I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 57

Chapter 57

9th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor, England

The intruder’s cloak rippled like water, dissolving into casual attire as though the air itself willed the transformation: a plain, no-brand t-shirt and jeans that somehow managed to seem more audacious than any formal robe. The figure was startlingly young, their blonde hair catching faint light like a halo. His face was open and boyish, but his expression carried the easy arrogance of someone who knew they’d already won the room. Perched on one eye was a monocle, absurdly jaunty.

He landed softly, the shift from the air to the ground so graceful it seemed like a performance. His gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, amusement curling his lips. “Albus,” the stranger said, spreading his arms theatrically, “is this how you welcome old friends? I’d have thought you would have at least rolled out the red carpet.”

Dumbledore’s expression remained neutral, though his grip on his wand relaxed. Recognition flickered in his piercing blue eyes, followed by something colder—a flash of wariness masked under his usual calm.

“Nicolas,” he said evenly, his voice steady. “You should have knocked. I would have opened the wards.”

Nicolas Flamel spread his arms wide, his grin bright but edged with something sharper. “Knocking is so...pedestrian, don’t you think? Besides, I wanted to test the security of my star pupil. The first two layers were a delightful warm-up. The third, though...well, that was properly vicious.”

Arthur Weasley let out a soft, shaky exhale and slumped back in his chair. The tension drained from his face as he whispered, “Nicolas Flamel.” Around him, the others exchanged wide-eyed glances, their awe palpable.

Nicolas didn’t even glance their way. He dismissed them with a flick of his fingers, his attention entirely on Albus. “Not bad, my boy. Not bad at all. But I do wonder—why didn’t you invite your dear old Master to this soirée? The first major party of Albus Dumbledore, Wizard Extraordinaire, and I’m left off the list? I was crushed.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “You’ve never enjoyed parties, Nicolas. I thought I was sparing you the agony.”

“Ah, but there are parties,” Nicolas said, wagging a finger, “and then there are stuffy political gatherings where everyone drinks too much wine and pretends to like each other. Admittedly, I despise the latter.” His smile widened, his tone dropping into a conspiratorial lilt. “But give me a good nightclub, and I’m the first on the dance floor.”

“Still,” Celia muttered, her voice low and unsure, “the wards…”

Nicolas’s head tilted slightly, the monocle glinting like a second eye. He looked almost bored as he flicked his hand dismissively. “Wards are like puzzles, my dear man. Intricate and often frustrating, but rarely insurmountable. Albus had some lovely surprises tucked away, though. That third layer—if I had activated it, it would have almost given me pause. Almost.”

His gaze shifted back to Dumbledore, and his grin softened into something cooler. “A nasty little trick, that one. Enough to give even me a run for my money. Never attack a wizard in their own tower, eh?”

Dumbledore’s expression darkened by a fraction, his smile flattening into a line. “And yet here you are.”

“Yes,” Nicolas said with a sigh, adjusting his monocle with exaggerated care. “Here I am. Because I had to see for myself how my brightest student was handling things.” His voice dropped, amusement giving way to something quieter and more biting. “I must say, Albus, you’ve exceeded my expectations. Even when I thought I’d set them impossibly high.”

Nicolas adjusted his monocle again, its gleam catching the faint light. His voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Understanding entropy? Dabbling in soul magic? Bioengineering alchemy? And even… ah, yes. That unmistakable hum of destiny. Is this the full aura of the Hallows I feel on you, Albus?”

Dumbledore’s features darkened like gathering storm clouds. His hand flexed slightly, a small gesture, but Moody noticed and stiffened, his grip tightening on his staff-wand even though Nicolas wasn’t addressing him. Arthur and Bill exchanged confused glances, while Celia frowned, clearly trying to parse the conversation. Andromeda, however, gasped audibly, her gaze darting between Nicolas and Albus as though she had just stumbled upon a forbidden secret.

“Wait,” Andromeda breathed, horror dawning on her face. “Was… was Adrastia shackled by—?”

Albus snapped his fingers, and in an instant, the others vanished in a swirl of blue flames, their surprised exclamations cutting off mid-sentence. The room fell silent, the lingering warmth of the vanished guests dissipating into the cold tension between the two men.

Albus faced Nicolas, his expression a study in grim resolve. His voice, when he spoke, was razor-sharp. “There is no need to involve them.”

“True, the adults should talk together…though, you are merely a teenager.” Nicolas said with a shrug, already strolling toward the nearest armchair as if he owned the room. With an absent wave of his hand, Albus’s whisky decanter floated toward him, pouring itself neatly into the glass he conjured. He took a sip, his eyes twinkling with an unsettling mixture of amusement and scrutiny.

Albus didn’t move. He watched Nicolas lower himself onto the plush armchair, sprawling with a casual arrogance that made the space seem smaller. “You’ve become quite the showman, Albus,” Nicolas remarked, swirling the whisky. “Never did I imagine that my young ‘For the Greater Good’ pupil would show such… adaptability.”

Dumbledore’s jaw tightened, his mind racing through the implications of Nicolas’s presence and his unnerving knowledge. His former mentor's probing gaze made him feel as though every secret he’d ever held was teetering on the edge of exposure.

Nicolas leaned back, draping one arm over the chair’s edge. “You always had the potential, of course. A prodigy among men, the envy of the age. But now…” His eyes narrowed, glinting like coins in the dark. “Now, you’ve surpassed even my wildest expectations. Bravo.”

Albus shivered—just for a moment—but quickly buried it beneath a calm mask.

Dumbledore didn’t move from his seat, lounging back as though this was the most mundane interaction of his day. His celestial bathrobe shimmered faintly, the constellations embroidered in silver thread seeming to shift with his smallest movement. He swirled the whisky in his glass with the air of a man entirely in control, though his sharp blue eyes bore into Nicolas with unrelenting intensity.

He was Albus Fucking Dumbledore, after all.

“Why are you here, Nicolas?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with warning.

Flamel smiled as he adjusted his monocle, his movements slow, almost theatrical.

“Checking on you,” Nicolas said with a casual shrug. “A mentor’s prerogative, don’t you think? Though…” He leaned forward slightly, his smile sharpening. “There are secondary matters.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow but said nothing, choosing instead to take a leisurely sip of his whisky. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension, until the flames in the hearth suddenly roared to life. The fire shot up violently, licking at the ceiling before settling back into its usual dance.

Nicolas’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Since you uncovered the truth behind the Philosopher’s Stone—a convenient fiction, wouldn’t you agree? Just a tale to keep prying minds away from the real source of my immortality—well, you understand my concern. I simply want to ensure you don’t… babble around.”

Albus’s expression didn’t waver. He swirled the whisky in his glass, the motion deliberate. “I’ve found,” he said slowly, “that babbling is rarely useful.”

Nicolas chuckled, a sound as sharp as glass breaking. “Good, good. Then we can rest easy on that account. And, of course, you can keep the false stone. I imagine it proved quite handy in your little breakthrough. Groundbreaking work, truly—though not the first of its kind. And if I recall correctly, it made for excellent bait for that little playmate of yours… what was his name? Ah, yes. Tom Riddle.”

Dumbledore chuckled softly, though the sound carried no warmth. “Tom Riddle is a temporary distraction. Hardly worth being called a project, much less a playmate.”

Flamel’s monocle gleamed as he leaned back, his smile never faltering. “Always so dismissive, Albus. But that’s why you’ve always been my favorite. You never let the small things get in the way of the bigger picture. Of the Greater Good.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond, instead swirling his glass lazily. The silence stretched again, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire.

“And then there’s the second matter,” Nicolas continued, his tone light but his words heavy. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered you, my dear pupil, had gathered all three Hallows. Quite the feat. Though you’ve been rather… cautious, haven’t you? Keeping them separate, never letting more than two share the same space. Afraid of what they might do?”

“Caution is a virtue,” Dumbledore said smoothly, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

“Virtue, or fear?” Nicolas countered, leaning forward again. “Have you ever brought them together? Even once? Just to see?”

The tension in the room thickened, the air growing heavier with each passing moment.

“If they’re too much for you,” Nicolas added, his smile turning wolfish, “you could always lend them to your old mentor. I’m sure I could find some… interesting uses for them.”

The silence that followed was shattered by an explosion of energy. Dumbledore’s magic erupted in a cascade of crimson light, filling the room with a heat so intense the walls groaned in protest. Across from him, Flamel’s magic unfurled in a sickly green mist that seemed to sap the very air from the room. Where the two forces met, the collision created an electric storm, arcs of lightning crackling through the space and scorching the furniture.

The glass in the windows shattered, shards suspended mid-air as the raw power of their magic twisted reality itself. The air between them became a battlefield, the red and green energies writhing and snapping like living creatures locked in combat. The very floor beneath them trembled, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone.

Flamel laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally in the charged air. “You’ve changed, Albus. Almost as if…”

He trailed off, his smile widening as if daring Dumbledore to respond. The crimson light surrounding Dumbledore flared brighter, and for a moment, it seemed as though the room itself might collapse under the weight of their power.

Dumbledore rose slowly, his presence towering even in his bathrobe. “If you came here to test me, Nicolas,” he said, his voice steady and cold, “you have your answer.”

Flamel rose with an unsettling grace, brushing off the tension like it was an inconvenient speck of dust. “This isn’t a test, Albus,” he said, his voice soft but cutting. “It’s an observation. And I must say, the results… intriguing. You’ve grown into your potential, just as I suspected. But then again,” he paused, adjusting his monocle with an almost theatrical flair, “you’ve always been too curious for your own good.”

Dumbledore said nothing, his gaze steady and unreadable. The tension between them crackled like static, unspoken challenges hanging in the air.

“I’ll leave you to your Hallows,” Nicolas continued, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. “But remember this—curiosity always leads to mistakes. And when you falter, as you inevitably will, be sure to leave them to me.” His voice dropped into a near-whisper, laden with chilling amusement. “Ne m'oublie pas dans ton testament.”

Dumbledore’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his tone remained even. “Your concern is noted, Nicolas.”

Flamel chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. “Oh, and one last thing,” he said, producing a neatly wrapped bundle seemingly out of nowhere. He tossed it to Dumbledore, who caught it with a raised brow.

“Cookies,” Nicolas said lightly, though his smile never reached his eyes. “From Perenelle. She thought you might enjoy a taste of something sweet before your next catastrophe.”

Before Albus could respond, Flamel waved his hand lazily, green smoke swirling around him like living mist. His voice echoed through the room as he vanished into the fog. “Try not to bore me, Albus.”

And then he was gone.

Dumbledore unwrapped the bundle in his hands, revealing warm cookies. He raised an eyebrow, muttered, “Well, when life gives you biscuits…” and promptly dunked one into his whisky. Taking a thoughtful bite, he chewed slowly, nodded to himself, and poured another glass, muttering, “Perenelle really does outdo herself. Pairs surprisingly well with a good single malt.”