I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Without missing a beat, Dumbledore leaned back and, in one fluid motion, swung his legs up onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. The movement caused his robes to hitch slightly, revealing something that made Filius do a double-take. Beneath the sober, elegant robes of the most powerful wizard alive was an eye-popping pair of bright orange underwear, festooned with animated hippogriffs that galloped across the fabric with reckless abandon. Filius blinked, half-expecting his eyes to deceive him, but no—the sight was very real, and utterly bizarre.

“Albus,” Filius stammered, his voice caught between laughter and bewilderment, “your… undergarments—”

Dumbledore glanced down, chuckled, and waved a hand as though dismissing a minor inconvenience. “Ah, yes! A little gift from a friend at the ministry. They’re supposed to bring good luck, but I find they add a certain je ne sais quoi to the day.”

Minerva let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing her temples as if to stave off an impending headache. But just as quickly as the levity had arrived, it vanished. Dumbledore’s playful demeanor slipped away like a mask, replaced by the unyielding resolve that had seen him through wars and crises. He swung his legs off the table, sitting up straight, his gaze now sharp, his tone carrying the weight of the world.

“Hogwarts is sinking,” Dumbledore said, his voice low and resonant, each word heavy with the gravity of the truth he was about to reveal. “And not just Hogwarts. All of Magical Britain is sinking. Magical Britain as a whole has been sinking, slowly but surely, into a mire of complacency, ignorance, and fear. The cracks have been forming for years, fractures in the very foundation of our society.”

The words struck like a cold wind, chilling the air around them. Filius felt a knot tighten in his chest, the truth of Dumbledore’s statement hitting him like a sledgehammer. They had all sensed it, the slow decay, the creeping stagnation that had gripped their world. But hearing it so bluntly from Dumbledore brought it into sharp, undeniable focus.

“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore continued, “was once the beacon of magical education, a place where the brightest minds gathered, where the future of our world was forged. But it has become stagnant. The world outside our walls is changing rapidly, and we—no, I—have allowed Hogwarts to fall behind. I was too busy playing politics, too consumed by the battles with Grindelwald and Voldemort, to notice that our very way of life was eroding from within…Look at us now. Our professors, the finest minds of their generation, stretched so thin they can barely breathe between their duties. Instead of devoting time to groundbreaking research or mentoring students who show exceptional promise, they are bogged down with administrative tasks, marking endless essays, and teaching the same lessons year after year with no room for true innovation.”

He looked directly at Pomona, his gaze piercing. “Pomona, how many promising students have you seen wither because you simply didn’t have the time to guide them as they needed? How many new discoveries in Herbology have you had to abandon because there was no funding, no support, no room to explore?”

Pomona’s face tightened, her earlier amusement gone. She had devoted her life to nurturing the next generation of witches and wizards, but she knew all too well how many students had slipped through the cracks, how many potential breakthroughs had been lost to the demands of day-to-day survival.

“And you, Filius,” Dumbledore said, turning to the Charms professor, “how many times have you had to set aside your own research, your own ideas, because your time was swallowed up by endless grading, pointless meetings, and the stifling expectations of a curriculum that hasn’t changed in decades? How often have you felt the spark of inspiration, only to have it snuffed out by the weight of tradition?”

Filius nodded slowly, the memories of half-finished spells and abandoned experiments swirling in his mind. There had been so many times he had wanted to dive deep into a new idea, to push the boundaries of Charms, but the realities of his duties had left him with little more than frustration and a sense of lost opportunity.

He paused, letting the words sink in. Filius felt the knot in his chest tighten. He knew what Dumbledore was saying was true. He had seen it in the dwindling enthusiasm of students, in the outdated practices that the Ministry clung to like a lifeline. The magical world was stuck, refusing to adapt, and it was costing them dearly.

“We’ve grown comfortable,” Dumbledore continued, his voice rising slightly, “too comfortable. We’ve relied on the glories of the past, on the reputation of Hogwarts, of our bloodlines, of our magical heritage. But what good is heritage when it turns to dust in our hands?”

Dumbledore’s fist came down on the table with a force that made Filius jump, the roots of the table trembling under the impact. Andromeda’s eyes widened, and even Severus leaned forward slightly, his attention fully captured.

“The Ministry, the powerful patrons…” Dumbledore went on, his tone biting, “have starved us of the resources we need. Funding is cut year after year, and yet they demand more from us—more results, more control, more conformity. Our culture has become insular, afraid of change, of innovation. We’re clinging to the remnants of a golden age that has long since faded.”

“Enough,” Dumbledore declared, his voice like a thunderclap. “I have had enough of watching our world decay from the inside out. Enough of waiting for someone else to take action. They will tighten the noose around our necks until there’s nothing left of us but hollow shells. Nobody will save us - if we don't save yourself. That’s why I created the Society of Occultism, Cryptic Knowledge, and Sorcery—SOCKS. A place where we can work free from their interference, free from their stranglehold on progress.”

He let the words settle like dust after a storm, the clearing suddenly charged with anticipation. The professors leaned in slightly, as if by some collective instinct, sensing that what Dumbledore was about to reveal would change everything.

“SOCKS,” Dumbledore continued, his voice now a low, rumbling current of excitement, “is not merely a think tank, though it will indeed serve as a crucible for the brightest minds to challenge the very essence of magic. No, SOCKS is much more. It is also a university, a sanctuary for magical research and innovation.”

There was a moment of stunned silence as the weight of his words sank in. Filius Flitwick’s heart pounded in his chest. A university, devoted to magical research? In Britain ? It was almost too grand to imagine - there had always been only one, the Flamel University, in all of Europe ! A second one ? Created by Dumbledore himself ?

“And as with any true university,” Dumbledore went on, his voice lifting with a note of triumph, “there will be professors. And with professors, there will be chairs. And with chairs, funding and PhD students.”

Gasps rippled through the group. Even Severus Snape, ever the model of composure, allowed his eyes to widen, momentarily betraying his surprise. Minerva McGonagall’s hand flew to her chest, her lips parted in disbelief. Chairs meant recognition, authority, freedom to explore their fields without the crushing weight of daily classes. It was a gift beyond measure.

Dumbledore’s gaze swept the room, his smile deepening as he took in their reactions. “Some of you may already know this,” he said, nodding to the Heads of House who had been present at the Board meeting. “But for others, I suspect this comes as a bit of a surprise. Bathsheda, Septima—this is likely news to you.”

Bathsheda Babbling looked momentarily stunned, her usual calm demeanor disrupted by the realization of what Dumbledore was offering. Septima Vector, however, seemed to freeze in place, her eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. The ever-composed Arithmancy professor was uncharacteristically flustered, her thoughts racing as she processed the monumental opportunity being laid before her.

“Starting immediately,” Dumbledore continued, his voice now warm with assurance, “the six of you present will transition to teaching only sixth and seventh years, along with a yearly seminar accessible to all other years, three hours per grade. Each of you will also need to groom a successor to take over your regular teaching duties—except for Severus, of course, as Horace has already returned to fill that role.”

The professors exchanged glances, each of them processing the enormity of the changes being set in motion. But Dumbledore wasn’t finished.

“Beyond that,” he said, leaning forward, his voice brimming with excitement, “each of you will be offered a chair and the directorship of a research lab in your respective field. You will receive 100,000 Galleons in initial funding to recruit a research assistant and two Ph.D. students—one selected from among your own top pupils, and the other chosen through the Graduate Program of SOCKS.”

For a moment, the clearing was silent, as if time itself had paused to let them absorb the impact of his words. And then, as if in a dream, Septima Vector rose from her seat, her usual reserve shattered by a surge of pure joy. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and she moved with an uncharacteristic grace, almost floating toward Dumbledore.

“Oh, Albus!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with laughter and disbelief. Before anyone could react, she threw her arms around Dumbledore, pulling him into a tight embrace. The move was so unexpected, so unlike the usually composed and precise Arithmancy professor, that it left the others momentarily speechless. As she hugged him, her large breasts pressed firmly against Dumbledore’s chest, the softness and warmth of her body making her joy all the more palpable. The headmaster, for his part, chuckled warmly, returning the hug with a gentle pat on her back, his eyes twinkling with a mix of surprise and amusement.

“Septima, my dear, I’m glad you’re pleased,” Dumbledore said, his voice filled with genuine affection as he gently extricated himself from her embrace.

Minerva McGonagall, usually the epitome of composure, looked as if she might actually burst into tears of happiness. Her hands shook slightly as she pressed them together, her mind racing with the possibilities that had just been opened to her. “Research?” she whispered, as though the word itself was sacred. “In Transfiguration? And funding? I won’t have to teach fifty hours a week anymore?” The idea was almost too wonderful to believe, and yet here it was, being handed to her on a silver platter.

Even Severus Snape, the most stoic and guarded of them all, couldn’t entirely mask his reaction. A rare, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes gleaming with something close to satisfaction. The opportunity to focus solely on Potions, to delve into his research without the incessant demands of teaching dunderheads—it was a gift beyond anything he had ever hoped for.

Dumbledore gave them a moment to savor the news, his own expression one of quiet pride as he watched their reactions. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, a series of scrolls appeared in midair, floating gently down to rest in front of each professor. The parchment was thick and finely textured, the words written in elegant, flowing script.

Each professor reached out with reverence, unrolling the scrolls to read the details carefully laid out before them.

Society of Occultism, Cryptic Knowledge, and Sorcery—or S.O.C.K.S

President: Albus Dumbledore
President's Secretary: Celia Andersen
Executive Director: Andromeda Black
Deputy Executive Director: Bill Weasley
Administrative Director: Arthur Weasley
Deputy Administrative Director: (Position to be filled)
Security Director: Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody
Financial Director: Michael Burry

Twelve Chairs:

Physics: The Ghost of Albert Einstein

Astrology: The Ghost of Isaac Newton

Runes: Bathsheda Babbling

General Arithmancy: The Ghost of Srinivasa Ramanujan

Applied Arithmancy: Septima Vector

Theoretical Arithmancy: The Ghost of Carl Friedrich Gauss

Transfiguration: Minerva McGonagall

Charms: Filius Flitwick

Herbology: Pomona Sprout

Potions: Severus Snape

History of Magical Institutions: The Ghost of Michel Foucault

Ethics and Philosophy of Magic: The Ghost of Hannah Arendt

The scrolls were detailed, outlining the structure of SOCKS, the responsibilities of each chair, and the immense resources now at their disposal. As the professors read, their eyes widened with awe, understanding the magnitude of what was being offered to them.

Dumbledore watched them with a contented smile, his heart swelling with pride. “This,” he said softly, his voice full of warmth and hope, “is what we will build together. A future where magic thrives, where knowledge is limitless, and where Hogwarts once again leads the world into a new age of enlightenment. Welcome to the Society of Occultism, Cryptic Knowledge, and Sorcery. Welcome to the future.”