Doyenne: A woman who is the senior member of a group, class, or profession.

February 1, 2019

A black vale draped over the back of a chair. A silver clock ticked softly on its shelf, filling the room with its reminder that time marches onward. That every era must end, no matter how dramatic or important or long. That though it could be battled into hourglasses and clicking gears and tolling bells, time would always hold mastery over man, not the other way around.

A shadow crossed the desk, flowing through the foggy, winter-morning light. Old, wrinkled hands slowly took up the black vale. Carefully measured footsteps made their way to the window. Eyes, still piercing after all these years, looked out across the snowy grounds. They drifted over the beautiful pine trees, the frozen ripples of the iron-gray lake just visible to the south, the sentinel goal posts of the Quidditch pitch silhouetted in the rosy sky, and finally landed on the small procession winding its way ceremoniously down the icy lane and the shiny black box it bore.

Breath caught, a single tear splashed to the carpet, and one quiet allotted sob sounded in the room.

It had taken over sixty years, sixty-two and two months to be exact, but the moment had finally arrived. Minerva McGonagall, who had spent well over half her life in these walls, was now the last of her generation here. Pomona had retired more than ten years before, Horace long before that. Sybil was now more batty than sane these days. But Filius had stayed solidly at her side for so long. Her last guide and confidante. The last who could sit by the fireside with her and remember a time before Voldemort had ever been heard of.

Oh, the new teachers were more than competent, offered sound advice and good company. Lancing was sensible and perceptive, Bridwell the stern hand to keep things in line, Mervine the subtle, patient guide. And Longbottom had certainly come into his own. She could not have been prouder.

But there was a comfort and kinship with those who could quietly recall what it was like to watch student after student go out into the world and be struck down by others you had instructed along-side them, perhaps even with spells you had taught them. There was a loneliness in being the only one left to know such things. The oldest soul in the room. And she wondered how Albus had done it so long.

She turned from the window and began making her slow way across the tower room that had been hers for twenty years but which sometimes still felt like she was only keeping it safe. She passed the reports on her desk detailing Potter and Weasley's latest hijinks, McMillian's transcripts under consideration for the Hufflepuff prefect position next year, a copy of the morning Prophet featuring a new act headed by Miss Granger – Weasley now, but she would always think Granger.

Minerva McGonagall stepped out of her office behind the gargoyle, alone in this new era and a last link to times long past.

A/N: Please read and review! :)