22nd December 1994, the Room of Requirement, 6:14 PM
The Room had configured itself, by Luna's quiet request, into a long polished hardwood floor lit by soft hovering candles, with tall windows along one side showing an unreal snow-falling night sky that gave the impression of standing in a great empty ballroom in deep winter. A small enchanted gramophone sat on a low pedestal in the corner, playing—at Luna's selection—a slow precise waltz that had clearly been chosen with the careful Lovegood instinct for the most patient possible practice piece.
Harry was, by his own private assessment, failing at it.
He had been practising for forty minutes. He had stepped on Luna's foot three times in the first ten, twice in the second ten, and—just now—for the sixth time overall. His ears were the precise colour they had been at the dinner-table announcement-conversation a week ago.
"I am sorry, Luna."
"You are not sorry, Hah-ree. You are frustrated."
"I am frustrated and sorry."
"Yes." She tilted her head, the small radish-earrings catching the candlelight. "But mostly frustrated. Your shoulders are tight. You are holding me as though I am made of glass."
"I am trying not to trample you."
"Hah-ree." She stopped moving. Her grey eyes, very close now, were soft and patient. "I am not glass. I am Luna. I have been falling out of trees for some considerable years. I will survive."
A small precise pause.
"Now. Right hand at my waist. Yes. Lower. Yes. Left hand holding mine. Yes. And you do not look at your feet, Hah-ree. You look at me. The feet will manage themselves."
Harry looked at her.
His feet, against all reasonable expectation, did begin to manage themselves. They proceeded through the small precise three-step rhythm Luna's voice had been quietly counting under her breath for the last forty minutes, and they did not, for the next two and a half rotations of the small polished floor, step on hers.
"There," Luna said softly, with the particular small pleased smile she gave when something had begun to work.
"There," Harry agreed, slightly breathlessly.
They danced.
The gramophone's waltz had reached its slow middle passage. The candles overhead had drifted, by some Room-trained instinct, to the precise low warm height that produced the small golden cathedral-light Harry had always associated with Christmas Eve at his father's house. Luna, against him, was warm and small and steady, and her dirty-blonde hair smelt of the lavender she had used since she was nine.
She was wearing one of her father's old wool jumpers over her uniform, several sizes too large, with the sleeves rolled up at her wrists. He was in his school shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his Gryffindor tie loose at his collar.
It was, he registered with a small private interior quiet, one of the better moments of his life.
He turned them.
He turned them again.
His left foot, on the third turn, caught the back of his right.
The small precise catch was not enough to make him fall. It was, however, enough to make him stagger perhaps four inches forward, which carried his entire upper body the precise short distance forward required to bring Luna's chest fully against his chest, and to bring Luna's face the precise two inches below his own that he had not, until that moment, registered the geography of.
His arm, on automatic, tightened to keep her steady.
He registered, in approximately one and a quarter seconds, the precise sequence of:
His own heart, beating considerably faster than the waltz required. Luna's heart, against his ribs through two layers of wool, beating with what appeared to be a matching irregularity. The precise warmth of her cheek against his collar. The precise composed quiet of Luna's face, looking up at him from a distance of approximately six inches.
The gramophone played on. The candles burned. The snow continued to fall against the unreal windows. Neither of them moved.
Luna's lips, very softly: "Hah-ree."
Harry's voice, when he found it, came out at a register considerably lower than usual.
"Luna."
"Your hand is on my back."
"Yes."
"That is correct technique."
"Th-thank you."
"You should perhaps not let go of it."
"N-no."
"Good."
A small precise interior silence. Harry's Cogitation, which he registered as having been on the verge of engaging for the last three seconds, did not engage. He let it stay where it was.
Some precise interior small quiet thing in his chest was telling him not to engage Cogitation. It was telling him, in the precise small steady honest voice it had been developing over the last six months, that this was a moment he was allowed to feel.
The Room's door opened.
The waltz cut off as the gramophone, with the precise small disgruntled sigh of an enchanted object that had registered an interruption to its scene, paused.
Harry and Luna sprang apart with the precise simultaneous speed of two people who had been caught doing precisely what they had been doing.
"HARRY POTTER, what did you do with my notes on Selkie acoustic ranges, I distinctly left them on the table at lunch—"
Hermione, in mid-question, registered the empty hardwood floor, the dimmed candles, and the precise small high colour of Harry's and Luna's faces.
She stopped mid-sentence.
Ron, behind her with a stack of bestiaries in his arms, also stopped.
The two of them stood in the open doorway with the precise expressions of an interrupted study-group who had, in the precise small private interior moment of seeing what was apparent in front of them, registered that they had—possibly—come in two minutes earlier than they should have.
"Oh," Hermione said.
"Oh," Ron agreed.
"We can—"
"No," Luna said serenely, with the precise small composed Lovegood recovery, "come in. Hah-ree is practising his waltz. He has improved considerably."
Harry, who was inspecting the precise threadwork of the gramophone's hovering surface with an entirely manufactured interest, was perfectly aware that the precise threadwork of the gramophone's hovering surface was not, in itself, that interesting.
"Hermione," he managed, "your notes are on the table by the window. The third stack down. I moved them so Jasper wouldn't sit on them."
"Right. Yes. Thank you, Harry."
She crossed the room with the precise composed efficiency of a girl who had decided that the best service she could presently render her two friends was not commenting further on the dance.
Ron set the bestiaries down on the small oak table the Room had helpfully provided, looked at Harry, looked at Luna, looked at the gramophone, opened his mouth—
"Ron," Hermione said sharply.
"I haven't said anything yet."
"Don't."
"Hermione—"
"Ronald."
He grinned. He shut his mouth. He sat down at the table with the precise pleased composure of a boy who had been planning to say something extremely teasing and had been instructed not to, and was now enjoying the precise private knowledge of what he had not been allowed to say.
The Room's door opened a second time.
Draco came in with his outer cloak over one arm and a folded piece of parchment in the other hand. He registered the small composed configuration of the room in approximately one and a quarter seconds—Harry's high colour, Luna's small private serene smile, Hermione's careful neutrality, Ron's grin—and, with the precise composed Slytherin tact he had been developing all term, simply walked to the table and set down his parchment.
"Dress robes," he announced.
The conversation, with the precise grateful efficiency of an interrupted-dance-group, snapped onto a safer subject.
"Dress robes," Harry repeated.
"The Ball is in three days. Have you written to your father about yours, Harry?"
A small precise pause.
"Ah," Harry said.
"Harry."
"I have not yet, no."
"Harry James Potter-Esther," Hermione said, with the precise composed weariness of a girl who had been monitoring this particular subject for a fortnight, "the Ball is on the twenty-fifth. It is the twenty-second. You have three days. Your father runs an international magical company. He is very busy. You will not get a tailored robe in three days without considerably inconveniencing him."
"Hermione, I will write tonight."
Ron, beside Draco, had gone the precise small high colour of a boy who had also not entirely managed the dress-robes question in his own correspondence with home.
"Mate," Ron said quietly.
"Hmm.."
"Mum has sent mine."
"Already?"
"Last Wednesday."
"And?"
Ron's small precise grim composed silence was the silence of a boy whose mother had, with the considerable economy of a Weasley household, sent him a family heirloom dress-robe she had been saving for him for some years.
"Mate," Ron said with a small wounded dignity, "it has lace. At the collar."
Draco's mouth twitched. He suppressed it with considerable effort.
"Lace, Ronald?"
"Don't, Malfoy."
"A significant quantity of lace?"
"Don't."
"Edwardian lace?"
"Ugh—"
Hermione, who had been suppressing her own laughter with the precise composed determination of a friend who was not going to permit herself to be cruel to Ron about his dress-robe before she had at least seen the dress-robe, lost the battle approximately three seconds later.
Her laugh, when it broke, was the unrestrained delighted Hermione-laugh that Harry, in the precise small private way of someone cataloguing his friend's good moments, treasured.
"Hermione!"
"I am sorry, Ron—"
25th December 1994, Gryffindor Boys' Dormitory, 7:14 AM
"Master Harry. Master Harry. Master Harry, sir, it is being Christmas morning."
Harry surfaced from sleep to the precise unmistakable enthusiastic squeak of the precise unmistakable house-elf.
He opened his eyes.
Dobby was standing at the foot of his bed in a small immaculate Christmas-themed outfit consisting of: a knitted red waistcoat over a crisp green shirt, neatly tailored black trousers, a small holly-sprig pinned at his lapel, and an expression of enormous pleased excitement.
"Dobby."
"Master Harry, sir! Dobby has brought you the presents, sir, and Dobby has his own present for Master Harry, which Dobby is most very honoured to personally deliver."
A small package wrapped in green tissue was extended toward Harry with both small hands.
Harry sat up. He took it. He unwrapped it with the careful attention he always gave Dobby's gifts.
Inside were two woollen socks.
They did not match.
One was a deep emerald green with small embroidered golden lions running along the cuff; the other was a deep scarlet with small embroidered silver snakes running along the cuff. The wool was extremely good quality. The stitching was, by every measurable standard, beautiful.
"Dobby," Harry said softly. "Dobby, these are extraordinary."
"Master Harry likes them?"
"I love them. Where did you—"
"Dobby is buying the wool with his own wages, Master Harry sir. The wool merchant in Diagon Alley has been very kind. Dobby is knitting them in the evenings in his small flat, sir. The lions are for Master Harry's House. The snakes are for Young Master Draco's House. Dobby is making them mismatched on purpose, sir, because Dobby thinks friendship between Houses is most important."
Harry's eyes did the small precise thing they did when something hit him without warning.
"Dobby. Thank you."
"Master Harry is most very welcome, sir."
Harry leaned over the side of the bed. He produced, from beneath it, the small parcel he had wrapped two nights ago and had been keeping ready.
"For you."
Dobby's enormous eyes filled with tears before he had even taken the parcel.
He unwrapped it with the precise reverent care of an elf who had not, in all his years, received many such parcels. Inside was a long carved feather pen of the precise quality used by professional scribes, in a polished blackwood case with Dobby's name engraved in small precise gilt letters along the spine.
"Master Harry—"
"For your work, Dobby. Verrona told me you've been writing the new Charter on someone else's pen."
"Master Harry is too—"
"You earned it, Dobby."
The small house-elf was crying openly now, in the small precise dignified way he had developed since being freed: a brief honest catch in the throat, and then a precise composed recovery. He pressed the pen-case to his chest.
"Dobby will treasure it, sir."
"How is Winky, Dobby?"
A small precise pause. Dobby's enormous eyes did the small particular soft change they did when the question concerned someone he was still privately worried about.
"Better, Master Harry, sir. She is at Atid Stella under Miss Rogeiros's care. She is being fed properly. She is no longer drinking the Butterbeer. She is— slowly —accepting that she is being paid for her work. She has not yet quite stopped speaking of her old master, but she speaks of him less than she did. Dobby is being patient with her, sir."
"Tell her," Harry said quietly, "that I am thinking of her. And that she has a good friend in you."
"Dobby will tell her, sir."
The house-elf bowed properly. He vanished with the precise small crack of professional Apparition. Harry was left, in the small Christmas morning light, with the mismatched socks held against his chest and his ears doing the small private brimming-thing they did at moments like this.
He turned to the pile of parcels at the foot of the bed.
There were many.
Molly's hand-knit jumper arrived first—deep emerald green this year, with a small precise embroidered dragon on the chest in dark bronze thread, the precise small Hungarian Horntail rampant in the precise small pose Harry had himself struck against the dragon four weeks earlier. Harry's throat did the small precise affectionate thing. Molly had been paying attention. Sirius's gift was a small magical penknife in beaten silver, capable of opening any lock and undoing any knot, with a small note inscribed for emergencies and adventures, in equal measure—Padfoot. Lupin's gift was a beautifully bound notebook in tan leather with the inscription for thoughts that should not be lost—Moony, which Harry registered with the small interior recognition that Lupin had been observing his habit of writing letters to Ethan to think things through, and had decided to give him the proper tool for it. Verrona's gift was a small carved silver pen-set engraved with the Atid Stella sigil. Xenophilius had sent a small bound pamphlet entitled A Field Guide to Crumple-Horned Snorkacks (Revised) with a small note in Luna's father's spidery hand: Mr Potter—I have known what is between you and my daughter for some considerable years. I approve, with quiet pleasure. Xenophilius.
Harry sat with the pamphlet in his hand for approximately two minutes... He set it down.
The last parcel was the largest.
It was wrapped in deep red paper sealed with the small precise Atid Stella crest in silver wax. Harry recognised the precise hand of the wrapping immediately—his father's. He undid it carefully.
What lay inside the precise dark garment-box was a tuxedo.
It had been tailored, by every measurable indication, specifically for Harry. The fabric was the precise deep midnight-black of a wool of the highest grade, with the precise small subtle weave of a lining-pattern that, when Harry held it up to the morning light, revealed itself to be the small enchanted Gryffindor lion in deep red thread running through the silk. The waistcoat was a deep crimson red with small enchanted gilt buttons that caught the light. The shirt was a precise crisp white. The bow-tie was a deep red to match. At the chest pocket, a small embroidered golden lion sat in a precise tasteful arrangement—not gaudy, not loud, but unmistakably Gryffindor, and unmistakably House-Hogwarts.
A small note tucked into the breast-pocket read, in Ethan's precise hand:
Harry—
I have had this in commission for some weeks. The colours are yours. The cut is yours. Wear it tonight as the son of a man who is enormously proud of you.
Verrona sends her love. The cufflinks were her design.
Make Luna laugh. The rest will take care of itself.
All my love, Dad.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed with the note in his hand for a long quiet moment.
The dormitory around him was quiet. Ron and the others were still sleeping. The pale grey Christmas morning light came through the small high windows. Outside, the Hogwarts grounds were entirely white.
He folded the note carefully. He tucked it into the breast-pocket of the tuxedo.
He stood up. It was time to prepare himself.
25th December 1994, the Entrance Hall outside the Great Hall, 7:52 PM
The Hall had been transformed.
The fir-tree at the staff end had grown overnight to fill three storeys of the ceiling, its branches hung with small floating candles and silver crystals; the long banner reading Yule Ball — 25 December had been replaced by a glittering enchanted starscape that rolled slowly across the western wall. The four House tables had been replaced by some hundred small round tables in groups of six, each covered in deep red and gold and white. The orchestra platform at the far end was arrayed with the Weird Sisters' equipment, but a smaller second arrangement of instruments—Harry noted with a small private interior amusement—had been quietly assembled at the platform's left edge, presumably for the more formal opening pieces.
Harry stood in the Entrance Hall with his dorm-mates.
Seamus had whistled when Harry came down the dormitory stairs. Dean had clapped him on the shoulder with genuine warmth. Neville had said, with the small composed shyness Neville always brought to public moments, "Harry. You look quite—you look quite good."
Now Ron and Draco emerged from the small antechamber where the Champions' partners were assembling—both of them looking, by Harry's precise assessment, considerably better than the dorm conversations had led him to expect.
Ron's dress-robes were emphatically not the lace-trimmed family heirloom. They were a precise modern cut in deep navy with small silver trim at the lapels, exactly the right size for him, exactly the right cut for a tall ginger boy with broad shoulders. The collar was perfect. The waistcoat had a small modest embroidered pattern. He looked, in the precise small unfamiliar way Harry registered with surprise, handsome.
"Ron."
"Mate."
"Ron, this is not—"
"Lavender," Ron said simply, with the precise small composed dignity of a boy whose girlfriend had taken matters into her own hands. "She found me at breakfast Wednesday. Said the lace one wouldn't do. Took the robes to her dormitory. Said she'd handle it. Came back yesterday morning with this. Won't tell me how she managed it."
"And Mrs Weasley?"
"Won't know until summer. By which time I will be wearing this one to such effect that Mum will pretend the lace one was never sent. I am told this is how it works."
"Ron, this is excellent."
"Thank you, mate."
Draco beside him had achieved, by the precise small dispassionate Slytherin measurement of his own outfit, exactly the look of a noble fourteen-year-old at his first formal occasion. His robes were the precise pale slate-grey of a Malfoy family colour with a small subtle silver trim, his collar was crisp, his cuffs were neatly buttoned with small silver cufflinks that Harry recognised at twenty paces as a Greengrass family pattern.
"Mr. Malfoy."
"Mr.Potter. You look—" Draco's grey eyes did the small precise assessment, "—exactly like your father, do you know that."
Ron grinned. "That's what I said."
"I am aware, Ron."
"You look so much like your father, mate. The collar. The waistcoat. The buttons. You are about thirty years younger than him and approximately a foot shorter, but otherwise it is genuinely uncanny."
Harry, who had spent some time that afternoon working on his hair with the precise small Christmas-morning instinct of a boy who had decided that tonight he would not let his hair simply be its usual chaos—and had, instead, swept it back at the sides with a small modest application of charm-set that had been a gift from Hermione's mother last summer, producing the precise small clean Edwardian-side-parting that had been his quiet preference for some months—did not, exactly, deny it.
"I am proud," he said quietly, "to look like him."
Ron laughed. "Mate, you've been doing the small composed Ethan-business-smile at Theodore Nott for three months."
"That is a useful expression, Ron."
"That is the Ethan expression, mate. You have entirely inherited it. It is enormously satisfying to watch. Theodore is genuinely frightened of you now."
Draco's mouth twitched. "He is."
A small precise pause.
"Right," Ron said. "We are off. Lavender and Astoria are waiting in the Hall. We shall hold the table."
"Yes, Ron."
"Don't be late."
"No, Ron."
The two of them departed through the doors into the Hall. Harry, with the precise small composed nerves of a Champion who was now required to wait in the Entrance Hall with the other Champions for their dates' arrival, turned and walked to where the precise small assembly of waiting Champions had begun to gather.
Cedric was there with a small contained pleased smile and his neat black dress-robes; Cho was already on his arm in pale silver-grey. Robert was there in a precise dark navy American-cut tuxedo with a small Horned Serpent pin; his date was a tall dark-haired Ravenclaw fifth-year Harry did not know by name. Adaeze was there in a stunning deep ochre gown of Uagadou patterned cloth with gold thread woven through it; her partner was a tall, smiling Hufflepuff sixth-year Harry recognised vaguely from Quidditch. Fleur was there in pale blue silk that suited her precisely; her date was a slightly bewildered-looking Ravenclaw seventh-year who appeared to have agreed to the arrangement four hours previously and was, by every observable signal, still adjusting to his fortune.
Viktor stood slightly apart, in formal Durmstrang dress-robes of deep crimson with black braid at the collar. He looked, Harry registered with the small private interior assessment of a boy who had not entirely realised Viktor could look this composed, almost magnificent. Even Viktor's careful flat-footed Quidditch-stoop had been straightened into the precise formal posture of a young man who had been informed at age fourteen that he would represent Durmstrang at major occasions and had been practising for them ever since.
Viktor was alone.
Harry registered this. He walked across.
"H-hey, Viktor."
"H-Harry."
"She'll come."
"I know."
A small precise pause. Both of them, in the small precise private way of two boys who had each been waiting some weeks for the precise small inevitable moment of seeing their respective dates in their respective dresses, did the small composed checking-the-collar gesture in approximately the same second.
They caught each other doing it.
A small precise startled laugh broke between them.
Professor McGonagall's voice, from the head of the line, said with the precise small dryness of a Deputy Headmistress who had been managing such occasions for forty years: "Mr Krum. Mr Potter. Some dignity, gentlemen."
"Yes, Professor."
"Yes, Professor."
A small precise movement at the far end of the assembling crowd by the staircase.
Harry looked up.
Hermione.
She was descending the marble staircase with the precise small composed grace of a girl who had spent the last forty-eight hours in concentrated private preparation. Her hair, which Harry had been seeing in its precise wild Hermione-pattern for four years, had been smoothed by some considerable charm-work into a precise gleaming chestnut cascade that fell down her back in a single elegant arrangement. Her gown was a flowing precise pink silk with small subtle silver embroidery at the bodice and a long flowing skirt that moved with her as she walked. The colour suited her exactly.
Viktor's careful Bulgarian composure, Harry registered with the small private interior delight of a friend, had—in the precise small unhidden moment of recognition—completely failed.
He stood with his mouth slightly open. His dark hawk-eyes did not blink for approximately two seconds.
Harry, with the precise small private affectionate efficiency of a friend, nudged him.
"Viktor."
"I—"
"Viktor. Go."
Viktor went.
He met Hermione at the foot of the stairs with the precise small composed warmth of a young man who had managed to recover almost his composure by the time he reached her, and offered her his arm. Hermione, in the precise small private way of a girl who had been waiting for this exact moment for approximately four weeks, took it.
Harry turned back to the staircase.
He looked up.
A small fair-haired shape was peeking, with the precise small Lovegood combination of I am here and I am not yet ready to be seen, from around the corner at the top of the stairs.
Hermione, registering this from the foot of the stairs, called up gently: "Luna. Come on."
A small precise pause.
Luna stepped out.
The Entrance Hall, in the precise unrehearsed small collective inhalation of a hundred people, gasped.
Even Professor McGonagall.
Luna was wearing a flowing ball gown in the precise pale colour of a Baby Blue Eyes flower—the soft delicate sky-blue of the small wildflower that grew in the early Highland spring, with a precise small darker blue at the gown's centre that radiated outward like the flower's eye. The gown fell from a small fitted bodice into a long elegant flowing skirt that gathered, in soft pleats, at her feet. The bodice was modest and precise; the sleeves fell just over her shoulders in the precise small Edwardian register of a dress that had been chosen, by someone who knew her, for her. Her dirty-blonde hair had been left loose down her back, in the precise way Harry had been telling her since she was twelve was its best arrangement. Small silver crescent-moon earrings hung at her ears in place of the usual radishes—silver crescents that caught the candle-light at a precise angle and gleamed.
She was wearing no other jewellery except the Blue Moon necklace from Ethan, which rested at her throat.
Harry, in the precise small interior moment of seeing her, did not, exactly, breathe.
He registered, in approximately one and a quarter seconds, that:
His chest had stopped working in the precise small way chests stopped working at such moments. His vision had narrowed to the precise small frame of the staircase and the girl descending it. His Cogitation had not engaged, was not engaging, and was not going to engage tonight. He needed to move forward and offer his arm. Now.
He pinched himself, very lightly, in the precise small private gesture his father had taught him at age ten for moments when the visible world had threatened to become unbearable in the precise direction of beauty.
He moved.
He met Luna at the foot of the stairs. He offered his arm with the precise small composed grace he had been practising in his head for a week. She took it. Her small warm hand on his sleeve was steady.
She looked up at him.
"Hah-ree," she said softly. "You are very handsome."
"Luna. You are—"
"Mm?"
"You are—"
"Yes, Hah-ree."
"—the most beautiful person I have ever seen."
A small precise pause.
Luna's small private smile, when it came, was the precise full bright unhidden complete smile she reserved for the very particular small list of moments that she would, Harry knew, also remember for the rest of her life.
"Thank you, Hah-ree."
The Champions and their dates filed into the Hall in their precise opening procession. The crowd, already seated at the small round tables, rose to its feet in a precise collective murmur. Harry registered, in passing, the absence of Crouch from the judges' table at the far end. Percy Weasley, in his precise modest official dress-robes, had been seated in Crouch's place with the small composed nervous dignity of a young Ministry employee who had been promoted to assistant approximately three weeks ago and was discovering, on this evening, that assistant sometimes meant deputy in the absence of one's superior.
"Where's Crouch?" Harry murmured to Hermione as they passed.
"Percy says he is ill," she murmured back. "Has been for some weeks, apparently. The Ministry's official position is overwork."
"Mm."
"Yes."
The Champions reached the head of the floor.
The orchestra played the opening notes of the formal Yule waltz.
Harry turned to Luna. He set his right hand at the precise small position at her waist Luna had drilled him on. He took her left hand in his right. He looked, with the precise composed gentleness Luna had taught him, at her, not at his feet.
"Just me, Hah-ree."
"Just you."
They began to move.
Harry's first three steps were nervous. Luna's were not. By the fifth step, the precise small steady patient rhythm Luna had been giving him in the Room had carried him into the dance, and his feet had simply continued to manage themselves.
The other Champions and their partners danced around them. The crowd watched.
The music shifted.
The Weird Sisters' instruments had quietly stilled. A smaller, more intimate string-and-piano ensemble had begun to play instead, with the precise small soft swelling cadence of a piece that had been chosen with the unmistakable specific intent of building the precise emotional weight of the moment for a particular couple on the dance floor.
The other Champions, with the precise small unspoken courtesy of friends, slowed and stepped back to the floor's edge.
Harry and Luna were left, by some small precise piece of stage-managed coincidence, alone on the polished dance-floor.
The candles in the Hall, with the precise small warm gentle response of an enchanted lighting system that had been quietly adjusted by some agency, dimmed slightly and warmed. A small bright drift of enchanted starlight—snowfall, almost, but not quite snowfall; small precise points of light, like distant stars—began to fall from the ceiling above the dance-floor.
Luna, in his arms, registered the change. Her grey eyes did not leave his.
"Luna," Harry breathed.
"Yes," Luna whispered.
Across the Hall, at a small side table where Professor Flitwick had quietly arranged a single visitor's seat, Ethan Esther was watching them.
He was in his charcoal three-piece suit. His silver pocket watch was open in his palm. His amber eyes, in the precise low candlelight, were soft.
He was smiling.
Professor Flitwick, beside him on a small stool that had been raised by careful charm-work to the precise comfortable height of an extremely small Charms Master, was sipping his own small glass of mulled wine and observing the dance-floor with the same quiet pleased smile.
Ethan, watching Harry and Luna turn together on the dance-floor under the slowly falling enchanted starlight, did not, exactly, see his son and Luna Lovegood.
He saw a younger man, in a similar three-piece suit, on a similar dance-floor, with a smaller woman with the precise small bright dirty-blonde hair and the precise small soft pleased smile of Aelia, dancing in his arms in the precise small private way the two of them had danced at the small private gathering.
His chest did the small precise thing it had not done in some considerable time.
He let the image slip away.
The dance-floor returned to the present. The younger figures in his vision resolved into Harry and Luna. His son was, by every measurable indication, an entirely different boy from the one Ethan had been at fourteen. His son had a future Ethan would no longer be entirely able to predict.
Ethan smiled, with the small precise sad warmth of a father who had registered the precise small private inheritance of a moment.
"Miss Lovegood really does have Aelia's smile," Professor Flitwick said quietly, beside him.
Ethan turned. The small Charms Master's eyes were very kind.
"You remember her, Filius."
"Oh, yes," Flitwick said simply. "I remember the precise small bright laugh she always had, her cheerfulness. I remember her presence in these halls."
Ethan's smile did the small precise quiet thing.
"Beautiful moments," Flitwick said softly, raising his small glass, "do not pass entirely. They simply pass into the next generation."
Ethan, with the small precise composed warmth of a man who had just been quietly given a piece of permission he had not known he needed, raised his own glass.
The small clink of two glasses against the precise low dance-floor music carried, briefly and then gently, away.
Out on the floor, Harry and Luna turned, slowly, beneath the gentle enchanted starlight, and the Hall watched them, and the Yule Ball went on.