‘Er – my name’s Barny,’ said Harry, flummoxed.

  ‘Oh, have you changed that too?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘How did you know –?’

  ‘Oh, just your expression,’ she said.

  Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow robes, which she had accessorised with a large sunflower in her hair. Once you got over the brightness of it all, the general effect was quite pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling from her ears.

  Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance, had missed the exchange between Luna and Harry. Bidding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, ‘Daddy, look – one of the gnomes actually bit me!’

  ‘How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial!’ said Mr Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched finger and examining the bleeding puncture marks. ‘Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today – perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in Mermish – do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!’

  Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a loud snort.

  ‘Ron can laugh,’ said Luna serenely, as Harry led her and Xenophilius towards their seats, ‘but my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic.’

  ‘Really?’ said Harry, who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her father’s peculiar views. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to put anything on that bite, though?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ said Luna, sucking her finger in a dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down. ‘You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear dress robes, but he believes you ought to wear sun colours to a wedding, for luck, you know.’

  As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and feathery pink hat gave her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.

  ‘… and your hair’s much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin’s beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelette. And who are you?’ she barked at Harry.

  ‘Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our Cousin Barny.’

  ‘Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn’t Harry Potter here? I was hoping to meet him. I thought he was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely been boasting?’

  ‘No – he couldn’t come –’

  ‘Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press photographs, then. I’ve just been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara,’ she shouted at Harry. ‘Goblin-made, you know, and been in my family for centuries. She’s a good-looking girl, but still – French. Well, well, find me a good seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought not to be on my feet too long.’

  Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and did not reappear for some time: when next they met at the entrance Harry had shown a dozen more people to their places. The marquee was nearly full now, and for the first time there was no queue outside.

  ‘Nightmare, Muriel is,’ said Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. ‘She used to come for Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offence because Fred and George set off a Dungbomb under her chair at dinner. Dad always says she’ll have written them out of her will – like they care, they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they’re going … wow,’ he added, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying towards them. ‘You look great!’

  ‘Always the tone of surprise,’ said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a floaty, lilac-coloured dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek and shiny. ‘Your Great Aunt Muriel doesn’t agree, I just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the tiara. She said “Oh dear, is this the Muggle-born?” and then “bad posture and skinny ankles”.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally, she’s rude to everyone,’ said Ron.

  ‘Talking about Muriel?’ enquired George, re-emerging from the marquee with Fred. ‘Yeah, she’s just told me my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius was still with us, though; he was a right laugh at weddings.’

  ‘Wasn’t he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty-four hours later?’ asked Hermione.

  ‘Well, yeah, he went a bit odd towards the end,’ conceded George.

  ‘But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of the party,’ said Fred. ‘He used to down an entire bottle of Firewhisky, then run on to the dance floor, hoist up his robes and start pulling bunches of flowers out of his –’

  ‘Yes, he sounds a real charmer,’ said Hermione, while Harry roared with laughter.

  ‘Never married, for some reason,’ said Ron.

  ‘You amaze me,’ said Hermione.

  They were all laughing so much that none of them noticed the latecomer, a dark-haired young man with a large, curved nose and thick, black eyebrows, until he held out his invitation to Ron and said, with his eyes on Hermione, ‘You look vunderful.’

  ‘Viktor!’ she shrieked, and dropped her small beaded bag, which made a loud thump quite disproportionate to its size. As she scrambled, blushing, to pick it up, she said, ‘I didn’t know you were – goodness – it’s lovely to see – how are you?’

  Ron’s ears had turned bright red again. After glancing at Krum’s invitation as if he did not believe a word of it, he said, much too loudly, ‘How come you’re here?’

  ‘Fleur invited me,’ said Krum, eyebrows raised.

  Harry, who had no grudge against Krum, shook hands; then, feeling that it would be prudent to remove Krum from Ron’s vicinity, offered to show him his seat.

  ‘Your friend is not pleased to see me,’ said Krum, as they entered the now packed marquee. ‘Or is he a relative?’ he added, with a glance at Harry’s red, curly hair.

  ‘Cousin,’ Harry muttered, but Krum was not really listening. His appearance was causing a stir, particularly amongst the Veela cousins: he was, after all, a famous Quidditch player. While people were still craning their necks to get a good look at him, Ron, Hermione, Fred and George came hurrying down the aisle.

  ‘Time to sit down,’ Fred told Harry, ‘or we’re going to get run over by the bride.’

  Harry, Ron and Hermione took their seats in the second row behind Fred and George. Hermione looked rather pink and Ron’s ears were still scarlet. After a few moments, he muttered to Harry, ‘Did you see he’s grown a stupid little beard?’

  Harry gave a non-committal grunt.

  A sense of jittery anticipation had filled the warm tent, the general murmuring broken by occasional spurts of excited laughter. Mr and Mrs Weasley strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives; Mrs Weasley was wearing a brand new set of amethyst-coloured robes with a matching hat.

  A moment later Bill and Charlie stood up at the front of the marquee, both wearing dress robes, with large, white roses in their buttonholes; Fred wolf-whistled and there was an outbreak of giggling from the Veela cousins. Then the crowd fell silent as music swelled, from what seemed to be the golden balloons.

  ‘Ooooh!’ said Hermione, swivelling round in her seat to look at the entrance.

  A great collective sigh issued from the assembled witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur came walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur was wearing a very simple white dress and seemed to be emitting a strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually dimmed everyone else by comparison, today it beautified everybody it fell upon. Ginny and Gabrielle, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than usual, and once Fleur had reached him, Bill did not look as though he had ever met Fenrir Greyback.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said a slightly sing-song voice, and with a slight shock Harry saw the same small, tufty-haired wizard who had presided at Dumbledore’s funeral, now standing in front of Bill and Fleur. ‘We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls …’

  ‘Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely,’ said Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. ‘But I must say, Ginevra’s dress is far too low-cut.’

  Ginny glanced round, grinning, winked at Harry, then quickly faced the front again. Harry’s mind wandered a long way from the marquee, back to afternoons spent alone with Ginny in lonely parts of the school grounds. They seemed so long ago; they had always seemed too good to be true, as though he had been stealing shining hours from a normal person’s life, a person without a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead …

  ‘Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle …?’

  In the front row, Mrs Weasley and Madame Delacour were both sobbing quietly into scraps of lace. Trumpet-like sounds from the back of the marquee told everyone that Hagrid had taken out one of his own tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione turned and beamed at Harry; her eyes, too, were full of tears.

  ‘… then I declare you bonded for life.’

  The tufty-haired wizard raised his wand high over the heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars fell upon them, spiralling around their now entwined figures. As Fred and George led a round of applause, the golden balloons overhead burst: birds of paradise and tiny, golden bells flew and floated out of them, adding their songs and chimes to the din.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ called the tufty-haired wizard. ‘If you would please stand up!’

  They all did so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he waved his wand. The seats on which they had been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the canvas walls of the marquee vanished, so that they stood beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a glorious view of the sunlit orchard and surrounding countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spread from the centre of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering chairs grouped themselves around small, white-clothed tables, which all floated gracefully back to earth around it, and the golden-jacketed band trooped towards a podium.

  ‘Smooth,’ said Ron approvingly, as the waiters popped up on all sides, some bearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, Butterbeer and Firewhisky, others tottering piles of tarts and sandwiches.

  ‘We should go and congratulate them!’ said Hermione, standing on tiptoe to see the place where Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers.

  ‘We’ll have time later,’ shrugged Ron, snatching three Butterbeers from a passing tray and handing one to Harry. ‘Hermione, cop hold, let’s grab a table … not there! Nowhere near Muriel –’

  Ron led the way across the empty dance floor, glancing left and right as he went: Harry felt sure that he was keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time they had reached the other side of the marquee, most of the tables were occupied: the emptiest was the one where Luna sat alone.

  ‘All right if we join you?’ asked Ron.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said happily. ‘Daddy’s just gone to give Bill and Fleur our present.’

  ‘What is it, a lifetime’s supply of Gurdyroots?’ asked Ron.

  Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, but caught Harry instead. Eyes watering in pain, Harry lost track of the conversation for a few moments.

  The band had begun to play. Bill and Fleur took to the dance floor first, to great applause; after a while, Mr Weasley led Madame Delacour on to the floor, followed by Mrs Weasley and Fleur’s father.

  ‘I like this song,’ said Luna, swaying in time to the waltz-like tune, and a few seconds later she stood up and glided on to the dance floor, where she revolved on the spot, quite alone, eyes closed and waving her arms.

  ‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ said Ron admiringly. ‘Always good value.’

  But the smile vanished from his face at once: Viktor Krum had dropped into Luna’s vacant seat. Hermione looked pleasurably flustered, but this time Krum had not come to compliment her. With a scowl on his face he said, ‘Who is that man in the yellow?’

  ‘That’s Xenophilius Lovegood, he’s the father of a friend of ours,’ said Ron. His pugnacious tone indicated that they were not about to laugh at Xenophilius, despite the clear provocation. ‘Come and dance,’ he added abruptly to Hermione.

  She looked taken aback, but pleased too, and got up: they vanished together into the growing throng on the dance floor.

  ‘Ah, they are together now?’ asked Krum, momentarily distracted.

  ‘Er – sort of,’ said Harry.

  ‘Who are you?’ Krum asked.

  ‘Barny Weasley.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘You, Barny – you know this man Lovegood vell?’

  ‘No, I only met him today. Why?’

  Krum glowered over the top of his drink, watching Xenophilius, who was chatting to several warlocks on the other side of the dance floor.

  ‘Because,’ said Krum, ‘if he vos not a guest of Fleur’s, I vould duel him, here and now, for vearing that filthy sign upon his chest.’

  ‘Sign?’ said Harry, looking over at Xenophilius too. The strange, triangular eye was gleaming on his chest. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald’s sign.’

  ‘Grindelwald … the Dark wizard Dumbledore defeated?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Krum’s jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing, then he said, ‘Grindelvald killed many people, my grandfather, for instance. Of course, he vos never poverful in this country, they said he feared Dumbledore – and rightly, seeing how he vos finished. But this –’ He pointed a finger at Xenophilius. ‘This is his symbol, I recognised it at vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vall at Durmstrang ven he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it on to their books and clothes, thinking to shock, make themselves impressive – until those of us who had lost family members to Grindelvald taught them better.’

  Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly and glowered at Xenophilius. Harry felt perplexed. It seemed incredibly unlikely that Luna’s father was a supporter of the Dark Arts, and nobody else in the tent seemed to have recognised the triangular, rune-like shape.

  ‘Are you – er – quite sure it’s Grindelwald’s –?’

  ‘I am not mistaken,’ said Krum coldly. ‘I valked past that sign for several years, I know it vell.’

  ‘Well, there’s a chance,’ said Harry, ‘that Xenophilius doesn’t actually know what the symbol means. The Lovegoods are quite … unusual. He could easily have picked it up somewhere and think it’s a cross-section of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or something.’

  ‘The cross-section of a vot?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what they are, but apparently he and his daughter go on holiday looking for them …’

  Harry felt he was doing a bad job explaining Luna and her father.

  ‘That’s her,’ he said, pointing at Luna, who was still dancing alone, waving her arms around her head like someone attempting to beat off midges.

  ‘Vy is she doing that?’ asked Krum.

  ‘Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt,’ said Harry, who recognised the symptoms.

  Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was making fun of him. He drew his wand from inside his robes and tapped it menacingly on his thigh; sparks flew out of the end.

  ‘Gregorovitch!’ said Harry loudly, and Krum started, but Harry was too excited to care: the memory had come back to him at the sight of Krum’s wand: Ollivander taking it and examining it carefully before the Triwizard Tournament.

  ‘Vot about him?’ asked Krum suspiciously.

  ‘He’s a wandmaker!’

  ‘I know that,’ said Krum.

  ‘He made your wand! That’s why I thought – Quidditch …’

  Krum was looking more and more suspicious.

  ‘How do you know Gregorovitch made my vand?’

  ‘I … I read it somewhere, I think,’ said Harry. ‘In a – a fan magazine,’ he improvised wildly and Krum looked mollified.

  ‘I had not realised I ever discussed my vand vith fans,’ he said.

  ‘So … er … where is Gregorovitch these days?’

  Krum looked puzzled.

  ‘He retired several years ago. I vos one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch vand. They are the best – although I know, of course, that you Britons set much store by Ollivander.’

  Harry did not answer. He pretended to watch the dancers, like Krum, but he was thinking hard. So Voldemort was looking for a celebrated wandmaker, and Harry did not have to search far for a reason: it was surely because of what Harry’s wand had done on the night that Voldemort had pursued him across the skies. The holly and phoenix feather wand had conquered the borrowed wand, something that Ollivander had not anticipated or understood. Would Gregorovitch know better? Was he truly more skilled than Ollivander, did he know secrets of wands that Ollivander did not?

  ‘This girl is very nice-looking,’ Krum said, recalling Harry to his surroundings. Krum was pointing at Ginny, who had just joined Luna. ‘She is also a relative of yours?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Harry, suddenly irritated, ‘and she’s seeing someone. Jealous type. Big bloke. You wouldn’t want to cross him.’

  Krum grunted.

  ‘Vot,’ he said, draining his goblet and getting to his feet again, ‘is the point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?’

  And he strode off, leaving Harry to take a sandwich from a passing waiter and make his way round the edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find Ron, to tell him about Gregorovitch, but Ron was dancing with Hermione out in the middle of the floor. Harry leaned up against one of the golden pillars and watched Ginny, who was now dancing with Fred and George’s friend Lee Jordan, trying not to feel resentful about the promise he had given Ron.

  He had never been to a wedding before, so he could not judge how wizarding celebrations differed from Muggle ones, though he was pretty sure that the latter would not involve a wedding cake topped with two model phoenixes that took flight when the cake was cut, or bottles of champagne that floated unsupported through the crowd. As evening drew in and moths began to swoop under the canopy, now lit with floating golden lanterns, the revelry became more and more uncontained. Fred and George had long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair of Fleur’s cousins; Charlie, Hagrid and a squat wizard in a purple pork-pie hat were singing ‘Odo the Hero’ in a corner.