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A Light-Hearted Response

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A Light-Hearted Response


It was disturbing, to be honest, the sheer number of people who were raking up profits for Voldemort's war fund. It did not matter that the Dark Lord had given up on bloodthirsty war and strife; he was still corrupting people, and that was unacceptable.

No, Albus Dumbledore made up his mind, he would not let Tom waylay any more young minds.


He thought hard and he thought fresh, striving for a solution to the problem without outright banning the use of software in Hogwarts. Perhaps, the solution was not to get the students to stop watching streams, but to get them to watch ones that offered the right guidance.


"Harry, my dear boy." Albus began, offering a conspiratorial wink. "It seems that I must begin a counter-attack to Tom's latest schemes."


The boy in question blinked owlishly at him. Poor lad seemed to have no idea why Albus had summoned him, and that was fine. Voldemort seemed to have influenced even dear Harry to some extent. The seer's skull and the unsettling trinkets he had won in the raffle was proof of that.


He unwrapped a box of ice mice and popped one into his mouth, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "We ought to find what attracts people more than the promise of forbidden magic, and start our own livestreams. What say you, m'boy?"

"Anything you need, Professor Dumbledore." Harry replied mechanically.


Albus nodded, still deep in thought, when the idea struck him. He took out his own laptop, fumbling with the keys as he hit up a list of all the websites that made the most money. Oh yes, there were so many possibilities...


The very next day, Albus had Harry set up the necessary equipment in the Room of Requirement, and he offered a class on the basics of formal and informal duelling.

That very evening, Voldemort had two of his best Death Eaters duel on screen.

Suffice to say, Albus' session concluded with very poor stats.

Oh no.


This wouldn't do at all.

Someone was leaking information of Albus' actions to Tom- perhaps they even had spyware planted into his laptop! Muggle technology could not be trusted at all.


Albus' next course of action was to start a series of educational videos to oppose the live butchery of victims in the Dark Lord's main series. He headed out to the country-sides and 'caught' several victims of ill fortune, and the next of his live sessions was with an unfortunate Muggle who had suffered under the Transmogrification Torture.


Harry was visibly surprised when Albus rolled up his sleeves and set to work, undoing the horrendous chain of curses on the man.

Honestly, it was a little cool, even for an old man like him.


When the unconscious Muggle was taken out of this grotesque state and his memory modified, Albus winked into the camera as a gobsmacked Harry clapped, still in a daze. After all, he was a transfigurations prodigy- this was easy work for him.


"Where did you even get the man, Professor?" Harry asked, eyes wide. "I don't think any of Si- the Dark L- His Death Eaters can perform this torture."

"Of course they can't." Albus said with a merry laugh. "Tom sees very little of interest in Transfigurations; he does not have a single certified Master of the subject in his arsenal. I, on the other hand-"


It was too late when Albus realised he had slipped.

Harry blinked at him again, mouthing soundlessly, and Albus hastily shushed him with a finger.

"It's for the greater good, my dear. What is a little wrong if it can make a million rights?"

Oh, he dearly hoped he hadn't scared Harry away.


The next day, Tom's Assistant had released a reaction video to the Light Livestream, praising the cool points of the Transfigurations-based curse, although he confessed he didn't have the skill to try it out yet.

Fans of Dark Livestream had already set up a rating system for the Light Livestream, based on how miserable the Golden Boy looked in each episode, and Dumbledore was again getting an absurd load of hate-mail.

But that was not what was most upsetting; no; that was the next week’s Professor Riddle episode detailing out how to cast Transmogrification Torture.


Oh dear.

What a misfire.


Albus paced in his study and scratched his beard. He ate more sweets, dived into his pensieve, and in the end, he crumpled dejectedly in his Headmaster's chair.

"It's okay, Professor Dumbledore." Harry patted his shoulders good-naturedly. "You tried your best."


No, he hadn't.

Albus hadn't tried all the tricks in his book yet.


Tom had looked far too 'cool', in Harry's own words, doing the lecture series. Again, old man as he was, Albus could not compare.

Although, he fancied, in his youth, he probably could have gathered more viewers. Albus had once been the envy of all his schoolmates with his fine dance moves, after all...


"Set up the camera, darling." He waved the boy away, rushing to his rooms to pick out a set of suitable clothing.


Albus was waist deep in his heap of clothes, torn between his favourite spotted mink-fur dress robes and cotton-candy ones; the latter had such lovely lace and flaring trims that he was so tempted to wear... But the mink coat had been very popular with the girls; they always told him it made him look so regal...


It was a terrible choice to make- to wear the mink and regain a cheering female audience or to wear the cotton-candy robes and let himself loose, to simply enjoy the day?



When Harry miserably waited inside the Room of Requirement with the filming equipment for yet another of Albus Dumbledore's half-cooked schemes, he had not expected to be greeted with the sight of the venerable Headmaster in dress robes of a style that matched Ron's ancient ones.

The boy didn't know whether it was due to the Headmaster's extreme age, or if Harry's eyes had simply gotten accustomed to the wild colours the wizard wore on a daily basis- but Merlin help him, he pulled it off.


The old man had also set his hair and beard with Sleekeazy's that it almost looked... lustrous.

Sweet Salazar.


"P-professor?" Harry asked weakly.

Dumbledore winked. "Lights, camera and action, dear Harry."


Harry recoiled when he suddenly spotted a music system, which had begun to play an upbeat Wizarding pop song by Flashing Wands. The kind of song, Harry realised, as his ears picked up the lyrics, that did not deserve a PG 13 rating.


"Sir?" He cried, inhibitions all gone as he yelled over the music. "Are you sure we should be streaming?"

"Hmm?" Dumbledore blinked, in the middle of conjuring a dance stage with something on it. "Oh, yes, it's all for the greater good, m'dear."

Harry realised, with dawning horror, that the 'something' was a ten-feet long steel pole, and that the professor already had one leg wrapped around it, and was swaying to the music with his eyes closed.


The Headmaster's robes parted to reveal a pair of eighteenth century men's high-heels, crimson soled and with a bright red bow on each buckle.

With more agility and strength than Harry had ever imagined his arms to have, Dumbledore swung himself on the pole, his heeled toes sweeping the polished wood floor in a slow, fluid motion, crossing his legs mid-air before a wave rippled through his body and he fell, gracefully flat against the ground.


Harry leapt to his feet, concerned that the old goat had burst his aneurism or something and died before Sir could kill him, when Dumbledore slid back up, flush against the pole in a move that looked almost like a reversed video.

But no, it was real, and the fact that Dumbledore had slid his cotton-candy outer robes off his shoulders was also very real.


Harry swallowed. This was a new level of Hell.


Under the robes, the wizard was wearing a slim-fitting tunic that made him look longer and more willowy than hundred-something year-old men had a right to look. It also exposed his pale ankles, his sheer stockings doing very little good...


The music rose, pounding to a crescendo and Dumbledore spun, dragging his hands up his chest and swaying his hips hypnotically- and the beat dropped, dropping with it the old man to his knees.


Dumbles on his knees, Harry thought, Sir would have paid half his livestream profits to watch this show.

On second thought, no, Harry would rather not have Sir watch this-


Dumbledore had begun to unbutton his tunic with coy looks at the camera through his half-moon spectacles. He flipped his hair and lowered himself even more, body rocking against the polished floor in very suggestive motions...


Harry found his throat very dry.

No, this was not supposed to be.

He was supposed to be lusting after Sir, and not some pervert old goat streaming a strip-show under the facade of bringing people to the light!



Sir's mass-conversion plans were definitely up for some serious competition.

He supposed that was the mark of a master pole-dancer.


The Headmaster's piercing gaze ran over an imaginary audience as he lifted himself on his arms, spinning at a right angle on the pole, his legs stretched in a slow sweep and gaining speed as one leg glided in the air to hook the heel around the pole.


Harry stared, wondering where the man had learnt to perform such wide splits when a young teen like himself was having trouble stretching his legs for Quidditch warm-ups. Then, in a power-move, almost rubbing it in the boy's face, Dumbledore wrapped one knee around the steel pole, hanging upside down from it with only his legs as his hands teased the collar of his tunic and down his sides, sliding the fabric off his body.


The lime green tunic shimmered to the floor, and the wizened warlock was left on the pole with wearing tight snakeskin breeches and an iridescent shirt that seemed to be holding up only with magic.

Dumbledore stepped down, his back arched and arse tight in the breeches, twerking as the music picked up again. And then he let go of the pole, legs sliding forwards and backwards in a split, arms reaching for his front toes and rolling on the floor.


Then the wizard was on his back, stocking-covered legs waving gracefully, stretching, swinging and folding as his spine arched again, arms flat on the floor and head tilted to peer through lidded eyes at the camera.


"Bring it close, Harry." A voice whispered in his head, and the boy was startled that he hadn't noticed the Legilimency. He didn't have time to panic about the double-life the Headmaster possibly might have unearthed, for he suddenly registered what was being asked of him.


"W-what?!" Harry flushed like a tomato, eyes searching for anything that was not the professor's arse in the air.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Why, the camera, my boy. What did you think of?"


He left that unanswered as he obediently zoomed the camera in onto the booty filling the snakeskin breeches, not missing the allegory that the Headmaster was trying to project.


Dumbledore rolled again, propping himself onto his elbows so that he could twerk better, and Harry found the sight as horrifyingly mesmerising as playing the staring game with Nagini. His eyes teared up, longing to blink, but alas, he stood frozen to the spot as Dumbledore slid back up the pole in a graceful move, the length of his body pulsing against the steel in tandem with the beat of the music. The new set of clothes bared the shape of his figure, and while the Headmaster was old, his body was lithe, and Harry's face was turning a miserable shade of pasty red.


It was not his first time getting aroused on camera- Sir was a fallen angel, a sinful devil that nobody could resist- but certainly the first time he was being skinned alive with the shame of it.


He thought of what Sir would do if he found out.


But, as the Assistant in his brain unhelpfully pointed out, Harry was now nobody to sir, now that their connection had been broken.

The boy groaned into the palms of his hands, but then, very boldly, Albus Dumbledore ripped his iridescent shirt off, body still wound high on the pole, and threw it at Harry's face.


It hit him spot on and broke him out of his misery; mouth terribly, terribly dry as he stared at Dumbledore's pale, clean-shaven body; horrifyingly enough, as svelte and flexible as the twinks in that stash of porn Harry had found in Sirius' closet.


Ha, ha... He thought blankly, the image of an auburn haired, blue eyed twink in leather underpants worming at his sanity...


The music system had switched to another song, a lively one that Harry found his unwilling head bobbing along to.

The elderly warlock spun vertical circles on the pole, his red-soled feet very bright and kaleidoscopic against the many-mirrored walls of the Room of Requirement.

Harry wondered when the Room had shifted.


And then, the Headmaster's breeches split at the seams, flying off to reveal his stockings- which had been tights all along- and the sleek leather pants that Harry had just imagined.


With a mischievous curl of his lips, Dumbledore leapt down the pole with the agility of a cat, heels clacking on the wood as he landed, and stalked towards the camera with the air of a model on a ramp.


But he stopped midway, eyes fixed on Harry, and hooked his finger beckoningly.

"Bring a chair, m'dear."


Eyes wide and face scalding hot, Harry complied, dragging a stool the Room had provided to the scantily clad Headmaster. He stopped inches short of the wizened old man, taking in a sharp breath as a spindly finger ran down his cheek and throat, hovering over his bobbing voice box. "Professor...?"


Dumbledore smiled, benign and grandfatherly, as he pushed Harry down onto the chair, a wave of wandless magic adjusting the camera to focus on them better. "Hush, dear boy. It'll be fun."


And then the wizard was straddling him, the texture of his tights extremely visible from this short distance, the tightness of his arse against the leather pants undeniable and unavoidable. The warlock gyrated his hips in tandem with the song, his supple midriff looking too appealing for a horny teenager at this distance.


'I'm getting my first lap-dance, and it's from Dumbledore,' Thought Harry hysterically, the voice in his mind uncharacteristically high and faint. This looped around his head like some sick mantra, and every bit of him ought to have been recoiling in disgust-

-but all it managed to do was pump more blood to a place he did not want to think of when not thinking about Sir.


Dumbledore had turned, and his arms laid firm on Harry's shoulders, steadying him; and then the man had lifted himself again, his elderly- ah, fuck it, his elderly twink body contorting exquisitely on Harry's lap.


The boy could count all of the Headmaster's ribs as he curved backwards, the latter's fingers dancing over the pale flesh and skating up and down his torso in ways that made the boy under him pant- and finally, his head descended, crooked nose bumping against Harry's, emerald eyes peering into startling blue ones through two pairs of glasses.


The ritardando ground to a halt.


“Hello, Harry.” The old professor chuckled, looking sheepish. “Was it alright?”

“Y-yeah, it was.” Harry rasped out, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. He was extremely aware of their position, of the man sitting on his lap, stunned mind open to all Legilimency as their eyes locked-

But Dumbledore didn't plunge in and tear through his secrets. Instead, the old Headmaster extricated himself gracefully from Harry's lap, the bright red of his ears and cheeks visible through the mane of silver hair as the wizard spun and hastily walked back to where his clothes lay in a crumpled pile.


Harry slumped on the stool, crying, disbelief lifting him into a high as his mind whirled around how close he had been to ruin and eternal shame.

It pounded inside his head, turning him deaf and blind and numb.


Harry did not quite know how he got back to Gryffindor tower- Dumbledore could have carried him back, for all he knew; he would have to wait for the next day's fallout for that- but that evening, the Dark Livestream episode had more recorded views than live ones.


The very next day, Assistant set up another reaction livestream on his channel, and cursed and spat vehemently throughout it- trying to pass it off as second-hand mortification; at the very end, he noticed that Sir had joined him sometime in between.

It was the first time anyone had seen true horror on the Dark Lord's face.


Perhaps the rumours were true, Assistant thought. Dumbledore indeed was the one man whom Sir would always be afraid of.

"Sir..." Assistant asked carefully. "Are you alright?"


There was a drunken look on the dark wizard's handsome features. "Sweet and sour Salazar..." Voldemort breathed, looking stunned and revolted at the same time, "How much d'you s'ppose he charges for a private show?"


Uh- what.