I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 55

Chapter 55

9th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor, England

Adrastia Zabini’s composure wavered as her dark eyes darted around the room, seeking refuge from invisible eyes that weren’t watching. She pressed her lips together tightly, a bead of sweat glistening along her temple. When she finally spoke, her voice was a strained imitation of its usual seductive confidence. “You… you can’t mean to…”

Dumbledore chuckled softly, the sound almost paternal yet layered with something far more knowing. His sharp blue eyes locked onto her, and the faint smile curling his lips did nothing to soften the overwhelming presence he exuded. “Do not be afraid, Madam Zabini,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. “In my house, only what I wish others to hear can be heard. Rest assured, only my faithful clients Andromeda and Young Nymphadora are privy to this conversation.”

Adrastia stiffened, her head snapping toward Andromeda and Tonks, who had approached cautiously. Tonks’s expression was a mixture of unease and fascination, while Andromeda’s was composed yet watchful, her every movement deferential to Dumbledore.

“You…” Adrastia began, her voice faltering before she forced a brittle smirk onto her face. “You presume much, Warlock Dumbledore.”

“Interesting,” Dumbledore murmured, his gaze unwavering, the faint amusement in his tone unshaken. “Fascinating, even.”

Andromeda inclined her head slightly, her voice careful, reverent. “Warlock Dumbledore,” she said softly, “what is it you see?”

Dumbledore turned toward her, his posture as steady and unyielding as a monument. His gaze flicked briefly to her, and something almost kind passed over his expression before his attention shifted back to Adrastia. “A Mark,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority, “not unlike the Dark Mark.”

Andromeda froze, her hand twitching slightly as though resisting the urge to touch her back. Her breath caught, but she remained silent, her eyes searching Dumbledore’s face for more.

Dumbledore didn’t make her wait long, though his tone was almost dismissive as he turned back to Tonks and Andromeda, addressing them as if Adrastia wasn’t even there. “But… less permissive,” he continued, his voice calm and unhurried. He glanced at Andromeda briefly, his words weighted with unspoken meaning. “A Soul Shackle. And a particularly interesting one at that. Very much improved. Far more subtle than the Egyptian prototypes created under Pharaoh Settra—delicate, refined, and insidious.”

Adrastia paled further, her hands tightening at her sides. She gulped, visibly shaken now, though she fought to maintain some semblance of control. “You… you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered, though the words rang hollow.

Dumbledore’s piercing gaze landed on her again, his faint smile utterly disarming and implacably sharp. “Madam Zabini,” he said, his voice soft but carrying an unspoken weight that crushed her protest before it could rise further, “I do not speculate when it comes to matters of the soul.”

Adrastia’s confident veneer crumbled further, and she took a half-step back, her once-commanding presence reduced to something defensive and cornered. Andromeda, standing at Dumbledore’s side, remained silent, though her eyes flicked between him and Adrastia, her expression unreadable but for the tightness in her jaw.

Tonks broke the silence first, her voice hesitant but firm. “A Soul Shackle?” she asked, her brows furrowed. “What does that even mean?”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Adrastia Zabini for a moment longer, his sharp blue eyes brimming with unspoken knowledge. His voice, steady and rich, carried the weight of his revelation. “It means,” he said, “that Madam Zabini’s life, her choices, perhaps even her very thoughts—though I doubt it—are not entirely her own.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Nymphadora shifted on her heels, her brows shooting up in unison. Andromeda’s calm demeanor faltered ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face.

Adrastia Zabini felt it before she understood it—a sudden, invisible pressure that latched onto her very core. Her breath caught in her throat as if the air itself had turned treacherous. For a split second, her usual poise shattered, and her hand instinctively flew to her chest, clutching at her perfectly tailored gown as though it could shield her. The sensation was foreign, intimate, violating—yet oddly clinical. It was as if a powerful hand, unseen and utterly unstoppable, had reached through the layers of her defenses to touch something deeper. Her very soul. Her mind reeled, unused to such vulnerability. Adrastia Zabini, the infamous Black Widow, was rarely caught off guard, but this was no ordinary party trick.

This was Albus Fucking Dumbledore.

Dumbledore’s eyes glimmered, sharp and knowing, as he observed her reaction. His expression remained cordial, but there was a distinct weight to his gaze—like a craftsman examining an artifact of peculiar design. He tilted his head slightly, an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment at what he had seen. Whatever that was, it clearly unsettled Adrastia more than she cared to admit.

Her breathing hitched as she forced herself to stand straighter, willing her composure to return. She glanced around the immediate vicinity, almost paranoid, as if anyone else might have noticed her moment of weakness. But no one seemed to be reacting.

And then, with an abrupt clap of his hands, Dumbledore shattered the tension as effortlessly as a wizard swatting away a mosquito. He chuckled softly, the sound drawing her attention back to him like a siren’s call.

“Well,” he said with a bright, almost whimsical smile. “No big deal.”

“No big deal?” Nymphadora mouthed in silent disbelief, glancing at her mother, whose expression suggested she too was grappling with the audacity of his dismissal.

But Dumbledore had already shifted his attention. His gaze fell on Nymphadora, sweeping from her polished shoes to the carefully arranged locks of her hair, which shimmered faintly under the magical lights. His lips curled into a playful smile. “Ah, Nymphadora,” he began, his tone warm and amused, “you’ve truly outdone yourself tonight. Positively radiant. Not your usual I-just-wrestled-Alastor style. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume someone slipped a Veela into the guest list.”

The blush that erupted across Nymphadora’s face was almost violent in its intensity. “I—uh—thank you, Warlock Dumbledore,” she stammered, her voice wobbling like a first-year's levitation spell gone wrong.

Dumbledore leaned in ever so slightly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And might I add,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound like a confession, “you’re almost as breathtaking as your mother.”

Nymphadora made a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, her hands gripping the sides of her gown as though to ground herself. Andromeda, meanwhile, froze. The words hit her with all the subtlety of a well-aimed Stunning Spell. Her poised expression cracked, and a faint but unmistakable flush crept up her neck.

“Warlock Dumbledore,” Andromeda said at last, her voice steady but noticeably softer, “you’re far too kind.”

“Kind?” Dumbledore exclaimed with a booming laugh. “Madam, I am but a humble observer of the truth. And I assure you, the truth is always a delight when it looks like this.”

Nymphadora stared at her shoes, her face aflame, while Andromeda fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite her effort to appear composed.

Dumbledore’s laugh erupted like a cannon shot, filling the room with its sheer volume and unapologetic joy. Heads turned, curious and intrigued, as the Chief Warlock straightened and fixed Adrastia Zabini with a look that radiated effortless authority and a touch of mischief.

“Madam Zabini,” he began, his voice rolling with the kind of confidence that turned skepticism into admiration, “soul shackles are no mere party trick. They are chosen—freely and willingly—binding oaths that reshape destinies.”

Adrastia’s lips tightened, a flicker of unease crossing her perfect face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut her off with the tiniest lift of his hand. It wasn’t dismissive—it was commanding.

“But worry not,” he continued, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m not here to meddle in your choices. Free will is sacred, after all. Still…” He leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial. “If you ever tire of the chains—or merely wish to understand them better—my door is always open.”

Adrastia blinked, her composure slipping for just a moment, and in that brief window, she looked uncharacteristically… rattled.

Celia appeared then, her timing so impeccable it felt rehearsed. She held out a sleek silver card, her expression neutral yet unyielding. “For your convenience, Madam Zabini,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut through the tension.

Adrastia took the card with fingers that trembled almost imperceptibly. Celia, as always, remained inscrutable, her job done as she disappeared back into the shadows of the crowd.

Dumbledore stretched, his movements unhurried, as though the weight of the room’s attention amused him more than anything else. His tailored robes shifted just enough to hint at the wiry strength beneath, a reminder that the Chief Warlock wasn’t merely a man of books and theories.

“Well then,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost teasing, “I do believe I’ve had my fill of nobles muttering pleasantries and sipping champagne they barely tolerate. Time for some real entertainment.”

With a flick of his wrist, the spell that had cloaked their conversation from the prying ears of the room dissolved like morning mist. The murmurs returned immediately, sharper and more speculative than before. The crowd was practically vibrating with curiosity—what could the Chief Warlock have said to the Black Widow that left her looking so shaken?

Dumbledore turned to face the room, his arms spreading wide as if embracing the entire gathering. His blue eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and mischief, his grin as sharp as it was inviting.

“Dear Guests!” he boomed, his voice rich with warmth and command.

— — —

Ginny Weasley stood by the dessert table, nibbling on a pastry and trying to ignore the sheer absurdity of her presence here. Her father was chatting animatedly with some Ministry bigwig, Bill was still recovering, and her mother had stayed behind at Hogwarts, leaving Ginny to navigate this bizarre world of glittering robes and over-polished wizards. She was almost bored out of her mind.

Almost.

Because across the room stood him. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. He was deep in conversation with a dark-skinned boy wearing expensive robes, and though Ginny could barely hear their exchange over the hum of the party, she was entranced. Not that she would approach him—no, of course not. That would be mortifying. Instead, she resorted to sneaking furtive glances, trying to appear casual while her heart hammered in her chest.

She reached for another pastry to steady her nerves. It was a strange texture—rubbery, almost fleshy. Ginny frowned and looked down.

The pastry twitched.

Her stomach dropped as the pastry erupted in a spray of crumbs and frosting. A monstrous figure unfolded from the platter like a shadow given form. His crimson coat swept to the ground, leather straps and silver buckles gleaming under the floating lanterns. His magical eye spun wildly, scanning the room while his regular eye fixed on Ginny with unnerving precision. A bandolier of gleaming vials crossed his chest, and his dragonbone cane thudded against the floor as he straightened. His aura felt like being caught under a thunderstorm—volatile and suffocating.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roared, his voice like the grind of two boulders colliding.

Ginny stumbled back, knocking over a plate of éclairs that vanished in midair before hitting the ground. The man loomed over her, his glowing blue eye swiveling wildly. His scarred face twisted into something that might have been a smirk, but looked more like a grimace of someone considering whether or not to hex you for fun.

“Are you stalking someone, little girl?” he growled, his voice low and gravelly. “What’s with all the sneaky looks at the Boy Who Lived, eh?”

Ginny’s face went as red as her hair. “I—I wasn’t! I mean, I was just—”

He leaned closer, his mismatched eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to me, girl. You’ve been staring at Potter like a kneazle watching a bowl of cream. What’s your angle?”

Ginny opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her mind screamed in mortification. Someone saw her! And not just anyone—a walking nightmare wrapped in leather and scars.

But then, to her utter disbelief, the man’s grimace softened into something resembling approval. “Not bad,” he muttered. “Kept your distance. Didn’t giggle or swoon—much. You’ve got potential.”

Ginny blinked, utterly baffled. “W-what?”

He straightened, looming like a stormcloud. “Could use some polish, though,” he mused, almost to himself. “Your lingering was sloppy. Didn’t time your glances properly. And you left crumbs on the table—rookie mistake.”

“Crumbs?” Ginny repeated, completely lost.

“Target awareness, girl! You’re lucky Potter’s about as perceptive as a troll in a library. Anyone sharper would’ve spotted you a mile away.”

Ginny’s cheeks burned, but before she could stammer a response, the man’s expression turned deadly serious. He jabbed a gnarled finger at her. “You ever considered espionage? Covert operations? Working in the shadows for the glory of the God-Emperor Warlock Dumbledore?”

“I—what?” Ginny blinked rapidly. “Espionage?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped. “The Weasley family’s got untapped potential. Strategic assets. You could be more than just some freckled tagalong. Think about it: a silent operative, underestimated by everyone. A Weasley sleeper agent.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. A spark of excitement ignited in her chest. Not just a girl stuck at home, watching her brothers get all the glory? An actual operative? Her hands tightened into fists. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as a Dementor in a blizzard,” he said, his glowing eye whirling omin—er, ominously but in a legal sense not breaking the rule. “Think about it. Spies. Codes. Missions. Glory. Cake.” He leaned closer, his scarred lips curling into a smile so unnerving it might haunt her dreams. “You could be the shadow in the room no one sees coming. The Weasley dagger in the night.”

Ginny’s heart raced. This was insane. Completely bonkers. But also... thrilling. “I’ll do it!” she blurted. “I’ll join!”

His grin widened, revealing teeth that looked as though they’d been sharpened by years of combat. He extended a hand. “Welcome to the game, girl.”

Ginny shook his hand, her grip firm despite the trembling in her legs. “What’s next?”

“Training,” he said, his voice heavy with promise. “You’ll learn stealth, deception, and the art of survival. And I’ll personally oversee it.”

Ginny shivered, excitement mingling with dread. “Who are you?”

He straightened, his crimson coat sweeping dramatically as he tilted his military-style hat. “Master Commissar Alastor Moody,” he declared, his voice booming across the dessert table. “Some of my recruits call me 'Aaaaah, please, what are you doing in my bed?!'. But you can call me ‘Sir.’, Apprentice Inquisitor Weasley.”

Ginny felt a thrill of terror run down her spine.