Tastes Like Chicken

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Albus was the sort of person who was considered wise by an overwhelming majority of the wizarding community. It was simply irrefutable fact that he had lived long and learned much. However, it was also becoming fact that there was something slightly off-kilter with the man. To put it simply, the man was crazy.

But most people didn’t really know just how crazy.

The Hogwarts Headmaster had always had an affinity for birds, especially the phoenix. Any of the other faculty members would tell you that he loved Fawkes, respected the animal and, according to several professors, had a rather unhealthy relationship with the bird.

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It all began on the day when the door to Dumbledore’s office was sealed shut. The usual password didn’t work and Professor Flitwick, paranoid that he was, immediately suspected Dark magic and traced the perimeter in search of clues as to what charm might have been cast.

Severus Snape was far more cynical about it, suggesting in a sardonic tone that perhaps the headmaster just wanted to be alone with his bird, the innuendo slicing through his words like knives. He’d smirked and sauntered back to the Potions dungeons, leaving the other professors staring after him with expressions that ranged from disapproving to appalled.

But Snape had been correct in his assumption. For, at that very moment, Albus Dumbledore was sitting in a plush chair in his office, being serviced by the beak of a very obliging bird.

“Mmm…” he murmured, eyes twinkling as they blinked open and closed behind his half-moon glasses.

The bird nudged him gently, the beak surprisingly less sharp than would be expected, but still harder than any fingertips would have been. But it was Fawkes, and that made it alright in Albus’ mind and it felt relaxing more than anything.

Most people would be surprised that a man his age would still be able to get it up after so many years, and it was true that in most cases, he couldn’t. But there was something about the touch of that cool beak around him and the clucking noise of the sliver of tongue that always managed to do it for him.

Albus Dumbledore was just a kinky bastard. Snape had known this as he traipsed back to his room with a smug glower. He’d known ever since that day in his second year when the headmaster had invited him in for a chat in his office and, well, being the private man that he was, Snape didn’t like to go into detail. Suffice to say, he had very reliable evidence as to just how perverted the old wizard could be.

Dumbledore had begun to ‘experiment’ with Fawkes several years back. It started with just petting, but had since progressed to wildly extravagant things including having Fawkes give him a rimjob, which he liked, to shoving the bird’s claws up his arse, which he didn’t; Those talons were mighty sharp, he later discovered, avoiding Madame Pomfrey’s skeptical gaze when he went to her for treatment for the subsequent inflammation.

But there was one thing the headmaster had yet to try. It was Burning Day, and after what Snape had said in that all-too cocky tone, McGonagall had suggested that perhaps this was the reason Dumbledore’s office was locked. Perhaps he simply needed some time with the bird as it underwent its habitual transformation from ashes to rebirth.

Minerva would have been surprised to find just how correct she was in this assumption.

Dumbledore had managed to slip out of his flowing robes and was now poised over his desk, coaxing Fawkes on with the tone of voice of a jolly grandfather.

The bird thrust in, gagging loudly but undeterred – it knew its place.

Dumbledore moaned in a whistle tone, his beard shuddering over the wood of the desk.

But only seconds later, there was a heat, a heat that was foreign and could only mean one thing.

A string of obscenities shot from the headmaster’s mouth as he realized that his beloved bird had gone up in flames earlier than expected, and now his arse was very much on fire. And despite the fact that Albus was quite the kinky bastard, even he had his limits. And this was just not on.

His shrieks permeated down through the spiraling staircase and came muffled upon the ears of the professors who were still waiting with worried looks outside the entrance of his office.

“I told you!” Flitwick screeched triumphantly, “This is the work of some dark wizard! And he’s up there right now with Dumbledore!”

Professor Sprout’s eyes widened in panic; she’d always been prudent, but the urgency in Filius’ words was causing her to become slightly riled herself.

A few minutes passed as the professors all exchanged looks, trying to think of some dignified way to approach the situation.

And then the cries from Dumbledore’s office ceased.

Upstairs, the phoenix had been reborn, a little runt of a bird flopping its wings in the air hesitantly. But Albus was not fooled. He would make that blasted bird pay. He’d been so close to orgasm he could taste it… and then… that stupid bird had to go and ruin everything.

He would pay, thought the headmaster, drawing the wand from its resting place on the corner of his desk and murmuring the incantation.

”Incendio.”

That night at dinner, Minerva McGonagall noticed that Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling with more than their usual share of mischief and he was devouring his dinner with a ravenous hunger.

“A good night, Albus?” she asked, trying to think of a way to tiptoe back to the issue of his locked office door.

“Splendid,” he replied, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “This meat is fantastic, isn’t it?” he added, collecting the bones in a neat corner on the side of his plate, “truly exquisite.”

Minerva should have thought it odd that the headmaster kept licking his lips, and should have found it strange that he was the only one eating chicken that evening.

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