"Here comes Headmaster Dumbledore!"
"Headmaster Dumbledore is here! We're saved!"
"Damn those Saints! Damn Grindelwald!"
As Dumbledore walked along the grand avenue, lined with squib wizards holding colorful welcome flags, he felt an immense weight settle upon his shoulders.
The wizards in the crowd were waving, cheering, crying—pouring out all the fear, suffering, and desperation they had endured during this war.
Dumbledore could see it in their eyes.
He was not just a leader to them. He was their last hope.
If they lost that hope, they would collapse.
The burden of expectation pressed against his heart, but he did not falter. This was not a pressure born of magic—it was the will of the people, the faith of those who had nothing else left.
A dark wizard might have dismissed their emotions, but Dumbledore?
He could not.
He would not.
Even if the weight of their hopes crushed him, he had to carry it.
Before long, Chenos led Dumbledore, the supporting Aurors, and other wizards to the towering marble entrance of the Magic Congress Headquarters.
Standing in formation outside the grand doors were dozens of wizards.
Not just any wizards—Aurors.
The war heroes of the Magical Congress.
They bore their scars proudly.
Some had bronze and gold medals pinned to their uniforms, a testament to their valor. Others wore their injuries like badges—missing limbs, enchanted prosthetics of wood, metal, and jade replacing what had been lost in battle.
Their presence alone spoke volumes.
They were the ones who had fought.
They were the ones who had suffered.
And they were the ones who still stood, ready to lay down their lives for wizardkind.
Behind Dumbledore, Auror Alastor Moody took in the sight and felt a rare flicker of respect.
Like him, these wizards had fought at the front lines, facing horrors most would never understand.
They had given everything for peace.
For that, Moody could sympathize with them.
Chenos stepped forward, his voice ringing across the square.
"Fellow wizards of the Magical Congress! This is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore! With his arrival, the fall of Grindelwald and his Saints is within reach!"
He gestured toward the Aurors.
"Your bravery, your sacrifices—they will not be in vain."
Chenos then turned to Dumbledore.
" Headmaster, these are the heroes of our Congress. They have waited a long time to meet you."
"Would you care to say a few words?"
Dumbledore hesitated for only a moment.
He looked into the eyes of these wizards, these survivors.
He saw the resolve in their expressions—the hope, the expectation.
Then, he nodded.
But before he spoke, he did something else.
Dumbledore walked toward them.
One by one, he looked at their faces, their wounds, their missing limbs.
He saw them.
Then, he raised his wand.
A soft hum of magic filled the air.
A radiant, milky-white glow spread from the tip of his wand, swirling into an intricate pattern before cascading into the sky.
As the energy gathered, the air became heavy with warmth, like the presence of something sacred.
Those with a sharp magical sense immediately recognized it—the magic of the unicorn.
A spell of healing and purification.
The glowing light spun in place for a moment, then broke into countless droplets.
Milky-white rain began to fall, gently descending upon the Aurors.
The moment the droplets touched their skin, warmth spread through their bodies.
Wounds tingled as they knit together.
Old injuries eased as their pain faded.
For the first time in months—some of them could truly breathe.
It wasn't a miracle. It wouldn't restore what had been lost.
But it was something.
Something human.
As the last drops of the enchanted rain dissolved, a quiet sense of peace settled over the warriors.
For the first time in a long time, they could simply stand there, feeling whole, if only for a moment.
Dumbledore, breathing slightly heavier from the exertion, finally spoke.
"You are all fighter," he said softly.
"Every wound you bear, every scar, is a mark of your sacrifice for peace. It is a testament to your courage."
He took a slow breath.
"The horrors of war... I do not need to speak of them. You have seen them. You have lived them."
"But peace—true peace—is not won easily. It is forged in battle, in sacrifice, in resolve."
"Peace is now."
Silence.
Then, one by one, the Aurors raised their wands in salute.
A quiet acknowledgment. A sign of trust.
Dumbledore returned the gesture.
Chenos watched it all unfold, the corners of his lips curling upward.
Beside him, Nass, the goblin elder, gave Chenos a sly thumbs-up.
He understood what was happening.
Chenos had masterfully trapped Dumbledore in expectation.
First, the desperate pleas of the squib wizards.
Then, the unwavering faith of the Aurors.
Soon, the leaders of the Magical Congress would add their voices.
The entire American wizarding world was placing its hopes on Dumbledore.
And Dumbledore—the greatest white wizard—could not walk away.
He would stay.
He would fight.
And he would bear the weight of this war, whether he wanted to or not.
Nass chuckled inwardly.
Moral entrapment.
A brilliant move.
He wiped at his eyes dramatically, pretending to be moved by Dumbledore's speech.
After all, if Chenos could act, then so could he.
Goblin Palace
In the dimly lit throne room, the Goblin King, Turan, sat motionless on his golden throne.
Before him, a curtain of light shimmered, displaying the unfolding events at the Magic Congress.
The screen had a faint yellow tint, a magical enhancement designed to filter out distortions.
Turan did not focus on Dumbledore.
He watched everything else.
He searched for them.
The Saints. Grindelwald.
Dumbledore's arrival was too perfect.
A grand welcome. A ceremonial embrace.
And yet, Grindelwald had not appeared.
That was not possible.
Turan's fingers tightened around his scepter.
Something was wrong.
The Goblin King did not trust coincidences.
Then—
In the pale yellow vision of the light curtain—
A figure shrouded in black light appeared.
The room chilled instantly.
Turan's eyes narrowed.
Grindelwald.
...
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