I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 54

Chapter 54

9th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor, England

Nymphadora turned back to Harry, tousling his perpetually messy hair. “Alright, kiddos, have fun and pay attention. No picking fights with guests. Or the hors d'oeuvres.”

Harry’s face fell slightly. “Wait—you’re leaving us, big sis? Just like that?” His voice carried the faint edge of someone not entirely comfortable in social situations or being left to navigate an aristocratic minefield alone.

Tonks groaned, rubbing her temples as if summoning patience from some hidden well. “Harry,” she said, crouching slightly to his level and gesturing around, “do you see this place? Guards everywhere—dressed like Moody, which is terrifying and comforting in equal measure.” She pointed toward the sleek turrets glimmering atop the mansion. “Military-grade defenses that I still have to ask Moody or Mum about. And those shiny floating metal orbs? They’d probably zap a Death Eater before they even got past the garden gnomes. If there’s one place in the entire wizarding world where you’re safer than a goblin in Gringotts, it’s here. Got it?”

Harry squinted at a passing orb that gave a faint hum and swivel, as if scanning him. “Fair point,” he muttered, though his tone suggested he still wasn’t thrilled.

“Good,” Tonks said, straightening up and smoothing her gown, which immediately made her miss her Auror trousers. “You’ve got this, Harry. I’m off to do… Auror things.”

With a wink, she turned on her heel and took off, her stride confident—until she realized she was in high heels and nearly toppled over into an elderly wizard carrying a champagne flute.

“Sorry!” she called, steadying herself and slowing down. She reminded herself to act like a proper Black heir, not an Auror on a chase. Her mother’s reintroduction to society meant all eyes were on her, and one misstep—literal or social—would ripple through the room faster than Rita Skeeter could scribble it down.

Right, she thought, adjusting her posture, head high, back straight. Glamorous, dignified, elegant. Just like Celia said. Not a clumsy punk chasing leads.

The Grand Hall loomed ahead, golden light spilling out like a beacon. She crossed the threshold just in time to catch sight of Adrastia Zabini, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire, gliding across the marble floor toward Andromeda and Warlock Dumbledore.

Adrastia Zabini didn’t just enter the Grand Hall—she claimed it. Her crimson gown, a masterpiece of scandal, plunged low enough to leave nothing to the imagination, while the high slit bared a leg that could have launched a thousand blushes. Her smooth, dark skin gleamed under the enchanted chandeliers, and the delicate gold chain lying across her collarbones pointed the eye unapologetically downward. She walked with the sway of someone who knew exactly where all eyes were—and loved it. Her full lips, painted in a sinful red, curved into a smile that promised sinful delights to anyone foolish enough to think they could handle her.

Even from the edge of the room, Nymphadora Tonks could feel Adrastia’s power, and it made her stomach twist as her eyes darted to Dumbledore. The Warlock, always calm and enigmatic, stood like a beacon of composed masculinity. His midnight-blue suit, tailored to perfection, framed his lean, broad-shouldered build, while his square jaw lent him an understated strength. But it was his eyes—those unnervingly sharp blue eyes—that caught Tonks off guard. He wasn’t just watching Adrastia; he was appreciating her.

The knot in Tonks’s chest tightened. Jealousy? Over Dumbledore? She tried to laugh it off, but her gaze betrayed her, flicking between him and Adrastia. And then there was her mother.

Andromeda stood poised beside Dumbledore, radiating a grace that was almost maddening. Her emerald gown hugged her waist and hips, framing the fullness of her backside in a way that made Tonks marvel—and wince—that this was her mother. The neckline dipped just enough to showcase her ample chest without straying into territory Adrastia had colonized. But as regal as Andromeda looked, Tonks caught it: the flicker of something raw and unguarded in her eyes. Sadness. Resignation. Jealousy. Mum has a thing for Dumbledore? The realization hit Tonks like a slap. Of course she does. And now she has to stand here while he ogles Adrastia freaking Zabini.

Before Tonks could spiral further, Adrastia reached them. The crowd stilled, the air thick with anticipation as the infamous beauty closed the distance to Dumbledore and Andromeda.

“Warlock Dumbledore,” Adrastia purred, her voice as soft and rich as melted chocolate. She dipped into a bow so low it bordered on obscene, her chest spilling forward as if gravity itself had been recruited for her performance. As she straightened, she ran a hand down her side, her nails lightly grazing the fabric of her gown, drawing even more attention to her hips. “Finally, we meet. I’ve dreamed of this moment—literally dreamed.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was steady, his lips curling into the faintest smile. “Madam Zabini,” he replied, his voice smooth and rich. “I’m sure the reality pales in comparison to your dreams.”

Adrastia’s smile widened, her lashes lowering as she tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “You’re living up to my fantasies rather spectacularly so far.”

Tonks’s fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tightening as she resisted the urge to gag audibly. A quick glance at her mother confirmed the worst—Andromeda’s smile was frozen, her fingers gripping the stem of her glass a little too tightly.

And then Dumbledore spoke again, his voice carrying across the room like a quiet spell. “Interesting.”

Adrastia’s lips parted slightly, her expression sharpening into something predatory. “Interesting?” she echoed, her voice almost a purr. “Careful, Warlock. Flattery like that might go to my head—or somewhere else.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed, the faint amusement in them hardening into something sharper. “Not you,” he said, his tone so calm it was almost cutting. His gaze dipped slightly, settling somewhere near her chest. “I meant... those Soul Shackles.”

The room froze. Adrastia’s confident smile faltered, her dark skin paling in a way that no amount of artifice could hide. The once-unshakable Black Widow of the wizarding world looked rattled, her perfectly crafted mask cracking under the weight of Dumbledore’s words.

-)—-

Harry was halfway through demolishing a miniature beef Wellington when the sound of loud, theatrical laughter drifted through the garden. He turned to Blaise, who was savoring a smoked salmon tartlet with all the nonchalance of someone born to eat delicacies. “What the hell is that?” Harry asked, gesturing toward the source of the commotion.

Blaise followed Harry’s gaze and nearly choked on his bite. “Oh oh. It’s… it’s Romuald.”

Harry squinted through the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. There, perched on a gilded stool like some kind of fashionably inebriated monarch, was Romuald, the Sorting Beret. Surrounding him were four witches in dresses so scandalous they might as well have been held together with wishes and charms.

The redhead, her gown clinging in ways that defied physics, leaned close, brushing her voluminous hair back to reveal a neck bedecked in glittering jewels. She giggled, hanging on Romuald’s every word as he regaled them with a story so absurd it could only have been fabricated.

“And so there I was,” Romuald proclaimed, his googly eyes wobbling dramatically. “Stranded on a deserted island after single-handedly redirecting a tsunami. My only companions? A sentient coconut named Charles and an angsty kraken who had recently been dumped by his sea serpent girlfriend.”

“Oh no!” gasped a silver-haired witch in a translucent gown that shimmered with every movement. She pressed her hands to her chest, where an audaciously plunging neckline threatened to reveal more than her sympathy. “How ever did you survive?”

Romuald tilted slightly, as though gesturing with a non-existent limb. “Survival? Ha! I didn’t just survive. I thrived. I taught Charles the art of interpretive dance and helped the kraken work through his heartbreak with guided meditations.”

Harry blinked. “Guided meditations? The beret?”

Blaise snorted, finishing his tartlet. “He’s lying through his nonexistent teeth, but it’s so ridiculous I almost want to believe him.”

The blonde witch, her barely-there gown held together by a network of enchanted straps, leaned forward so far her goblet of mead nearly toppled over. “You’re incredible, Romuald,” she breathed. “What happened next?”

“Well,” Romuald continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “the kraken decided to repay me by crafting a raft from his own shed tentacles, and Charles insisted on staying behind to start a coconut commune. I named the raft ‘Freedom’ and sailed straight into the Bermuda Triangle, where I discovered a colony of Veela pirates.”

The brunette witch gasped, her emerald-green eyes wide with fascination. Her dress, a silken slip that looked more appropriate for a boudoir than a high-society gathering, rippled as she fanned herself with her hand. “Veela pirates? How did you escape?”

Romuald let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Escape? My dear, they wouldn’t let me leave! They insisted I become their king. I had to sneak away under the cover of night using a spell I invented myself—‘Wingardium Flotilla.’”

Harry set down his goblet, his lips twitching as he tried not to laugh. “Wingardium Flotilla? That’s not even real.”

“Real doesn’t matter when you’re a beret. Witches clearly don’t care about logic.”

Romuald continued without pause. “And do you know how I snuck past the Veela guards? By singing a lullaby in perfect pitch. To this day, they speak of me as ‘Romuald the Melody of Midnight.’”

The witches oohed and aahed, their admiration practically shimmering in the air. The redhead placed a reverent hand over her heart. “You’re a hero, Romuald.”

“I know,” he said simply, his googly eyes wobbling smugly. “But enough about my exploits. What about you, ladies? Surely, you’ve heard tales of me during your adventures?”

The silver-haired witch giggled, brushing her fingers along his brim. “We’ve heard the whispers, of course. But meeting you in person? It’s beyond our wildest dreams.”

“I can’t decide if this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen or the most inspiring.”

“Both,” Harry muttered, biting into a miniature quiche. “Definitely both.”

The beret, emboldened by his captivated audience, launched into another tale. “And then, during my tenure as the Magical Envoy to Atlantis, I single-handedly negotiated a peace treaty between the merfolk and the hippocampi. Do you know how I did it?”

“How?” the witches chorused.

Romuald paused for effect. “With interpretive mime.”

Even Harry couldn’t contain his laughter this time, nearly choking on his quiche. “Interpretive mime? For underwater creatures?”

Blaise leaned back in his chair, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “The man—uh, beret—has no shame.”

The brunette witch, apparently unfazed by the absurdity, sighed dreamily. “You’re so cultured, Romuald.”

“I contain multitudes,” he replied, wobbling his googly eyes dramatically. “But alas, my adventures have left me parched. Would one of you lovely ladies be so kind as to fetch me a drink?”

The blonde practically tripped over her gown in her haste to oblige, leaving the others to coo over Romuald as he launched into yet another fabricated escapade involving dueling dragons and enchanted ballroom dancing.

Harry shook his head, popping another tartlet into his mouth. “You know what? Let him have this. He’s living his best life.”