I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 56

Chapter 56

9th of September 1991

Dumbledore Manor, England

Andromeda took another sip of her whisky, savoring the burn as Celia began the debrief. “Well,” Celia said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I’d say that went as well as we could have hoped. Albus managed to deliver his announcements with the usual panache: the Hogwarts reform, the SOCKS initiative—”

The party had ended at 2 a.m., the grand halls of Dumbledore's mansion finally cleared of guests. An hour later, in a smaller, more intimate living room tucked into one of the estate's many wings, the remnants of the evening gathered to debrief.

“SOCKS,” Arthur interrupted with a chuckle, shaking his head. “Still can’t believe he stuck with that name.”

Celia raised an eyebrow but continued undeterred. “—and his broader political vision for magical Britain. By morning, every journal worth its ink will be speculating, and once he gives his Hogwarts speech tomorrow and begins the interviews, his vision will be clear for all.”

Andromeda Black sprawled across a velvet couch, her composure from the evening discarded like an unnecessary cloak. The sharp elegance she had carried through hours of hosting—deflecting sharp words with sharper wit, commanding a room full of wizarding elites, and embodying sophistication—had faded into the haze of exhaustion. Her gown, a deep green creation of satin and silk, followed the line of her body with precision, cinching tightly at her waist, which earlier had drawn appreciative murmurs from several guests. The neckline plunged just enough to showcase the fullness of her breasts, now softly rising and falling with her breath, their shape subtly defined against the fabric under the light. The coolness of the room flirted with the fabric of her dress, faintly hinting at the contours beneath, her nipples just perceptible as a quiet, unintentional rebellion against the evening’s decorum.

Her hair, meticulously arranged at the party’s start, now framed her face in loose strands, the escapee locks softening the angles of her striking features. She lounged in a decidedly unladylike pose, her legs folded beneath her, a bare foot sticking out from the hem of her gown in open defiance of pureblood decorum. The swell of her chest shifted slightly as she lazily swirled the whisky in her hand, the faintest suggestion of tension from the cool air brushing against her. The whisky in her glass reflected the soft glow of the lamps, and she stared at it as though contemplating some private joke. Exhausted though she was, there was a magnetism in her ease, an unspoken confidence that made her posture seem less like a lapse and more like a quiet statement.

She had forgotten how exhausting it was to be at the center of the wizarding world’s attention. Decades of practicing law had honed her intellect and wit, but stepping back into the world of pureblood intrigue as Dumbledore’s co-host had been a different beast entirely. Some still whispered that her recent maneuverings with the Board had positioned her as a rival to Lucius Malfoy, a notion that simultaneously amused and wearied her.

Andromeda let out a low laugh. “They were all whispering tonight, dissecting every word, every gesture. The noble game of reading shadows and assuming plots.”

The room’s other occupants were equally drained but maintained more conventional postures. Arthur Weasley, seated in a sturdy armchair, nursed a glass of watered-down whisky with the satisfaction of a man who had survived a duel unscathed. His son Bill, tie undone and shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, lounged in a chair opposite Andromeda, looking like he had just walked off a windswept cliffside rather than a ballroom. Celia Andersen sat perched on the arm of another chair, her sharp, tailored suit as impeccable as ever, her focus unbroken despite the late hour.

Bill leaned forward, balancing his glass on his knee. “Between Dad, Edmund Trent, and me, we did our part. Talked to the right people, answered their questions, and laid the groundwork for what’s coming.”

Celia nodded approvingly. “And we’ve promised one-on-one meetings with Albus to Lady Bones, Lord Greengrass, Lady Longbottom, and...” She hesitated. “Crouch. Though he sent his nephew again.”

Andromeda tilted her head, intrigued. “He’s been withdrawing for years, hasn’t he? Why keep up appearances now?”

Before anyone could respond, the flower pot near the corner rustled. Arthur blinked. “Did... did that plant just move?”

“It’s always something with this house,” Andromeda sighed, waving vaguely toward the disturbance.

Then, like a ghoul emerging from the grave, Alastor Moody rose from the pot, his magical eye whirling as though searching for conspiracies hidden in the walls.

“Everything’s under control,” Moody growled, his voice more gravel than sound.

Arthur yelped, nearly upending his glass. “Good Merlin, Moody! Must you always appear like a Boggart in a cupboard?”

“Better than appearing like a corpse in a ditch,” Moody replied with a grim smirk. “Constant vigilance.”

Celia raised an eyebrow. “Subtlety, as always.”

“Subtlety’s for diplomats,” Moody shot back, his magical eye swiveling toward her before landing on Andromeda. “And people who don’t want to stay alive.”

Andromeda let out a laugh, the sound rich and almost musical despite the hour. “Master Commissar Moody, you certainly know how to enliven an afterparty.”

“Someone has to,” Moody said, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall, where he looked unnervingly comfortable.

Before the banter could escalate, the door swung open, and Albus Dumbledore swept in, stealing every ounce of attention. Draped in a celestial-blue bathrobe embroidered with constellations, he held a whisky glass with the relaxed authority of a man entirely in his element.

“Ah,” he said, his voice warm and commanding. “The backbone of this operation, gathered at last.”

Celia and Andromeda flushed slightly, Arthur straightened, and Bill raised a glass in silent acknowledgment.

Dumbledore’s gaze swept the room before landing on the sprawled Andromeda, his lips twitching into a grin. “And here I thought hosting a party with me would break you, my dear. But no—grace under pressure. A true Black.”

Andromeda raised her glass lazily — but still straightened a bit. “You’re too kind, Warlock Dumbledore.”

"Kindness is overrated," Dumbledore replied with a chuckle, swirling the last of his whisky. "But accuracy? Never."

The moment hung in the air for barely a heartbeat before a heavy thunk echoed through the room. Moody had taken out his staff-wand with his left hand, its gnarled wood glowing faintly, and in his right, he brandished what looked like a gun cobbled together from half a dozen incompatible parts. It buzzed with faint arcs of blue energy.

Everyone turned toward him, startled. Arthur looked particularly alarmed. “What on earth—”

Moody grunted toward Albus, his magical eye twitching wildly as it scanned every corner of the room. "When?"

Albus didn’t look up, simply downed the rest of his whisky in one smooth motion and set the glass down with a soft clink.“In a few minutes, I would say.”

“What?!” Celia snapped, bolting upright, her normally collected demeanor cracking just slightly.

Moody let out a deep, throaty growl, his mouth set in a grim line. “I recognize this bathrobe,” he said, his voice like gravel grinding against iron. “It’s Albus’s Battle Bathrobe. Means shit’s incoming.”

Arthur stood so quickly he knocked over his chair. “Battle Bathrobe? What are you talking about?”

“It’s true,” Albus said, his tone entirely too casual for the situation. He reached over to pour himself another whisky, his fingers steady and unhurried. “When I made that little soul-search of Lady Zabini earlier, I might have...” He paused, searching for the right phrasing. “Made a slight ping on the Soul Shackles.”

Celia’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Ping? What do you mean, ‘ping’? And why do I feel like I’m about to hate your answer?”

“Well,” Albus continued, his tone still far too light, “it seems my magic, as delicate and refined as it is, may have... alerted the owner of those Shackles. According to my control wards, they’ve decided to pay us a little visit.”

“Owner?” Arthur’s face had gone pale. “You mean to tell me—”

Before he could finish, a crack reverberated through the room like a clap of thunder. The walls trembled, dust raining down from the corners of the ornate ceiling. Somewhere, deep within the manor, glass shattered. The lights flickered briefly, plunging the room into shadows before stabilizing.

“What the hell was that?” Bill barked, leaping to his feet.

Dumbledore sighed as though the entire thing were an inconvenience. “That,” he said, “would be our unexpected guest. And from the sound of it, they’re not using the front door.”

The room trembled as the mansion’s wards groaned. Through the bay window, the darkness of the night was torn apart by a brilliant, jagged streak of lightning, followed by a deafening crack. The energy rippled across the grounds, distorting the air as the first layer of Dumbledore’s legendary protections fractured and dissolved into fading sparks.

Arthur Weasley was already on his feet, his face pale as he looked from Dumbledore to the window. “What’s happening?”

Albus swirled the last of his whisky in his glass, sipping it with deliberate calm. “Nothing to fret about,” he said. “Though I admit, Mr. Pudding Honeybug the Destroyer of Worlds is proving most disappointing tonight.”

Arthur blinked. “Mr. Pudding who?”

“Pudding Honeybug,” Dumbledore repeated, his tone betraying faint disappointment. “A pet of mine. Usually most effective at keeping unwanted visitors at bay. It seems our guest bribed him with... well, something better than raspberry tarts.”

Before anyone could process the statement, the grounds lit up with a second flash of lightning. This time, the bay window rattled violently, and the earth shook beneath them. Outside, the unmistakable silhouette of a cloaked figure hovered in the air, framed by the crumbling remnants of the second layer of wards. The shimmering energy lashed at the intruder, but they moved forward, unyielding, their presence suffused with a terrifying aura.

Celia Andersen pressed herself against the wall, her usual composure crumbling as her eyes darted toward Albus. “That’s not... possible. These wards are meant to hold against armies. Even Voldemort couldn’t breach them without—”

A sharp crack interrupted her, and the final layer of outer defenses erupted in a storm of red and gold light. The mansion’s wards faltered, leaving the intruder standing unscathed amidst the residual sparks. They floated closer, their form rippling faintly as though the air itself recoiled from their presence.

Before anyone could react, a swarm of a dozen metal orbs burst to life from their sconces around the estate. Their polished surfaces gleamed as they shot toward the intruder, moving with the precision of a predator locking onto its prey. In a synchronized motion, they melted mid-flight, forming streams of molten metal that spiraled through the air.

The streams circled the intruder, tightening like the coils of a snake until they solidified into a gleaming, red-hot coffin. The heat radiated so intensely that the air shimmered, and the windows fogged over. For a moment, the room held its breath as the glowing prison hovered in the sky, suspended by the orbs.

Arthur let out a shaky laugh, relief evident on his face. “Well, that was—”

A deep, resonant sound, like the groan of a massive glacier cracking, reverberated through the air. Fine cracks began to spiderweb across the surface of the metal coffin, glowing fiercely as the molten material strained against an invisible force within.

Moody, crouched behind an overturned table, growled. “It’s never that easy.”

The cracks widened, and with an earsplitting explosion, the molten coffin erupted outward in a fiery storm of shards. The air filled with the sound of hissing metal and the faint smell of ozone. The intruder stood unharmed, their cloak flowing unnaturally in the aftermath.

The mansion’s two massive turrets hummed to life. Their barrels rotated toward the intruder, glowing with a malevolent blue energy that crackled as they charged. From the ether, ghostly figures of French soldiers materialized around the guns. Dressed in tattered Napoleonic uniforms, they screamed in unison, their translucent faces twisted with zeal.

“For Ze Glory of Ze God-Emperor Dumbledore” they bellowed, pulling levers and twisting dials with spectral hands.

The turrets unleashed their fury. Bolts of concentrated magic erupted from the barrels, arcing through the air like falling stars. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling through the grounds, carving deep craters into the earth.

The intruder raised a hand, their movements eerily unhurried. A violet shield shimmered to life around them, absorbing the blasts with a haunting ease. Then, with a flick of their wrist, one turret exploded in a fiery bloom, sending ghostly soldiers scattering into the night like smoke.

The remaining turret continued its relentless barrage, but the intruder deflected each shot as though brushing away an insect. Dumbledore finally set his empty glass down, his expression one of faint annoyance rather than alarm. “And here I thought the evening couldn’t become more tiresome. At least, I probably won't have to shake his hand and make smalltalk with this one” He unsheathed his wand, the polished wood gleaming with a light that seemed to draw the room’s attention toward it. He stepped forward, his celestial bathrobe billowing behind him as though the very air obeyed his movements.

The intruder pulled back their hood, revealing a sharp, angular face and glowing eyes that burned with a cruel intelligence. They smiled, their voice dripping with mockery. “Truly, Albus? The God Emperor?”

Dumbledore tilted his head, a sly grin forming on his lips. “It has a certain charm, wouldn’t you say?”