Grawp's vocabulary was still largely work-in-progress. But he had vocabulary, which he hadn't before — actual words, placed in actual order, aimed at actual people. The improvement was unmistakable.
Hagrid explained it in pieces, moving between Grawp and Draco with the cheerful thoroughness of a man introducing his family. Madame Maxime had been coming regularly, apparently — she and Hagrid had been working on Grawp together, trading off lessons, keeping him company through the long weeks when the school term kept Hagrid busy. It seemed to be helping. It also seemed to be doing other things for Hagrid and Maxime, based on the look that crossed his face when he mentioned her name.
Kevin and the others did not comment.
At this rate, Grawp would be wandering the grounds within the year — not a threat, not a problem, just a very large and very shy presence who had learned to say hello.
"We should do a barbecue out here tonight," Kevin said, looking between the forest, Grawp, and the clear winter sky. "Proper one."
General enthusiasm around him.
Hagrid scratched the back of his head. "Love the thought. But — heads-up — Dumbledore's got everyone in for a Christmas dinner tonight. Students, professors, the lot. I was gonna mention it, then you lot showed up and it slipped me mind."
They absorbed this. Then they all agreed that a proper sit-down Christmas dinner at Hogwarts, with essentially the run of the Great Hall and a fraction of the usual population, was arguably a more interesting evening than they'd expected.
They said their goodbyes to Hagrid and Grawp — Grawp said "Goodbye" back, to everyone's visible delight, in a voice that shook the ground slightly — and headed back toward the castle through the frost.
Draco walked in thoughtful silence for most of the way. Kevin suspected it had been an instructive afternoon for him.
That evening, the Great Hall was transformed.
Double rows of Christmas trees down both walls, each one hung with ornaments that caught and scattered the candlelight. The tables had been pushed together into a long single arrangement, intimate by Hogwarts standards, warm and yellow-lit. The enchanted ceiling showed a clear winter sky above, stars brilliant and fixed.
Dumbledore had done his level best with the aesthetic. Tonight's ensemble was deep burgundy with a white fur collar of extraordinary ambition, and he was wearing a hat from which a large bird with a deeply wise expression regarded the world with perfect tranquillity.
"Headmaster," Kevin said, taking the seat beside Snape and nodding at the hat. "That bird is staring at me."
"It chimes every quarter hour," Dumbledore said, as though this explained everything. He showed Kevin the hat's interior — every pocket stuffed with sweets. "Want one?"
"No."
He'd read the embroidered initials inside the brim. He repositioned himself two seats further down and did not ask follow-up questions.
McGonagall, across the table, was wearing a very particular expression — the one that meant I know exactly what's happening and I choose not to engage.
The students filtered in, claimed their seats, and settled into the unfamiliarity of sitting alongside their professors for a meal. The uncertainty lasted about twelve minutes. Then someone laughed at something Sprout said, and after that it was just people eating dinner together.
Snape, to Kevin's right, was regarding his plate with the focused attention of a man who intended to eat his meal and have nothing else expected of him.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, producing the wise-faced bird hat and extending it with gentle ceremony, "wouldn't you like to try—"
"Get that away from me," Snape said, without looking up.
"Quite right, quite right."
Hermione, two seats down, caught Kevin's eye. Can I?
"Certainly, my dear," Dumbledore said, before Kevin could answer — clearly thrilled that someone was interested.
Hermione took the hat.
Kevin understood what was about to happen approximately half a second before it happened.
The hat landed on his head.
The bird adjusted. Regarded him. Opened its beak.
Chime.
The table fell apart.
Harry was gone. Ron was holding his sides. The younger students, who had been trying to behave, gave up the effort entirely. Even Dumbledore had the grace not to try to keep a straight face.
Snape stared at the far wall with the expression of a man who had devoted his life to excellence and deserved better than this.
Kevin sat with a wise-faced bird on his head and a table full of laughing people around him, and thought: well, she looks happy.
That, in the end, was quite sufficient.
Term resumed. The weeks built on each other. And then, almost without warning — graduation.
It announces itself gradually. Then all at once.
Colin Creevey had been waiting for this. He appeared on the day of the final N.E.W.T. exams with his camera and an expression of benevolent determination, and by lunchtime he had corralled the entire seventh-year Gryffindor cohort outside the castle's main entrance for a commemorative photograph.
Some of them pulled Professor McGonagall in. She said yes with only token resistance, and then — apparently feeling that the photograph should have appropriate authority — dragged Dumbledore in as well.
Dumbledore agreed with pleasure.
Kevin took one look at the growing assembly and dragged Snape over.
Snape came with all the enthusiasm of a man being walked toward a cliff, and stood at the end of the front row with a perfectly composed expression that dared anyone to address him.
Flitwick climbed onto a step to be visible. Sprout appeared from somewhere. The Quidditch team, informed by someone with a sense of occasion, arrived on brooms and hovered along the back row, grinning.
Colin positioned himself at the correct distance, framed the shot, counted down—
Flash.
In the photograph: Snape, immovable. McGonagall, dignified. Dumbledore, beaming. Sprout, laughing at something. Flitwick with both hands raised in triumph. Kevin's hand around Hermione's waist. Harry with his arm around Ron. Neville, whose plant had somehow appeared in the frame. The Quidditch team in the back row — and one of them, caught mid-wobble, upside down on his broom at the precise instant the shutter closed.
It was not formal. It was not composed. It would not have looked out of place hanging in someone's home between family portraits.
It was, as these things sometimes are, exactly right.