Without Voldemort at the end of the corridor, Harry had expected seventh year to feel like an exhale. And in some ways, it did. But whoever had designed the seventh-year curriculum had clearly assumed that the students would want to make up for lost time.
Five N.E.W.T. subjects: Charms, Potions, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Transfiguration. The recommended minimum for the Auror track was four, but Harry had never been good at stopping at the minimum. Herbology had always been one of his strengths, so in it went.
The result was relentless. Back-to-back lessons, overlapping homework deadlines, a stack of Kevin's worksheets that seemed to reproduce overnight. Ron was in the same boat — same ambition, same grind — and they spent most evenings in the library surrounded by notes, occasionally propping each other's heads up to keep them from hitting the table.
Draco, who had no particular professional aspirations that required academic qualifications, was having an excellent year. He attended lectures at whatever pace suited him, spent his surplus time engineering minor catastrophes for Harry and Ron, and had apparently decided to use sixth year's enforced combat training as a reason to feel permanently superior about everything.
Hermione, who could have lapped all of them twice without visible effort, somehow made it look like she was just reading for pleasure.
Kevin managed two or three classes a day with the quiet efficiency of someone who had been working at full capacity for long enough that it had simply become normal. The older students — fifth through seventh year — were easy. They could focus without being managed. They had questions that were actually interesting. None of them had tried to blow up the dungeon since October.
Neville was assistant-teaching Herbology now. Professor Sprout had approached him before term started, laid out the proposal clearly: he'd work alongside her through seventh year, take on more responsibility as he was ready, and when she decided to retire — which she intended to do while she still had full use of both hands — the greenhouse would be his to run.
He'd said yes without hesitation.
Kevin, when he heard, had been genuinely pleased. Staying on at Hogwarts meant having at least one person in the staff room he could talk to without prior briefing.
The pity was Hermione. She had the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in her sights — had had it there since fifth year — and Kevin wasn't going to ask her to give that up for anyone, including himself. She was going to be remarkable at it. He'd been watching for years. Whatever she set her mind on, she built it from the foundations up, and it stood.
They'd figure out the rest as they went.
Christmas.
The castle had quieted considerably. Most students had gone home, leaving only a handful — largely younger students whose families were still working through post-war transitions — and the permanent staff. Kevin and his friends had voted unanimously to stay. Last Hogwarts Christmas. They weren't giving it up.
The corridors had the particular resonant quiet of a largely empty building, which Kevin had always liked — the sound of stone breathing.
In the afternoon, they went to visit Hagrid.
He was on the doorstep of his hut when they arrived, reading a letter with a private smile that occupied most of his face. He heard them coming and folded the letter quickly, stuffed it in his coat pocket, and manufactured a look of casual innocence that convinced no one.
"Merry Christmas!" he called out, voice booming across the frost.
"Merry Christmas." Harry's eyes went straight to the pocket. "What were you reading, Hagrid?"
"Grown-up correspondence," Hagrid said, with dignity. "Leave it."
Harry and the others exchanged looks. Hagrid's smile had been the specific variety of smile that belongs to people who are hoping to see someone soon. Kevin filed it away.
Bill and Fleur's wedding last month. Madame Maxime had been in attendance. Kevin left it alone.
"How's Norbert?" Draco asked, moving on. He'd been asking about the Norwegian Ridgeback since September — a residual attachment from the year they'd helped smuggle her out of the castle.
Hagrid's face opened up completely. "Brilliant. Norwegian Ridgeback — built for the wild, she is. Nothing touches her. She's settled in well."
"Harry trained with her once, didn't he?" Ron said, from beside Kevin.
"I wouldn't call it training," Harry said.
"You were basically her chew toy for forty minutes."
The group dissolved. Harry's expression cycled through several shades of dignity.
Kevin was still laughing when he caught movement at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
He went still, looking past Hagrid's shoulder. A shape at the tree line — large, deliberate, recognisable.
"Hagrid. Is that Grawp?"
Everyone turned.
Draco turned and immediately took a step backward. "What in the name of — where did that come from—"
"Ah!" Hagrid was on his feet, face alight. "Come on, then. I'll introduce you."
They trailed after him, Draco hanging slightly to the rear, into the half-frosted grass at the forest's edge.
"Hey! Grawp!"
Hagrid waved both arms like a man flagging down a ship.
And Grawp waved back.
Up close, the difference from their first encounter was immediately striking. He was cleaner. His expression, which had previously conveyed the blunt bewilderment of a very large creature placed in a very confusing situation, had acquired something more considered. He moved with the beginning of deliberateness.
He looked at Kevin and the others and his face did something complicated — recognition, uncertainty, a tentative reaching for the right social response.
"Friend," he said. Slowly, carefully, like a word he'd been practising.
The whole group went quiet for a moment.
Hagrid looked fit to burst with pride.