POV: Albus Dumbledore
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sat in his Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, just as he usually did. Not even the lemon drops, which tasted just as sour as life itself, brought him sufficient relief anymore.
The last few years had been relatively peaceful. But with the arrival of Quirinus Quirrell—possessed by Voldemort—as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, everything had begun to crumble once more. Not only had the Dark Lord returned, but another future magical titan had appeared on the scene, whose talent and behavior resembled Gellert Grindelwald all too closely.
The only thing that brought Albus comfort was the thought of this young man's goal. A beach and sipping piña coladas. It was a surprisingly wise goal, one that Albus certainly wouldn't have expected from the young heir of the Rosier family. Dumbledore himself had, after all, dreamed since his youth of greatness and power, of changing the world for the better... and how did that turn out? Gellert was rotting in Nurmengard, and the entire Dumbledore family was dead. Only Aberforth was still alive, and he hadn't spoken to Albus in nearly a decade.
Yes, young Rosier was truly wise... Albus could barely even remember when he last had a vacation. When he had simply done nothing, flipping through an interesting book without pursuing some greater good. Just a good novel.
"Yes, a vacation would do me good," he spoke to the empty room with a quiet smile. His phoenix on the perch didn't even stir, continuing to sleep peacefully.
But how could he leave? The sight of Quirrell's lifeless body before the Mirror of Erised had confirmed his worst fears. Although Albus had secured the room with the fake Philosopher's Stone well enough to ensure Quirinus couldn't escape, the threat still loomed.
Quirrell's body itself had screamed the truth right in Albus's face. Tom Marvolo Riddle had created Horcruxes, and judging by the magical residue left in Quirrell, there had to be more than one. This finally explained Riddle's irreversible descent into darkness.
Albus vividly remembered their first meeting at the orphanage. He recalled the boy's inner darkness, but also his magical power and talent. Back then, Dumbledore had held his mind, memories, and emotions in the palm of his hand. Young Tom Riddle had been unable to hide his hope, joy, and flashes of pure love for magic from him. Though he wasn't overly emotional, he could not fake fleeting displays of compassion and empathy under Dumbledore's piercing gaze.
And it was those Horcruxes that shed light on how an intelligent, albeit dark, boy had become an absolute madman and one of the cruelest Dark Lords in history. Oh, not that Tom hadn't been capable of being cruel or cold-blooded before.
But there was a vast gulf between cruelty for the sake of a greater good and cruelty stemming from pure madness. Toward the end of the First War, Lord Voldemort had behaved extremely irrationally—and now Albus had his answer. Until then, Dumbledore had attributed his behavior to nothing more than boundless, insane pride, but the true cause was the Horcruxes. Tom Riddle's soul was corrupted and split. Had it not been for that, he would have conquered all of England long ago.
Albus knew that a torn soul could be pieced back together. The volumes of Egyptian necromancers spoke clearly of this, providing detailed information on all the risks and drawbacks. Creating a Horcrux brought virtually no benefits—only pure ruin. Tom Riddle, in his youth, certainly hadn't had access to adequate information.
While it was true that a Horcrux allowed a person to survive a violent death and later construct a new body, this magic could not protect against old age, let alone madness. The soul decayed just as rapidly as the physical vessel. The Egyptian mages had once been very clear on this, which was why they had ultimately rejected Horcruxes as a failed experiment.
Dumbledore was certain that young Riddle had plunged in headfirst. With a heart full of pride, he had thrown himself into the unknown, and paid the price accordingly. He had ended up a mad wreck possessing a vast amount of magical power.
And because of Riddle, he had yet another problem on his desk, only adding to his worries... Gilderoy Lockhart.
Due to the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, only people who had very little choice left applied for the post, and their caliber reflected that. Albus vividly remembered young Gilderoy's school days. He hadn't been particularly capable at practical magic, but he was average in theory and skilled at self-promotion. He had been far more interested in his own appearance and girls than in casting spells.
When he got in touch in July expressing interest in the teaching post, Albus was genuinely proud and at the same time surprised upon looking at his resume—packed with experiences with werewolves, vampires, hags, and won duels.
During the interview, Gilderoy had pleased him once again. His accomplishments spoke for themselves, so Albus had completely bypassed any practical testing of his skills. He was far more intrigued by Lockhart's personal story. A young, attractive wizard in expensive robes, willing to work for a modest teacher's salary... And his reason? A desire to pass on his knowledge to the younger generation.
It warmed Albus's heart and gave him new hope and strength for the future. He dismissed Gilderoy's youthful boasting as something entirely natural. It was understandable that, having been average during his school years, he compensated for it in adulthood by bragging—though in this case, justified, given his achievements. He was simply still young enough not to realize that actions speak for themselves, making words unnecessary.
The meeting with Gilderoy had put Albus in such a good mood that he completely ignored the warning voice in his own head. Young Rosier had been right... Albus was definitely paranoid, but he was working hard on it.
It was an even greater shock, then, when he received an unexpected visit from the Ministry of Magic towards the end of August. Without any warning, Amelia Bones herself arrived, wearing dark Auror robes and a solemn expression.
Albus Dumbledore rose from his desk and, with a friendly smile, gestured toward one of the armchairs opposite him.
"Amelia, to what do I owe this visit?"
"I'm afraid, Albus, that I do not bring good news."
Dumbledore was in a rather good mood, so he silently waited for her to continue with a smile.
Madam Bones placed a rolled-up parchment on the desk and began to speak. "Gilderoy Lockhart is the subject of an official investigation by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Evidence has surfaced that several of his publicly claimed achievements were not performed by him."
Dumbledore fell silent for a moment and then interlaced his fingers. "If I am not mistaken, Amelia, exaggerating one's own achievements or purchasing other people's stories to publish books does not, in itself, constitute a violation of wizarding law."
"If only it were just that," Bones replied grimly. "I wouldn't be sitting in your office today if it were."
She picked up the parchment from the desk and unrolled it.
"We have found several witches and wizards who describe significant memory gaps following events where Lockhart was repeatedly present in the area. The investigation has concluded that he is the one responsible for these interventions. Healers from St. Mungo's have also identified traces of the Memory Charm—Obliviate—applied in some cases with immense force."
The smile vanished from Dumbledore's face, and his eyes grew dangerously cold.
"That is disturbing," he said after a moment of silence.
"Yes. According to the timeline, his mastery of the Obliviate charm evolved. In the beginning, he erased the memories of some of his targets almost entirely... practically wiping out some people's entire lives." Amelia paused for a moment and then added coldly, "Given the number of victims, he won't be getting out of Azkaban, Professor."
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. He directed his gaze sideways to the sleeping Fawkes, who hadn't budged since Madam Bones had entered the office.
"I see," he said quietly at last. "I shall have to look for a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
He did not say it as a complaint, but rather as a simple statement of fact, mixing disappointment with a quiet weariness at yet another unexpected complication.
"A pity," he added after a moment. "It seemed that this year we might have finally had someone capable."
"I don't think you will manage to find anyone before the start of the school year, Professor," Amelia said, shaking her head with a faint smile.
"Oh?" Albus was certain at that moment that Madam Bones had a plan up her sleeve.
"I can offer you high-quality, professional wizards—Aurors, who would rotate in the Defense Against the Dark Arts position every month," she suggested calmly, a glint of cunning in her eyes. "The curse on the position won't have enough time to bind itself to a specific target in such a short period, and my niece will finally have a proper teacher."
"Thank you for the offer, Madam Bones. I shall consider it," Albus replied politely.
In his mind, however, he had already reached a decision. He absolutely did not want the Ministry of Magic infiltrating Hogwarts. As Headmaster, his primary duty was to keep the school independent and neutral.
"They would be my people, Professor, not Fudge's," Amelia informed him quietly. Right after, however, she rose from her chair and made for the door. Pausing before she left, she added, "I shall await your reply. Goodbye."
Before Albus could react, the door closed behind her with a soft click. He was left alone in the office with Fawkes once more. His phoenix had been sleeping a lot lately, so Dumbledore was certain that his Burning Day would soon arrive.
"Fuck," Albus swore quietly.
Lately, he had caught himself using Muggle swear words more and more often. It was far more cathartic than repeatedly invoking Merlin's pants or balls.
And the day was far from over. On his desk sat a pile of envelopes from various members of the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW), which he presided over as Supreme Mugwump.
So, not only was a mad Voldemort still flying around the world, not only had Lockhart's frauds disappointed him more than he cared to admit, and not only did he have to deal with Harry Potter and the shard of Voldemort's soul in his forehead... on top of all that, global ICW problems were piling up.
In all of this global chaos, Tom Riddle was, in essence, just a small speck of dirt.
In the magical world, things were boiling across every continent. The old wizards still vividly remembered wading through blood, and so they did not want war. But the young, foolish, and ambitious? People with pedigrees whose ancestors had achieved power only through combat and conquest currently had everything—except glory.
In Asia, an open conflict loomed between China, Taiwan, Japan, and Korea.
In Africa, wars raged and new crises were born. Liberia, Somalia, Angola, Sierra Leone, Rwanda... everywhere, an open conflict was either underway, or collapse and a violent takeover loomed. A constant struggle reigned among the wizards there, leaking unpleasantly into the Muggle world.
In America, although MACUSA attempted to maintain diplomatic peace, war had already broken out across the region. El Salvador was in the midst of a magical civil war involving its own dark lords. Guatemala was likewise consumed by internal conflict, Colombia faced the threat of a coup d'état, and Haiti was in the grip of a deep political crisis.
Albus would have liked to claim that Europe was at least partly fine, but he couldn't.
The Balkan territory was bleeding. A brutal civil war was raging among the pureblood families there, mirrored in the ongoing Muggle conflict. Originally, the Balkans had been a unified magical region, even though the Muggles were divided.
The other European nations were relatively stable. Britain was in the worst situation due to Lord Voldemort, even though relative peace had reigned there for the last decade. But Albus was certain this was not permanent. He had not the slightest doubt that Tom Riddle would be reborn sooner or later.
The only country that had been in absolute peace and quiet for a long time was the Soviet Magical Society. There, however, a dynastic authoritarian regime ruled with an iron fist. Even Gellert Grindelwald never dared to attack them.
"Fuck..." he swore again as he set aside a letter containing an urgent plea for help from America.
"Always and forever—just some fucking problems," he muttered under his breath, tossing a lemon drop into his mouth with a practiced motion. His eyes burned with exhaustion, and a sharp pain throbbed at his temples. Albus knew all too well that chronic sleep deprivation was to blame.
In his mind, the image of young Rosier standing before the Mirror of Erised surfaced once more, along with his lifelong goal: lying on a beach and sipping a piña coladas.
Could he? Greece was certainly a wonderful holiday destination in August, and he hadn't seen Cleantis of Kos in a good twenty years. Albus knew more than a few tricks, including a couple of clever cosmetic spells, so he was confident that his magnificent beard—in all modesty—would not get in his way while swimming in the sea.
After so many decades of continuous work, a week in the warmth by the sea would do nothing but good for his old and stiff bones. Young Rosier would undoubtedly agree, and would likely cap off the whole situation with something along the lines of, "Fuck the world."
Albus had caught his peculiar Muggle swear words on several occasions, having overheard him by chance while he was sitting with his Slytherin clique.
"Fuck the world," Dumbledore said decisively. With an unexpected surge of new, almost youthful energy, he leaped to his feet, causing Fawkes to open an annoyed eye as the armchair scraped loudly against the floorboards. "Fuck the world—at least for a few days," he repeated, already dashing to his quarters to pack his suitcase.
A few flicks of his wand, a handful of magical incantations, and Albus was ready.
At that moment, he was one hundred percent sure of two things. First, that Minerva would easily handle Hogwarts without him for those few days, with one hand tied behind her back. And second, that he hadn't forgotten to pack his rainbow thong swimwear, which he had last worn with Gellert during their youth in Spain.
***
Author's note:
Turns out, even Albus Dumbledore has a breaking point. It's not just one thing—it's the cumulative weight of Voldemort, global crises, and Lockhart's disappointment that finally pushes him over the edge.
In this chapter, we get a stressed, exhausted, and surprisingly sweary Headmaster (complete with some highly questionable swimwear choices). I think our MC is officially a terrible influence on him! ;)
On a more serious note... the rest of the world is burning. War is a tragic, constant reality, whether twenty years ago or today.
***
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The shadows are shifting, and the story goes much deeper... If you can't wait for the next update, Advanced Chapters are already waiting for you.
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Upcoming Chapters – Already Written(15):
91. Blood Traitors
92. Before the Storm
93. Arania Exumai
94. Favors and Frustrations
95. Power and Glory
96. Morning Drills and Slytherin Deals
97. Thrill of the Fight
98. Calculated Risk
99. Flight and Fortune
100. Calculated Arrogance
101. GW: A Cunning Kind of Courage
102. GW2: My Best Friend
103. Pride Before the Haircut
104. Fire and Thunder
105. Better to Be Feared
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