I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 33

Chapter 33

3rd of September 1991

Hogwarts

Severus Snape sat stiffly in the sleek, modern antechamber, his fingers tapping against the cold, smooth surface of the minimalist chair he had chosen. The room was a study in understated elegance—clean lines, neutral colors, and an almost clinical lack of decoration, except for two bizarre exception: the outrageous chairs that seemed plucked from a child’s dream and a ugly grandfather clock. The rest of the space was impeccably designed, right down to the sleek, glass-topped desk where Celia Andersen, Dumbledore’s new secretary, sat. Clearly, someone had stolen in advance Steve Job's design.

Celia herself, however, was anything but minimalist. She was stunningly beautiful, with a sharp edge to her allure. Her long, raven-black hair fell in glossy waves over her shoulders, framing a face that was both classically beautiful and wickedly expressive. Her blouse, tailored to perfection, was buttoned just low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, the fabric clinging in all the right places to suggest without revealing. She wore a short skirt that ended just above mid-thigh, showing off her long legs, encased in high thigh socks that hugged her skin like a second layer. Tattoos peeked out from beneath the hem of the skirt, intricate and enticing. Her stiletto heels clicked authoritatively against the polished floor whenever she moved - which she did not that much. She had been, for the past half an hour, very, very invested in her work. Truly, Snape was horny - the descriptions of some of the women in this fic definitely were a bit too long.

Celia’s attitude matched her appearance—sharp, witty, and unapologetically direct. As she looked up from her work, her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. Snape, despite his anxiety, found himself slightly comforted by her presence - he did not know why. She was sharp, and in this world, sharpness was often better than kindness. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a creeping unease as he waited, his mind plagued by thoughts of what might be coming.

The grinding of stone interrupted his thoughts. The gargoyle at the entrance pivoted, signaling the arrival of someone. Snape tensed; it was too early for Dumbledore. The door creaked open (which he knew to be a magical sound effect Albus had created, for whatever reason), and in waddled Horace Slughorn, his massive frame crammed into velvet robes that seemed ready to burst at the seams. Slughorn was enormous, with a belly that jutted out like a walrus’s tusk-laden snout. His face, flushed to the color of a ripe tomato, was framed by a thick mustache that twitched like the whiskers of a walrus eyeing a fish.

Celia’s lips curled into a sly smile as she looked up from her desk. "Good afternoon, Mister Slughorn," she greeted, her voice a smooth, velvety purr. "I’m Celia Andersen, Albus Dumbledore’s secretary. It’s a pleasure to meet you. "

Slughorn’s mustache twitched with pleasure as he took her hand, his eyes shining with surprise—and perhaps a bit of flustered desire. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Andersen," he replied, his voice a deep, jovial rumble. "Dumbledore mentioned you quite a bit! Said you were perfect for the job."

Celia arched an eyebrow. "I’d be surprised if he had much to say," she quipped. "I only started yesterday."

Slughorn, clearly unused to such bluntness, spluttered for a moment, his walrus-like features twisting in surprise. "Oh! Well, I see why he wanted you on board," he recovered, a bit redder than before. "A tongue like that will be useful in dealing with people who might need... persuasion."

Snape, observing the exchange, noted with a small, private satisfaction that she had called him Mister Slughorn—not Professor. It was a subtle difference, but in the world of academia and influence, it meant everything. Perhaps Dumbledore hadn’t entirely replaced him in Slughorn’s mind after all. Or perhaps, and it was much more probable, Celia just did not know better - or what was in Dumbledore mind.

As if on cue, the clock on the wall began to chime. The clock’s face split open, revealing a tiny stage where a drunken, naked gnome stumbled out. The gnome hiccupped loudly, swayed precariously, and then slurred, "Oi, don’t trust the man with the mustache! It’s four o’clock, ya filthy lot!" before belching and toppling back into the clock, which closed behind him with a clatter.

Slughorn was startled - but neither Snape nor Celia were. Snape rose from his seat, his posture as rigid as ever, and inclined his head in greeting. "Horace," he said, his voice tight with barely concealed tension. "It’s been a while."

Slughorn turned to him, his broad smile widening even further. "Severus! Good to see you, my bo…fellow Potion Master! Didn’t expect to find you here." His tone was jovial, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he glanced between Snape and Celia. "Dumbledore always did have impeccable timing, didn’t he? Almost as if he planned this."

Snape forced a thin smile, his mind racing. This was no coincidence—Dumbledore didn’t deal in coincidences. The old man was orchestrating something, but what? Was Slughorn here to replace him? To take his place at Hogwarts, or worse, within Dumbledore’s inner circle? The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.

"I’m sure it’s just a matter of convenience," Snape replied, his voice carefully measured, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. "I was summoned for a…discussion. Perhaps the headmaster wishes to catch up with both of us."

Slughorn chuckled, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from Snape. "Indeed, indeed! Headmaster Dumbledore always knows how to keep things lively. And it’s good to see you, Severus. You were always one of my most... promising students."

Celia, sensing the moment to lighten the atmosphere further, flashed a sly smile. “Mister Slughorn, would you care for some tea as well?” she asked, her voice smooth as velvet.

Slughorn’s eyes lit up with delight. “Why, yes, my dear! I’d be delighted!”

Celia stood gracefully, each movement deliberate as she turned toward the hidden door. Her hips swayed with a natural rhythm, the tight fabric of her short skirt clinging to the rounded curves of her backside. With every step, her skirt lifted just enough to reveal the lace tops of her thigh-high socks, the intricate patterns of her tattoos teasing from beneath the hem. Her heels clicked softly on the floor, punctuating the seductive rhythm of her walk. The smooth, firm motion of her rear was impossible to ignore, drawing Slughorn's gaze. The older potion master's eyes followed the motion like a cat tracking a particularly enticing bit of string, his mustache twitching with admiration and something far less chivalrous.

The hidden door clicked shut behind her, snapping Slughorn out of his trance. He leaned closer to Snape, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, Severus,” he began with a lecherous grin, “a girl like that... well, she’s got a body made for more than just fetching tea, if you catch my meaning. You should be giving her more than just clerical duties, if you ask me.”

The words had barely left his lips when the clock on the wall burst open with a violent crash. Out tumbled the drunken, naked gnome, his beady eyes blazing with fury. He hiccuped loudly, then launched himself at Slughorn with all the ferocity of a tiny, enraged tornado.

“You disgusting, old swine!” the gnome roared, his tiny fists landing surprisingly hard against Slughorn’s leg. “Think you can talk about a lady like she’s a piece of meat, do ya? You overstuffed bag o’ filth! I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget, you lecherous walrus!”

Slughorn, utterly taken aback, tried to fend off the gnome, but the tiny creature was relentless, climbing up Slughorn’s robes with surprising speed and agility. The gnome’s fists pummeled Slughorn’s belly, his nose, anywhere he could reach, each punch accompanied by a stream of furious invective.

“Ye think ye can just ogle a lady’s arse like it’s yer personal playground, do ya?” the gnome bellowed, his tiny voice filled with righteous indignation. “I’ll knock yer block off, ya filthy, droolin’ pervert! She’s worth a thousand of you, ya bloated sack of bad decisions!”

Slughorn yelped in pain as the gnome managed to land a particularly well-aimed kick to a very sensitive area. “Ow! Get this... this mad creature off me!” he shouted, his voice high-pitched with panic.

But the gnome wasn’t done. “An’ another thing, ye slobberin’ pig! A lady’s body ain’t somethin’ fer yer nasty thoughts! It’s somethin’ sacred, somethin’ to be respected, not gawked at like ye’re starin’ at a slab o’ pork! Ye treat her like a queen - or bet'er, the human and profession'al she's - or I’ll be back to finish the job, ya hear?”

With a final, particularly painful punch to Slughorn’s gut, the gnome let out a victorious hiccup, slid down Slughorn’s robes, and staggered back toward the clock. He turned, glared at Slughorn one last time, and growled, “And don’t ye forget, ye dirty old coot—hic!—if I ever catch ye talkin’ like that again, I’ll turn ye inside out an’ make ye wear yer own liver as a hat!”

With that, the gnome disappeared back into the clock, the door slamming shut behind him with a final, resounding crash.

Slughorn, thoroughly humiliated and in considerable pain, straightened up as best he could, his face a deep shade of red. He avoided Snape’s eyes and Celia’s gaze as she re-entered the room, carrying the tea tray.

“Your tea, Mister Slughorn,” Celia said sweetly, her voice betraying nothing of the chaotic scene she had just witnessed. “I do hope it meets your... expectations.”

Slughorn, still wincing from the gnome’s assault, took the cup with trembling hands, casting a wary glance at the clock before muttering, “Y-yes... thank you, my dear. Quite... quite lovely.”

As Celia leaned forward to place the teapot back on the tray, Snape’s sharp eyes caught something unexpected. The crisp white fabric of her blouse, stretched taut across her back, offered a fleeting glimpse of an enormous tattoo beneath—dark, sweeping wings that began at her shoulders and disappeared under the fabric. But before he could dwell on it, the room was suddenly engulfed in a flash of fire.

With a crackling burst of flames, Albus Dumbledore made his entrance. The flames vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving Dumbledore standing in the center of the room. He was dressed in a sleek linen suit that hugged his tall frame with elegance. He wore an open-collared shirt that look liked he was preparing the casting for the role of the Architect in Matrix.

“Ah, my dear friends!” Dumbledore announced with exaggerated cheer, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming them to a grand feast. “Look at you all, gathered here like a bunch of motherfuckers waiting for the punchline! And who better to deliver it than yours truly?”

Slughorn, who had been halfway to sipping his tea, froze, his eyes wide with shock. His hand hovered just above the cup, trembling slightly. But before he could react further, Dumbledore’s hand shot out like a flash, snatching the cup from Slughorn’s grasp with the precision of a hawk catching its prey. With a single, dramatic gulp, Dumbledore downed the tea, smacked his lips, and set the cup back down with a flourish.

“Ah, nothing like a good cup of tea to wash down the bullshit,” Dumbledore quipped, flashing a grin at the now-deflated Slughorn, who slumped in his seat, too stunned to speak.

Snape watched this display with mounting unease. The tension coiled tighter in his gut. What was Dumbledore planning? And what would it mean for him?

Dumbledore, still grinning like the cat that had swallowed the canary, gestured toward the large, imposing desk that dominated the room. “Shall we?” he asked, his voice light, but carrying an undercurrent of authority that left no room for argument.

“All of us?” Slughorn squeaked, his voice trembling as he glanced nervously between Snape and Celia. His mustache twitched like an anxious caterpillar.

Dumbledore nodded,“Yes, Horace. All of us."

Snape’s stomach churned as they moved toward the desk. Celia followed them, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the tense silence. Once they reached the desk, Dumbledore casually perched on its edge, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He seemed completely at ease, his long fingers drumming idly on the polished wood as he surveyed the two men before him.

“Sit, gentlemen,” he instructed, his tone still light, but with a firmness that left no room for refusal.

Snape swallowed hard, his anxiety ratcheting up another notch. This was the moment he had dreaded. He had faced the Dark Lord, had stood against unspeakable horrors, but the tension in this room—this room with Dumbledore smiling like he knew every secret in the world—was more nerve-wracking than anything Snape had faced before. He lowered himself into the chair, his body stiff with tension, his thoughts racing.

Dumbledore’s gaze shifted from Slughorn to Snape. “Severus,” he began, his voice calm, almost too calm, “we need to have a little chat about your teaching methods.”

Snape’s heart skipped a beat. He knew what was coming, but nothing could prepare him for the verbal onslaught that followed.

“Quite frankly, Severus,” Dumbledore continued, “you’re a fucking disaster in the classroom. You terrorize those poor kids like they’re Death Eaters-in-training. What the hell are you doing, Severus? Holding a goddamn grudge match against eleven-year-olds? For Merlin’s sake, you teach like you’re auditioning for the role of ‘Most Hated Professor in History.’”

Dumbledore’s voice rose, his words cutting into Snape like a serrated knife. “And don’t even get me started on your so-called ‘pedagogy.’ You treat your students like they’re potion ingredients—ready to be diced, sliced, and ground into dust whenever you’re in a bad mood. Do you know what that makes you, Severus? A miserable bastard who’s more likely to brew up a cauldron of resentment than anything remotely educational.”

Snape’s face flushed with a mix of shame and fury. Dumbledore’s words were like a hex, each one designed to strip him down to the bone. He wanted to retort, to defend himself, but the sheer brutality of Dumbledore’s critique left him speechless. The public dressing-down was excruciating, made worse by the presence of Slughorn and Celia, who were both watching.

“And let’s talk about your people skills, shall we?” Dumbledore pressed on, his tone growing even more scathing. “You handle those kids like they’re a bunch of rabid nifflers, and you’re the only thing standing between them and your precious potions cupboard. Newsflash, Severus: fear isn’t a teaching tool—it’s just a way to prove what a bitter, twisted fuck you’ve become.”

He wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor and never have to face another student—or Dumbledore—again. But then, just as Snape thought he couldn’t feel any lower, Dumbledore’s expression softened, the sharpness in his voice giving way to something more understanding, almost kind.

“However,” continued Dumbledore, “there are certain things about you, Severus, that cannot be denied.”

Snape blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected turn. He sat up a little straighter, though the tension still coiled in his stomach.

"You are, without a doubt, one of the finest Potions Masters in the country, perhaps even the continent. Your loyalty, tested time and again, has proven to be unshakable. And your intelligence—your ability to see what others cannot—is a rare gift. But you’re wasting these talents in the classroom, Severus, barking at children who barely grasp the fortune they have in learning from you."

Severus Snape’s pale cheeks flushed an uncomfortable shade of red as Dumbledore’s words hung in the air. Emotionally spent, he felt as if he had been put through a wringer—first berated, now unexpectedly praised by a man who was notorious for his stinginess with compliments. To hear such words from Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards in history, was overwhelming. His mind scrambled to process what was happening, the back-and-forth whiplash leaving him reeling.

“Severus, my dear boy!” Dumbledore declared, his voice booming with excitement. “You, yes you, are getting promoted!”

“What?!” Severus and Horace blurted out simultaneously, their voices a perfect harmony of shock. The unison was so unexpected that it took them both by surprise. Horace quickly turned beet red and stammered out an apology, his walrus mustache quivering with embarrassment.

Dumbledore chuckled, waving off Horace’s apology. “Oh, don’t apologize, Horace! This is a cause for celebration, after all! Now, Severus, Horace, allow me to tantalize your brilliant minds with something new and exhilarating.”

He paused for effect, leaning in conspiratorially. “Are either of you familiar with the concept of universities? Muggle colleges?”

Severus, though still reeling, nodded cautiously. He knew about them, though he had never paid much attention to the details. Horace, on the other hand, looked as though Dumbledore had just asked him to solve a particularly tricky Arithmancy equation. He blinked, clearly out of his depth, and offered a noncommittal shrug.

“Ah, Severus, I knew you’d be up to speed!” Dumbledore exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Well, gentlemen, it just so happens that I’ve been working on something rather extraordinary—a new institution, one that will be linked to Hogwarts but entirely independent. A place where the brightest minds can focus on magical research, free from the constraints of everyday teaching.”

Snape’s eyes widened slightly, his mind racing as Dumbledore’s words began to sink in. Research? Independence?

“And, starting today—or rather, as soon as I make the public announcement—you, Severus, will be the first to hold the prestigious Potions Chair at this new institution!”

For a moment, Severus was certain he had misheard. His breath caught in his throat, and he stared at Dumbledore.Before he could gather his thoughts, Dumbledore, overflowing with enthusiasm, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him with the exuberance of a child showing off a new toy.

“Do you understand, Severus?” Dumbledore beamed, shaking him like a rag doll. “No more dealing with those little dunderheads in first year! You’ll finally have the freedom to focus on your true passion—research! Potions! Discoveries! This is your moment!”

Snape blinked rapidly, trying to process the torrent of information. The sheer absurdity of Dumbledore’s excitement—coupled with the physical shaking—was almost too much to handle. But beneath it all, there was a spark of something that had been buried for a long time: hope.

“Oh, yes, Severus,” Dumbledore continued, releasing him and spinning around to face Horace, who was still gaping like a fish out of water. “You’ll only have to teach the Sixth and Seventh years—the ones who might actually have a chance of understanding your genius. Horace here will take over the younger students, freeing you to dive into the deepest recesses of potion-making! Just think of it, Severus! New potions to discover, PhD students to mentor, conferences to lead! You’ll be the star of the magical academic world! Well, once I actually create a magical academic world! At one condition, of course - you must and see a fucking therapist, Severus. You got problems. Big ones. ”

Horace, still trying to catch up, managed to stammer, “S-s-so I’ll be teaching the younger students? Years One through Five?”

“Precisely, Horace!” Dumbledore said with a hearty slap on the back that nearly knocked the stout man off balance. “You’ll be nurturing the next generation of potion masters, while Severus here becomes the vanguard of magical research! It’s a win-win situation, wouldn’t you agree? And you'll also have access to the facilities of my Institute to make your own research - in Snape's lab! Who will be the P.I.”

Snape, still dazed, could only nod. The weight of Snape's current position began to lift from his shoulder, replaced by a dizzying sense of freedom. No more petty classroom squabbles, no more dealing with clueless students who had no appreciation for his craft—just pure, unadulterated research. It was more than he had ever dared to hope for.

Horace did not nod, but it wasn't like he had the choice. Why was he not the one with the Chair ? Wasn't he the older one ?

"Amazing!", said Dumbledore. "Misplaced jealousy, like in true academia ! It's going so fast".