Late afternoon sunlight poured in through the window. It had gotten colder over the last few days, too cold to snow. Minerva McGonagall sat in a chair in the parlor, drowsing in front of the fire.
"Professor?" called Mrs. Hudson, the landlord. "Professor, it's Christmas day."
McGonagall looked up, and nodded, fumbling in her pocket for her watch. She opened it, then felt her head for her glasses. "Oh," she said. "I should be going." She closed the watch, restored it to her pocket, and looked at the fire. She'd go in a moment, she decided. No one would notice if she was late, and it was easier to sit here in front of the fire.
So many years of Christmas dinners at Hogwarts, she thought. She smiled, remembering the friends, the students, the students who had become friends. She remembered the food, and the decorations. How many generations had passed through Hogwarts? A thousand years, she though, and tried to figure it out... four generations per century, more or less...
Somewhere in the middle of carrying numbers, she drowsed off again. Someone coughed, and Minerva looked up, saw the Potter boy... what was his name? "Mr. Potter," she settled. "Shouldn't you be at the castle?" Was he a third-year already?
"Professor," he said, smiling. "The headmaster noticed you weren't at school. He's holding dinner until you get there."
"Oh," said McGonagall. She fumbled for her staff, then discovered that young Potter was holding it out to her. She stood, took her cloak from the young man. They walked out into the snow, and Minerva gasped in surprise.
"What's this?" she asked.
Potter grinned. "A sedan chair," he said, sliding open a door, and revealing a comfortable, warm tiny room. The Weasley boys... red hair, freckles, laughter... were at either end of the chair poles, wands out. McGonagall, laughing, climbed into the chair, and slid the door closed.
"Winguardium Levioso!" the Weasley boys called in concert, swishing and flicking the chair into the air. By broom, the trip to the castle was quick. Minerva climbed out in the warmth of the great hall. "Come here, Potter," she said, and put her hand on his shoulder to support herself as they walked to the head table.
As she seated herself at the main table, Minerva looked around in surprise. The hall was busy, she saw with a start. There, at the Gryffindor table, was young James Potter, with his friends Pettigrew and Black. There was Lilly Evans, lifting a cup in salute, a smile on her face. And at the Ravenclaw table, was that Professor Keaton, explaining something with his steak knife gesturing in the air? How young he looked! There was young Mr. Malfoy, smirking at something Ms. Drakkin was saying, leering at her almost.
With difficulty, Minerva tore her attention away from the room full of people, and concentrated on the head table. Professor Coppersmith was looking at her oddly; so was Headmaster Hatcher.
"Minerva," said Hatcher, "are you quite well?"
"Yes," said Minerva, looking back out at the hall. "So kind of them all to come." A tear ran down her cheek. There... in the door... was it? Yes. Albus, looking young and vigorous, walking between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables... patting young Diggory on the shoulder.
"Hello, my old friend," Albus said, stopping in front of the table. "It is time."
And McGonagall realized that he was right. It was time. The years seemed to fall away from her at once, and she rose, leaving her staff beside her chair. She wouldn't need it anymore, she knew.
As if from a long distance away, she heard Hatcher call, "Headmaster!" But the children were standing, as she took Albus' hand, and walked back between the tables, and somehow, Hatcher didn't seem important any more.
"What's it like?" she asked, looking at Albus.
He laughed. "It is," he said, "the next great adventure."
