I'm Albus Fucking Dumbledore - Chapter 37

Chapter 37

6th of September 1991

Malfoy Manor, Hidden Chamber 4

“Milord,” Otto Grimm's voice cut through the cold air, thick with the scent of damp stone and something far darker. The chamber’s oppressive silence devoured the sound, leaving only the echo of Grimm’s heavy footsteps. “The report on Andromeda Tonks, as you requested.”

Lucius Malfoy didn’t turn. He stood motionless, staring into the wavering flames of the torchlight, as if he could divine some hidden truth from their flickering. The stone walls of the chamber, carved deep into the bowels of Malfoy Manor, seemed to breathe with a life of their own, ancient runes pulsating faintly in the half-light, casting grotesque, shifting shadows across the cold floor. The air was thick with the smell of old magic—of power wielded for centuries by hands steeped in blood.

Grimm, hulking and menacing, advanced with the careful tread of a man who knew his place. His massive frame, encased in a black coat that strained against the muscles beneath, seemed almost too large for the space, yet he moved with the precision of a predator. He owed a life debt to the blonde aristocrat, one that shackled him—a debt that Lucius had been milking for more than six years. Grimm was no ordinary henchman. He was a weapon, forged in the icy halls of Durmstrang and honed by years of blood-soaked service. Yet here, in the gloom of Malfoy’s lair, he felt the familiar, gnawing fear coil in his gut—a fear that had nothing to do with the horrors he’d inflicted on others, and everything to do with the man who commanded him.

Lucius’s voice, when it came, was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of command. “Well?”

Grimm hesitated, then began, his voice gravelly, a deep rumble in the silent room. “She’s been making moves, Milord. Strange ones. She’s quit her job at the law firm but remains registered at the bar. Acquisitions—expensive robes, jewelry, items for high society functions. And restaurant reservations—private ones, cloaked by powerful artifacts. I couldn’t track her for several days.”

Lucius remained still, his gaze fixed on the flames, but there was a tightening in his grip on the snake-headed cane, a subtle shift in the air around him. “And her company?”

Grimm’s voice dropped, the fear he felt barely masked by his gruff tone. “I tailed her as best I could, but…” He swallowed hard. “She’s been meeting with Dumbledore’s clients. Arthur Weasley was one. But then—”

Lucius’s silence was a blade at his throat, forcing the words out of him. “But then I saw her with Alastor Moody.”

The name hung in the air like a curse, and the torches seemed to flicker as if recoiling from it. Lucius finally turned, his gaze locking onto Grimm with an intensity that made the larger man feel small, vulnerable. “You stopped following her.”

It wasn’t a question. Grimm nodded, his throat tight. “Milord, tailing Moody is more than suicide. It’s—”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, cutting him off before he could finish. “A death sentence,” he finished coldly, his voice a quiet snarl. The flames cast sinister shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his aristocratic features. “And yet you return to me with news of failure.”

The room seemed to contract around Grimm as Lucius turned, the slow, deliberate movement of a predator toying with its prey. His gaze shifted to the far wall, where a wretched creature was chained—an abomination of twisted flesh and malformed limbs, the result of dark experiments that even the most hardened Death Eaters would shudder to witness. The thing whimpered, its eyes wide with animalistic terror as Lucius’s wand lifted. This batch was also a failure.

“Crucio.”

The word was spoken with a lover’s tenderness, but the effect was anything but gentle. The creature’s scream tore through the chamber, a raw, guttural sound that clawed at the edges of sanity. Its body convulsed violently, the chains rattling as it thrashed against them, its tortured wails a symphony of agony that reverberated off the stone walls.

Grimm’s skin prickled, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. He had seen horrors, committed them even, but there was something about the methodical cruelty of Lucius Malfoy that chilled him to the bone. It wasn’t just the act of torture—it was the ease with which Lucius inflicted it, the clinical detachment that spoke of a man who viewed pain as nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. Lucius held the curse for several seconds longer, his eyes never leaving the creature, savoring each moment of its suffering before finally releasing it. The hybrid slumped in its chains, its pitiful whimpers echoing in the silence that followed.

Without turning to face Grimm, Lucius spoke again, his voice a silken whisper laced with venom. “And the Black family matters?”

Grimm’s hesitation was all the answer Lucius needed, and the scowl that darkened his features was a storm brewing. “Speak.”

The command was sharp, a lash across the skin, and Grimm flinched before stammering out the words. “Milord, our investigation is… inconclusive. But there are indications—strong indications—that Andromeda Tonks has been reinstated as a Black in the Gringotts files. To confirm this, we would need access to the Black family tapestry. Of course, we still have the keys to the vault…”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, his fury a palpable force in the room. He said nothing for a moment, letting the tension hang, the air thick with the promise of retribution. Then, without a word, he turned and strode from the chamber, his black robes billowing like the wings of a vengeful wraith, leaving the hybrid’s pitiful moans behind him. Grimm followed, his steps heavy with the weight of what he had witnessed, what he had failed to accomplish.

Lucius shed his dark suit and selected a set of robes more appropriate for his next engagement. He adjusted his cuffs with the precision of a man who left nothing to chance, his lips curling into a thin, humorless smile.

The Hogwarts Board meeting was in half an hour, and he would be there. Today, Lucius Malfoy would remind Albus Dumbledore, and everyone else who dared to oppose him, why the name Malfoy was synonymous with fear.

— —

6th of September 1991

Hogwarts

Quirrell's breath came in shallow gasps as he hurried down the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, the disillusionment charm cloaking him in a near-invisible shroud. His heart pounded in his chest, not from the exertion of his near-run, but from the knowledge that tonight—this very moment—was his best chance. Dumbledore was off the premises for the Board Meeting, and for once, Quirrell was free of the infernal werewolf that usually tailed him, sniffing around like a cursed bloodhound. Lupin wouldn’t dare show his face tonight, not with the Board members swarming the castle - well, the werewolf would dare, but Dumbledore had probably instructed him not too. And with the Heads of House also occupied by the meeting, the way was clear. He had to act now.

He reached the third-floor corridor, his steps slowing as he approached the door at the end. His hand trembled as he grasped the handle, the ancient wood cool under his fingertips. Quirrell hesitated, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. But there was no turning back. Not now. Not with the Dark Lord himself coiled around his thoughts, urging him forward.

He eased the door open, slipping inside with the careful precision of a man who knew too well the cost of a mistake. The room beyond was vast, shrouded in shadow, the ceiling lost in darkness. But the sound that greeted him was anything but ominous.

A low, wet slurping echoed through the chamber, and Quirrell squinted into the gloom. There, in the center of the room, lay the enormous Cerberus, the three-headed guardian that Hagrid had foolishly named “Fluffy.” Each of the beast's heads was bent downward, each of its enormous, slobbering tongues busy with what could only be described as... grooming. Quirrell’s eyes widened as he took in the sight before him: the giant dog, completely absorbed in the task of licking its own balls. All three heads were thoroughly engaged, tongues flicking in and out, drool pooling beneath them as they worked with the single-minded dedication of a creature that had found its bliss.

Focus, the cold voice in his head hissed, irritation seeping through the words. Do not waste time gawking at this spectacle. The creature is distracted, but it will not remain so for long.

Quirrell swallowed hard, his throat dry as he forced his gaze away from the bizarre sight. “Y-yes, Master,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. This time, he did not have to fake his stutter. The teeth of the dog were positively massive. He took a cautious step forward, every movement slow and deliberate. But just as he moved closer, one of the Cerberus’s heads lifted abruptly, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. The other two heads followed, the synchronized movement almost surreal, as they all turned to face him, their eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Quirrell froze, panic rising in his chest. The heads loomed closer, the growls rumbling deep in their throats. He could feel the Dark Lord’s impatience radiating through his mind, a cold, pressing force that threatened to consume him if he failed.

Sing, the voice commanded, dripping with scorn. That oaf Hagrid told you to sing, you imbecile!

“R-right,” Quirrell stammered, his voice shaking as he tried to recall the tune. Hagrid had mentioned it during their game for the dragon egg—something about singing to make Fluffy fall asleep. But what had he said to sing?

In a moment of sheer desperation, Quirrell’s mind latched onto the first song he could think of, a ridiculous nursery rhyme that he had overheard some children singing in a park years ago. With a deep, trembling breath, he began to sing—his voice quivering, off-key, and utterly horrible.

“Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full...”

The Cerberus’s heads tilted in confusion, the growls dying in their throats as they stared at him with what could only be described as bewilderment. Encouraged by their reaction, Quirrell continued, his voice rising in pitch as his nerves frayed.

“One for the master, and one for the dame, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane...”

The monstrous dog blinked slowly, the heads swaying slightly as if trying to process the nonsense being crooned at them. Quirrell’s singing was atrocious, every note butchered, every word garbled by his nervous stutter, but it was having an effect. The massive beast’s eyelids began to droop, its bodies swaying in time with the lullaby.

“Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full...”

Finally, with a synchronized sigh that shook the very ground beneath them, all three heads collapsed onto the stone floor, the Cerberus snoring loudly within moments. The sound was a deep, rumbling roar, but to Quirrell, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard.

Pathetic, the voice in his head sneered, but there was a begrudging note of approval. But effective. Now, move.

Quirrell allowed himself a small, shaky sigh of relief, though his heart still raced with the adrenaline of the moment. The dog was asleep, but the real challenge lay beyond the trap. What had Dumbledore put into that box ?