The Intelligent Potter

*** Later

Harry looked at the old Swiss-chalet-style architecture of the house facing him.

He had never before been to the home of his Headmaster before, and it felt wrong that he was here now, but his Headmaster was not.

It was in the mountains. It was no mountain range Harry recognised, so probably not one in the UK. It was magically isolated, and there was a warp-gate which was the only way to get there.

Harry could not deny the peace and beauty of the mountains, or the chalet with peeling white paint, but he could not help but be surprised that the busiest, and perhaps most important wizard in Magical Britain, lived so isolated. In peace.

In some ways it made complete sense, for an old and tired man, wanting to enjoy the little p.l.e.a.s.u.r.es and peace of life, but it was hard to reconcile with the man who died leading a battle against The Darkness, the man who held several of the highest positions in magical society, the man who had taught an entire country of wizards and witches.

He had been accompanied by Arcturus. Harry had promised that he would bring Hermione and Daphne here too, at some point, but he wanted to visit first.

He had been as surprised as anybody the previous week, when in the reading of Albus' will, his personal house, as well as all of his belongings in it, had been left to Harry. The ancestral home of the Dumbledores had been left to Aberforth along with a significant amount of Albus' wealth (the rest of it being donated to various organisations, and NGOs, the largest beneficiary being The Phoenix Trust, the bank account for The Resistance). All of his belongings at Hogwarts were left to the school, for the use of the next Headmaster, or Headmistress, Harry thought, considering that McGonagall would almost definitely be promoted to the top spot at Hogwarts.

Harry entered the study of his old Headmaster. None of Albus' things were moved. They were all where the Headmaster had last left them. The Headmaster was a neat man, but it was clear that he had not packed up, or cleared all his things, as he might have if he were expecting his death.

Harry found a spare set of spectacles on Albus' table, along with several papers. Some of them were embossed with the Hogwarts crest, while others were unlabeled. There was a small pensieve in the corner of the table. It was smaller than the Hogwarts heirloom that rested in Dumbledore's office, so it was probably his personal one.

A yellow muggle sticky-note broke the image of perfect timeless serenity of Dumbledore's study.

To Harry,

In the cupboard to your left, you will find memories of the worst of me. My youth. I made countless mistakes, which, in life, I have been too ashamed to show you. I do not think I could handle seeing your reactions to my mistakes in person, but I leave these memories for you to peruse, so you can learn from my mistakes, at least in my death,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry read the words, the loopy scrawl of the Headmaster translating into the wizened drawl of his voice in Harry's head.

Harry looked over at the cupboard which contained the memories. Harry couldn't deny his curiosity. What terrible mistakes could The Headmaster have possibly made? Harry opened the cupboard, only to close it again.

No.

He would view the contents of the cupboard at a later date, but not this day.

The vision of Dumbledore's last stand was still burned into Harry's mind, and he didn't think he could bear with seeing any more of the Headmaster being vulnerable. Instead, Harry pulled out the newspaper clipping from that morning's prophet, which the young Potter had hastily stuffed into his back pocket at breakfast that morning, and looked at the article celebrating the life of Albus Dumbledore.

A majestic moving photo of a young Dumbledore fighting against the Dark Lord Grindelwald was plastered onto the front of the article. Looking at the man who Harry had come to think of as family brought reassurance to the troubled boy.

Harry took a deep breath, and walked out of the study, onto the deck of the house. He sat down on the deck chair which was laid out, and gazed into the mountains which he could see out of the window, breathing in the sweet fresh air of the countryside.

He finally came to terms with the fact that Albus Dumbledore was dead.

Harry closed his eyes.

"Finally," Albus Dumbledore's voice said, and Harry jumped.

The young Potter twisted around, his eyes open, and his wand already in his hands, and a spell on his lips, which died immediately as he came face to face with his old mentor.

"Hello Harry," the words came out of the old and wrinkled lips of a man who could only be Albus Dumbledore.

Dressed not in his majestic robes of war, but a far more normal quirky purple with a pattern of stars, with an unbroken pair of half-moon spectacles, and his beard as long and white as usual, Albus looked better than Harry had seen him since the war started. No cuts, bruises, or scr.a.p.es marred his skin, like they had in the last few months of constant fighting, and there were no bags under the eyes of the wizened Headmaster.

"B-But How!" Harry stammered out.

Dumbledore merely sat down in the deck chair opposite Harry, gesturing for the young Potter to retake the seat which he had vacated upon hearing the voice of his old mentor.

"Sit down, my Champion, we have a lot to discuss."

And suddenly Harry knew who he was facing, and it was not his Headmaster.

*** End of Chapter