Moving On

Moving On.

It was very cold, but that makes sense when someone is knee-deep in snow, with a fierce wind whipping her face. She was trying to wrap her cloak more tightly around her, but her fingers were too numb to work properly.

Dimly, she realized that it was ridiculous for her to be standing out here when her warm cottage was just behind her. All she had to do was turn around and go back to it. But when she turned, the cottage had disappeared . . .

Minerva McGonagall woke with a start and opened her eyes. After a confused moment or two, she realized that she was sitting in her comfortable armchair by the fire. However, it soon became clear that it really was cold inside the cottage, and the wind was howling like a pack of angry werewolves. It must have been the rattling of the windows that woke her.

She'd let the fire die down. The only warmth in the room came from the large cat curled on her lap in a tight, furry ball. It had long, snow-white fur, and when Minerva stirred, ready to reach for her wand, it raised its head and looked at her with reproachful blue eyes.

"Sorry, Albus," Minerva apologized, "but I need to do something about the fire. Or else go to bed, which would probably be more sensible. I really am feeling extremely tired." She would have eaten Flobberworms sooner than admit to anyone but her feline companion how weak she felt. Albus himself was ancient even for a magical animal.

It was true. For the past week, even simple daily tasks seemed to require more energy than the long-retired former headmistress of Hogwarts could readily summon. Her joints, which had ached for decades, now protested loudly whenever she got up, or sat down, or even rolled over in bed. Worse, far worse, was the awareness of waning physical and magical power. Her mind was as sharp as ever, but perhaps that simply heightened the sense of loss.

She picked up her wand with a gnarled hand and waved it at a block of peat that sat near the hearth. It floated into the air, but fell with a soft thud just short of the grate.

Before she could even swear in frustration, Minerva heard a knock at the door and then her own voice, magically amplified, demanding, "Who is it?"

Who on earth would be visiting her at this hour, in this appalling weather?

The man on the doorstep heard Minerva McGonagall's challenge emanating from the familiar thin-lipped mouth, an image of which had appeared in place of the brass knocker. Not quite sure of the correct procedure, he leaned closer and replied, "It's Harry, Professor McGonagall--Harry Potter."

The lock clicked open at once and the door swung back, revealing the small sitting room of his old professor's dwelling. He would have called the room "cozy" on account of its comfortably shabby furnishings. On the other hand, it seemed little warmer than the January night.

It took Harry a moment to realize that the wizened woman sitting in an armchair beside the nearly-dead fire was indeed the formidable person he remembered as a teacher and member of the Order of the Phoenix. Her hair, once black, was now as white as that of the large cat sitting on her lap.

But her black eyes sparkled with pleasure as she greeted him. She pushed her square-rimmed glasses up on her nose, as though to see him better.

"Harry, dear, what brings you here on such a wretched night? There's nothing wrong, I hope?"

"I'm sorry to just drop in like this, and so late," Harry apologized, "but I've just wrapped up a case in the area, and I wanted to see you before I left. It's been such a long time."

As he spoke, his eyes strayed to the fireplace. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked, pointing his wand at the peat block.

Before McGonagall could finish saying, "No, of course not," the peat sailed neatly onto the grate and ignited as Harry waved his wand. A teakettle hanging above the flame soon began to whistle.

"Don't bother to get up," Harry said to his old professor, who'd made a motion to rise. "Just let me know where the teabags and the cups are and I'll get them."

Minerva started to argue--it was her house, after all, and Harry was a guest--but his voice carried a note of authority that she was forced to respect. He wasn't a gangly boy any more, but a man well into middle age, still lean as a youth but broader in the shoulders, and emanating a power to match his still-athletic stride.

Harry poured two cups of tea and handed one to Minerva, noting as he did so how gnarled her hands had grown.

She accepted two lumps of sugar with a nod of thanks and stirred her tea, savoring the warmth of the steam that rose from the cup.

"Don't worry about not getting up," he said, as though reading her mind. "I doubt your cat would appreciate it." He smiled at the cat, which regarded him with serious blue eyes.

"Albus, meet Harry Potter," McGonagall said with mock gravity. "Harry, this is Albus."

Harry nodded with equal gravity. "Albus--of course."

He leaned forward to stroke the cat, which relaxed at once and started to purr. "I've got an Albus, too, you know." The cat purred a bit louder.

Minerva smiled and took a sip of her tea. The cup rattled a little as she replaced it in the saucer, but she felt better than she had all evening. It was so nice to see Harry again.

"How are your children?" she asked. "And Ginny, of course."

"Everyone's fine," Harry replied. "Ginny is associate editor of The Daily Prophet now. James became an inventor, and he's moving up the ranks at Firebolt International. Lily's following in her mum's footsteps, playing for the Holyhead Harpies, and Albus--" Harry beamed with pride--"Albus works for me. In the Auror department. He's just finished his training."

He might have added, "at the top of his class," but he didn't want to seem boastful.

Minerva sighed. "I was always sorry not to have had the opportunity to teach them. I'm sure they were excellent students."

Harry laughed. "Well, two of them were. I'm afraid James was--more of a slacker, like his father."

There was a pause, as Harry's old Transfigurations teacher cleared her throat.

"I suppose you could have concentrated more on your studies," she finally said. "But then, you did have other priorities."

Harry laughed again. "Well, so did James--Quidditch, to be exact."

His expression became sober. "I'm just glad he had the chance to be thoroughly frivolous. None of us had that, at least not until after Hogwarts."

"And not for years after that, really," McGonagall agreed.

Harry refilled their teacups, and the two of them fell silent as the fire crackled, sending welcome warmth into the room, as comforting as the camaraderie between Harry and his old professor and Head of House. He still had to force himself to call her "Minerva," but after his final defeat of Lord Voldemort, she'd insisted, threatening to call him "Mr. Potter" forevermore if he did not.

The thought made him smile again, but he noticed that McGonagall was falling into a doze and realized it was time to leave. He felt a sense of reluctance that was oddly sharp, but he got to his feet. At the sound, McGonagall roused herself.

"It was really good to see you--Minerva," Harry said, taking her gnarled hand between both of his for a momeht. "I just wonder, though--isn't it awfully lonely out here? I didn't see any other houses around."

McGonagall's tone was firm. "Don't worry about me, Harry. There are plenty of people about, though their homes are not always visible to outsiders. Anyway, I am quite capable of taking care of myself, though my neighbors don't seem to believe that. Someone or other is bound to pop in just when I least expect it--"

She trailed off, seeing the guilty look on Harry's face.

"Oh, I don't mean you, dear," she said quickly. "Your visit was a delightful surprise."

"I'm glad," he said. "All the same, I've got to be going. Goodbye, Albus." He stroked the cat's long, silky fur once more, then turned and strode to the door.

With his hand on the knob, he turned and smiled at his former teacher and colleague--and his friend, always.

"Goodnight--Minerva," he said, and went out into the cold night air.

Though the fire burned brightly, throwing off a good deal of heat, Minerva McGonagall felt a sudden chill run through her. She should get up, climb the stairs to her bedroom. . . But it was so comfortable just sitting here. She would just Summon that crocheted afghan from the sofa, and she and Albus would stay where they were, two old comrades sharing each other's warmth.

As she drifted off, she wondered idly if she still had the strength to Transfigure herself into a cat. She hadn't tried it in years. Somehow, sadly, she didn't think so.

ooOoo

When Minerva McGonagall awoke, she realized that she was lying on the ground--ground that felt springy and smelled sweet, like--like. . .

Like heather.

She opened her eyes and sat up in one swift motion, noting with surprise that her bones did not seem to be aching at all. How very odd. In fact, everything about this situation was peculiar.

She was sitting on the ground--on a hillside, to be exact--and the hill and those around it were covered in clumps of lavender-flowered heather. The sweet smell of the purple blossoms filled her nostrils, and at the same time she realized with pleasure that the sunshine was delightfully warm.

And then she discovered that she was not alone. A large cat with white, silky fur and bright blue eyes sat beside her, purring loudly.

Was she dreaming again? If so, this was quite unlike any dream she'd ever had. She reached out a hand and touched Albus; he was as solid as the ground upon which she sat. The fingers that stroked his fur, she saw, were now longer knotted, but strong and straight, though still somewhat wrinkled.

Then she searched for her wand, groping in every pocket of her robes, but it was nowhere to be found. She never left home without it--did she? Her feeling of disorientation intensified.

At last, it dawned on Minerva McGonagall where she must be, and then why her cat was there, too. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Albus," she murmured, "you came with me."

The white cat purred louder than ever, then stretched luxuriously before suddenly leaping into the air after the butterfly that had just now materialized above his head. Albus wasn't exactly a kitten again, but he clearly wasn't feeling every year of his very considerable age, either.

McGongall scrambled to her feet--she hadn't scrambled in many decades--and examined both the little she could see of herself, before taking a further inventory of her surroundings.

Instead of the dressing gown she had been wearing the night before, she now wore her familiar Hogwarts robes. The ends of her favorite tartan scarf blew genty in the breeze. Aside from her hands, she couldn't see more without a mirror.

The moment she thought of it, a handsome full-length mirror appeared in front of her. It revealed a straight-backed woman with black hair pulled into a tight bun, thin lips, and keen black eyes. Silver threads among the black suggested someone of middle age. She was not leaning on a cane nor wearing her customary square-rimmed glasses.

McGonagall soon turned away from the mirror to examine her new environment, and the mirror vanished.

This had to be somewhere beyond the Veil, but where, exactly? The longer McGonagall stood there, the more the place seemed to resemble the landscape surrounding her cottage. There was even the familiar range of mountains in the background, and somehow she knew that if she were to climb to the brow of the next hill, she would see a sparkling loch nestled in the vale. Home, she thought. I'm home.

And yet it wasn't quite home, either. For one thing, there was no sign of her cottage nor any other dwelling. The place was eerily silent, except for the hum of bees, and a sudden thought struck her: Was she going to spend the rest of eternity alone except for Albus, with nothing to look at but the hills? Not that they weren't lovely, but still--had she done something in her previous life to merit an afterlife without human contact?

At that very moment, McGonagall spied a black speck floating above the horizon. She shielded her eyes with her hand as she squinted at the speck in the bright sky. It seemed to be growing larger and soon it resolved itself into the form of a man, flying. A very familiar man.

He came to earth gracefully a few yards away, straightening his robes. The robes were just as she remembered them--unrelieved black, but displaying a certain elegance of cut and fabric. The toe of a polished black boot showed beneath the hem.

For a few moments the man simply stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and a small smirk on his face. HIs shoulder-length black hair shone in the sun.

"Hello, Minerva," he said.

She gave him a slight nod. "Hello, Severus. I have to admit I am rather surprised to see you here."

Severus Snape looked amused. "Are you? Where did you think I would be?"

McGonagall wasn't sure she could blush, but she felt a certain warmth in her cheeks.

"You know what I mean, Severus," she said with a touch of asperity. "I mean here, in this exact spot, when there is not another soul about."

"Ah. I was rather hoping you'd explain why you Summoned me. While you're telling me, would you mind if we sat down? I've come a long way."

At once, two straight-backed chairs appeared out of nowhere, with a small table between them. The table held a teapot and two cups. With a sweeping bow, Snape gestured toward one of them.

"Please, have a seat, Minerva," he said, and waited for her before sitting down himself.

Manners? From Severus Snape? This must indeed be heaven, or something like it.

"Was I really that rude to you?" Severus asked, sounding genuinely curious. Not waiting for an answer, he poured out two cups of tea and addedd two lumps of sugar to one of them before handed it to his old colleague.

"Stop reading my mind!" snapped McGonagall, before she could stop herself.

Snape looked at her with a surprisingly serious expression.

"I apologize," he said. "After a time, we all seem to get into the habit. No need for concealment any more, you see. But I shall try to remember that you are a newcomer."

McGonagall sipped her tea, which was brewed exactly to her taste. Snape lifted his own cup and then set it down again.

"Actually, I'd prefer something a bit stronger," he said. A small flask containing a clear, red-gold liquid appeared on the table, and he picked it up.

"Spot of Firewhisky in your tea, Minerva?"

She hesitated, then realized that a spot of Firewhisky sounded very nice indeed. "Yes, please, Severus," she said, primly.

He poured a generous amount into her cup, which Enlarged to hold the extra liquid without spilling.

"You still haven't answered my question," said Snape, sitting back in his chair.

"Probably because I don't know the answer," McGonagall replied. "I certainly don't recall Summoning you. I seem to have left my wand behind, anyway."

Snape smiled. "Ah, but you did, or I wouldn't be here. And as I believe you've already worked out, we don't need wands here. You'll think of the answer sooner or later. We have all the time in the world." He took a sip from his cup.

Snape looked exactly as she remembered him, and yet something in his appearance had changed, apart from the shining hair. She looked at him carefully, trying not to stare. It was his posture, she finally decided, and his expression. All the tension in him seemed to have drained away, and with it the harsh lines of his face. His countenance was younger and more open, and his posture, though dignified as ever, was now relaxed. He moved with unaccustomed grace.

He was such a clumsy boy, McGonagall thought. But of course, that was because his scrawny frame was a vessel for so much anger, so much fear. Even Snape's eyes were different now, no longer cold and dead, but as full of expression as anyone else's.

He's more alive now that he'd dead. McGonagall couldn't suppress a snort of laughter at the thought.

Snape looked at her curiously but said nothing. Apparently, he was controlling his habit of Legilimency.

Of course, she still hadn't answered Snape's question. She thought back to when she had opened her eyes upon this bewildering, if pleasant, new existence. What had she been her first thought?

"When I arrived," she said slowly, "I did wonder where all the other people were. The place was deserted, except for Albus, of course, and I felt rather lonely."

Snape looked confused, and she hastened to explain.

"Albus is my cat. He elected to come along, bless him." She pointed to the white feline, which was now hunkered down near a clump of heather, ears pricked up and rear end twitching in preparation for a pounce.

"He seems to have found himself a mouse," Snape observed. "Fast work, that. But then again, he is your cat."

That sounded vaguely like a compliment, though McGonagall had no idea what Snape was talking about.

She sniffed. "I never chased a mouse in my life, and besides, I thought you hated cats."

"I did," said Snape, "but I'm quite used to them now--even that fur-covered sofa cusion of Hermione Granger's. Crookshanks and I have become quite friendly."

Minerva shook her head. The thought of Snape as a cat lover made her slightly dizzy, but his comment did remind her of something.

"I suppose you've seen Dumbledore," she said. She would have said "Albus," but that might have caused further confusion.

Snape nodded. "Quite often, actually. I'm surprised he's not the one you called. I did--when I first arrived, I mean.

Minerva finished her tea and set down the cup, noting with pleasure that her hand no longer shook at all.

"I've been thinking about that," she said. "Of course, I would very much like to see Dumbledore. I have so many questions. But you can answer some of them, and more to the point, there's something I want to tell you."

Snape looked at her but let her continue without interruption.

"Dumbledore's death was horrible, of course--it left everyone devastated. But it wasn't until much later that I realized how devastating it had been for you. Harry told me the truth about your true allegiance almost before the smoke of battle had cleared. He wouldn't let go of it until he was certain I believed him." "I see." Snape wasn't sneering, as he would have in life. He sounded genuinely interested.

"There's something else," McGonagall continued. "Even though Harry was nearly dead from exhaustion after battling Voldemort twice--and actually dying himself, in a way--he insisted on dragging Kingsley back to the Shrieking Shack so that they could take proper care of your body and keep it safe until your tomb was ready.

"It was not easy to convince Kingsley of your real role in the war, but Harry persisted. He also saw to it that you were never alone--set up shifts so that someone from the Order or the D.A. would keep watch at all times. He insisted on taking the first shift himself, though I can't imagine how he kept his eyes open.

"So," McGonagall hurried on, "I suppose I wanted you to know that. Of course, there is a lot more to tell, though perhaps others have done so. And"--she took a breath--"I am sorry to have misjudged you myself."

To her dismay, she felt tears in her eyes, but then she found she didn't care.

"It's all right, Minerva," Snape said softly. "As a spy, I had to make sure that no one really knew me. I always admired your straightforward approach to things.

"And now," he said, his expression brightening, "we don't have to say goodbye at all. I'll always be here if you want me to be."

"Thank you, Severus," said his old colleague gravely. "I appreciate that. But now, I wonder if you can tell me what I am supposed to do next? I find I am rather at a loss."

"Well," Snape answered, stoppering the flask of Firewhisky and tucking it into a pocket of his robes, "it's not really that complicated. It's too late for you to decide to become a ghost, of course; if you had been afraid of death, you would not be here. But you cannot stay here, either. You will need to--move on."

McGonagall looked around, confused. "Move on? But where? And how?"

"I am sorry," said Snape, and he looked genuinely regretful. "I can't help you with that. You simply have to choose. And now, it's time for me to go. Someone else wants to see me." The thought seemed to please him.

"But, Severus--will I really see you again?" The quaver in Minerva's voice annoyed her. She had never been a coward, and she was not about to start at this late date.

Snape smiled. "Only if you wish to." And then he flew away.

The heather-covered hills, lovely as they were, now struck Minerva McGonagall as much too empty and lonely. She had quite enjoyed her quiet retirement, but until recently she'd always kept up her contacts with her friends. Now she found herself longing for company. She thought of her old Hogwarts colleagues and the long roster of former students, many of whom had no doubt arrived here--wherever "here" was--before her.

Hogwarts had always represented intellectual stimulation, challenge (sometimes danger), and familiar routines in which comfort outweighed tedium. Above all, her old school meant fellowship. The small table with its teapot remained, along with her cup. The other chair and cup had vanished when Snape left, but the table now held a plate with a sandwich on it. It looked delicious, and McGonagall picked up one half. It was sliced turkey with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, just the way she liked it.

It was delicious, though come to think of it, she probably no longer required nourishment. All the same, she thought fondly of the sumptuous Hogwarts feasts, a feature of life there that she'd especially enjoyed. She could almost see the Great Hall with its ceiling that reproduced the sky outside and its floating candles. She remembered the long House tables with their gleaming golden goblets and cutlery and plates, and the platters loaded with all sorts of delectable food. She was sitting at the High Table, as always, next to Dumbledore, though at the moment she was chatting with her old friend Filius Flitwick. . .

Was it possible? If the afterlife could offer these heather-covered hills, why not Hogwarts itself? She could think of no place she would rather be, but as she looked around, she knew the old castle and her colleagues and her students were not simply going to materialize in front of her as Snape had done. She was going to have to go to them, or at least try to.

But how to do it? Walking was a possibility, of course, though she could discern no roads here, nor even a path. Besides, travel on foot might be hard on Albus. He did not much like being carried in her arms. He would follow her, but on foot it would take the two of them forever to reach her goal.

She certainly didn't know how to fly, and she wasn't sure Apparating would work here, though it was certainly worth a try.

And then it was there, hovering in air a few feet in front of her. It was long and thin and shone like gold in the sun. In fact, it was gold, or at least gold-painted, as McGonagall discerned when she got up and moved closer to it, with bold red letters along its sleek sides that read "Firebolt 2010X."

Minerva's first reaction was to wonder what the "X" stood for: "Excellent?" "Extra-fast?" "Extraordinarily improbable?"

Then again, was it? She'd been thinking nostalgically of Hogwarts, and she'd been a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, hadn't she? Not a bad one, either; her scoring record had stood for over twenty years.

But it had been many more years since she'd flown at all. The idea was absurd. Nevertheless, she ran her hand caressingly along the shiny broomstick, all the way to the tip of the elegantly trimmed bristles. Everything about the thing suggested speed. She ewondered if James Potter had had a hand in its design.

And then she threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing back from the surrounding hills. Why not this way of getting to where she wanted to go? If she did fall, she was hardly likely to hurt herself.

The broomstick quivered under her hand as though eager to be off. All at once McGonagall couldn't wait to take to the sky, to soar and swoop, to fly in lazy circles as the mood struck her and then to speed on toward her destination.

But then she remembered Albus, who was now lying nearby, his belly turned toward the warm sun. Bits of heather clung to his silky fur. How was she going to hang on to a squirming feline and control the Firebolt at the same time? Poor Albus would be miserable.

As soon as she formed the thought, a sturdy-looking pouch appeared out of nowhere, suspended by two secure straps from the broom handle. A mesh flap covered one end of the pouch.

Ah, thought McGonagall, he'll be able to see out. Now, if I can just get him into it. She thrust her hand inside and discovered that the pouch was lined with soft fleece. At least, he'd like that part of it.

"Albus," she said firmly to her lazing pet, "I need you to be a very brave cat right now. I have always suspected that you had an adventurous streak, and now is your chance to prove it."

The white cat rolled over at once and sat up, gazing at his mistress intently with his penetrating blue eyes.

McGonagall unfastened the mesh end of the pouch and lifted the flap.

"I need you to go in here," she said, allowing none of her doubts to show in her voice.

Albus sat still for a long moment, then began to stroll slowly toward the broomstick with its suspended pouch. It seemed to take him ages to get close enough to sniff at the opening, then rub the sides of his face along its edge. At long last, he stepped daintily into the pouch and settled down, gazing serenely out at his mistress as though he'd done this every day of his life.

McGonagall breathed a sigh of relief. "All right, then. Let's move on."

She swung her right leg over the broomstick, settled herself upon it--it was remarkably comfortable--and grasped the handle firmly. Then she kicked off from the ground and immediately rose into the air. She found she was not a bit frightened; in fact, it felt wonderful to be flying once more.

As the ground fell away, Minerva McGonagall lowered the broom handle to make the Firebolt pick up speed. Soon, she would be a mere speck to anyone watching from below.

"I wonder how long it will take us," she said to Albus, who seemed not to mind the swaying motion of the pouch at all. At least, he was not protesting.

"But then again, it really doesn't matter, does it? I expect we'll get there soon enough."

The End