to the old name, including the Original Charter that had established the board. The foundation of the board’s power would crumble, leaving Hogwarts’ governance at the hands of the Headmaster - the one that held the reputation, the building and the key to the ward room. It was a brilliant move. The board may cease to exist, but it would not matter for Patil He had made a magical contract - well, a counter-letter, technically - with the man that, starting from tonight, would be the sole master of Hogwarts. Well, if the vote passed, anyway. And as far as Patil counted, even with the two new votes of Andromeda, Dumbledore could only have six, maybe seven, vote. He needed eight.

In a quiet side room, Patil and Wen exchanged pointed looks, their conversation flowing effortlessly as they shared information about the Institute. They had already reviewed the documents earlier, courtesy of Andromeda, and now they discussed the finer details with a quiet confidence.Meanwhile, back in the main room, Barty Crouch found himself alone. His eyes fell on a sealed envelope that had mysteriously appeared on the table before him. He tore it open and began reading. With each line, his face grew ashen, the words seemingly draining the blood from his veins. By the time he finished, the letter crumbled to ashes in his trembling hands.

The Unspeakable’s voice echoed through the chamber, summoning the board members back to their seats. Augusta Longbottom took her place with a nod toward Andromeda, her smile one of quiet approval. Amelia Bones followed, her gaze steady and full of purpose. They were both deeply invested in the changes proposed, knowing the impact they would have on their grandchildren and nieces at Hogwarts. As everyone settled in, the atmosphere grew tense, anticipation crackling in the air. The Unspeakable, standing with an air of authority, reminded them of the stakes: they needed eight votes in favor for the motion to pass.

He began, his voice cutting through the silence, "Crabbe."

Crabbe grunted, his voice rough as he answered, "Against."

"Longbottom."

"For," Augusta responded, her voice clear and unwavering.

"Bones."

"For," Amelia answered.

"Umbridge."

Umbridge hesitated, her eyes flicking nervously to Malfoy. His steely gaze left her no room for doubt. "Against," she muttered, her voice barely audible.

"Malfoy."

Lucius leaned back, exuding a practiced confidence. "Against, for both votes," he declared, his voice sharp.

The score stood at four against, two for. Malfoy’s expression held the faintest hint of triumph.

"Black," the Unspeakable called, his tone neutral, but with a weight that silenced the room.

Andromeda didn’t hesitate. "For," she declared. Then, almost lazily, she added, "Twice."

The room shifted. Four against, four for. A murmur ran through the gathered members.

"Wen."

"For," Wen answered without pause, his tone as steady as a heartbeat.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent, his mind working furiously.

"Patil."

"For."

The Unspeakable’s voice rang out, "Six for, four against."

All eyes turned to Crouch, who looked as though he might collapse under the pressure. His lips moved, barely forming the word, "For."

Malfoy’s smile was tight, forced. Seven for, four against. He needed just one more vote to tip the scales.

"Bentham," the Unspeakable intoned, his voice laced with expectation.

Clifford Bentham, who had until now been a forgettable figure, broke into a sly grin. "For," he said, with an edge that sent ripples through the room.

Malfoy’s mask of control shattered. "What?" he bellowed, his voice cracking with fury as he surged to his feet, his pale knuckles gripping the table's edge. Clifford was just a Ministry drone! A servant! How dare he…

The Unspeakable’s voice, unshaken, delivered the final verdict. "Four Against, Eight For. The motion to reform the Charter has passed."

The Unspeakable's staff struck the floor with a sharp, resonant crack, unleashing a surge of energy that rippled through the chamber. Hogwarts, ancient and sentient, responded instantly—the walls and floors thrummed with a deep, resonant hum as the castle absorbed and affirmed the decision. The Unspeakable, with a measured motion, tossed the parchment into the bowl at the center of the table. The parchment ignited, consumed by green flames, sealing the decision into the very fabric of the castle.

— — —

6th of September 1991

London

Timothy stepped into the pub, the creak of the door barely registering as his attention zeroed in on Celia. This wasn’t the Celia he was used to seeing—gone were the leather jackets and combat boots. Seated confidently at a table near the bar, Celia embodied every fantasy of a no-nonsense secretary.

Celia's white blouse was buttoned low enough to reveal just enough skin to make any man look twice. The fabric was snug, outlining her chest in a way that made it impossible not to notice the soft swell beneath. The blouse tapered perfectly into a pencil skirt that hugged her waist and hips, the material smooth and tight against her thighs. Her legs, encased in sheer black stockings, were crossed elegantly, with the tops of her stockings peeking out just beneath the hem of her skirt. The thin black seam running up the back of her legs led to sharp, black stiletto heels that accentuated the shape of her calves and added a hint of danger to her otherwise polished appearance.

Sitting across from her was Paul, a short, bespectacled guy Timothy recognized from their Horlock days - a second rate school of magic in Ireland. Paul, who had gone on to graduate from Oxford with a degree in informatics, seemed engrossed in whatever Celia was saying, nodding along as she spoke. They were talking about his project to go full academia, and maybe do a PhD. Timothy's gaze went back to Celia. The subtle shine of her red lips curved into a knowing smile as she met Timothy’s gaze, her eyes alight with mischief. Her hair, usually a wild mane, was sleek and pulled back, showcasing the sharp angles of her jaw and the arch of her neck. Everything about her, from the way her blouse framed her chest to the gleam in her eyes, radiated a potent blend of professionalism and raw, seductive energy. Fuck. He had to make sure he did not fall for her. Again. For the fourth time.

He diverted his gaze, only for his eyes to fall on the figure sitting awkwardly at the edge of the table—Bill Weasley. Timothy had heard plenty about Bill from Celia’s stories—mostly framed with a healthy dose of bitterness. Seeing him here, with his long red hair and dragon-hide boots, sitting among their group of disillusioned Muggle-borns, felt like an insult. Bill looked thoroughly uncomfortable as one of the other girls from their Halloween Club—someone who had faced rejection after rejection from the Ministry—explained her life to him.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Timothy muttered as he slid into the seat next to Celia, keeping his voice low. His eyes didn’t leave Bill, his disdain clear. The very sight of a pure-blood like Bill, someone who had never had to deal with the same struggles they had, set Timothy’s teeth on edge. Celia didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she took a slow, almost teasing sip from her glass before finally turning her attention to Timothy. Her gaze was sharp, playful—a look that said she knew exactly what she was doing. “He’s here because I invited him,” she said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “And why would you do that?”

Celia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “He’s useful. And believe it or not, he’s here to help.” She leaned back, a smirk playing on her lips as she took another sip of her drink.

Timothy frowned, still skeptical. “You think we need his kind of help?”

Celia’s smirk widened, her eyes locking onto Timothy’s with a challenge. “Not everything is black and white, Tim. Sometimes, to beat the system, you have to play it. And if you think I’d dress up like this just for fun, then you’re missing the point.” She gestured to her outfit, the movement drawing Timothy’s gaze once more to the way the fabric hugged her curves. “Well, I like dressing up like that - even if sometimes I miss the good old pol' and the nipple patches. But there’s a reason for everything.”

Timothy leaned back in his chair, still not entirely convinced but intrigued despite himself. “So, what’s the plan, then?”

Celia’s eyes sparkled with mischief, her smile taking on an almost wicked edge. “Patience, Tim. All in good time.” She glanced over at Bill, who was now trying—and failing—to navigate the girl’s rant. “For now, let’s just say tonight’s about setting the stage. Trust me, by the end of it, you’ll understand. Well. Not understand. You cannot understand him. But…”

Timothy huffed, crossing his arms but deciding to let it go—for now. Celia had never steered him wrong before, and despite his reservations, there was something about the way she carried herself tonight that made him think she knew exactly what she was doing. That, and the fact he did not want to disappoint her boob…Her. He did not want to disappoint her. Still, he couldn’t help but cast another wary glance at Bill, the unease lingering in his gut. “Fine,” he muttered, “but I’m keeping an eye on him.”

Celia chuckled softly, her gaze never leaving Timothy’s. “You do that, Tim. Just don’t blink—you might miss something important.”

Before Timothy could respond, the pub’s lights shifted, illuminating a small stage in the corner. Seated on a wooden stool, looking like he’d just stepped off a ranch, was none other than a forty-years-old-and-texan-looking Albus Fucking Dumbledore. Dressed in a snug plaid shirt that highlighted his lean, muscular frame, tight jeans, and worn cowboy boots, he strummed a guitar with effortless ease. His cowboy hat sat low, shading those piercing blue eyes as he began to sing, his voice rich and deep, "Well, I’ve walked these halls for a hundred years, seen laughter and plenty of tears…”

"Say, Timothy, what do you think of a nice, cushy, job where you can give the middle finger to prubloods and the ministry?"