The leaving feast had the quality of its equivalent in third year and of no other feast — the specific terminal warmth of a gathering that was completing itself, the enchanted ceiling showing the June sky, four house tables at their fullest and the visiting delegations at the side tables that had been theirs since October, and the particular quality of three hundred and more people who had been in the same building through the same year and were now preparing to be, for the summer, in different places.
He photographed it from the doorway.
Not the setup shot — the moment shot, the one he had been waiting for since he framed the angle in his mind in April. The full Hall, all four tables, the visiting delegations, the staff at the far end with Dumbledore at the centre. The moment he had chosen was not the formal announcements and not the toasting. It was the middle of the meal, when the occasion had receded and people were simply themselves in it — the specific unrepeatable quality of this specific evening.
He lowered the camera and went to sit at the Gryffindor table.
Dumbledore's speech acknowledged the year with the specific quality of someone who had decided that the year was not to be minimised — not the diplomatic version, not the managed version, but something that honoured what it had actually been. He spoke about difficulty and about what difficulty revealed in people.
He spoke about the times that were coming. Not with alarm — with the specific quality of someone who had decided that honest preparation was a form of respect rather than a burden. He said that the wizarding world was going to need the people in this room and that he had every confidence in the people in this room, which was the kind of thing that Dumbledore said and meant, and which landed differently than the same words from someone who had not earned the right to them.
Then the feast resolved into itself and Ron sat with Harry and Hermione and Ginny and Neville and Luna and ate well and listened to the room and let the evening be what it was.
He found Viktor Krum on the grounds after the feast.
Krum was at the edge of the lake, which was where Krum went when he wanted to be somewhere that was not occupied by the specific quality of large groups of people responding to Viktor Krum's presence — which was to say, most of the places Krum went. He was standing in the June evening with the specific quality of someone who had been at Hogwarts since October and was in the first moments of understanding that he was leaving.
Ron stood beside him. They looked at the lake.
'When will you return to Bulgaria,' Ron said.
'Coming Autumn,' Krum said. 'The regular season first. Then the World Cup preparation starts again in January.' He paused. 'It will be different.'
'Yes,' Ron said. 'Things are different now.'
Krum looked at the lake with the quality he had when he was thinking about something carefully before saying it. 'The Witness letter,' he said. 'This morning. Find the people worth standing with.'
'Yes,' Ron said.
'That was for everyone.' It was not a question. 'Durmstrang also.'
'As I understand it.'
Krum was quiet for a moment. 'Durmstrang teaches the Dark Arts,' he said. 'Not defensive — practical. There are students there who will go the other direction, when it comes to choosing.' He looked at Ron. 'Not all of them.'
'No,' Ron said. 'Not all of them.'
'I will not,' Krum said, with the specific simplicity of a man for whom the statement was a fact rather than a declaration. He held out his hand.
Ron shook it. Krum's handshake had the quality of someone communicating something that was too large for the available words and had decided the hand was a better instrument.
'Write if you need anything,' Ron said.
'You also,' Krum said, which from Krum was the same offer in the opposite direction.
He walked back toward the Durmstrang ship, and Ron watched him go, and filed him in the specific category of people he intended to keep.
Fleur found him at the carriage.
She had Gabrielle beside her — Gabrielle who had the specific quality of an eight-year-old at the end of something, present and aware of the presentness in the way children were sometimes more present than adults in the final moments of occasions. She had her natural history book under one arm, which she had been carrying since May with the frequency of someone who had found something worth carrying.
He crouched down to Gabrielle's level.
'Write,' she said, before he could say anything.
'I promised,' he said.
She looked at him with the quality she had across all the Thursday dinners — the focused assessment of someone who took people seriously and had decided he was worth the taking seriously. Then she hugged him, briefly, with the specific quality of an eight-year-old hug which was both complete and entirely unpretentious about itself.
He held it for a moment and let her go.
She stepped back to Fleur's side with the quality of someone who had done what she came to do and was at peace with having done it.
Fleur looked at him.
'Thank you,' she said. 'For the dinners. For her.' She paused. 'She is — she needs people who take her seriously. Who listen to what she actually says rather than what they expect a small girl to say.'
'She has strong theories about lake darkness,' Ron said.
'She does,' Fleur said. 'They are not wrong.' She looked at him with the full assessment — the one that had been updating since the medic tent. 'I expect we will meet again,' she said. 'In the times that are coming.'
'Yes,' Ron said. 'I expect we will.'
'Good,' she said. The word had the specific quality she gave things she meant without qualification.
She took Gabrielle's hand and walked toward the carriage, and Gabrielle looked back once with the yellow-gold focus of someone who had filed a person correctly and intended to keep the file, and then the carriage door closed and the twelve palomino horses rose into the June sky and the Beauxbatons carriage moved south through the afternoon air and was, eventually, gone.
He stood on the grounds and watched it go.
Behind him the Durmstrang ship was sinking back into the lake with the same deliberate quality with which it had arrived, the dark hull descending, the masts disappearing, the water closing over it with the patience of something that had been doing this for centuries.
The grounds were Hogwarts's again.