I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 42

Chapter 42

6th of September 1991

US

Michael Burry’s apartment was a fortress of clutter, where the only semblance of order existed in the neatly stacked financial reports and investment guides that crowded his kitchen table. Medical textbooks, long since abandoned, lay forgotten on a shelf, their pages gathering dust like relics of a life he no longer wished to pursue. The bulb above flickered, casting long, jittery shadows over the room, as if the light itself were nervous about intruding on Michael’s world.

Michael was hunched over a series of charts, his mind a rapid-fire processor calculating variables and outcomes that would leave most people dizzy. His obsession had shifted entirely from the human body to the body politic of the markets, and he was on the verge of a breakthrough—if only he had the capital to turn theory into practice.

A knock at the door broke the silence. Michael paused, pen hovering above the paper. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Another knock, this time more insistent, drew a frown to his face. He set the pen down with precise care and walked to the door, opening it just a crack.

Standing on the other side was a man who looked like he belonged in a black-and-white film, not a Los Angeles apartment in 1991. His suit was pinstripe, his shoes gleamed, and a fedora perched atop his head at a rakish angle. His silver beard was neat, his eyes sharp behind round spectacles, and in his hand, he held a cane that seemed more a prop than a necessity.

“Michael Burry,” the man said with a voice that could have sold sand in the Sahara, “Good evening. I’m Albus Dumbledore.”

Michael opened the door wider, his gaze narrowing. “Who?”

“Albus Dumbledore,” the man repeated, stepping inside without an invitation, as though he had every right to be there. “I’ve come to talk about your future.”

Michael blinked slowly, his mind turning over the situation like a Rubik’s cube. “I’m done with medicine,” he said bluntly. “If that’s what this is about.”

Dumbledore chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Medicine? Oh, no. You’re destined for something far more interesting. Something that involves markets, numbers, and, if you’ll indulge me, a bit of magic.”

Michael’s brow furrowed. “Magic?”

Dumbledore waved a hand. “A figure of speech. For now. Let’s get to business, shall we?” He glanced at the table, where Michael’s charts lay in neat rows. “You’ve been looking at the commodities market, analyzing it down to the bones, haven’t you?”

Michael nodded cautiously. “Yes.”

“And you’re ready to act, but there’s just one thing missing.” Dumbledore tapped his cane on the floor, punctuating the statement.

“Capital,” Michael said flatly. “I need money.”

Dumbledore smiled, as if that were the simplest problem in the world. “Precisely. And that’s why I’m here. I’m offering you the opportunity to manage fifteen million dollars now. By the end of the year, I’ll add another eighty-five million, and from then on, an additional fifty to one hundred million every year.”

Michael’s eyes flicked back and forth as he mentally calculated the possibilities. The sheer scope of it was staggering. “I’ll be able to manage it on my own?”

Dumbledore’s smile widened, and his eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “You’ll have the ability to, yes. But you won’t. Because I’ll be providing you with… let’s call them ‘forecasts.’”

“Forecasts?” Michael asked, his tone flat, unimpressed.

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied, his voice light as he reached into his coat pocket. From that impossibly small pocket, he pulled out three thick folders, each labeled in bold letters. He laid them on the table, one by one: Black Wednesday (1992), Mexican Peso Crisis (1994), 1997 Asian Financial Crisis.

Michael looked at the folders, then at Dumbledore. “Predictions?”. He scoffed. Nobody could make predictions. That one of the fact of life : the sky was blue, people were stupid, magic did not exist and nobody can make predictions.

“Predictions, insights, information that no one else will have access to until it’s far too late,” Dumbledore said. “You’ll manage the fund, Michael, but with a slight advantage. You see, I don’t believe in simply throwing someone into the deep end without giving them a life raft.”

Michael stared at the folders, his face as expressionless as ever. “And what’s in this for you?”

“Watching a remarkable mind reach its full potential,” Dumbledore replied, his tone almost wistful. “And perhaps enjoying the occasional thrill of knowing the future before it happens.”

Michael’s gaze drifted back to the folders. “You could say I don’t believe in destiny.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said, leaning casually on his cane. “But you believe in numbers, probabilities, and outcomes. And you’ll find, as time goes on, that my predictions are… statistically sound. Well, sound, but vague. I only remember the big stuff - so I need someone to translate them in…technical terms, let's say. That's why I'm here.”

Michael was quiet for a long moment, absorbing the offer, the implications, and the sheer oddity of the man standing in his kitchen. Finally, he spoke. “If you’re asking for me to trust you, that’s a tall order.”

“Trust?” Dumbledore echoed, chuckling again. “No, Michael. I’m asking you to make money. The trust will come later, as it often does in these arrangements.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what if I refuse?”

Dumbledore’s smile remained unfazed. “You won’t.”

The certainty in the old man’s voice was unnerving, but not as unnerving as what happened next. With a flick of his wrist, Dumbledore’s cane disappeared, replaced by a polished silver goblet that hovered in the air before gently settling onto the table.

Michael’s only reaction was a brief pause before he asked, “And I’ll still have full control over the fund?”

Dumbledore’s smile grew even broader. He did not care about magic - only about money. “Yes, Michael. Full control. But with my guidance, you’ll find it far more profitable to listen than to go it alone. And I'll attach a divinatory aid, of course, to help you manage the fund. ”

Michael nodded, the strangeness of the situation seeming to bounce off him without effect. “Alright then. We have a deal.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said, tipping his hat. “You’ll be hearing from me soon, Mr. Burry. And I assure you, the future is brighter than you can possibly imagine. Take a few weeks - so you can study the folders, and see wether the predictions on the year 1991 are correct. I put them in a two page addendum to the Black Wednesday Folder.”

And with that, Dumbledore was gone in a gigantic ball of fire. Michael did not bat an eye - he had already started to read the folders and…it made sense. A lot of sense. Magic ? He did not give a shit - there were markets to be tamed.

— — — —

6th of September 1991

Hogwarts

Lucius Malfoy stormed out of the room, his face twisted in fury. "You’ll regret this, Bentham. And you, Lady Black—mark my words, this isn’t the end," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. Andromeda Black didn’t even flinch. She remained seated, her expression cool and utterly unbothered. The faint, taunting smile on her lips seemed to deepen Lucius’s rage. Clifford Bentham, standing beside her, barely acknowledged the threat, his face betraying only the faintest hint of satisfaction.

Vincent Crabbe lumbered after Lucius, his confusion evident in every heavy step. Severus Snape hesitated, a flicker of something—caution, calculation—crossing his sharp features. But ever the master of maintaining appearances, Snape quickly masked his thoughts, rising with fluid grace to follow Lucius out the door, his dark robes whispering across the floor.

As the door closed behind them, the room fell into a tense, stunned silence. Minerva McGonagall’s grip tightened around the leaflet in her hand. The words printed there seemed almost surreal: fewer classes, more funding, teaching assistants for every professor. Was this real? Could Hogwarts truly be on the brink of such profound change? She glanced around at her colleagues. Filius Flitwick looked uncharacteristically small and still, his usual energy drained. Pomona Sprout’s hands were clasped together tightly, her face a study in shock. What had just happened? The weight of the moment pressed heavily on them all.

It was Amelia Bones who finally broke the silence, her voice clear and measured. "Lady Black, you’ve orchestrated something remarkable here. This will reshape Hogwarts entirely." Bones was a striking woman, her sharp features softened by a quiet confidence. The severity of her attire—tailored robes that accentuated her lean frame—only added to her commanding presence.

Bartemius Crouch, ever the pragmatist, nodded in agreement. "A well-executed plan. This ensures a brighter future for our students, for our own families." His eyes, though stern, held a glint of respect.

Augusta Longbottom, her age not dulling her shrewdness, adjusted her towering hat, the vulture perched atop it giving an approving nod of its own. "Indeed, Lady Black, a fine achievement. But one must wonder," she added, her voice tinged with curiosity, "where did you secure such substantial funds?"

Andromeda stood, her movements smooth and unhurried. Her robes, tailored with exquisite precision, traced the delicate curve of her waist, cinching just enough to accentuate her hourglass form before flowing down in a smooth, elegant line. The neckline plunged daringly, revealing the soft, porcelain skin of her chest, where a subtle hint of shadow played against the swell of her breasts. A fine silver chain lay nestled just above, its delicate links catching the light with every breath, drawing the eye naturally to the graceful rise and fall beneath, a quiet but undeniable display of her poised allure. Her raven hair, glossy and rich, was swept up into an elegant chignon, a few loose tendrils framing her face with a calculated carelessness. Her lips, painted a deep red, were full and inviting, curved into a smile that was knowing and seductive.

"The origin of the funds, Augusta, are none of your business," Andromeda replied, her voice smooth and rich, with a hint of something darker underneath. "Just know that Hogwarts is in good hands - and that Neville will have the best education you could have dreamt for him."

Dolores Umbridge, eager to align herself with the victorious, edged closer, her simpering smile in place. "Remarkable work, Lady Black," she gushed, her voice saccharine. But the group around Andromeda subtly closed ranks, leaving Umbridge on the outside. Andromeda’s response was a polite but distant nod, enough to acknowledge but not to welcome. The message was clear: Umbridge was not part of this inner circle.

As the others began to leave, Andromeda approached the four Heads of House, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and confidence. "Minerva, Filius, Pomona," she began, her voice warm yet laced with authority. "Allow me to introduce Clifford Bentham, Hogwarts’ new Superintendent."

Bentham stepped forward, offering a respectful nod. "Professors," he greeted, his tone smooth, almost casual. "I’ll be handling the administrative side of things, ensuring Hogwarts runs efficiently. I must say, this is quite the opportunity—far better than my previous position at the Ministry."

Minerva exchanged glances with her colleagues, the rapid shift in Hogwarts’ structure still sinking in. What would it mean for them?

Before anyone could speak, the door creaked open again, and Severus Snape reappeared, his face impassive, though his eyes flicked with a hint of dark curiosity. "Andromeda," he said, his voice measured but with an edge that betrayed his unease.

Andromeda turned to him with that same confident smile. "Severus," she replied smoothly, then addressed the group as a whole. "Warlock Dumbledore wishes to meet with the Heads of House immediately. It seems there’s still much to discuss."

The four exchanged glances, each of them grappling with the oddity of being summoned by Dumbledore through a woman who, just hours earlier, none would have imagined as one of his key client. For Minerva, the moment carried a strange weight, an unfamiliar tension in her chest—a blend of apprehension and something almost akin to excitement. Something she had not felt for a long time - maybe since she discovered transfiguration.