The castle received them the way it always did — the smell of old stone and torch-smoke, the distant echo of hundreds of students moving through stone corridors — and Kevin felt the specific quality of homecoming that Hogwarts produced, the one that had crept up on him somewhere around third year and never entirely left.
He and Hermione parted at the entrance hall with the ease of long practice — staff table for him, Gryffindor table for her — and he slid into the seat between Slughorn and Snape with the appropriate hellos.
Slughorn was openly delighted to be back, beaming at the Hall like a man surveying a newly restocked collection. Snape was stone-faced, which was how he expressed most of his emotional range.
"Good evening, Professor Slughorn," Kevin said.
"Kevin! So the rumours are true — you've been teaching here." Slughorn clasped his hands together. "What a year this is going to be. Quite extraordinary."
Snape said nothing. Kevin nodded at him anyway.
The first-years filed in with McGonagall at the head, doing what first-years always do: staring at the ceiling, stumbling slightly, trying to look less terrified than they were. Kevin scanned the line with half his attention.
Gren Dore walked among them with the relaxed posture of someone who has decided that performing nervousness would be a waste of his time.
The Sorting proceeded normally. Kevin watched the Hat work through the first-years. Hat on, brief pause, house called. The usual.
Then: "Gren Dore."
McGonagall's voice carried the slight additional formality she used for announcements outside the standard sequence. She noted the Durmstrang transfer, the perfect O's across all O.W.L.s. A ripple of noise went through the older students at that. Kevin heard it at the Gryffindor table — surprise, recalibration, the quick mental arithmetic of people who knew exactly what a clean sweep of O.W.L.s required.
Dore sat. The Hat went on.
The pause stretched.
Kevin watched.
What is the Hat doing?
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione watched too. At the Slytherin table, Draco watched too, for different reasons.
Then, with the volume and decisiveness of a hat that has made up its mind:
"SLYTHERIN!"
Dore stood, shrugged with the mild resignation of someone who'd been expecting something else but found he couldn't be bothered arguing about it, and walked to the Slytherin table.
Where he was immediately surrounded.
Kevin ate, listened to Dumbledore's opening speech, and quietly observed Dore from across the Hall. The boy who had been warm and easy on the train — chatting, laughing, asking questions — sat among the Slytherin cluster with the detached courtesy of someone performing engagement rather than feeling it. He answered questions. He smiled at the right moments. He looked at no one too long.
Different, Kevin thought. Entirely different environment, entirely different setting.
Which meant either Dore was compartmentalising with professional precision, or the warmth on the train had been what was performed, and this was what was real.
Neither interpretation was particularly comforting.
He finished his meal, excused himself from the staff table, and went to his workshop.
He'd barely settled at his desk when the door swung open.
Dumbledore stood in the doorway, hands clasped, the expression of a man who has anticipated this conversation and chosen his own timing for it.
"I thought I might find you here," Dumbledore said.
"I thought you might come," Kevin replied. "Sit down. Tell me about Gren Dore."