Lights dim, bed made, the moon up in the sky, as if a light hanging on the wall of a child’s bedroom. Floors of stone and wood across the castle, Hogwarts in a deep sleep as the students lay curled up in their common room with blankets over their arms and their heads on the pillows, resting on the feathery material of the cushion. Wands on the side tables, books in bags, trunks on the end of the wooden beds, empty and ready to be packed for the Christmas break.

And Minerva was sure that she could feel a hand tugging at her skirt as she rubbed her eyes and sat up in her bed.

(For context here; she’s 25 (Marauders were born this year, 1960) and were her toddler child, kid, whatever.)