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3 June 1995, Merlin's Tomb
"The sword did not present itself to you, not as it did once, but lucky for you, my predecessor made sure that a Champion of Light would be able to find the sword once more. Excalibur might find you unworthy, but perhaps Merlin's last act could save you. You only need to pass his trials after all."
Albus Dumbledore learned to hate the cursed mockery of the greatest mage to ever live. Merlin was supposed to be a figure of wisdom and care, an ideal of might and order, so much so, that he had basically been elevated into godhood by mages across the entire world. Albus hoped that one day, people would speak of him in the same way, but it was very hard to see this apparition resemble the former Champion of Light in any way.
What was this thing, to judge him of all people of what he should and shouldn't have done, of critiquing the choices that Albus made when he hadn't even been there to make them in the first place? The former headmaster was very tempted to blast that entity into smithereens. He knew enough spells that could make that happen. After all, one did not live in a castle with a poltergeist without learning ways to manage it.
Unfortunately, Albus needed it. He didn't want to waste hours looking for the sword, and so, he spoke up, "Let's get on with trials then."
For some reason, Merlin's echo looked confused. "Seriously? Is that it? You don't have any questions or anything like that."
"Would you be willing to answer any of them?" Albus asked dryly.
"Well, no. What would be the fun of that? But I didn't expect you to just jump right in."
Albus rolled his eyes, "Where is this trial?"
"What makes you think you're not already in one," Merlin's echo answered before disappearing in a burst of leaves. Mallowsweet, specifically, given the smell.
Before Albus could question it, the island shifted. The air itself trembled, a pulse of magic rippling through the ground like a wave distorting reality. The trees blurred, twisting into impossible shapes before shattering like fragile glass, their fragments dissolving into golden embers. The ground beneath his feet lurched, and he felt himself falling—not physically, but as though he were being pulled through the fabric of existence itself.
It was not unlike a Portkey, but slower, more deliberate. He instinctively fought against it, trying to ground himself in the moment, but changed his mind less than a second later as he realized what was happening. Illusion magic. It was probably the most elaborate use of the magic he had ever seen, but it wasn't real either way. The details, the way everything morphed were so smooth, so realistic, in a way that only someone who had seen the impossible could have done.
It made sense, in a way. Merlin was known to like to use illusions.
The realization of what was happening made Albus relax slightly. These were illusions of trials. There would be no danger, not really, but he couldn't afford to keep his guard down, not against something that Merlin himself made, but it was more than enough.
His thoughts were interrupted by the island vanishing. Well, it would have been more accurate to say that it was what replaced it that truly shocked him. It was an office, one that Albus knew intimately.
His office.
But not as he had left it.
The wood of the desk was pristine, and the bookshelves were filled with untouched tomes, their golden lettering unblemished by time's passing. There were fewer silver instruments humming softly, ticking away with quiet precision.
The scent of fresh parchment, ink and polished oak, filled the air. Fawkes' perch stood in the corner, empty. Not because the phoenix had died, but because he had yet to be found.
And sitting behind the desk, dressed in deep violet robes, was a younger man.
Him.
Albus stilled.
The man before him was him, yet not. His auburn beard was neatly trimmed, his blue eyes bright, filled with the quiet confidence of a scholar, a visionary. There were no lines of exhaustion around them, no weight of war, of failure, of loss.
He looked… lighter.
He looked like a man who still believed in his dreams.
His younger self did not react with shock, nor even curiosity. He simply gestured lazily to the chair in front of the desk, as if he had been expecting him all along.
"Ah," the younger Dumbledore said, his voice eerily familiar yet distant, "so you finally arrived."
Albus did not move, nor did he say anything for a while, before finally stating, "Is this some kind of joke?"
His younger self burst into laughter, "It's ironic. I'm the one who's supposed to say that."
"I know that this is an illusion. Did you think that I'm foolish enough to think that I'm meeting my past self?"
"Oh, believe me, Albus Dumbledore, I am very real. We both know that things don't have to be physical for them to be real."
Albus snorted, "What am I supposed to do now, repent and cry about the choices I made? Am I supposed to see you and remember the man I used to be?"
"Do you?" his younger self asked, "Do you regret the choices that you made? It all started in this moment, back when you were me. Do you regret turning Tom Riddle into the monster he became, holding back as he wiped out families, one that actually supported you, without a care in the world? Do you regret the lives you took when you destroyed Olympus? You turned a boy into a weapon and sent him to his death, taking out other children with him."
Albus flinched at the last part. He didn't regret the war against Voldemort. It had been perfect before the damned prophecy was uttered. He killed his allies, specifically ones from older families, that had access to crests, and then, after enough damage was done, he would have killed the upstart and taken with him as many of his Death Eaters, specifically ones with family crests, in his 'grief'. The prophecy made him change tactics, use the child of the prophecy as a pawn, as a martyr, in another war, one that would be more complete, where from the ashes, a new country would be born. Every death had a purpose, even if Albus' dream of a magical utopia had died a very horrible death after he was ousted from Britain and knew that Ragnarök was coming.
However, Cedric Diggory's death only happened because Albus was taken by surprise. It hadn't meant to be this way, but Olympus Academy's headmaster had been adamant that he'd keep the task to himself. They didn't have a choice. The prophecy needed to be broken, and Cedric Diggory was the way to do it.
He regretted the boy's death and the devastation that followed, but he wouldn't do it any other way. Albus' answer must have shown on his face as his younger self sighed in disappointment, "You know, it's sad to see how self-righteous you are. You truly think you did no wrong, don't you? All these deaths, the lives you ruined, do they really mean nothing to you?"
"Everything I did was…"
His younger self let out a loud groan, "For the greater good. I get it. For god's sake, everyone gets it already. But don't you think you've gone far enough that this justification isn't enough?"
"Do you think I liked it when I did all those horrible things? Do you think I revelled in the suffering of others?" Albus roared back, "I am fighting for humanity's survival, sacrificed things that you would never understand. Do you have any idea what it means to give up my dream? Decades of work and deaths were all rendered absolutely useless because I chose to give up because of what was coming. Don't you think that all of this doesn't stick with me? The fact that a lot of people suffered for no reason."
"So, it's not the suffering that you don't care about, it's that it doesn't meet a purpose."
Albus' anger flared, a spark of magic crackling at his fingertips. "Don't twist my words," he snapped, his voice sharp as steel, laced with something dangerously close to frustration. "I have done what I must. I have done what no one else would. I have sacrificed more than you could possibly fathom, and yet you sit there, nothing more than some illusion, pretending to be alive, let alone understand the choices that I have made or their consequences."
His younger self flickered slightly before nodded, "Then why don't you prove it."
The former headmaster tilted his head in confusion and the illusion clarified, "Every single sacrifice you made, every single choice you made, was about someone else. It's those people who lost their lives, other people who suffered for your decisions. So, are you prepared to do the same, to lose what they lost, to suffer like them?"
"Always," Albus retorted without hesitating for a second.
His younger self's smile turned vicious, "I'm glad to see that you're motivated. I have decided what your trial will be, Albus Dumbledore."
"And what would that be?"
The man did not answer, instead, a burst of fire appeared in his office. Fawkes. Only he was different. His flames didn't look as vibrant. He didn't sing to lighten the mood as he normally did, but crooned, a mixture of pain and agony.
Albus ran towards his companion as he fell to the floor, unable to even fly, "What did you do to him?"
"It doesn't matter what I did to him, what matters is the choice you're going to make."
"What are you talking about?"
His younger self snickered, "Didn't you say that you would sacrifice anything for humanity? I want you to prove that. Kill Fawkes and I will give you Excalibur. What do you think?"
"You can't kill a phoenix," he answered back.
"You can with this," the man answered, giving him a black dagger. Albus recognized the Sumerian runes on them, "So, what do you think? Will you accept your hypocrisy and walk away empty-handed, or will you kill your dear friend?"
Albus was tempted not to do it. As much as he hadn't seen much of the phoenix recently, Fawkes had been his companion for a very long time. People didn't understand phoenixes, not really, and Albus didn't think he was different, but it was well-known that they preferred to spend time with people who changed the course of history, people who were surrounded by greatness. It had nothing to do with the Light or the Dark, only himself. It was proof that Albus was meant for great things.
He had never seen Fawkes like this, unable to fly and barely able to breathe. He looked in his friend's eyes and for a fraction of a second, it felt like he was pleading.
Albus froze.
The dagger in his grip was heavy, far heavier than it had any right to be. The runes pulsed with dark intent, whispering promises, urging him forward, but his grip trembled. His breath came uneven, and he forced himself to steady.
Fawkes crooned weakly, his golden eyes searching Albus', filled with trust. Not fear, not anger. Trust. Even now.
The former headmaster clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against the dagger's hilt. No, this farce had gone on for too long. He released a pulse of magic, only for it to be smothered by some wards. He was prepared to follow with another one, a stronger one that would shatter the elaborate illusion as if it was nothing, only for his younger self to snarl, "You do that, and you will never find Excalibur, that I can guarantee."
"This is wrong," he murmured, more to himself than his younger self.
The illusion's smirk widened. "Wrong?" he echoed, voice dripping with mockery. "Why? Because this time, the blood is on your hands? Because, for once, you can't hide behind a prophecy, a war, a cause?"
Albus said nothing.
"Oh, I see," his younger self continued, stepping forward, his expression turning almost gentle. "It was never about humanity, was it? Not really. It was about you. About the power, the control, the sheer, undeniable thrill of it. You liked it, Albus. You enjoyed every moment of it, every decision, every little move in your game of strategy."
"You're good at it," the illusion whispered, leaning in now, his voice barely more than a breath. "And that's why you kept going, why you kept sacrificing, why you never stopped. You wanted to see how far you could go. How much you could shape. How much you could twist. Because deep down, you never truly cared. And now, here you are, hesitating. Why?"
Albus swallowed.
Fawkes crooned again, a sound so soft, so weak, it twisted something inside of him.
"It's simple," his younger self taunted, his voice everywhere, suffocating. "If you don't do this, then nothing else matters. It was never about the greater good, was it? It was never about humanity. It was about you."
The words struck deep.
Albus' hands shook. He knew it was a trick, knew the illusion was designed to break him, but the words crawled under his skin like parasites, whispering, gnawing, festering.
If he didn't do this—if he walked away—what was the point of everything else? He hadn't even wanted to come here. This was his last choice, his last chance at saving humanity from Ragnarök. His choices, his sacrifices, the lives lost. If he turned back now, would it all be for nothing?
His grip tightened.
Fawkes trusted him.
With a swift, precise motion, Albus plunged the dagger into Fawkes' chest.
The phoenix screamed a raw, agonized sound that split through the illusion like a jagged knife. The fire around him flared violently—burning, twisting, writhing—before collapsing, turning to nothing but smouldering ash in his hands.
And then, silence.
The weight of it was deafening.
Albus stared at the ashes in his hands, his mind blank. His breath came sharp and shallow, but he refused to look up. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, finally looking up when he felt the sun on his face.
He was back on the Island, back in front of Merlin's grave. The apparition who had taken his place was gone. Hell, even the wards around this place were wiped out completely. Albus couldn't feel any trace of magic, nothing except for the familiar glowing sword, impaled on the gravestone, as it was so many years ago.
The former headmaster stared at it and yelled, "Fawkes!"
He waited for a few seconds before calling out once more, "Fawkes! Fawkes!"
Nothing happened. There was no burst of fire, no comforting song, nothing. He had hoped that his friend's death was just an elaborate illusion, that it was just some test of his resolve. It was a faint flicker, but it was now smothered.
And so, Albus Dumbledore stood there, on the grave of the greatest wizard to have ever lived, feeling nothing more than hate and despair, despite having achieved his purpose and found the sword. It was then that he realized that from the moment he stepped foot on the island, everything had been a test designed by Merlin. How much of it was real, and how much of it was fake, he didn't know. He didn't even care to find out.
Fawkes was dead and the world felt dimmer from that.
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AN: I'm really not sure about this chapter. I wanted Dumbledore to suffer for that sword, and who better to do it than Merlin, someone that he once worshipped the ground he walked on? Nevertheless, I'm not sure about a lot of things in this chapter. Did I go too far? Did I not go far enough?
I know some of you will ask why Dumbledore didn't just break through the illusion and take the sword. He could have broken it, but he wouldn't have found the sword if he did. Merlin's trials were meant to dig into Dumbledore's soul and poke everything that made him vulnerable and only when a suitable sacrifice was made, the sword would reveal itself. Everything was part of the trials, including the fake Merlin at the start.
As for why Excalibur revealed itself in the past, well, I had some lore planned for that, which I decided not to include (I might make an Omake or something later). Either way, he would have also needed a sacrifice to take it out. As usual, please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.
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If you want to support me check out my patréon at https://www.patréon.com/athassprkr
I tend to upload drafts of early chapters on there to get people's opinions of them so you can read up to 20 chapters ahead as a bonus.
Thank you guys for your support in these hard times.