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The memory began to take form, and the four observers found themselves standing amidst the towering shelves of Hogwarts' library, cloaked in a strange, ethereal invisibility. The quiet hum of the library filled the air, broken only by the occasional flutter of pages and the distant creak of the ancient wooden shelves.

There, sitting calmly at one of the tables, was a young woman—Hecate Targaryen. Her posture was confident yet composed, her gaze intent as she leafed through a heavy tome. She radiated an air of purpose, even in the stillness of the moment.

The real Dumbledore, Grindelwald, McGonagall, and Scamander watched as figures from the memory appeared: Dumbledore and McGonagall entering the library, their expressions wary. The Dumbledore in the memory stepped forward, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the girl.

Hecate closed her book with deliberate grace and rose to her feet, her movements as fluid as they were assured. "My family has decided to extend an invitation to both of you," she said, her tone calm yet firm. "To visit our... let's call it a place."

McGonagall from the memory blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Your family? Miss Targaryen, are you telling us that you've come all this way to deliver an invitation? At this hour? After breaking every rule imaginable?"

The observers could almost feel the incredulity radiating from the memory's McGonagall. The real McGonagall, standing in the Pensieve, crossed her arms and muttered, "I still can't believe I let this conversation proceed."

The memory continued, unfolding the events as they had happened. Hecate spoke with cryptic precision, her words carefully chosen to convey just enough to intrigue but not enough to explain fully. Dumbledore's interest was piqued, and despite McGonagall's protests, he agreed to follow Hecate to the mysterious location she spoke of.

The memory shifted, seamlessly transitioning to the next scene. The four observers found themselves in a grand, otherworldly hall—a space so ornate and alien it seemed to exist outside the boundaries of normal reality.

They watched as the King and Queen of Hecate's family greeted Dumbledore and McGonagall with regal composure. The interaction was cordial yet filled with an air of mystery, their words laced with double meanings. Then came the entrance that altered the entire tone of the memory.

The great-grandmother of Hecate swept into the room like a storm. Her presence was magnetic, commanding, and utterly irresistible. Her eyes, sharp and piercing, scanned the room with a mix of curiosity and authority. Her posture alone demanded respect, and her words only reinforced it.

She clapped her hands once, the sound echoing through the hall like a thunderclap. "Now, chop chop!" she said, her voice cutting through the atmosphere. Her gaze flicked to the King and Queen, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "You two—go spend time with your little one somewhere else. I want to talk to the wild boy and his sidekick."

Grindelwald's real self stiffened ever so slightly at the phrase "wild boy." His eyes sharpened, and for the first time since the memory began, his expression betrayed a flicker of genuine interest.

The King and Queen hesitated but complied, bowing slightly before leaving the room with Hecate. The great-grandmother, now alone with Dumbledore and McGonagall, turned her full attention to them, her presence as unrelenting as the tide.

Dumbledore from the memory faltered slightly but quickly recovered, his voice measured. "You seem to know much about me, ma'am," he said.

The great-grandmother smiled, sly and knowing. "Oh, I know more than you'd like me to," she replied, her tone carrying a weight of certainty that was impossible to challenge. "Your past, your ambitions, even your..."

She paused, her gaze shifting—not to the Dumbledore in the memory but to the real Grindelwald standing among the observers. "Regrets."

The word hung in the air like a spell, its weight pressing down on everyone present. The real Grindelwald's eyes widened, his usual composure cracking for a brief moment.

Minerva gasped softly, her eyes darting between the great-grandmother in the memory and the real Grindelwald beside her. It was clear now—this moment had been orchestrated with unnerving precision. The great-grandmother's glance, so casual yet deliberate, was not something anyone in the memory had noticed at the time. But now, as the observers stood in this reconstructed moment, it was as if the pieces of a puzzle had fallen into place.

"She knew," Newt Scamander whispered, his voice barely audible. "She knew this memory would be viewed like this. She planned it."

McGonagall's expression was a mixture of disbelief and unease. "Prophetic powers of that magnitude..." she murmured, her voice trailing off.

The memory shifted again, scenes flowing seamlessly into one another, but the weight of the great-grandmother's words lingered. The real Dumbledore glanced at Grindelwald, whose expression was now unreadable, a storm of thoughts hidden behind his steely gaze.

The memory continued, shifting seamlessly as if the great-grandmother herself controlled its progression. Her voice, full of mischief and authority, cut through the stunned silence like a spell: "Hooooo! Let me show you something interesting." She waved her hand dramatically, as if revealing an open secret, and her eyes twinkled with excitement, urging them forward.

The figures in the memory—Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the great-grandmother—began to move, beckoning the observers to follow. It was an odd feeling for the real Dumbledore, Grindelwald, McGonagall, and Newt Scamander, walking through the memory as ghostly spectators. They could see everything and everyone, but their ethereal presence made them invisible to the figures in the memory.

The group passed through the grand hallways of the palace, and the further they walked, the more surreal and magical their surroundings became. Objects floated in mid-air, suspended by what seemed to be impossibly delicate spells. Bookshelves rearranged themselves as if alive, their contents shuffling into perfect order without human intervention. Rugs moved autonomously, sweeping the floors and dusting corners. Every inch of the palace seemed enchanted, alive with a magic so subtle and elegant it felt like the air itself hummed with its power.

Strange creatures roamed the halls—hybrid beasts that defied classification. One had the body of a lion but the scales of a dragon, its eyes glowing with an inner light. Another appeared to be a cross between a phoenix and a peacock, its iridescent feathers shimmering in the dim light as it strutted regally down the corridor. More ethereal beings, like wisps of smoke with glowing eyes, floated past, their forms shifting and curling like mist caught in a breeze.

Newt Scamander's real self stared, his mouth agape, trying to take in everything at once. "Are those... hybrids? That one looks like a Nundu crossed with... no, it can't be! And is that creature... alive or some sort of magical construct?" he muttered, his hands twitching as if desperate for his field notebook.

Minerva, standing next to him in reality, raised an eyebrow. "One at a time, Scamander," she said gently, patting his shoulder. "Take your time."

They finally stepped through a grand archway, and the scene transformed entirely. The group now stood on the rooftop of the palace, and the sight that greeted them made even the real Dumbledore falter.

Before them lay an awe-inspiring vista, a sprawling kingdom unlike any they had ever seen. The skyline was dotted with towering skyscrapers, their designs impossibly magical. Some twisted in elegant spirals as if defying gravity, while others floated mid-air, suspended by unknown forces. Their glass windows reflected the golden sunlight, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that danced across the horizon.

Yet the magic wasn't confined to the architecture. Forests and gardens were seamlessly woven into the urban landscape, their vibrant greenery blending harmoniously with the sleek, modern design of the city. Streams of clear water flowed alongside the streets, shimmering with magical energy.

The streets themselves were alive with activity. People dressed in a mix of modern and magical attire bustled about, their movements fluid and confident. Some carried glowing tablets and enchanted objects, while others laughed as they passed enormous, floating screens displaying animated advertisements. The panels shifted and shimmered, showcasing everything from magical tools to tours.

But what truly stole the show were the dragons. Majestic, enormous, and utterly serene, they moved through the city like living embodiments of the kingdom's balance between magic and nature. Some rested lazily on rooftops, their massive bodies coiled like cats in the sun. Others soared gracefully through the skies, their wings leaving shimmering trails of energy behind. One dragon, its scales glimmering like molten gold, swooped low, causing a child to laugh and wave as it passed.

The observers stood in stunned silence, taking in the sight. Grindelwald's real self was the first to break. His knees gave way, and he fell to the ground, his face pale. His hands trembled as he clutched the edge of the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the impossible scene before him.

"This can't be real," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't want to believe this... The world that I... I strived to create... It was here all along." His voice faltered, and a tear slipped down his cheek. "But it was me who wasn't here."

The memory paused for a brief moment, as if the great-grandmother herself had orchestrated the timing. Dumbledore beside him said . "This is why I wanted to show you this memory. I wanted to see if this is really what you dreamed of. At least you deserve to see it, even if it's just a memory."

Newt Scamander seemed to forget his usual shyness, his voice rising in excitement. "Oh my god! Are those dragons? They don't look like the ones I've seen before, but they resemble them. Wait, is that a two-headed dragon? And that one—why is it so small? And... and... the most important question—why are they so calm and indifferent to such a big city? And those buildings! And those panels!"

Minerva, her tone both amused and empathetic, patted his shoulder again. "One at a time, Scamander," she repeated. "Take your time."

The memory continued, the ethereal figures moving as though aware of the emotions they had stirred .

The memory drifted toward its conclusion, and the observers—Dumbledore, Grindelwald, McGonagall, and Newt—felt an almost surreal sense of anticipation. The memory figures, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the great-grandmother, stood at the far end of the royal garden's raod , a serene and breathtaking expanse of magical and natural beauty.

The garden seemed to defy the laws of nature itself. Trees with golden leaves swayed gently in a breeze that seemed to carry whispers of ancient wisdom. Flowers of every imaginable color glowed faintly, their petals shifting hues in a mesmerizing dance. Streams of crystal-clear water flowed between lush, emerald-green paths, their surfaces dotted with small, luminescent fish that darted playfully. Strange, otherworldly creatures lounged in the shadows, their forms blending seamlessly with the fantastical foliage.

Above it all, the sky shimmered with an ethereal light, as if the garden was cradled beneath an enchanted dome. Stars twinkled brightly even though it was daytime, and a faint aurora danced overhead, casting vibrant streaks of color across the pristine landscape. The garden was alive in a way that transcended the physical—a sanctuary of magic and peace.

As they approached the end of the garden, a swirling portal stabilized in the air, its edges glowing with a soft golden light. The portal summoned by Hecate's father , surface rippled like water, revealing glimpses of the palace beyond, where the figures would return to the mundane reality of Hogwarts.

Cercy, the great-grandmother, turned to face Dumbledore and McGonagall, her playful demeanor resurfacing like a mischievous tide. Her piercing eyes sparkled with amusement as she leaned toward Dumbledore, her smile curling into a knowing smirk.

"Next time," she said, her voice carrying a teasing lilt, "you should bring your lover along. That is, if he's still alive."

The words seemed to hang in the air, a deliberate provocation wrapped in jest. She punctuated the statement with a wink—not at the Dumbledore of the memory, but at the real Dumbledore, who stood among the observers.

The real Dumbledore's composure, carefully maintained until now, fractured ever so slightly. His eyes widened, just for a moment. His hands tightened around the hem of his robes, and Grindelwald, standing nearby, glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, his expression unreadable.

It wasn't just a playful remark. The wink, the timing, the way Cercy's gaze pierced through the veil of time and memory—it was calculated, deliberate, and impossibly precise. She had seen this moment, known they would all be here, watching. Her prophetic power was undeniable, her message cutting across timelines to reach its intended target.

McGonagall, though equally startled, maintained her composure. Her sharp mind registered the tension between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, but she chose to remain silent, her expression neutral. Newt, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the undercurrents of the exchange, his attention still caught by the magical creatures in the garden.

With that final enigmatic statement, the portal shimmered brighter, and the memory dissolved. The four observers were pulled gently but inexorably back to reality, the sensation akin to waking from a vivid dream.

When they found themselves back in the Pensieve room, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken words. Dumbledore stood motionless, his face unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a storm of thoughts. Grindelwald remained seated, his hands clasped together as if in contemplation, his expression an unsettling mix of curiosity and pain.

Newt broke the silence first, adjusting his coat as he muttered, "That was... extraordinary. I don't even know where to begin. The creatures, the architecture, the... dragons!" His voice trailed off as he realized no one else was listening.

McGonagall folded her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line as she regarded Dumbledore. "Well, Albus?" she said softly. "It seems she left you with more than just an invitation."

Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "It would appear so," he said, his gaze distant. Then, almost to himself, he added, "Her power is... unparalleled. To see through time, to anticipate not just actions but thoughts..."

Grindelwald cut in, his tone sharp. "Her world—that world—was everything I sought to build and more. And yet, it existed without me, without my ideals. I can't decide if it's a gift or a curse to have seen it."

The room fell silent again, each of them lost in their own thoughts, the weight of the memory lingering like a shadow.

Grindelwald, who had been silent since the memory ended, finally spoke, his voice calm but tinged with intrigue. "She said to bring me along next time, didn't she? She's expecting us anyway. So, when the chance arises, bring me along."

His words immediately drew a sharp response. "Oh no, you won't!" Minerva McGonagall interjected, her voice firm and unwavering. She crossed her arms, fixing him with a glare that could cut through steel. "You're going back to where you came from. That's final."

Dumbledore, standing between them, raised a hand in an attempt to mediate. "Minerva—"

"No, Albus!" she snapped, her voice rising. "Do you remember who this man is? This is Grindelwald—the first Dark Lord! He killed thousands of innocents, children included. I will not stand by and allow such a person to roam free, regardless of any prophecy or invitation from a distant realm!"

Her words hung heavy in the air, and Newt Scamander, who had been standing quietly off to the side, spoke up hesitantly, his hands fidgeting nervously. "I-I agree with Minerva. With all due respect, Professor Dumbledore, allowing him even an ounce of freedom is... dangerous."

Dumbledore sighed deeply, his gaze softening as he turned to his long-time colleague. "Minerva, I'm not saying to let him go free. His prison cell was broken into by dark mages. The situation has become untenable. We cannot risk keeping him there for the time being."

Minerva's lips pressed into a thin line, her disbelief clear. "And your solution is to bring him here? To Hogwarts? Albus, this is a school. A sanctuary for children, not a holding cell for dark wizards."

"I understand your concerns," Dumbledore said gently, his voice calm yet firm. "But I assure you, I will keep an eye on him at all times. He will not leave my sight. You have my word."

Minerva's expression darkened, and her voice grew cold. "Your word? Albus, Azkaban's doors are open for the likes of him. It's you who refuses to see reason. The Ministry may have its flaws, but they were right to imprison him. And you're making a mistake—a mistake that I will not partake in!"

Her words were sharp and final, and before Dumbledore could respond, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. The sound of her footsteps echoed down the corridor, each step a resounding symbol of her disapproval.

The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Scamander shifted uncomfortably, glancing between Grindelwald and Dumbledore, his thoughts clearly racing. He wanted to speak, but the tension in the air made him hesitate.

Grindelwald, for his part, remained stoic. His gaze followed Minerva as she left, but he made no attempt to speak or defend himself. Instead, a faint, enigmatic smile played at the corners of his lips, as if her anger and rejection were exactly what he had expected.

Dumbledore, his shoulders slightly slumped, turned back to Scamander and Grindelwald. "I do not ask for agreement," he said quietly. "Only understanding. What we've seen today changes everything. If there is even a chance to learn from that world, to find answers that may benefit us all, then we must take it. Even if it means making difficult choices."

Scamander hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "I still think this is dangerous, but... I trust you, Professor. I just hope you know what you're doing."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly, though there was a hint of weariness in his expression. "As do I, Newt. As do I."