He was drawing now, a set of pastels at his side and a large sheaf of toned paper set before him, already covered in all sorts of sketches—each one affected with the clumsy charm of a youth’s art. There were dragons and broomsticks and all sorts of other animals. He had even drawn a portrait of himself and his mother holding hands and bearing huge smiles, each one with stick-limbs and boxlike bodies. Now and then Pansy would tap on one drawing and ask him about it, and the boy would enthusiastically assign it its own story and setting. Neville only watched and said nothing.