How Many Times Minerva McGonagall Had Listened To The Distant Footsteps Echoing In The Long Hallways

How many times Minerva McGonagall had listened to the distant footsteps echoing in the long hallways of the castle after the curfew, how many times she had failed to catch them, how many times she resisted giving them detention after lecturing them, how many hilarious pranks she had seen and faked her disappointment, how many times she had looked at the happy faces of the boys teasing each other at any given opportunity, how many times she had caught them out of beds in the middle of the night to see the glorious, never fading grins on their young faces, how many times she had whispered under her breath, smiling, “God, let them never get old.”

And they never did.

And after them, all the footsteps sounded like them, but not quite. In all the pranks she saw them, but not quite. In all the smug grins she recognised them, but not quite. Everything and everyone reminded her of them, but not quite. How many times she had walked through the empty corridors, searching for remaining traces of them. And they were always there, but only enough to awake the burning nostalgia. They were there, but not quite.

 Never again had she wished for someone not to get old.