Chapter 34

3rd of September 1991
Hogwarts

Celia watched as Snape, still looking like he'd been hit with a Stunning Spell, and Slughorn, muttering to himself, made their way out of the office. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud, leaving the room in a momentary silence. Celia took a deep breath, steadying herself before turning to face Dumbledore.

"Your Badassness," she began, slipping into the title he'd insisted upon in private, "you've received several letters today. The International Confederation of Wizards has confirmed the meeting in January and requested your agenda points. The Daily Prophet is pestering for an interview about recent events at Hogwarts. Ambrose Crickshaw wants permission to access the Restricted Section for his research on Dark Arts—I assume you'll approve that. And exactly as you predicted, Lucius Malfoy has summoned an Extraordinary Session of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. It's set for three days from now, on the 6th."

"Perfect. It's a Yes for Rickshaw, and a No for the Aurors or the Prophet. Unless the demand comes from Amelia herself - for the Aurors, obviously," Dumbledore answered, as he began to unbutton his robe. Celia's eyes widened as she watched him shrug off the heavy fabric, revealing a physique that was as surprising as it was impressive. His muscles were lean, defined, and far from what one would expect from an elderly wizard known more for his intellect than physical prowess. She felt her cheeks flush and spluttered, "Your Badassness… what exactly are you doing?"

Dumbledore, unfazed by her reaction, continued to undress until he stood shirtless, then dropped to the floor and started a series of pushups. His voice remained calm and steady, as if he were merely sitting at his desk. "Continue, Celia. I'm listening."

Celia blinked, trying to reconcile the sight before her with the wise, often whimsical figure she was accustomed to. But she quickly refocused on the task at hand. "Right, well… as I was saying, Your Badassness, I've almost finished gathering candidates for the administrative positions you wanted—for both Hogwarts and the S.O.C.K.S. initiative. With Bill's help and some of my old classmates, we've identified sixteen potential candidates. They're all ex-Hogwarts—or graduates from other magical schools—familiar with the Muggle world and holding Muggle college degrees. Many of them are currently unemployed due to blood discrimination or other circumstances."

Dumbledore transitioned seamlessly from pushups to sit-ups, his muscles tightening with each movement. "Excellent."

"There's also a letter from Moody," Celia continued, her voice betraying a hint of the challenge she'd faced. "It took some doing to get through all the security on his letter—layers of passwords—but I managed. He's found a few promising recruits and wants to conduct background checks. He's also requested additional funds."

"Give him whatever he needs," Dumbledore replied, now moving on to pull-ups.

Celia jotted down a note, then hesitated slightly. "And as you asked, I've started tutoring Arthur Weasley in administrative processes. I gave him some introductory books on college administration, and he's currently being tutored by the ghost of Edward Bernays… the one you summoned."

Dumbledore didn't falter, but Celia couldn't shake her curiosity any longer. "Your Badassness… how exactly do you summon the ghosts of such influential figures?"

Dumbledore paused in the middle of a pull-up. "Celia," he said softly, with a gravity that sent a shiver down her spine, "there are some things that are better left unknown."

A heavy silence followed, but Celia knew she had to push on. "There's one more thing… the funds you set aside are nearly depleted. I've run the numbers, and to support twelve permanent chairs, about ten to twenty administrative staff, the building, and security, we're looking at needing around twelve million pounds a year to reach the grandeur you envision. Where are we going to find that kind of money?"

Dumbledore finished his last pull-up, then turned to Celia with a satisfied smile. In one fluid motion, he leapt from the bar, executing a graceful salto before landing lightly on his feet. Without missing a beat, he began moving through a series of Tai Chi forms, his body flowing with a serene, controlled energy that seemed completely at odds with the conversation at hand.

"We are going to take some more," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and assured as he moved through the slow motions.

"What do you mean by 'we,' Your Badassness?" she asked, her tone starting to fill with apprehension. "An what do you man by 'take'? Didn't you want to say 'make'?"

Dumbledore paused mid-movement, holding a pose that radiated both strength and calm. His eyes, bright with mischief, locked onto hers. "Exactly what it sounds like, my dear Celia," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Exactly what it sounds like".


3rd of September 1991
Somewhere under the fucking sea

Celia was fucking exhausted, and dodging sharks in the middle of the ocean was not how she'd planned to spend her day. This was not even in her work contract - and neither in her post description ! Why, oh why, had she told Dumbledore they were out of money? She barely managed to duck as a shark—an actual, goddamn shark—charged at her bubble with all the subtlety of a rogue Bludger. Screaming, she flung a spell at it, watching it veer off, only for another one to slam into the enchanted bubble Dumbledore had conjured around her. The bubble wobbled like jelly but held strong, thank Merlin - well, thank Dumbledore. It was his magic, after all.

A few meters away, Albus Fucking Dumbledore floated in his own perfectly dry bubble, looking like he'd stepped straight out of a hot fireman calendar. His swim trunks—deep green and embroidered with the crest of a Phoenix—hugged his lean, powerful body. His chest was an artwork of chiseled muscle, each sinew defined with the precision of an artist's brush. His shoulders were broad, his arms strong and toned, and his abs—Merlin's beard, those abs—were a sculpted masterpiece. His silver beard was immaculately groomed, framing a jawline that looked like it had been carved by gods, and his piercing blue eyes… As he followed a glowing "Point-Me" spell, he looked more like a mythic hero than a headmaster. "Finally," he murmured, as if finding a sunken treasure was just another day at the office.

Celia, struggling to keep her bubble intact as another shark swam too close, couldn't help but glance at him. She was no slouch herself—her lithe, athletic figure wrapped in a sleek black one-piece swimsuit that hugged her curves in all the right places. The dark fabric clung tightly to her full breasts, her nipples pressing visibly against the material with each breath. The suit traced the curve of her hips and the swell of her ass, leaving little to the imagination as it dipped down to hug the contours of her pussy. The fabric contrasted sharply with her fair skin, highlighting the intricate tattoos that adorned her body like living art. Her black hair floated around her in the water, framing a face that was both sharp and sensual, her eyes flashing with determination. If they weren't in the middle of an ocean filled with man-eating sharks, she might have appreciated this situation.

But there was no time for that. She shook her head, trying to focus as she fired off another spell at a particularly aggressive shark that seemed hell-bent on testing the limits of her bubble. How had she ended up here, battling sea monsters while the fittest wizard she'd ever seen hunted for treasure like they were in some insane adventure movie? Or worse, in some deranged guy's fanfic ?

"I've found it!" Dumbledore's voice, rich and smooth as honey, cut through the chaos. "I knew I remembered reading about this in the papers years ago…I mean, in the future…Fuck, this whole business of time travel is starting to…," he whispered to himself.

Celia stared in awe as Dumbledore raised a hand—wandlessly, of course, because wands were clearly for lesser wizards—and the water around them shimmered. The wreckage of the S.S. Central America slowly appeared from beneath the sand, revealing a hoard of glittering gold coins, bars, and enough gold dust to make even the most stoic goblin drool.

"More than $50 million in gold," Dumbledore mused, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "3,100 gold coins, 45 bars, and over 80 pounds of gold dust, all just waiting here."

Celia's jaw dropped, but she quickly snapped it shut as another shark rammed into her bubble. "We're really doing this?" she managed to squeak, barely dodging yet another shark with a personal vendetta against her magical shield.

"Absolutely, Celia! Think of it as a little extracurricular activity. Now, let's collect this treasure before the sharks get any bright ideas about making us their next meal."

As if on cue, a particularly large shark bumped into Dumbledore's bubble, looking utterly confused by the dry, unflappable wizard inside. Dumbledore barely spared it a glance, shooing it away with a flick of his fingers. Then, with a wave of his hand, he began summoning the gold, the coins and bars floating up toward him in neat, glittering piles.

4th of September 1991
Hogwarts

Harry Potter pushed open the door to the Slytherin common room, leaving it with a grin stretching across his face. It was only his third day at Hogwarts, but the excitement of being here hadn't dulled in the slightest. If anything, it was growing. He felt like he'd been dropped into the most magnificent, magical adventure of his life, and he was loving every minute of it.

The castle was everything he'd ever dreamed of and more—ancient, grand, and filled with secrets that whispered from every shadowed corner. The courses were mind-bending in the best way possible, like yesterday's Potions class where he'd learned how to cook crystal meth (though he was pretty sure that wasn't supposed to be on the syllabus). And the best part of all? He'd made friends—real, genuine friends.

Aunt Andromeda had been right. She'd told him that being sorted into Slytherin wasn't a bad thing, despite what most people seemed to think. "All houses have their strengths," she had assured him. "But remember, Harry, ambition can be a double-edged sword. It's only valuable when tempered by humility. Arrogance is what makes ambition fail."

Harry had taken her words to heart, but he'd also braced himself for trouble, especially from Draco Malfoy and his cronies. But to his surprise, things had gone better than he'd hoped. He'd quickly hit it off with Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom, his fellow first years from the train, who had both been sorted into Gryffindor. And in Slytherin, he'd found an unexpected friend in Blaise Zabini.

Blaise was a revelation—a snarky, sharp-tongued, and delightfully sarcastic counterpart to Harry's own sense of humor. The boy had a way of cutting through the nonsense around them with a single, well-placed quip that often left Harry stifling his laughter. Blaise didn't take anything too seriously, but he had a depth of understanding that Harry quickly grew to admire. Okey, his mother was a serial killers - but everyone had flaws, right? And he did not chose his parents!

The two of them were now strolling through Hogwarts' winding corridors, the morning light streaming through the tall, arched windows as they made their way to their first Charms class. Harry couldn't help the giddy anticipation bubbling up inside him.

"So," Harry said, grinning at Blaise, "what's your bet on our first Charms lesson?"

Blaise didn't even hesitate. "Oh, I'm sure it'll be something mind-blowingly mundane," he replied with a smirk. "We're probably going to spend the entire class levitating feathers, because apparently, that's the foundation of all great magic."

Harry snickered. "Right, because nothing screams 'future Dark Lord slayer' like making a feather float."

Blaise nodded sagely. "It's crucial, Potter. You never know when a well-levitated feather will save your life. I mean, imagine being attacked by a flock of angry birds—how else will you show them who's boss?"

Harry laughed, feeling a warm sense of camaraderie. "True, I suppose it's better than the Headmaster's meth-making tutorial. Still not sure what that was all about."

"Oh, he clearly just want us to diversify our portfolio," Blaise said with a shrug. "Potions Master by day, drug kingpin by night. We'll probably find out later that he's got a side hustle brewing 'questionable' concoctions in some shady underground lab."

Harry grinned. "Hogwarts: Where Learning is an Adventure and your teachers might be criminals."

"Exactly," Blaise said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'm just waiting for the moment when he offers us a 'special potion' that's supposed to improve our grades."

Their banter flowed easily, and Harry found himself relaxing even more. He was starting to feel proud of his place in Slytherin, especially after Aunt Andromeda's speech to the first years on their first night.

"Ambition is a dangerous thing if left unchecked," she had told them, her voice filled with authority and wisdom. "Arrogance blinds you, makes you think you've already arrived when you're just starting the journey. The truly ambitious are humble, for they know that their drive to succeed must be matched by the willingness to learn from others. Arrogance, on the other hand, will see you fail more times than you can count, and when you fail, it's because you've forgotten the value of humility."

Harry had listened intently, feeling a swell of pride as he absorbed her words. Slytherin wasn't just about cunning and getting ahead; it was about striving for greatness with the knowledge that there was always more to learn. It was about using your ambition to not just elevate yourself, but to elevate those around you.

And then there was the ghost—Niccolò Machiavelli—who made nightly appearances in the Slytherin common room. Harry hadn't understood all of what the ghost had said, but he was fascinated nonetheless. Machiavelli was both intimidating and captivating, delivering ten-minute speeches each night that left the older students spellbound. "Power," Machiavelli had said, "is not for the faint of heart. It is better to be feared than loved, for fear is a tool that bends others to your will. But always remember, power without wisdom is a double-edged sword that cuts down its wielder."

Some of the older students, even some of those Aunt Andromeda had pointed out as being less enamored with Dumbledore, whispered that having Machiavelli as their ghost was "the best decision Dumbledore ever made." Harry didn't quite grasp all of it, but he could see that the ghost's words were meant to challenge them, to make them think critically about their place in the world.

As they turned a corner, Harry and Blaise suddenly found themselves face-to-face with a tall, broad-shouldered boy who was glaring at them with undisguised hostility. Harry recognized him immediately—he was the same guy who'd been smacked around like a pinball by Dumbledore during the Sorting Feast. His name was on the tip of Harry's tongue, but for now, he just thought of him as "the angry asshole with bad luck."

"Well, if it isn't the famous Harry Potter," the boy sneered, his eyes narrowing. "And Zabini, too. What's the matter, Zabini? Couldn't find any real Slytherins to hang out with, so you had to settle for this Gryffindor reject?"

Blaise didn't even bat an eye. He simply raised an eyebrow, his expression one of absolute boredom. "Flint, wasn't it? You do realize you're about as subtle as Hagrid, right? If you're going to be a bully, at least put some effort into it. This whole 'menacing older student' act is beyond cliché."

Flint's face turned an alarming shade of red, and with a snarl, he raised his wand, clearly intent on making Blaise regret his words.

But before Flint could get a word out, a voice boomed from the shadows, loud and fierce enough to make all three boys jump.

"NO BULLYING ON MY WATCH!"

Molly Weasley, the new Principal Education Councillor, strode out of the shadows like a wrathful goddess. Her normally warm face was twisted into a mask of fury, and her eyes flashed with the kind of fire that made even the bravest Gryffindor quake in their boots.

"You dare raise your wand against two first years?" she demanded, her voice like thunder. "How dare you, Marcus Flint! You're supposed to be setting an example, not terrorizing children!"

Flint stammered, his wand hand trembling. "They—they were—"

"They were what?" Mrs. Weasley cut him off, her voice rising in pitch and intensity. "Minding their own business while you tried to act like a big man? You're nothing but a coward, Flint! A pathetic excuse for a Slytherin!"

Flint's face, now as red as a Weasley's hair, contorted with anger. His wand hand twitched, and with an impressive lack of foresight, he aimed it at Mrs. Weasley, his voice trembling with fury. "You're just a blood traitor!"

In the blink of an eye, Mrs. Weasley sprang into action, her plump form moving with surprising agility. With a quick cartwheel, she landed a perfectly aimed kick to Flint's face, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"You're not even worth the effort of using magic!" she declared, standing over him as he clutched his nose, blood trickling down his face. "You want to be a bully? You'll have to get past me first, and believe me, Marcus Flint, you are far from the worst I've dealt with!"

Harry and Blaise stared in stunned silence, their mouths slightly agape as they tried to process what had just happened. Mrs. Weasley turned her fierce gaze on them, her expression softening slightly, though she was still undeniably terrifying.

"Are you two alright?" she asked, her tone leaving no room for anything but honesty.

Harry nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am. We're fine."

"Good," she said, her voice still carrying the authority of a thousand battles won. "Now, off to class with you, and no more nonsense. And Flint," she added, looking down at the older boy with utter disdain, "you'll be serving detention for a month. And if I catch you bullying anyone else, you'll wish detention was the worst of it. Am I clear?"

Flint, still reeling from the combination of pain and humiliation, could only nod weakly, his face pale beneath the blood.

As Harry and Blaise hurried away, Harry couldn't help but glance at his friend, who looked like he was struggling to keep a straight face.

"Remind me never to get on her bad side," Harry whispered, still feeling the aftershocks of Mrs. Weasley's wrath.

Blaise let out a low chuckle. "Potter, I don't think even the Dark Lord would want to tangle with her."