Author's Notes:

I re-wrote this story; the much more drabbly version of it wasn't very pleasing and it kept creeping back into my mind as 'unsatisfactory' and therefore, I decided to redo it properly. It's still not yet a real 'story' per se, but it's definitely better than what I previously had up.

Dear God

Dear God,

It feels rather silly that I should be writing to you. I, the ingenious Albus Dumbledore, writing as though you could actually read it. I’m not one for anything but logic, so it makes this letter even more laughable than it already seems. However, fate has trumped logic. I cannot deny that whatever is happening around me is not according to what I had hoped. I do not believe in coincidences, nor do I believe that anything lasts forever. But I have wished more than once in my existence for this war to end for good. But it will never finish, will it? It’s like how life and death are one and the same – there is no difference between them as it’s a cycle.

I don’t deny that I’m tired. I’m tired of having to carry on each day because the days drag. It seems as though age has finally figured out a way to come back and shake me awake. I’m an elderly man; I’ve not celebrated a birthday proper in years, but I do know that whatever age I am at, it isn’t something you would call ‘young’. I’m feeling worn out and my health is declining. I suppose it has something to do with my destroying of the Horcrux and my blackened hand as a result.

I write as though you were there when it happened. Well, you’re supposed to know everything, isn’t that right?

I hope I am not being delusional writing to you. I don’t expect a response, but if anything happens, I would request that you let the people around me realise that I, like any other human being, will not last forever. I have my limits and I have my own time to die, whenever that may be. They can’t keep depending on me anymore, because I simply cannot help them. I’m more of a guide, but even then, it’s not as though I can take them anywhere. It’s their choice where they want to go in their lives and sooner or later, I will have to retire from my post.

I ask that you give Harry counsel. He, for the most part, is one of the most important people in my life. I treat him like a grandson and like a friend. I wish I could be around longer – until the war ends – to be able to enjoy those days with Harry. It would be like in his first year, when things were still much more carefree. I remember that year because I initiated the school song. I haven’t tried to sing it for years now, because it seems like there’s always this shadow hanging over everyone. Nobody is in the mood to do it right anymore.

It’s a funny thing how I should suddenly recall those days. I haven’t been thinking about them for a very long time. It’s seems like it’s been an eternity since I’ve ever had a truly happy thought. It’s nice to revert back to how things once were. But I of all people know that when things change so drastically, it’s very difficult for them to move back to how they originally were. In fact, I would say that in some situations, you can’t turn back time. I’ve regretted a lot of things I have and haven’t done and I also wish to relive certain moments of my life. Time turners exist to change things in the past, but it’s already understood that if you change just a little second of something, the entire future is warped. Besides, the events of my life that I wish to modify have been long gone. It is ancient history for most, even if it’s fresh in my mind.

I remember my parents, Ariana, Grindelwald, Voldemort’s first reign; everything. It’s like no passage of time has occurred. It’s clichéd and often overused, but I feel as though it’s only happened the day before. Everything – all that pain, trial and tribulation. If only that is the case, then I could twirl a time turner and redo everything, and it wouldn’t matter much because it’s just a day of events. But in reality, it’s years of time and memories, not just for me, but for everyone else in the world. If I stop time now, all those experiences would all be gone, be it good or bad.

My charred hand shakes with weakness and I remember how feeble I truly am. I’ve reduced to a fragile old man, who is supposed to be sitting at some holiday resort somewhere enjoying my last days…but no, that isn’t the case. Instead, I’m still hard at work, trying to protect things when I know that they’re already slipping from the cracks of my fingers. I can’t be around forever. Already, I can feel myself slip away.

This letter to you is my unholy confession. I do not wish to share this with anybody else. Therefore, I will burn it once it is written. Perhaps then it will be able to make its way to heaven and you will be able to access it more freely.

Perhaps I shall write again some day. Maybe when things sort themselves out like they ought to and if I’m still around when it happens.

Albus