Disclaimer: I don't own, JKR does, so don't sue.

The man climbed the steps behind the gargoyle, tottering slightly and leaning heavily on his walking stick. For the last sixty years this wizard had held the post of Defense against the Dark Arts professor. Now he was to embark on the new journey that would be his Headmastership.

He sighed when he recalled what the press would make of this. In his fourth and fifth years they had called him a deranged attention-seeking maniac; then for his sixth year they changed their tune in a hurry, calling him a lone voice of truth in a world that ridiculed home-while always leaving out that it was they who did the ridiculing.

Then he had defeated the self-styled Lord Voldemort. The dark lord's horcrux familiar, Nagini, had bitten him in the leg, and he still walked with a limp and a staff, nearly seventy years later. He had barely survived, but Voldemort had at last left the earth, and in the eyes of the world he was an über-hero, one who had survived Voldemort six times, defeating him four of those times.

He had married (oh boy, did that cause a media feeding frenzy) Ginny Weasley, and had five kids. The oldest, James, had his father's looks and his mother's chocolate brown eyes, making him the spitting image of his paternal grandfather. The next-oldest, Leona, was a redhead in the Weasley tradition, and had inherited her father's brilliant emerald eyes, making her nearly identical to her paternal grandmother. The middle child, Sirius, had dark hair and blue eyes that no-one could understand had come to be. The last two children were twins, Meghan and Brian. Meghan had manageable hair in-between red and black, and brown eyes. Her twin, Brian, had the messy Potter auburn hair and blue eyes.

He played professional Quidditch for a decade, took a year off, and then did what he did best-taught DADA. His fantastic and consistent teaching brought out the best in each of his students. His colleagues were his friends; Neville Longbottom for Herbology, Hermione Granger-Weasley for Transfiguration, Ronald Weasley for flying instructor, Dean Thomas for Charms, and Ernie Macmillan for Potions.

He became a grandfather twenty-five years after the Fall of Voldemort and a great-grandfather fifty years after the close of the Second War. That was twenty years ago, now.

He sighed as he reached the top of the circling staircase. He opened the door, and set his briefcase on his desk. Then he walked over to the tower's window, allowing himself to be lost in memories for a few moments. But eventually he shook his head and smoothed his hair, as if to clear his mind of the memories, good and evil, that dwelt for him in this office.

He looked up and around to see the portraits of his predecessors, most of them sleeping, some gazing intently at him-and his eyes fell upon a mirror.

The Mirror of Erised. Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on whosi… he saw the familiar inscription. I show not your face but your heart's desire, indeed. He once saw himself surrounded by family- but what would he see now? Nothing to do but check, he supposed. Se he did-and what he saw surprised him.

Or, rather, the lack of anything to see surprised him. He saw himself, and only himself, standing there in front of a large gilt-edged mirror, the famous lightning bolt upon his brow, but the inescapable Potter hair had turned a silvery-grey in his ninety-or-so years of life, his round black glasses replaced by silver rectangular frames, and his beard had reached a length surpassing Dumbledore's. Only his eyes had remained the same brilliant emerald as they always had been. His dark blue robes shifted slightly, allowing the small embroidered stars to wink in and out of sight.

"Interesting…" he murmured, tugging at his beard, his moustache twitching. I'm the happiest man alive, he thought to himself. Oh well. The carriages will be arriving soon; I'd better go and check…

And he left the office, a dull thud from his walking stick marking every other step. As he left, a portrait awoke from its seeming slumber, and smiled to itself.

I have gotten my wish. Harry Potter has become a man anyone and everyone can be proud of.

And he didn't have to die for it.

So Albus Dumbledore relaxed in his frame, secure in the strength of his protégé.