The Hogwarts Express pulled into King's Cross with a shriek of steam and the eruption of several hundred reunited families.
Kevin and Hermione stepped off a little behind the main rush, having agreed without discussion that the stampede could sort itself out before they participated in it. They were still talking — debating something inconsequential about summer reading lists — and neither of them was in any particular hurry.
Across the platform, a cluster of seventh-years stood at the edge of the crowd, not moving toward the exit, just standing there. A few of them were trying not to cry, which was making the ones who were crying feel better about it. Kevin watched them for a moment.
Two years left. The thought arrived quietly, without drama, and sat there.
He'd been so focused on the next thing — the next Horcrux, the next threat, the next problem to solve before it turned into a crisis — that the shape of the story itself had blurred into the background. Two years. Then the final battle. Then whatever came after.
What came after was something he hadn't fully worked out yet.
"Kevin!" Hermione's voice cut through the noise. She'd spotted her parents and was already moving, pulling him along by the hand with the cheerful imperiousness of someone who had decided the moment called for speed. "Mum! Dad!"
She let go of his hand about ten paces out and launched herself at her mother with the full-body enthusiasm of a fifteen-year-old who had, despite everything, thoroughly missed being home. Her father got the same treatment.
Kevin smiled at the chaos of it.
"Kevin." Mrs. Granger released Hermione long enough to put a hand on his shoulder. Her voice was warm in the specific way of people who have been worried about someone and are trying not to show how relieved they are. "Good to have you both home."
Mr. Granger shook his hand. His grip was slightly too firm. This was, Kevin had come to understand, his standard expression of emotion.
The attack at Christmas was still there, underneath the normalcy of a platform greeting. Kevin could see it in the way Mrs. Granger's eyes checked both of them over as if running a damage assessment. Both intact. Both standing. Good.
"Dinner's ready," Mr. Granger said, steering them toward the exit. "Your mum's been at it since noon."
"You could have started earlier," Hermione told him, threading her arm through her mother's.
"I could have," Mr. Granger agreed. "I chose not to. Kevin, you're with us."
They waved to Harry and Sirius, to Ron and the Weasley family, to Draco being collected with visible relief by Narcissa. Then they were through the barrier and into the Muggle world, and London closed around them, and it was summer.
That evening, Kevin and Hermione crossed over to their house next door as the Granger sitting room was clearing of dishes.
Hermione went straight for the sofa with the satisfied inevitability of a cat finding its spot. Crookshanks materialised from somewhere and joined her. The combination of their joint weight and collective self-satisfaction was not inconsiderable.
Kevin moved Crookshanks with the zero-ceremony efficiency that had long since stopped provoking outrage from either of them, and picked Hermione up.
She went immediately and entirely limp. She did this — surrendered into the carry with total commitment, as though bones were an optional feature she'd decided to de-equip. It drove him a little mad, in the best possible way.
She had been doing this since third year, when he'd made the mistake of carrying her back to Gryffindor Tower once. Once had become often, had become regular, had become something neither of them acknowledged or examined too closely.
"Hey, Hermione."
"Mm." The hum of someone almost asleep.
"Have you gained weight?"
He said it with the clinical detachment of someone estimating the contents of a bag. He even lifted her slightly, as if confirming a measurement.
The silence that followed was very particular.
Very still.
Hermione opened one eye. Then the other. The soft, contented warmth of her expression had not exactly vanished — it had curdled.
"...Where?" she asked. Her voice was pleasant. Too pleasant.
"I carry you regularly. I'd notice the difference."
Another throb of dangerous quiet.
"Kevin." Soft. Precise. "Put me down."
"Why? I can handle it. Even if you keep—"
"Kevin Croft. Put me down this instant."
He blinked. The penny dropped approximately three seconds too late.
The evening that followed was instructive.