Tiny flakes of dry snow were borne on the wind, but they weren't sticking; weren't accumulating. Slowly, Minerva McGonagall climbed the steps of the easternmost Quidditch observation gallery tower, pausing for breath after each flight. As she stood, breathing heavily, a group of young girls raced up the steps towards her, giggling together, their long scarves flying with their haste.

One of them saw McGonagall, and the whole group stopped as if hit by an impediment hex. "Sorry, Professor," they muttered, one by one, and filed past her. The last one, the first-year McGonagall had heard Coppersmith call Miss Doe, looked at her for a long moment, before addressing her. "You're Professor McGonagall," she said, not asking but telling.

"I hope so," Minerva answered, still out of breath. "I'm wearing her robes."

"That was a joke," the girl said. Again, it was a statement, not a question. Minerva nodded, not having the breath to spare for talking. "All right," the girl said, then she turned, and ran on up the steps, after her friends.

Minerva climbed the last flight, and found an empty seat. A quick transfiguration changed the wooden bench into a comfortable cushion, and a bumbershoot charm kept the blowing snow granules off her.

"Welcome to today's Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor!" the student announcer called, his voice amplified by a Sonorus charm. "With no further ado, I give you the sides! For House Ravenclaw: Casbolt! Underhill! Digweed! Weasley! Weasley! Forthingay-Phipps! and Millborow! For Gryffindor: Azo! Potter! Aggas! MacNeill! Biggerstaff! Watson! and Weasley!"

McGonagall watched the youngest Potter boy as he flew, using his bat to good effect against the two bludgers. She remembered watching him play cricket, and smiled. She had made her century, now, she thought, wryly. One hundred, not out. How many more runs, though, before the bowler took her wicket? Surely not many.

She remembered other Quidditch games, other groups of youngsters chasing the balls around the pitch. Dorleta Spidell had been thirteen when she made the house reserve team, in Minerva's third year as a student. Minerva watched the game, still focusing on the most recent Potter addition. He was twelve, she thought, which was young to be on the team, but then, that, too, ran in his family.

Every team she had ever watched, sitting here in these stands, she thought, had ranged between eleven and eighteen years of age. How many years was that? Almost ninety, if you just counted from the first time, but there had been a gap between her seventh year and her return as a master, and gaps now and then when Quidditch was put on hold for the year for one reason or another. More than fifty years worth of Quidditch, anyway, she thought, clapping as one of the Weasley twins put the quaffle through a Gryffindor

hoop. More than fifty years, and she could see, when she looked in the mirror, each of them written on her skin. More than fifty years, and they, the players, were still the same age. It wasn't fair, she thought. Individuals grew older, grew old, died... but the students, like the school itself, were eternally young, eternally the center of the world, eternally... eternal.