I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 13 (Patreon)

Chapter 13

30th of August, 1991

Knockturn Alley

Mr. Borgin's guffaws reverberated through the shop, mingling with the unsettling clinks and clanks of various dubious artifacts. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he pored over a particularly risqué furry hentai comic, his fedora tipped back on his head and a well-polished katana propped up beside him. For all his loathing of Muggles, he had to admit they had a certain flair for the obscene.

The doorbell's tinkle yanked him from his mirth. Hastily, he shoved the comic under the counter, straightened his fedora, and adjusted his greasy, neckbeard. He turned to face the newcomer, his heart pounding with an odd mix of dread and curiosity. Standing in the doorway was a tall figure clad in an oversized trench coat, fake glasses, a ludicrous nose, and a mustache that screamed "discount costume shop."

"Al-Albus Dumbledore? Chief Warlock?" Borgin stuttered, his voice cracking. His eyes darted around, catching sight of the various cursed artifacts and lethal trinkets cluttering his shop. He launched into a bumbling, breathless monologue. "We’re closed! No, wait, of course, we’re open for you! A personage of your…uh…eminence! If I’d known you were coming, I’d have cleaned! It’s a mess, a complete mess, not fit for someone of your…oh dear…"

Dumbledore, without missing a beat, raised a hand and intoned in a deep, theatrical voice, "I am not Albus Dumbledore. I am... Dulbus Ambeldore. No relation. Absolutely no relation."

Silence. Borgin stared, his brain doing somersaults.

Dulbus raised an eyebrow and gestured impatiently. "Well, aren't you going to present?"

"Uh, yes, of course!" Borgin stammered, straightening his fedora and puffing out his chest like a peacock in mating season. "I am Mr. Borgin, purveyor of fine dar…I mean, artifacts, master of the arcane, and...uh...lover of K-pop, comedy aficionado, and absolutely terrified of spiders!"

"No, dummy," Dulbus said with an exaggerated sigh. "Present the items, not yourself."

Borgin gulped, his confidence deflating like a balloon at a porcupine convention. He scanned his cluttered shop for something suitable that wouldn’t result in an Azkaban sentence. His eyes flitted past a cursed mirror, a particularly malevolent shrunken head, and finally landed on his trusty fedora. In desperation, he grabbed it and held it out.

"This... this is a genuine, uh, enchanted fedora," he blurted. "Very rare, very..."

But Dulbus wasn’t listening. His eyes had locked onto an old vanishing cabinet in the corner. "I'll take that," he declared, pointing dramatically. Then, his tone turned ominous. "Do you also have an opal necklace, ne that kills people, and a Hand of Glory?"

Borgin's heart skipped a beat. The…The Hand of Glory... He used it to spy on girls in locker rooms. If Dulbus took it...

"Y-yes," he croaked. "I do."

"How much?" inquired the venerable wizard.

Borgin’s mind raced. "Uh, let’s see...about 1,340 Galleons," he ventured, trying to sound confident.

Dulbus fixed him with a stare so intense it could have melted the polar ice caps.

"I meant...1,200," Borgin quickly corrected himself, his voice cracking. He started to sweat profusely, feeling like a snowman in a sauna. The intensity of those piercing blue eyes bored into him.

"Uh, I mean...1,000," Borgin stammered, beads of sweat now cascading down his face. "No, 800. 600? 400?"

Dulbus’s expression remained as stony as a gargoyle’s backside.

"Alright, alright! 200! 100 Galleons!" Borgin was practically begging now. "Please, just take it! Here, I’ll pay you! Take 50 Galleons and the items!"

Dulbus’s stern face softened into a benevolent smile. He gathered the items, including the fedora, and turned to leave. "Thank you, Mr. Borgin," he said warmly. "You've been most helpful."

As the door closed behind the wizard, Borgin collapsed into his chair, wiping the torrent of sweat from his brow. Relief washed over him. "Thank Merlin he's gone," he muttered. But then, a horrifying thought struck him.

"Fuck," Borgin whispered, his face turning the color of sour milk. He had left his entire comic furry hentai collection in the vanishing cabinet.

— — —

30th of August, 1991

Hogwarts

Room of Requirement filled with every sort of bizarre object imaginable. But the pièce de résistance was the towering, lifelike Barbie, whose eyes glowed an ominous red. Albus barely had time to react before she unleashed a barrage of laser beams from her eyes, singeing the edges of his robes.

“Great Merlin’s saggy underpants!” Albus shouted, diving behind an oversized rubber duck. “What the bloody fucking hell is this?!”

The Barbie’s plastic limbs clacked menacingly as she advanced, moving with surprising agility. Her eyes blazed like miniature suns, and Albus had to think quickly. With a flick of his wand, he cast "Protego!" A shimmering shield materialized just in time to deflect another volley of laser beams. The beams ricocheted off the shield, slicing through a nearby stack of enchanted teddy bears, which promptly burst into a chorus of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

“Oh, sod off!” Albus muttered, sending a "Stupefy!" spell directly at Barbie. The spell hit her squarely in the chest, but instead of being knocked back, she seemed to absorb the energy, her eyes glowing even brighter

.

“Of course, you overgrown piece of plastic!” Albus groaned. Barbie raised her arm and fired a cluster of mini-missiles from her fingertips.

“Merlin’s beard, where does she keep those?!” Albus yelped, diving behind a giant toy soldier. The missiles exploded around him. “This is getting ridiculous!”

He scrambled to his feet and pointed his wand at the toy soldiers. “Piertotum Locomotor!” he shouted. A dozen animated toy soldiers sprang to life, marching forward with their bayonets poised for battle. Barbie, unfazed, swatted them aside like gnats. One toy soldier was sent flying into a pile of stuffed dragons, which immediately started breathing real fire.

“Right, plan B,” Albus muttered. He pointed his wand at Barbie and yelled, “Incarcerous!” Thick ropes shot out from his wand, wrapping around the doll’s limbs. For a moment, it seemed he had succeeded, but Barbie flexed her plastic muscles and snapped the ropes with ease.

“By Circe’s and Madonna's tits, what is she made of?!” Albus exclaimed as Barbie’s eyes flashed again, this time unleashing a sonic scream. Albus winced, his ears ringing as he staggered backward. “Silencio!” he shouted, aiming his wand at her mouth. The spell took effect, cutting off the scream, but Barbie’s furious expression made it clear she was far from defeated.

As a last resort, Albus decided to pull out the big guns—metaphorically speaking. With a grand, sweeping gesture, he cast “Fiendfyre!” A roaring serpent of magical fire erupted from his wand, coiling and twisting as it advanced on Barbie. The doll backed away, her eyes wide with what might have been fear, if her face could express such an emotion.

“Yeah, you better run!” Albus taunted, a wild grin spreading across his face. The fiery serpent wrapped around Barbie, its flames licking hungrily at her synthetic skin. Albus, with a final, triumphant flick of his wand, invoked chains from thin air. They snaked around the Barbie, tightening until the doll’s arms were immobilized. The chains pulled taut, and with an epic heave, he tore the Barbie apart, her pieces clattering to the ground in a final, dramatic defeat.

“Huff…huff…” Albus panted, wiping sweat from his brow. “Good thing no one was around to see that.”

It was his third visit to the Room of Requirement. The first time, he had come to secure the diadem of Ravenclaw. The second, to retrieve and repair the vanishing cabinet, which he had split between his office and the mansion he was constructing on the English coast. Built with materials procured from the ill-gotten gains of the criminal masterminds he had used as NLF-battery, Albus had redirected the majority of the funds to their victims and charities- and made sure Wool's Orphanage had gotten a lot of money, that was used to recruit new caretaker and care for the children - but it still left him with millions. He had spent the last few months building the mansion, a project that involved transfiguration, alchemy, and an abundance of imagination—a perfect exercise to reacquaint himself with magic.

Today was his third visit. The room was bustling with house elves, who were sorting through the bizarre array of objects. One pile was dedicated to magical artifacts, another to piles of money, and yet another to an eclectic collection of books. The elves were a cacophony of activity, singing loudly and out of tune as they worked.

"Tra la la, oh what a day! Sorting, cleaning, hip hip hooray!" sang a particularly enthusiastic elf, whose voice could charitably be described as resembling a bag of cats being strangled. He was supervised by a very old elf with a monocle, who wore a tiny, threadbare waistcoat and barked orders with the authority of a seasoned general.

“Grimsy, that book goes on the pile with the others! And for Merlin’s sake, stop singing like a banshee with a toothache!” the old elf scolded, adjusting his monocle as he scanned the room.

“But Chief Intendant Pipkin, singing makes the work go faster!” Grimsy protested, his ears flapping indignantly.

“Less singing, more sorting! We haven’t got all day!” Pipkin snapped, thumping his tiny cane on the floor for emphasis. The other elves redoubled their efforts, their movements a blur of industriousness.

Albus observed the scene with keen interest. Over in one corner, an elf named Twinkle was wrestling with a particularly stubborn portrait of a snoring wizard. With a triumphant squeal, she finally managed to pry it off the wall, revealing a hidden stash of Chocolate Frog cards.

“Look, Pipkin!” she cried, holding up a rare Albus Dumbledore card. “We’s found treasure!”

Pipkin adjusted his monocle and harrumphed. “Put it in the ‘interesting finds’ pile, Twinkle.”

Nearby, Binky was gleefully pulling books from a dusty shelf, tossing aside titles like “The Complete Guide to Goblin Etiquette” and “The Art of Gnome Charming.” He paused at a tome titled “Muggle Mischief,” flipping through its pages with a mischievous grin.

“Ooh, Binky finds tricks for exploding toilet seats!” he exclaimed, giggling.

“Focus, Binky!” Pipkin scolded, but there was a hint of a smile on his wrinkled face. “We’ve got work to do.”

In another corner, Fizzle was having a rather animated conversation with a severed, enchanted hand that was waving about on a pedestal. The hand seemed to be attempting sign language while Fizzle nodded sagely, taking notes on a tiny parchment.

“Yes, yes, very interesting,” Fizzle muttered, squinting at the hand’s gestures. “But can you do the hokey pokey?”

The hand, to Albus’s amazement, proceeded to perform a perfect hokey pokey, causing Fizzle to break into a delighted jig. Pipkin noticed and stomped over, his tiny cane tapping angrily.

“Fizzle!” he barked. “Put that hand in the ‘oddities’ pile.”

Albus chuckled at the elves’ antics before his attention was drawn to two particularly stout elves struggling to move a pair of statues. The statues, one of Horus and the other of Anubis, were imposing figures indeed. Horus, with the head of a falcon, stood in gleaming, jewel-encrusted armor. His massive spear was tipped with a blazing sapphire and his shield depicted a battle scene so vivid it appeared to move. Anubis, with the head of a jackal, was equally magnificent. His dark, intricately detailed armor was adorned with silver hieroglyphs that glowed faintly. He wielded a menacing scythe, the blade of which shimmered with a ghostly green hue, as though it could cut through both flesh and spirit.

“By Circe’s tits, these are splendid!” Albus exclaimed, his eyes wide with delight. “I fucking want to enchant them!”

Pipkin, the ever-dutiful Chief Intendant, approached Albus with a purposeful stride. His monocle glinted in the dim light as he glanced up at the towering wizard. “Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Euphemius Ignatius Bartholomew Theodosius Ulysses Barnabas Cuthbert Dumbledore, O.M. (First Class), Grand Sorc., D. Wiz., X.J. (sorc.), S. of Mag.Q., and so on, we’ve managed to sort through about ten percent of the room so far.”

Albus nodded, taking in the bustling scene around him. “Good work, Pipkin. At this rate, we’ll have this place sorted in no time.”

“There is something else, sir,” Pipkin continued, lowering his voice. “One of the elves found something peculiar at the bottom of a particularly enormous pile of trash.”

Albus raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Show me.”

Pipkin led Albus to the far corner of the room, where an elf named Snippet was struggling to move a massive, rusted cauldron. As the cauldron was finally pushed aside, it revealed a peculiar, glowing chest. The chest was a perfect one-meter cube, entwined with thick, dark chains that seemed to pulse with a soft, rhythmic light. The chest’s surface was etched with intricate runes, their designs distinctly oriental, with flowing, serpentine patterns interspersed with arcane symbols that looked almost alive.

The cube exuded an air of mystery, the light around it flickering like a gentle heartbeat. The chains were adorned with miniature demon faces motifs, their eyes set with tiny, glinting rubies that seemed to follow Albus as he approached. Each link of the chain was inscribed with runes that shimmered with a greenish hue. Albus knelt down to inspect the chest, his fingers tracing the delicate carvings. He murmured to himself as he examined the cube. The runes seemed to whisper back, their voices a faint susurrus in the quiet of the room.

“Runic Arabic script… quite ancient. Elemental bindings… I see traces of fire and water magic. The chains appear to be enchanted with a form of protective charm… perhaps to prevent unauthorized access. And this symbol here,” he pointed to a particularly ornate glyph resembling a coiled serpent, “is a mark of containment, used to seal powerful magical artifacts. There’s something else… a ward of concealment, no doubt. But what could it be hiding?” Albus mused, his curiosity piqued.

Before he could delve deeper, a small Action Man figure, brandishing a tiny sword, suddenly sprang to life and ambushed him. With a flick of his wrist and a muttered incantation, Albus disintegrated the toy into a puff of smoke, not even breaking his gaze from the chest.

He stood up, dusting off his robes, and addressed the elves. “Pipkin, have the others move this to secure room number four, one of the twelve I created in the unused dungeons.”

Pipkin’s monocle gleamed as he looked up, slightly confused. “Why the fourth, sir? The others - but the first -  are all empty... Why not the second?”

“Because,” Albus replied, “Albus Fucking Dumbledore said so.”

Pipkin’s ears twitched, and he gave a curt nod. “Right away, sir. You heard him, lads! Secure room number four!”

The elves, including Twinkle, Binky, Snippet, and Fizzle, sprang into action, carefully lifting the chest and maneuvering it with precision. Their little faces were set in expressions of utmost concentration, each step measured and cautious.

“Steady now!” Pipkin barked, directing the elves like a miniature conductor. “Mind the corners! And for Merlin’s sake, don’t drop it!”

Twinkle, carrying one corner of the chest, muttered to Binky, “Do you think there’s treasure inside?”

Binky shook his head, his ears flopping. “If it’s important to Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Euphemius Ignatius Bartholomew Theodosius Ulysses Barnabas Cuthbert Dumbledore, O.M. (First Class), Grand Sorc., D. Wiz., X.J. (sorc.), S. of Mag.Q., it’s got to be something more than treasure.”

Snippet, who was carrying another corner, added, “Maybe it’s a cursed item, or a powerful artifact. Or maybe even an ancient spellbook!”

Fizzle, struggling with the final corner, grinned. “Or maybe it’s just Professor Dumbledore’s collection of old socks!”

The reaction was immediate and intense. All the other elves gasped in horror, their eyes wide with shock. Twinkle dropped her end of the chest with a thud, and Binky’s eyes filled with tears, his lower lip quivering.

Pipkin's monocle nearly popped off his nose as he rounded on Fizzle. “Fizzle!” he barked, his voice echoing in the room. “You don’t know any better because you’re always in the kitchen, but... Never. Talk. About. The. Socks.”