The worst of Hagrid's worries turned out to be unfounded.
Besides a very stern talking-to from Madam Pomfrey - delivered with arms crossed, lips pursed, and no room for argument - he had been forced into a full check-up himself, just to make sure he hadn't also been affected by all the burns, bites, and maulings he had received by the dragon hatchling he'd so recklessly been raising. Hagrid had endured it red-faced, muttering about "bein' treated like a child," while Pomfrey fussed with diagnostic charms.
In the end, however, the Headmaster had been unsurprisingly kind. Dumbledore had assured Hagrid that all would be well, so long as the matter was dealt with discreetly. Of course, no matter the discretion, Norbert was still to be sent away to a dragon reserve, where he could grow up amongst his own kind. That decision had driven the gamekeeper to tears all over again, though he had eventually been convinced it was better for the creature than a wooden hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Ron, for his part, had been up and about by the very next day, freed of fever and his arm properly bandaged. He'd sought Gabriel out while he was walking on the corridor between classes, shuffling awkwardly, ears already red.
"Er… just wanted to say thanks," he muttered. "For… y'know, getting me out of there sooner. I owe you one."
Gabriel leaned into the wall, arms folded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "No need to owe me anything. Just… go say sorry to Hermione. For whatever it was you said back at Halloween."
Ron look confused for a second before he seemed to remember the incident and winced, like he'd just bitten down on a sour toffee. "I didn't mean it. Not like that." He scratched the back of his neck. "Harry an' me, we- we even ran to the bathroom when we heard 'bout the troll, you know? But the teachers got there first - heard all the scream, I think. They sent us away before we could do anything. After that… well, I dunno. Felt too awkward to say anything to her."
Gabriel nodded, inclining his head in agreement. "Yeah, I get that. But you should still try. She might be a hardass sometimes, but she's way more forgiving than she looks."
Ron blew out a breath, nodding slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." He said in a voice that told Gabriel he thought the exact opposite. Then, speaking like a man who had resolved to march to death he promised, "Alright, I'll try."
And he did, going by the hug Gabriel received from Hermione the next day.
-~=~-
Exam week had finally ended, and that meant three very important things for Gabriel.
First: his months-long group detention with Snape - punishment for that fateful game earlier in the year - was finally over. No more wasted weekends scrubbing cauldrons under Dungeon Bat sneer; he would actually have his free weekends back.
Second: the school year itself was almost over, which meant he'd be going home soon.
And third: Hermione was finished trying her damndest to drive him insane with her worries.
Why she insisted on wringing her hands over the exams was utterly beyond him. The girl had practically memorized all the coursebooks before term had even begun and had likely read them several times over since then. She was always the first - or at worst, one of the first - to master any spell the professors demonstrated. Even Snape, who could turn the friendliest Gryffindor into a pile of quivering nerves, had no real complaints about her work - outside of sneering at her tendency to try and answer every question. Gabriel knew she would rank first in the year. The teachers knew it. The other students knew it. Hermione herself, if she were being honest, knew it too. And yet she still moaned about not being able to write enough, to research enough, to chase down one obscure tome or another.
At first, Gabriel had found it funny. Then worrying. Then irritating. Then back to worrying again. Eventually, during one of their scheduled "quizzing sessions," he'd made her take without knowing the Second Year midterm exam questions he'd nicked from an older student's notes. She'd aced it with a perfect score. That had finally gotten her to ease off… a little. She had merely slowed her pace, which, for Hermione Granger, he imagined counted as a break.
Gabriel, dragged into her endless study sessions and further pressed by his own academically obsessed housemates, had ended up learning much more than he expected - or frankly desired. It wasn't that he disliked studying. He enjoyed learning new spells, unraveling some hidden details of magic. But there was a difference between discovering a new charm and slogging through dull facts like "the average ghoul's dietary needs consist of half-rotten tubers, bones, and wallpaper paste, which they chew for flavor but cannot actually digest. Different colors and patterns of wallpaper seem to have direct equivalents to certain spices. Those similarities have been extensively studied and will be expanded upon next-"
Still, thanks to all that drilling, he had at least managed to do well on the written exams. The practicals, though - that was where he shone.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick had each student run through the full roster of spells they had learned throughout the year. Gabriel stepped up, wand in hand, and let muscle memory take over: Lumos to light up, then Nox to extinguish; a piece of torn parchment mended with Reparo; a stream of bubbles conjured with Bubblio, and then frozen midair with Firmare; his voice turned to birdsong with Murmuravis; himself buoyed into a feather-light leap with Perfusorius; a coin tossed, made to hover, and levitated around in sequence with Alarte Ascendare, Levioso, and Wingardium Leviosa. On and on he went, chaining spells such that sometimes he had to call back on some which had already been cast in order to turn the whole exam into a performance. By the end, Flitwick was nearly bouncing on his stack of books. Gabriel received a guaranteed Outstanding for his trouble.
In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall had been far less generous. Each student had been given one minute to decide five objects they would transform a series of five chalk-white stone blocks into, with the grading being based not only on the transfiguration being successful, but also on how different the chosen object was to the original shape, and how detailed they made their work. Gabriel's chosen objects had been: a mirror, a sword, a parasol, a cup, and - because he couldn't resist - a statue of himself with ridiculous muscles, posing like Conan the Barbarian. McGonagall had refused to comment on his grade, pursing her lips tighter than he thought humanly possible, and had undone the statue before he could even admire it properly or ask to take it as a souvenir.
Then came the second part of the trial: turning a rat into a snuffbox. Gabriel had never even heard of a snuffbox before. But his already ingrained habit of breaking down every little detail of an object in order to write it on his "Livro de Formas" gave him a certain edge. He analyzed the box piece by piece, traced every angle in his mind, heard it plop down on the table and then conjured the spell with confidence. The result was perfect - right down to the size and shine. McGonagall had looked openly disgusted when he licked the edge to confirm the sharpness, but Gabriel only shrugged. "Part of the process," he affirmed, overly serious.
Finally, there was Potions, where Snape had saved his nastiest trick for last: the Forgetfulness Potion. The challenge lay not only in the recipe itself - which wasn't in truth that complicated - but in the fact that the potion's own fumes during the brewing process muddled your memory as you worked, and no masks had been given to them. Gabriel had personally never brewed it before. But as the vapor coiled around his head, one droning and high-pitched voice kept cutting through the fog: Hermione's. She had recited the recipe to him hundreds of times, practically drilling it into his skull.
"Standard potion solution as a base. Two drops of Lethe River water. Place it in low heat without stirring until vapor rises, but before it starts to boil. Add two roughly crushed valerian sprigs. Stir clockwise until it starts bubbling. Stop stirring and let it brew for forty-five to sixty minutes depending on how close it is to New Moon. Then-"
He thought that even if the potion completely erased his memory of the last time Hermione made him repeat the recipe, he would still have the previous hundreds. When at last his potion was finished, he bottled a sample and slid it forward. Snape inspected it with his usual disdain before offering the smallest possible grunt of approval - practically a standing ovation from him - and then placing it aside and calling for the next victim.
-~=~-
The Great Hall was buzzing with noise when Gabriel stepped inside for the end-of-year feast. The ceiling had been bewitched into a dusky summer sky, faint stars just beginning to prick through the twilight, and the long tables gleamed with polished goblets and waiting plates.
But what really caught the eye was the décor: the entire hall had been draped in green and silver. Huge banners shimmered with the serpent of Slytherin, and a massive one hung proudly behind the High Table, proclaiming Slytherin's victory for another year in a row.
Dumbledore rose to his feet, his robes a riot of colors against the silver-green backdrop. "Another year gone!" he said cheerfully, and the noise in the Hall died away. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were… you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts…"
There was a polite ripple of laughter, though Gabriel mostly stared at the empty golden plate in front of him.
"Now," Dumbledore went on, "as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: in fourth place, Hufflepuff, with four hundred and three; in third place, Gryffindor, with four hundred and sixty-seven; in second place, Ravenclaw, with five hundred and sixteen; and in first place, Slytherin! With a whole five hundred and twenty-two points."
A wave of cheers exploded from the Slytherin table. Dumbledore raised his hand and called for calm. "I believe it only right that we all give our congratulations to Slytherin House. Please, a round of applause."
It was half-hearted at best from the other tables, though the Hufflepuffs - who had come last - looked least bothered by the result, clapping gamely. The Gryffindors groaned and sulked until Professor McGonagall's withering glare forced their hands together, while the Ravenclaws sighed and muttered about how unfair it was to lose by a mere six points. Professor Snape looked supremely smug, and Gabriel felt that something was missing as he looked at the High Table, but couldn't quite say what.
Putting it out of his mind and looking at the bemoaning of his housemates, he shrugged. "Fine by me," he muttered as he clapped. "Second place without winning a single Quidditch match isn't bad, all things considered. Thank you, troll, you won't be missed." He smirked to himself. "Besides, Slytherins are cheaters anyway."
He leaned back, eyeing the emerald banners overhead. If he squinted, he could pretend they were all actually Brazilian football flags.
And then, at last, the golden plates filled with food. Roast meats, steaming vegetables, potatoes done every way imaginable, gravy, pies, puddings—the whole glorious spread of Hogwarts magic. Gabriel grinned as he heaped his plate high.
House Cups and banners didn't matter. Not right now. Not with food this good.
"Clearly," he said around a forkful of roast chicken, "I'm the real winner here."