[Albus Dumbledore, President of the Wizard Union Association]
He stood up and walked to the window, seeing a scene of peace and prosperity outside—Muggles and wizards living in harmony, children running and playing in the streets.
Owls and broomsticks flying in the air.
This was the scene he had always hoped to see.
"Professor, are you ready?"
A familiar voice came from outside the door as Kingsley Shacklebolt entered, looking serious.
"Grindelwald has already invaded Eastern Europe, and we must take action."
The visitor spoke.
"Where is he?"
Dumbledore asked, his tone calm but firm.
"Nimongard. He has gathered a large number of followers, claiming to establish a new wizarding order." Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke with a hint of concern.
"Take me to see him."
Dumbledore spoke again.
He felt some power influencing him.
Making it hard to distinguish between reality and illusion—but it no longer mattered. Perhaps this was the true reality. Dumbledore turned, leaving the room with memories unfamiliar to Grindelwald.
The scene changes.
A blizzard swept over the ruins of Nimongard. Dumbledore alone set foot on this land shrouded in darkness. He wore a silver-gray robe, holding the Elder Wand, his gaze sharp.
Grindelwald stood atop a stone tower, his cloak billowing, eyes flickering with mad light.
"Albus, you've finally come," he sneered, "I thought you wouldn't come to die; the greatest wizard in the world is just a joke to me."
"I haven't come to die, but to end your ambition—you will soon know whether or not I am great," Dumbledore said slowly.
The two faced each other for a long time, then simultaneously wielded their magic wands.
The sparks of magic collided in the air, illuminating the entire ruins.
Finally, Dumbledore struck Grindelwald with a precise "Avada Kedavra," and the man who felt both familiar and unfamiliar to him in his subconscious completely fell.
"This is not the end, but a beginning."
Dumbledore looked at the captive Grindelwald.
Whispering.
Fog began to spread.
When it dissipated again.
Dumbledore found himself standing in the center of a magnificent hall.
He grew old again.
Why use the word "again"?
Before he could think.
Dumbledore's attention was drawn elsewhere.
The walls were filled with portraits he had never seen.
All of himself.
Including a young Albus Dumbledore, wearing a gorgeous purple and gold robe, with a Merlin Level 1 Medal on his chest, receiving a ceremonial award from the Minister of Magic.
"Let us thank Mr. Dumbledore once again!" Fudge's voice exploded in his ears, louder than he remembered, "It was his decisive action that thwarted that madman Grindelwald's plot!"
Applause thundered.
The Dumbledore in the painting bowed elegantly, his red hair still vibrant, his face without a single wrinkle, looking so spirited and enviable.
No sign of weariness.
"Is this me?"
The elderly Dumbledore began to feel confused.
Suddenly.
Someone called him.
He turned his head.
The scene changed again.
The hall at Hogwarts was brightly lit, students cheered, celebrating Dumbledore's ascent to the "Greatest Figure of the Century" list. Dumbledore sat in the headmaster's seat, beside him was a gentle witch—Alison Black, together they raised two children, one a magical genius.
The other a Muggle scientist.
"Dad, you're the greatest hero in the world!"
The daughter excitedly hugged him.
"I just did what I had to do."
Dumbledore replied with a smile.
Professor McGonagall came over, holding a cup of Honey Duke's special hot cocoa.
"Albus, are you not planning to run for the next Minister of Magic?"
"I've already handed the stage over to the young," he looked out the window, where the setting sun cast its rays on his face, marking the traces of time, "but I know there are things more important than power."
"Like what?"
"Like family, responsibility, and... love."
…
Perfect.
A life lived without any burdens and complexities was mesmerized thusly.
As life reaches its end, closing his eyes, it's as if he hasn't embarked on a new journey.
This is merely a moment of awakening.
The elderly Dumbledore found himself still standing on that grassland.
Ahead.
It was still the young Dumbledore who killed his family, studying, and doing whatever it took to achieve a complete life.
Everything just experienced.
Seemed like a future that would unfold after making such choices.
"But they are ultimately not the future, nor the choices I wish to make." The sealed true memories returned to Dumbledore's mind.
He once again became that pained Dumbledore.
Those bewildering false memories still lingered in Dumbledore's mind—headlines proclaiming "Genius Wizard Single-Handedly Defeats the Black Demon King," the photographs showing his spirited self.
In the hall of Hogwarts, students stood applauding for the "Greatest Headmaster Ever"; on the platform of the International Wizarding Federation, he waved the Elder Wand and brilliant fireworks bloomed in the sky.
Every image was glamorous, every life was flawless. There was no tragedy of Godric's Hollow, no bond of blood oath, no countless restless nights.
"Such a glorious life." A voice whispered in his ear, with honey-like sweetness, "Without vulnerabilities, without blemishes, only boundless glory..."
Dumbledore's memory froze on an image of the false memories. His elderly self sat at the chief position of the Wizengamot, surrounded by adoration.
Wizards, Muggles, all coexisted harmoniously under his efforts.
He was a true king.
Ruling over everything.
The temptation was strong—for most, at least.
However.
"There are no 'what ifs' in life." The elderly Dumbledore suddenly spoke, his voice firm and resolute. He raised the Elder Wand, its tip exploding in dazzling silver light.
"This... is not a trial, just a poor seduction!" His heart didn't long for such a future, he knew he didn't want such a future.
Such yearning.
Belonged to another Dumbledore.
One of those many Dumbledores forsaken by destiny—wherever the silver light reached, the magnificent illusion shattered like glass, and Dumbledore re-examined the false memories.
Everything appeared different from this perspective, that "glorious version" of himself had eyes empty of anything, and the handshake during awards was mechanical and rigid.
Utterly false.
In the dead of night, "he" would talk to a blank wall, as if someone stood there, it was a torment of the heart, leading him further down the path of anger. Most terrifyingly, in the most confidential records of the Ministry of Magic, a series of suspicious suppression actions were documented, all opposing voices mysteriously disappeared.
This is not a king.
It's a tyrant.
"A soul covered by a perfect facade is even more pitiful than a broken soul." Dumbledore said softly. With his words, the entire illusion realm began to collapse.
Before his eyes, the Bronze Gate appeared once again—inside, it was entwined with countless silver chains, each chain hanging a Destiny Bottle, containing futures that would occur if other choices were made.
"I know, this is another little trick." The inner judgment of Dumbledore was clear, yet he couldn't help but move forward to look for the destiny he hoped for.
And it was precisely this decision.
That let him fall again.
The surrounding scene began to change.
A new scene.
Was nurtured in Dumbledore's not strong enough heart.
He saw another life.
"Here, this book records how to deal with the Mormon issue, I finally found a useful way, Ariana, you can finally live like a normal person."
Another young Dumbledore, but he seemed to be a good brother.
"So what's the cost, brother?"
Ariana asked.
"Only a million souls." The young Dumbledore remained joyful.
"The God of Death, how merciful!"
His tone carried a touch of fervor.