Hagrid's chickens started at first light.
Kevin surfaced through the sound of them, found Hermione asleep against his shoulder, and lay still for a while without doing anything about it.
Eventually she woke. Found him awake. The flush started immediately.
"Before you say anything," Kevin said, "Ron kept a running commentary about spider-induced choreography from midnight onward."
"...That doesn't explain everything that happened."
"It explains a significant portion."
She pushed herself up. "Out. Before the others wake up."
Kevin stepped out of the girls' section into the central space with the composure of someone who had done nothing wrong. A moment later, Harry, Ron, and Draco emerged from the boys' side, still half-asleep.
Kevin yawned. "Morning."
"Where were you?" Harry said. He was awake enough to do arithmetic.
"Couldn't sleep. Went to talk to Hermione. Fell asleep. Straightforward."
Ron and Draco exchanged a look. Harry studied Kevin's expression.
Hermione emerged, saw six eyes on her, and walked past all of them toward Hagrid's with her chin up and her cheeks distinctly pink.
The three boys turned back to Kevin.
"What?" he said.
Christmas morning proceeded normally. Owl post, packages piled up at Hagrid's door.
Hermione handed Kevin a long, thin box. He opened it.
A pocket watch. Silver case, deep-blue enamelled face, dark gold hands. Classic mechanics, gears ticking almost silent.
He flipped the case. Inside the lid, a photograph — the camping trip, him and Hermione asleep, both of them curled together the way Mrs. Granger had caught them. The same easy peace.
Hermione was watching the tablecloth. "I noticed you check the time constantly. Every spare moment. I thought — it might as well be something worth looking at."
Kevin looked at the photograph for a moment.
"I love it," he said, and he meant it completely.
He swapped his old watch out on the spot and tucked the new one against his chest.
He slid a box her way. She opened it: a quill. Long, dark-tipped, with something iridescent in the feather.
"It never runs dry," Kevin said. "And it writes whatever you're thinking — I charmed it. You're always running out of ink halfway through something important."
He paused. "The feather is from Fawkes. I got it when Dumbledore wasn't looking."
She burst out laughing. "Fawkes is going to tell him."
"Probably," Kevin agreed. "But you'll have had the quill by then."
She ran a finger along the feather. He'd listened. He remembered. The small specific complaint she'd made months ago, and he'd gone and fixed it.
She looked up at him, and didn't say anything, because there wasn't anything adequate.
Christmas week passed easily. The castle was full of decorations and low-key chaos. Dumbledore led fireworks in the back garden one afternoon, accidentally set a section of lawn on fire, and received a comprehensive dressing-down from McGonagall in front of the students, which he accepted with the expression of a man who found this entirely fair.
Sirius went quiet. No appearances, no signs. But the silence felt inhabited — not absent. He was still near.
Harry split his time between Quidditch practice and Lupin's office, gathering stories about James and Lily piece by piece. He came back from each visit quieter than he'd left, in the way of someone slowly building something inside himself.
Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw. Kevin noted a Ravenclaw Seeker who looked familiar — Cho Chang, striking and fast, a year younger than he'd expected. She and Harry clocked each other on the pitch. Harry had other things on his mind.
They beat Slytherin too. Harry had borrowed a school broom after the Nimbus's death and didn't seem to notice the difference.
Kevin and Hermione skipped the second Hogsmeade trip. The library was better company and they'd seen everything the village had to offer in thirty minutes.
Harry and Ron went. Harry snuck.
He came back with the Marauder's Map, courtesy of Fred and George Weasley, who considered themselves insufficient justification for keeping it and handed it over at cost — which was the story of how they'd made it.
Ron's reaction when he saw it was personal and slightly wounded.
No one addressed this.
They unrolled it on the common room floor and studied it with collective reverence. Every room, every corridor, every person as a labelled dot.
"With this, we could see Sirius coming," Harry said. "Track him before he reaches us."
"Exactly," Kevin said. He scanned the map, moving systematically through the sections.
Then he stopped.
"Does that name mean anything to anyone?"
He pointed.
Peter Pettigrew.
Moving. Inside the castle.
Hermione's breath caught. Ron went pale. Harry's jaw locked.
"He's supposed to be dead," Ron said.
"He's not," Kevin said simply, already standing. "Let's go."
They tracked the dot. Moving toward the castle's edge — Hagrid's direction, the Forbidden Forest.
By the time they made it outside, the dot was gone.
"Map's broken?" Ron said.
"Map's not broken." Kevin looked at the forest. "He was there. He ran." He thought for a moment. "Let's go to Hagrid's."
Hagrid opened the door holding Scabbers.
"Ron! Glad you're here — this little fella showed up scratching at my window just now."
Ron took his rat with the automatic warmth of someone who'd carried him for years. He held Scabbers up, nose to nose. The rat blinked at him with bright, frantic eyes.
Kevin raised his camera. He got the shot. Ron nuzzling his rat with pure uncomplicated affection.
"Just preserving the moment," Kevin said, to the stares.
"Have you seen anyone unusual around here, Hagrid?" Harry asked.
"Unusual? You lot are the unusual ones." Hagrid scratched his beard. "Honestly, no. Just you all coming and going."
"The map might have glitched," Harry muttered.
"It didn't," Kevin said. "We should bring Lupin in on this."
If Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew — and he was; Kevin was certain — then what came next needed a witness. Someone who had known Peter personally, whose identification would mean something. Lupin was that person.
Everyone nodded.
Then Scabbers sank his teeth into Ron's hand.
"Ow —" Ron pulled back. The rat launched himself from Ron's grip, hit the floor, and ran.
"Scabbers!" Ron bolted after him, hand bleeding.
Kevin caught up in two strides and scooped the rat up with both hands. He held him firmly. Not crushing — just completely inescapable.
Scabbers went berserk. Bit, scratched, twisted. Didn't matter.
"I'll hang onto him," Kevin said.
Ron opened his mouth.
"He bit you," Kevin said. "He bit you and ran. That's not pet behaviour, Ron."
Ron closed his mouth.
Kevin led them back toward the castle.