I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 59

Chapter 59

14th of September 1991

SPIRE Tower, England

Andromeda Black sat with her legs crossed, her midnight-blue robes cascading elegantly to one side. Her stiletto heel tapped faintly against the polished floor, a barely perceptible rhythm that betrayed her restlessness. Her sharp, stormy eyes flicked to the delicate watch encircling her wrist, a gift from her late husband, its face inscribed with runic symbols that glowed faintly. What was he doing? she wondered, her lips pressing into a thin line.

The ceremony had started two and a half hours ago, a meticulously planned event meant to dazzle and inspire. At first, it had done just that. The room had been alive with anticipation, the introductions had drawn enthusiastic applause, and the speeches from the newly appointed Chairs had begun with vigor. But Andromeda, experienced in both politics and persuasion, should have foreseen what came next: the descent into academic indulgence.

Academics, she thought dryly, adjusting her posture slightly to avoid a cramp. Brilliant at research, abysmal at marketing.

Each Chair had taken the stage to outline their plans for their respective departments, their visions ambitious but their explanations bloated with jargon and endless detail. While the audience had started off captivated, the energy in the room had shifted. Eyes grew glassy, some gazes began to wander, and even the most dedicated listeners fidgeted in their seats.

Andromeda’s own focus waned as the ghost of Michel Foucault, Holder of the Chair of History of Magical Institutions, launched into what could only be described as a labyrinthine analysis of magical power dynamics. His voice was rich and sonorous, yet his words seemed to dissolve into the air without landing anywhere comprehensible.

“…the institution as a site of enchanted hegemony, where spellcraft is both an apparatus of control and a means of reifying the liminality of magical praxis,” he intoned, his tone as ponderous as the argument was convoluted.

Andromeda raised a delicate eyebrow, glancing sidelong at a nearby professor who was nodding in exaggerated agreement. Do they actually understand, or are they pretending? she mused, her lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.

She turned her attention back to Foucault, maintaining an air of polite attentiveness even as her mind wandered to the practicality of spellwork being "liminally reified." Whatever that meant.

When he finally concluded, there was a long pause before the room remembered itself. The applause that followed was polite but hesitant, the sound of people clapping more out of obligation than enthusiasm.

But the hesitant applause was suddenly obliterated by the deafening crack of lightning that split the air, as the hall shaking with a ferocious echo. Every head snapped toward the source of the noise as the entire wall of bookshelves lining the room shuddered violently, volumes tumbling free in a chaotic cascade.

The books didn’t fall to the ground. Instead, they rose, spinning into a vortex that roared upward, glowing with an eerie golden light as if the very magic of the library had come alive. The cyclone twisted faster and faster until, with a flash of dazzling blue light, a man stepped out from its heart.

Albus Fucking Dumbledore.

He didn’t stroll—he emerged like a storm given human form, power radiating off him with every step. His midnight-blue suit hugged his muscular frame, his broad shoulders and strong chest exuding the kind of confidence that needed no announcement. His cape, lined with silver that shimmered faintly with every movement, billowed behind him as if it answered to him alone. His piercing blue eyes scanned the room, locking every gaze in place, and the faint smirk on his lips was as infuriating as it was irresistible.

With a casual flick of his wrist, the whirlwind of books slowed, each tome returning to its place on the shelves—except two. The first, a small, leather-bound volume titled How to Make an Entrance, floated gently through the air and landed neatly in Arthur Weasley’s lap. Arthur blinked, turning the book over in his hands, his face filled with the confused expression of a man utterly out of his depth. “Er... very practical,” he muttered.

The second book, however, drew every eye.

It spun dramatically through the air, as if savoring its moment, before descending directly into Andromeda Black’s lap. She looked down, her composed expression faltering as her jaw slackened. The cover—enchanted to shimmer in a deeply distracting, almost scandalous way—depicted Albus Dumbledore himself. But this wasn’t the stoic Headmaster most people knew.

This Dumbledore was shirtless, his chiseled abs gleaming as though kissed by divine light, his silver hair slightly tousled in a way that seemed... intentional. His arms, wrapped in glowing ropes of enchanted crimson, were flexed, holding a whip of golden threads that radiated raw power. His winking face—smirking, charming, maddeningly confident—was the final blow to Andromeda’s composure. Above the image, the title shimmered in embossed silver: Master of the Magical Ropes

Her face erupted into a deep, unmistakable crimson. Andromeda’s cool exterior shattered as she slammed the book shut so fast that the sound echoed faintly in the still air. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest, and she dared to glance up.

Dumbledore was already looking at her.

His piercing blue gaze met hers, and his smirk deepened into an outright grin. Then he winked—slow, deliberate, and devastatingly self-assured. The man didn’t just own the room; he owned the very air she was struggling to breathe.

Andromeda’s hand tightened around the book, trying desperately to maintain some composure, but the flush creeping down her neck betrayed her. She shifted in her seat, lips pressing into a thin line, but nothing could stop the sheer heat coursing through her face. "He planned this, she thought furiously, he absolutely planned this".

While all the diplomats were totally flabbergasted, the students erupted into cheers and laughter, the audience’s earlier weariness obliterated by Dumbledore’s unapologetic display. He strode to the podium. When he reached the lectern, he leaned forward, placing his strong hands on either side, his smirk still lingering. The audience quieted, hanging on his every breath.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dumbledore began, his voice resonating with warmth and authority, "I apologize for my tardiness. I was... caught up in a good book. But now," he continued, his tone shifting to one of earnest intent, "let us turn a new page together."

The room erupted once more, and Dumbledore simply stood there, soaking it in. He didn’t need to ask for their attention—he had claimed it the moment he arrived.

Andromeda, meanwhile, was busy shoving the book under her chair, her face still red-hot as she tried—and failed—to suppress the small, flustered smile tugging at her lips. Maybe…maybe she could keep the book ?

— — —

15th of September 1991

SPIRE Tower, England

Jessica Harper was sweating like a first-year about to face her first duel with Snape. She hadn’t even stepped into the office yet, but her palms were clammy, her parchment was crumpled into something resembling an abstract art piece, and her brain was cycling through all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong. The plan for her life had been simple: leave Hogwarts, get a boring-but-secure Ministry job, and maybe adopt a cat. What she had not planned for was standing in front of Albus Fucking Dumbledore’s office on the first day of her PhD, about to pitch a thesis she barely understood.

He’s just a man, she told herself, which was a lie, and she knew it. He’s just a… really old… powerful… terrifyingly brilliant man. Who’s seen more wars than you’ve seen library fines. Oh God, I’m going to die.

Her legs wobbled as she stared at the massive doors of Warlock Dumbledore at the SPIRE. The runes on them pulsed faintly, as if even they knew she was an academic imposter. Jessica had spent all night rehearsing what she’d say, but now, with the moment at hand, her carefully prepared lines seemed about as useful as a chocolate cauldron.

Why couldn’t she have gone first? Or last? There were sixty-seven students in her cohort—why did she have to be the first sacrificial lamb?

In. Out. You’re just pitching a thesis. To Albus Dumbledore. No big deal. She adjusted her robes for the hundredth time, trying to push down the sheer absurdity of her situation Jessica shifted on her feet, crumpling her parchment.

The door swung open suddenly with a triumphant whoosh! Jessica jumped so violently she nearly dropped her parchment. She shuffled forward, hoping she didn’t look as much like a doomed puffskein as she felt.

And then she saw him.

Albus Fucking Dumbledore.

Her first thought was that someone had hexed her. Or that she was hallucinating from sleep deprivation. Because there, in the middle of the vast, neon-lit office, was Albus Dumbledore. Doing lunges. In a blinding orange leotard.

Her second thought was much worse: Oh no, he’s hot.

It wasn’t just the absurd outfit, though the neon ensemble clung in ways that her brain immediately classified as inappropriate to notice. It was the man himself—tall, muscular in a way that defied his apparent age, and moving with the fluidity of someone who had definitely worked out more than anyone with a desk job should. His silver hair gleamed, his sweatband was somehow majestic, and those leg warmers…

Jessica’s face turned so red she was surprised she didn’t spontaneously combust. Stop it. Stop thinking about his legs. He’s your University President. And old. So old. Why does he look like that? Her thoughts were spiraling, and they didn’t stop when he turned to greet her with a dazzling smile.

“Miss Harper!” he said warmly, moving seamlessly into a high-knee jog. “Welcome! You’re just in time. Claude The Beret has been demanding I perfect my squats before tackling any academic discussion.”

Jessica’s brain refused to form words. She opened her mouth and produced a faint squeak.

“You alright there, kid?” came a rough voice from the corner. Jessica turned to see the source: a battered old beret, slumped drunkenly on a stool. A cigarette was jammed in its brim, and a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey floated beside it. “She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Or, y’know, you in that nightmare of an outfit.”

Dumbledore chuckled, unfazed. “Claude has never appreciated the importance of practical fitness.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m a beret, you glittering peacock,” Claude snapped. “And you’re scarin’ the poor girl. Tell her to get on with it before she faints.”

Jessica managed a strangled, “I… I’m fine,” though the truth was she was very much not fine.

“Good!” Dumbledore clapped his hands, his smile radiating far too much charisma for someone in neon Lycra. “Let’s hear it, then. Your thesis, Miss Harper.”

Jessica stared at her parchment as if it might spontaneously solve all her problems. “Um. My thesis is… uh…” Say words, Jessica! Say anything that makes sense!

Claude groaned. “For Merlin’s sake, kid. Spit it out before he starts doing the splits.”

Jessica swallowed hard. “It’s titled, uh… ‘Theoretical Frameworks for Maintaining Elemental Coherence During Cross-Species Animate Transformations with a Focus on Molecular Stabilization and Recursive Properties.’ Supervised by Professor McGonagall.”

The beret let out a loud burp. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Quite the mouthful. Please elaborate.”

Jessica took a deep breath. “It’s about stabilizing molecular integrity during transformations. Specifically, I want to address the issues of recursive degradation in complex transfigurations. Like when you turn a cat into a hawk, and then the hawk back into a cat, and the resulting cat spontaneously combusts.”

“Ah, molecular integrity,” Dumbledore said, nodding sagely. “Have you accounted for the influence of high-energy thaumaturgical fields on the recursive feedback loop? It’s a common oversight.”

Jessica blinked. “The… what?”

Dumbledore grabbed a pair of floating dumbbells and began curling them effortlessly. “High-energy thaumaturgical fields. When crossing species thresholds, the ambient magical resonance often causes quantum oscillations in the elemental matrix. It’s particularly problematic with avians. They’re notorious for destabilizing planar cohesion.”

Jessica scribbled frantically, her notes barely keeping up. “I… hadn’t considered that.”

“Typical,” the beret muttered, taking another swig. “You people with your fancy words. Just turn it into soup and call it a day.”

“Pay him no mind,” Dumbledore said, dropping into a flawless plank. “But do remember to test your models against heptamorphic species transformations. It’s the only way to rule out pseudo-coherence in tertiary molecular layers.”

Jessica nodded furiously. “Of course. Obviously.”

“And don’t forget,” Dumbledore continued, effortlessly transitioning into a one-handed push-up, “to factor in the rotational spin of the wizard’s wand. Even a slight deviation can cause catastrophic harmonics.”

Jessica felt her soul leave her body. “Catastrophic harmonics?”

“Explosions,” the beret said helpfully. “Lots of ‘em.”

Dumbledore sprang to his feet, clapping his hands. “Excellent work, Miss Harper. You show great promise. Be sure to have a weekly meeting with your advisor with your initial findings, and don’t be afraid to experiment. Science, after all, is built on failure. And…I know it's improbable, but if you find Minerva to be a lacking supervisor, tell me about it, I'll see what I can do!”

Jessica mumbled something vaguely affirmative and stumbled backward toward the door.

“And hydrate!” Dumbledore called after her. “Intellectual rigor requires electrolytes!”

As the door closed behind her, Jessica slumped against the wall, clutching her notes to her chest. From inside, she heard the beret shout, “Now do the splits, you show-off!”

“This PhD,” Jessica muttered, “is going to kill me.”