A/N: It's time for Halloween and the 13th chapter! Clearly not a bad omen.

"I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory,
When's it gonna get me? In my sleep? Seven feet ahead of me?
If I see it comin', do I run or do I let it be?
Is it like a beat without a melody?"
—Alexander Hamilton, Hamilton

Hermione was sparkling. Quite literally. She was lovely but, frankly, Ron wasn't sure what to stare at.

"Hey," he began, fiddling with the tie he already knew was going to be left at home, "Hermione? You're gorgeous and brilliant. But, that is, do you think you have enough rhinestones?"

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," Hermione deadpanned, looking at the mirror as she put on earrings and patted her hair. "Besides, this is a designer gown. So it's a touch avant-garde."

"A touch? That dress could blind someone! What with all the sparkly, reflective gem things. Do you want to blind someone, Hermione? Do you?"

She, quite wisely, ignored him.

"Of course you look brilliant." Ron flinging off and abandoning his tie to the bed. "But you always do! So, honestly here? I'm sort of afraid to hug you with that thing on. 'spect I'd cut my hands."

She sent him a single, disparaging look.

"Like a fairy princess on acid, and I don't mean that in a good way—"

"Will you shut up?"

"Sorry, sorry. That was harsh." Ron knew a lost battle when he saw one (though he really had wanted to hug her comfortably). "I'm only teasing, you look lovely. The bell of the ball. A Cinderella in rhinestones and leather."

"I hope you're joking, but for the record? This is silk. Not leather."

"Plus rhinestones."

"So it's a bit sparkly! I like sparkles," she said defensively.

Ron snorted. "Sure you do. Least it's strapless. Shows off your lovely—"

"Don't you dare."

"—assets. What did you think I was going to say? Your belly bump? Breasts? Arse? Because, hey, don't get me wrong. It makes all those shine too." Ron considered his wife's backside for a long moment. "You know what? I've just realised I like sparkles."

"Good for you." She sent him a pointed look. "No blatantly staring at my arse during the gala, yes?"

"But it's a really nice arse."

"Thank you. But I don't want a photo of it turning up in the Prophet's society section."

Ron scratched his head. "Don't know if you can avoid that. Like I said, it's a great arse. Cream of the crop. All round and pert and—"

"Thank you, Ronald." Hermione turned back to the mirror, though she was now flushed and had on a small smile. "Hush now and be serious: communication necklace for emergencies. Yes or no?"

"Depends. Can you fit a two-way mirror in your dress? Are you bringing a purse?"

She hesitated, looking herself up and down. "Necklace it is."

"Hey, wait. Where are you putting your wand?"

Hermione's flush deepened as she returned to trying to make her hair lie still. Ron stared at her with an even greater interest, hoping that there was a more risqué answer than simply him holding it for her in his coat.

"Who's a squiggling Princess? Yeah! Who's a squirmy, cutie Princess? Yeah!"

Rose giggled and caught Ron's larger hands in hers, laughing at having her belly tickled. With a roar her dad picked her up as she shrieked.

"Is a little Princess being eaten?" Ron exclaimed, 'taking a bite' of her nose. He was glad he'd left his tie upstairs, and was even happier he'd gone for comfortable muggle formal attire over stiff dress robes. "Yum!"

"Yeah yeah!" Rosie cheered back, clapping her hands. Her fairy princess outfit sparkled and flung about. Ron wondered if it had been mother or daughter who'd been inspired by the other. "D'agon!"

"Yeah, by a dragon!" Ron agreed, swinging the giggling girl around. In doing so he spotted a laughing figure who'd just come downstairs. "And who's this? Is someone trying to save the Princess from being gobbled up?"

"Wha'? WHO!"

"The QUEEN!" Hermione gave a cheer, springing forward and wrapping them both in a hug.

"MUMMY!"

"Nope, nuh-uh." Ron shook his head, trying to back up. "I don't care if you're a gorgeous temptress: you aren't taking my dinner!"

"Unhand her, handsome dragon!" Hermione held on as Ron tried to get away, the struggle plomping them on the floor. Rosie was cheering them both on, having climbed onto her dad's back. "Wouldn't you prefer a roast beef for dinner anyway?"

Ron considered this. Rose squealed in protest at the halted ride, her arms around his neck. "Don't know. Haven't had Princess in awhile."

"Lasagna then. Or even better?" Hermione leaned in for a stage whisper. "Chocolate cake for dessert."

Ron brightened. He swivelled around to look at Rose as best he could. "What say you, fair Princess? Think I should trade you for lasagna and cake?"

"NO!" Rosie howled, grabbing him even tighter. "Wanna stay wi' d'agon!"

Both parents blinked.

"Rosie-Posie, you do know that means you'll be eat—"

"WANNA STAY WI' D'AGON!"

Hermione sent him an amused look, lightening her hug. "You ever get the feeling she's around Jamie too much?"

"The dragon obsession's contagious, I swear." Ron reached around to grab Rose and pull her onto his lap. "Okay Rosie, you can stay with the dragon."

"YAY!"

Ron scratched his chin in thought. "Your Uncle George and Aunt Angie would make trick-or-treating boring anyway."

Rose froze, the victorious beam still on her face. Her tiara had only stayed put due to numerous spells and hair clips. "Wha'?"

Hermione was nodding along, folding her legs beneath her and smoothing out her deep blue dress. "After all, a Princess like you wouldn't want to race around with your cousins for candy. Lots of candy. A whole bucket of candy…"

"A—candy?"

"Lots of candy." Ron nodded seriously. "But it's better to be eaten by a dragon, eh?"

"NO! No no no, sowwy! Don't wanna stay! CANDY!"

After dropping off a beaming Princess at George's and Angelina's (dressed for the occasion as Nessie and Bigfoot), Ron and Hermione apparated to the Ministry. The moment they entered the Atrium they were bombarded with frenzied crowds, shouting questions, and blinding camera flashes.

Ron plastered on a smile and kept a tight grip on his wife's hand. He really wished he was taking his daughter trick-or-treating around the muggle neighbourhood. Alternatively, he wished he'd talked to Hermione about staying in tonight. Indeed, now that he was here, he couldn't recall why he'd wanted to come.

He watched enviously as others in formal robes or gowns easily waltzed past the mad paparazzi line. Normally that'd be them as well. But Hermione had wanted to play nice with the louts that were convincing wizarding Britain that they'd soon be baked into pies. Unsurprisingly, her patience lasted up until she'd heard their shouting questions:

"MRS. WEASLEY, WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?"

"ANY COMMENT ON THE SWEENEY KILLERS?"

"WEASLEY, WEASLEY! WITCH WEEKLY HERE, CAN I HAVE A MOMENT?"

"HOW ARE YOU SIDING ON THE POTTERS' PENDING DIVORCE?"

"YOU LOOK READY TO BURST! IS THE DUE DATE REALLY EARLY JANUARY?"

"WEASLEY-GRANGER, WILL YOU BE POTTER'S RUNNING MATE FOR MINISTER?"

"IS IT TWINS? YOU'RE HAVING TWINS!"

"WHY ARE YOU AT A GALA WHEN YOU SHOULD BE SOLVING THE CRIME SPREES?"

"Sweet Merlin," Ron muttered, pulling Hermione away when she looked ready to pounce more than one of the jostling reporters for commenting about her weight. "Remind me why we came to this?"

"Because you blackmailed Harry," Hermione quietly retorted, both of them making their way as quickly as they could through the crowd. She particularly kept up a fast pace, glancing back suspiciously, "and wanted to take the mick out of him. Dragging me along with you!"

"Come on, you wanted to play diplomat." Ron tried to keep on a strained smile while blinking back the camera flashes echoing through the Ministry Atrium. "Or is it someone else who's clamouring for more votes for the werewolf legislature?"

"Doesn't mean I had to do it at a gala."

"You were the one first trying to convince Harry to come to this!" Ron whispered in her ear.

Hermione's smile was decidedly forced, her voice even lower as she clutched Ron's arm in a vice-grip. "No, I was trying to make peace between him and Kingsley. Didn't mean we had to go. You just wanted to rub it in his face!"

"Not my fault he's hilarious all riled up—oh."

"Oh?" Hermione asked.

Ron nodded ahead of them, his wife following his gaze. "On that note…"

"No. No!" Hermione tried to keep him back but was pulled along instead, Ron making a beeline to a couple at the edge of the perimeter of reporters. Much of the paparazzi was congregating in this one part, with many more racing towards it. "You know he's near hexing you, so you think it's a good idea to barge in while he's shouting at reporters?"

"Like I said, hilarious." Ron paid no mind to the warning and jogged ahead, soon coming into hearing range of the couple in question. This wasn't difficult, as one of them was indeed screaming obscenities at the reporters. The odd part was that the guilty one was the witch in a dark red dress, while the wizard was physically holding her back from hurdling over the barricade at the thrilled paparazzi.

"—are you kidding me, Bulstrode?" Ginny was hollering, squirming to get out of her husband's grip to attack the sneering woman. "Just because you've had three marriages end in affairs doesn't mean we're all sleeping around! HARRY, LET ME GET HER! You lot should make up your minds! Either I'm dosing my husband with love potions or I'm cheating on…excuse me? A paternity test? OF COURSE HARRY'S THE FATHER, YOU BIT—"

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!" Ron yelled over Ginny as he helped Harry drag the incensed witch back from the now frantically flashing cameras and Millicent Bulstrode's proud smirk. "Show's over!"

"Thanks," Harry muttered, the two of them still 'gently' shoving the furious Ginny towards the security stations at the main Ministry entrance. Hermione had joined them, quietly intoning a privacy spell.

"Let go of me!" Ginny tried to whirl around. "Bulstrode's always on some nonsense, it's past time someone shut her up!"

"We get it, pregnancy's made you barmy. Could you not—Yowch! That was my shin!"

"Be glad I didn't aim higher," Ginny seethed.

"Could we act like adults? Please?" Harry nearly pleaded. Hermione nodded vigorously, also sending a beseeching look at the siblings.

"One event without us making the tabloids, that's all I ask," was Hermione's indignant request.

"Tough order, that one." Ginny scolded, calming down and straightening up from the wizards' holds. "What with the paparazzi on an endless warpath about love potions."

Harry grimaced. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves against the warmth from struggling with Ginny. "Or pies."

"Or Hermione's arse," Ron said thoughtfully (having become distracted through the conversation by his wife's frenzied and forceful appearance). The other three halted, gazes springing to him. Hermione was affronted but flattered. The Potters were nauseated.

Hermione awkwardly cleared her throat, giving a flustered stammer and patting down her dress. "Not that they'd—I mean—Ron, that was inappropriate and—surely not a warpath, that is…oh! Would you look at that, we're at security. What a nice change of topic—scenery! Change of scenery."

"Do you ever get the sense we know too much about their relationship?" Harry was muttering to an equally disgusted Ginny, the previous scuffle already forgotten. Ron overheard.

"Like you can talk!" Ron scoffed. "The number of times I've walked in on you two."

"Whose fault is that?" Ginny huffed.

"Security, please. Please, dear god, can we stop talking about this?" Hermione said with a flush, only reluctantly taking down her privacy charm. The others, seeing this, took the blatant hint. "Let's just put the messy start behind us and get on with the evening without calamity. Please?"

"Absolutely," Harry agreed firmly. To illustrate he stepped up to the barricade and gave the waiting wizard a strained smile, pulling his wand and rummaging in his pocket. "Evening, Scott."

Security had been amped up for the event, with entrance only granted into the inner Ministry through one of the security booths. Wands were checked, tickets were examined, and everyone went through a doorway which catalogued image-altering spells and potions (much the high society's discomfort, what with the abundance of fashionable glamours). Lines had already formed at most of these entrances, though the Potters and Weasleys had aimed for the empty, expedient security meant for MLE personnel.

'Scott', a young but resolute hit-wizard, grinned back at Harry with a spot of nervousness. His eyes flickered over the four of them as he took the wand. "Good evening, Head Auror. Bit of trouble out there?"

"Eh, reporters." Harry shrugged as he got out his badge and also handed it over. "I'll also need a pass for my wife Ginny. Full clearance and floo access. Gin? We need your wand for a moment."

Ginny sent Scott a chipper grin, pulling out her wand. Ron blinked and did a double take, not having seen where the wand had appeared from her thin dress and shawl. Almost as quickly he realised he absolutely did not want to know.

Scott had already done a diagnosis over both wands and had glanced over the results with a practiced air. "Holly with phoenix feather and yew with dragon heartstring?" To the Potters' nods he handed back their wands. "Do either of you have a second wand or other concealed weapon?"

"Nope."

"Badge, and I'd prefer not to say," Harry replied instead, having the bored air of someone who'd gone through this a fair few times.

Scott looked down at it and slightly reddened. He handed back the badge, as well as giving Ginny a pass. "Ah, yes. Sorry about that. You two can go through, have a good evening."

As Harry stowed his wand away and Ginny dropped her wand and pass down the top of her dress ('Yeah,' Ron chided himself, 'didn't want to know that'), Hermione was looking at Harry as though petering on the edge of a question.

Ron, realising what it was, leaned over to whisper in her ear: "Ginny's paranoid. Plus, with the Sweenies, I sorta bugged him into adding more…accessories."

Hermione was now unsurprised. As the Potters cleared the magical barricade, she murmured back: "Do I want to know?"

"George had a hand in it."

"I'm good then," Hermione replied back in her normal voice, stepping up to the barricade. "Hello, Hit-Wizard Scott."

"Madam Director. Senior Auror Weasley." Scott greeted them as their wands and badges were handed over. A charm was waved over them. Ron gave his wife a more inspecting glance, having again missed where her objects had come from. "Vine wood with dragon heartstring and willow with unicorn hair?" Two nods and the wands were handed back. This time, the badges were more closely inspected. "I see you're both allowed concealed weapons. Though it isn't required you respond, might I ask if you have a second wand or other assorted weapons?"

"No, nothing," Hermione replied.

"No second wand," Ron said, earning him a slight glance from his wife.

"All's in order." Scott handed back the badges. "Have a pleasant evening."

As they stowed their items (Ron was almost positive she also quickly stowed hers in the front of her dress: was this a thing? How had he missed the thing? Did she have an expanding charm in there? Was this normal for witches?) and strolled through the shimmering barrier way into the main Ministry, Hermione gave Ron a side-long glance.

"…knife in my boot," Ron admitted, straightening his coat as they made their way towards the waiting Potters. His mind was still partly on her suddenly mysterious cleavage. "It seemed like a good idea when George was talking Harry into it. Not trying to hide it: forgot until right now, to be honest. He made them feel exactly like shoes. Right impressive."

Hermione nodded as they walked up to their relatives, who had been quietly talking and watching the growing crowd of mingling guests in the far larger room adjacent to theirs. "Does he make them as heels?"

"Angie's working on it. Still, there goes one of my Yule presents to you. So!" he said as they joined the Potters. "Ready to be swarmed by society's elite?"

"No," Harry and Ginny answered as one, in different tones of distaste.

"Too bad," Ron answered jovially, ignoring the peeved glance Harry sent him and leading them through the waiting room into the reception hall.

There had been a problem when it'd been decided that the galas would be held in the Ministry of Magic. Namely, there was no decent place in the Ministry to hold a ball. The ambassadorial dining halls were too small, the Atrium was too unwieldy (and filled with floos), and the Wizengamot courts were too official. The answer eventually decided upon was plausibly the most complicated one: to magically convert the ground and first floors from individual wings and offices into a handful of large, flowing rooms. Those bordering the Atrium became the security screening area. These were mainly due to the enhanced security features in the aftermath of the Fudge kidnapping, with all floo entrances outside of the secure Ministerial zone and with anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards set up on the first two floors.

Once through the security zone guests could mingle in the reception area, nibbling appetisers at small though tall tables, sipping gillywater (or something stronger from the bar), and showing off their robes as they waited to enter the dining hall for the main event.

After the fiasco in the Atrium, each member of the Weasley-Potter group had intended on making a quick pace for the empty dining hall and waiting there until dinner. But they found their paths blocked the moment they walked through the door into reception by a parade of rigorous handshakes and jolly voices. Ron was very distrustful of words like 'mingling' for exactly this reason. It almost made him miss the reporters outside. He did, however, notice that Harry was having even worse luck than his barrage of unwanted company:

"Why, if it isn't the Boy Who Lived!" A wizard with gangly legs and bright orange robes blustered. "Or the Man Who Lived, eh? Bet you haven't heard that before!"

"A much belated congratulations on your promotion, my lad. I'm sure you'll have the little pie matter settled in no time." The chuckling man shook Harry's hand, clapping his bare arm as he did so.

A voluptuous redhead ('Awful dye job', Ron mused) practically purred. "Ooo, Harry, I've always wanted to meet you. Tell me, do you sign…certain appendages?"

"Lord Potter! Splendid to see you. Would you be interested in a small donation for an orphan charity drive? I know it's a cause close to your heart."

Ginny was ignoring her own crowd of spectators to not-so-subtly drive away the more obscene of Harry's with insulting puns and double entendres (the substantially gifted bad dye job was rather enthusiastically shoved away). Hermione was the only one of the four who vaguely seemed to be enjoying herself, but this was because she had a better poker face when dealing with politicians.

As Ron waved away the fourth person who 'cheerfully' informed him that he'd surely get a handle on the Sweenies in no time, he noted the crowd fighting for their attention had died down. This was mainly due to more people filtering into the reception hall and it becoming harder to manoeuvre. Taking advantage of a quiet moment he turned to Harry to congratulate him on having not yet maimed anyone. But this was rapidly cut off by a new arrival.

Kingsley Shacklebolt gave nods to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, before turning to Harry with a pinched expression. It was a toss up as to which man seemed more reluctant to be there. "Harry. We both know this isn't a perfect situation—"

"Perfect?" Harry cut in, letting his faux smile drop. It seemed he'd used up all of his patience for the evening. "You're right, it's a long ways from there. You want to score political points? By all means. But all I wished was that you wouldn't drag me into it and wouldn't make a mockery of the war. Was that too much to ask?"

The Minister sighed. "I apologise that I needed to force you into this. It was underhanded and I take all responsibility. But this isn't making a mockery of the war, as you well know."

"No, I don't know. What I see is you parading around galas in a nonsense year-long memorial." Harry kept one eye on Hermione, who was still talking to a Wizengamot member and hadn't noticed the elevating conversation.

"Which has made thousands of galleons in charity already!" Kingsley argued right back, keeping his voice low yet terse. "Don't be daft, Harry, it doesn't suit you. None of us can stand Ripley and his flamboyant methods. But almost all the profits for these 'nonsense galas' are going to those hurt from the war."

"You would have gotten the donations anyway," Harry hissed back, both wizards only making the faintest attempt to keep their argument to the small circle. "I would have given even more if you hadn't done this, and I know I'm not the only one."

"You're missing the main point. It's about keeping it in the news."

"About keeping me in the news."

"Not everything is personal, Potter!"

"You used my parents to force me to come!"

Kingsley opened his mouth to retort, before deflating. "You're right, I did. Though I'm not sorry I did it. This is bigger than either of us and has nothing to do with 'scoring political points'. It's about putting an end to the war, with the symbols of peace front and centre. Why can't you see that?"

"So I'm a symbol now. What happened to this not being personal?" Harry rubbed his forehead then ran a hand through his hair in impatience.

"Sweet Merlin Potter, would you stop?"

"You blackmailed me through the Prophet."

"I didn't blackmail you!"

"Of course you did," came the retort.

Kingsley scowled, his annoyance rearing. "Good god, the Head Auror doesn't even know what blackmail means."

"Good god," Harry imitated in a sour drawl, paling rather than reddening like Kingsley, "the Minister of Magic is this awful at hiding his crimes."

"It wasn't a crime!"

"You blackmailed me!"

"CHILDREN!" Hermione interrupted, having noticed the elevated voices she tried to stand between the two. She sent an annoyed glance at Ron and Ginny, to which the siblings looked away innocently. "In case you missed it, we're in public—"

"—would you stop!" was Harry's curt reply to Kingsley's stance rather than Hermione statement. "I don't care. I'm sick of politics, of bureaucracy, and I'm sick of people using the papers to manipulate me. I don't care if it's for charity." He stepped forward around Hermione, arms flinging out. "I'm doing your bloody speech, so leave me alone. Try taking 'yes' for an answer!"

Kingsley stilled, taking a closer look at the pale man. His anger diluted as both men seemed to remember where they were. "You're right."

"Really? I thought you were going to go on about my insolence," Harry groaned, rubbing his forehead again with a furious swipe. Ron tilted his head, thinking he noticed something on his arm.

"Don't be ridiculous," the Minister sighed, having realised that not only was there a crowd of onlookers, but that the argument had derailed. "Thank you for coming and for giving a speech. I apologise that I coerced you into it. Like I said, I take full responsibility."

Harry gave a hard look at Ron, but continued before the redhead could step in (as he'd felt a twinge of guilt). "I'm sick of arguing with everyone. Leave me alone and I'll return the favour."

Kingsley looked like he wanted to say something, but took a glance at the eagerly listening crowd and visibly changed his mind. "Very well. Though, Harry, I want to make it clear that I view this as just a disagreement. It has no standing on what I think of you and, regardless of what's been reported, it certainly doesn't effect my great respect for you and your position."

"Great. Wonderful." Harry rubbed his head with a groan. "You don't think I'm incompetent, that's nice. Minister, with all due respect: I have a headache from all the reporters, I don't want to be here, and I'm sure you have plenty of people to talk to. Can we leave this for later?"

Kingsley sent him a long look before nodding. He began to turn away before hesitating. "You do look pale. A chimaera fever's going around, I'd try pepper-up. Clears it right up."

"I'll be sure to," Harry said drily.

"Oh and, you have paint on your arm, did you know?" With that Kingsley gave the four of them curt nods and stepped away to a group of ambassadors. Harry blinked, looking down at his arm.

Ginny shook her head (likely processing the quasi-argument and being thankful no one was hexed) before following Harry's gaze. "Hmm. From Jamie finger painting earlier?"

Harry brushed away the bits of blue gunk and rolled his sleeves back down. "Must've missed a spot."

Taking account of the dispersing crowd (having seen that the 'main event' had finished), Ron tried to further disperse the lingering tension. "So, Harry. Ten sickles you have Shacklebolt in tears before the night's over?" he joked, patting his friend's shoulder.

"Seriously?" Harry shoved Ron's hand away, his voice tight and irritated, albeit low so as not to be overheard. "Stop making me out to be a scheming prat! I'm the only blasted one staying civil, and you have so much nerve to claim otherwise. Would you get off my back and let me bloody well breathe?!"

The rant abruptly cued an awkward silence, only punctured by the swelling noise of conversation and clicking wine glasses around them. Ron's mouth hung open, with the women equally startled at the outburst. While Harry's sudden anger had faded as soon as it'd erupted, he was irritatedly back to rubbing his forehead.

Ginny stepped to him, placing a gentle hand on Harry's arm. "You okay?"

"I'd be fine if he stopped bothering me!" Harry sniped. Still, after a few more seconds, his irritableness resolved into a deep sigh. "Sorry, sorry. I'm grumpy from a headache. I shouldn't have jumped on you."

"Err, sure." Ron wasn't entirely sure what to make of this. At the moment, he was glad wands hadn't been drawn. "Reckon I had it coming."

"You were fine earlier," Ginny was saying quietly to Harry. "I didn't think to bring the headache reliever."

"Neither did I. But it's fine. I'm fine." Harry's face was still tensed as he kissed her. "It came on suddenly, must've hit me outside. I'm sure it'll be gone soon. But hah, like pepper-up would do a thing!" He slumped slightly, not enough that any of the buzzing crowd would notice. Ginny cupped his chin in unconvinced concern, but he shook her away, forcing himself straight.

"The headache reliever," Hermione spoke up, "do you have any in your office?"

"It's all at home. Doesn't matter." Harry forced his hand away from his face. "I'm making this into a big deal. The dratted things fade away soon enough, I'm just tired."

Ginny didn't look convinced. Ron (seeing his friend's pale demeanour) was equally cynical. Hermione seemed to agree, but forced on a cheery smile.

"How about we sit down?" she said appeasingly. When Harry began to protest that this was unnecessary, she hurried on. "I'd love a break from the horde of people. It'd be wonderful to get off my feet and go someplace quieter. Ginny, you too?"

"Absolutely," Ginny latched onto this, smiling at her unconvinced husband and amused brother. "The extra weight and all, you know how it is."

"I'm not oblivious," Harry said. "I know what you're doing."

"We're two pregnant women who want to sit down." Ginny wrapped her arm in his and led them to the dining room, swaying carefully between the small tables and ever growing crowds. "Are you protesting this?"

"Horrible idea, mate." Ron followed behind them with an arm around Hermione's waist (he'd been glad to find out earlier that the sparkly gems did not, in fact, cut). She went him an adoring glance. "Best shut up and play nice."

Harry turned around to glare, making it clear he got the reference. But as Ginny drew his attention back to her as they entered the dining hall, Ron found his attention diverted.

He had been in here recently, lending a hand in installing the new security measures. But he'd only seen it in the daylight with none of the ornaments attached. Tonight, the cavernous hall was like something out of a play. Darkened throughout, the only lights came from floating little whirls of fire (one of whom, when Ron reached out to touch it, curled harmlessly but warmly around his hand before scurrying off). These were more than enough to reveal the many scattered crystalline tables, the unlit chandeliers which shone with glistening mother-of-pearl, and the afar stage with a curtain of thick crimson.

Without any pumpkins or skulls, the place perfectly befitted Halloween. Still, it was missing a much needed spark.

"Shame there's no dancing skeletons," Harry said, having the same thought as Ron.

"It's lovely," was Ginny's small exhale, her gaze darting around. "What a nice idea!"

"Very elegant," Hermione agreed. The two men exchanged a look, hiding their grins. Harry already seemed to be regaining his cheer (though, Ron admitted, maybe he just couldn't see properly in this room). "We should be in the front…oh, I think they want us to follow them!"

Indeed, a few whiffs of fire were spiralling around Hermione's outstretched hand, clearly urging them forward. The amused four followed the eager lights, noticing that groups of the sparks were swaying around each table, creating small circles of flickering light.

"Like campfires," Harry said. He didn't sound altogether happy about this. Ron shared the sentiment. Even years later, anything involving camping reminded him of their year on the run during the war. He squeezed Hermione's hand. She gently squeezed back.

"I can see that," Ginny said more pleasantly, missing the dark note in her husband's voice. "A nice idea, it really is. You can almost imagine roasting marshmallows over the tables!"

The other three didn't speak up. Ginny blinked at them. Ron couldn't tell if she couldn't quite see their expressions in the dark or if she just thought they weren't talkative, but she didn't continue the conversation. It was as well, for they'd reached their table right next to the stage. The fire whiffs accompanying them floated off, but those encircling their area almost seemed to glint cheerily at them.

Sitting down Ron took a look around. They weren't the first ones in, but the vast dining room was still bare compared to the crowded outer entranceway. As for their table, there were four more chairs left to be filled. At each place was a delicately folded napkin atop the silverware. Ginny was wiggling a finger at hers, an orchid flexing its stem and leaves. Harry's was a black cat that was currently stretching on his hand. Hermione's napkin owl hooted silently and flapped its wings.

Draping his coat over the chair, Ron glanced at his own. His eyes lightened at the folded broomstick who—noticing the attention on it—started soaring around the plate.

"I'll feel bad unfolding these." Ginny tucked the flower behind her ear.

"Least yours isn't alive," Harry noted, the cat climbing his shoulder.

"I think this is a Nimbus." Ron peered more closely, pinching the broom to keep it in place. He'd quickly decided there wasn't a chance he was undoing the enchantment. Unless… "Say, Hermione. Know what spell they used for these?"

"Haven't the faintest." Hermione tickled the owl's chin as it flapped about her cheek.

"Know a spell to conjure another napkin, then?"

"Yes, please." Ginny echoed Ron. "These are lovely, it'd be a shame to waste them. A wonder that Ripley managed to do something right."

Harry groaned (though a moment before he'd been amused at the cat stretching on top of his head). "Can we not talk about him? I was just starting to feel better."

"A rant could do you good," Ginny pointed out. "After all, it's not like anyone here likes the smarmy bloke."

"Always reminded me of Lockhart," Ron said, picturing Reginald Ripley. The man behind the year-long memorial, he was tight-lipped about where exactly he'd been during the war itself. With a flair for the dramatic and a wardrobe that could've rivalled Dumbledore's, he adored the spotlight. It was little wonder that he and Harry didn't get along. "Can't get much more of an inflated head, even for being a glorified party planner."

"He's milking it for all he's worth. You should have heard him the other day," Ginny lowered her voice in a bemused imitation. "'Lady Potter-Black, what a pleasure! Don't be modest now, embrace your ancestry. Where did you get those…lovely…overalls, did you call them? Reminds me of a polka-dotted and ruffled costume I wore on the West End once—yes, that West End! Greatest Hamlet those muggles have ever seen. There was a small ruckus in the second act. Nothing to worry about, small fire from a spilt lamp. Only three fainting fits, still a marvellous show!'"

Ron was snickering by the end, while Hermione held up the napkin owl to cover her laugh. Harry gave a faint grin.

"It wouldn't be that annoying if Ripley would get basic names right," Ginny returned to her normal voice.

Hermione gave a token protest, the owl now happily hanging upside down from her hoop earring. "Could we hold off on insulting people who could very well be coming up right behind us?"

Ginny froze before taking a quick glance behind her, making the flower droop in her hair before it ruffled itself back up. She turned back with a gruff: "Hermione, don't scare me like that! I thought that was an actual warning."

"It was the principle of the matter," Hermione said. "Maybe I'm being overly sensitive, but I'm tired of all the name-calling being flung around these days."

"Unless it's justified," Harry spoke up darkly, grimacing at Ron. "Like if it's to a twat who uses my dead parents against me!"

The other three stopped, staring at Harry. Ron hesitated, confused not at the words but at the (once again) suddenly reignited anger.

"What!" Harry scowled at them, rubbing his forehead. "I hate this whole thing, and here he is grinning like he hasn't a care in the world."

Hermione peered at him. The napkin owl silently hooted. "Harry, how are you feeling?"

"Like I don't bloody well want to be here."

Ginny trailed her fingers down his pale cheek, worry ringing her eyes. "You're positively clammy. Are you alright?"

Harry hesitated for a long moment. So long that the others had begun to think he wouldn't answer. "No, not really. I feel awful." It sounded like it pained him to admit he wasn't well. "Actually I, yeah." After faltering another moment he took the napping cat from his shoulder and put it on the table. Taking his coat he stood, grimacing at the action. He gestured towards where they'd entered, giving his forehead a furious scrub as he did so. "I'll be back soon. I'll try splashing water on my face, maybe grab some pepper-up. I don't know."

"Yeah," Ron frowned. Squinting at him through the poor light, the man did look peaky. "How bad's the migraine?"

Harry was already far enough away that he missed this. Ron, shrugging, turned back to the table. Ginny, glancing over at her husband, also looked away as he walked out of sight of the whiffs of fire.

As they continued to chat (more subdued, as each glanced occasionally at the empty seat and stretching cat), people started to properly filter into the dining hall. Most were rough patches of blackness sketched at odd moments with spiralling light, though there were exceptions.

A familiar laugh and a robe with a grinning Jack O'Lantern (lit with licking bluebell flames) made Ron near positive Luna had arrived. When he spotted the entrance of a life-size glow-in-the-dark skeleton (who promptly snogged the 'stem' of the pumpkin), he knew with a certainty that the Scamanders were in attendance. He was disappointed to see them head to a different corner of the hall, as those two could liven up any dull Ministry gala.

The first newcomers to pop up at their table didn't bode well for the evening. Sitting by the magical Ambassador to France was one thing (toupee which kept shiftily moving or no), but the peroxided blonde on his arm was staring at them. Staring eagerly. Like she wanted to eat them up. He was fairly certain her top was about to pop out of her barely-there dress.

Ginny's pleasant smile had dropped to a scowl when she'd spotted the woman. "Vane," she reluctantly acknowledged.

"Weasley," was the retort. She unraveled the folded napkin crane before her with a snap! Ron petted the mini-Nimbus, who'd frightfully soared to his chest at the sight. He didn't dwell on how the thing could have seen the fate of its comrade.

"You've got something on your hair." Ginny ignored the last name, gesturing at the woman's head. "Did you spill some bleach? I'd get that cleaned up if I was you."

"You're one to talk." Vane glared as she and the man sat, the wizard distracted in sending her adoring glances. Ron frowned, trying to place her. "It's like someone set fire to your head!"

"Like I haven't that heard that before," Ginny deadpanned before speaking to her confused companions. "Ron, Hermione? Looks like you're lucky enough not to remember Romilda Vane. Seems she's caught a big one with her love potions. How nice."

Vane reddened, holding on more tightly to the wizard (who was now sending Ginny a scowl as well). Ron, on the other hand, paled. He didn't care about the woman, but it was hard not to picture the dosed Chocolate Cauldrons. Or the weightlessness and fog of a love potion. Or the fiery brutality of a poison torching his throat.

Hermione gave his hand a gentle, firm squeeze. He felt a sweep of appreciation for his wife: not a word and she knew exactly what his mind had went to. He mentally shook himself and kissed her cheek. When he glanced back up, Ginny was looking at them with amusement, and Vane with a pinched mouth and puckered nose. The man had returned to gazing at his date.

Hermione coughed, easing the tension. "Ambassador Rossi? It's a pleasure to see you again. Are you in Britain long?"

"Hmm?" Rossi looked at her. "Oh yes, quite a time. For Ministry business, but mainly for little Romy here," said with a sickening expression.

By now Ron was gazing at Rossi in concern, his own indirect misadventure with Vane in mind. Hermione, seeing this, whispered in his ear. "Andre Rossi has a new woman every week, he isn't potioned. Rossi likes sex, Vane likes money."

Ron's face screwed up at the words, though he felt a dollop of relief. He then looked anywhere but at the couple, who had no idea what was publicly appropriate. Glancing around the room, he spotted Percy and Audrey coming down the aisle to a table near them. Audrey gave a cheery wave. Percy nodded, caught up in conversation with…the Minister? Ron squinted: yes, it looked like him, as well as a clump of people who could as likely be bodyguards or brown-nosing politicians.

Kingsley, Percy, and Audrey sat at a table right next to the stage as well. The lumbering figures went to one a step away. In the closer light, Audrey was bored. Especially bored. She was squinting back at them and seemed ready to excuse herself and step forward, when she spotted the heavily petting couple.

'Yeah,' Ron shrugged at her blinking look, 'can't blame her for that one.'

The other tables near the stage were slowly being filled with important or notable figures. Neville and Hannah Longbottom looked out of place compared to this mainly snooty and egoistic crowd. The couple in question were laughing and poking at the fiery whirls that led them to their table. Neville was also spinning a giggling Hannah around about something, which made an elderly witch by them scowl.

At their own table, Vane was detaching her mouth from Rossi's with a loud Smack! and turned to them. "Where's the Boy Who Lived, anyway? He left you?" she sneered at Ginny. The latter sent her an unimpressed look, likely more disappointed by the poor attempt at an insult than anything.

"Bathroom," Ginny waved pointedly at the empty seat next to her. After a moment, however, she frowned at the space. "He is taking awhile."

"Probably getting a quickie," Vane promptly reattached herself to the enthusiastic Rossi. Ron would've spoken up angrily, but he'd caught Ginny's expression and realised she didn't give a damn about the woman. Instead, she was still looking contemplatively at the seat.

"You know what," Ginny addressed her relatives, putting her shawl back on, "I'll go check on Harry. Be right back."

Sliding her chair out and standing up, she'd barely moved a few steps before she was ambushed by a frenzied woman. Ron noted that no whirls of fire were accompanying her.

"Oh, Mrs. Potter! There ye are. Ah've been looking everywhere," the new witch caught her breath as Ginny stared at her. As the mousy-haired woman's breathing evened out, her Scottish burr was wrapped around excited though nervous words. "Honour tae meet ye, ma'am. Nellie Lovett, a pleasure. Ah'm sorry tae bother ye, but Mister Ripley—"

"What now!" Ginny huffed at the name, having already had a fake smile on in the face of a fan or a politician. "Don't tell me you're another assistant of his."

"High turnover." Lovett gave an apologetic smile. Ron noted her business attire rather than formal outfit. He frowned: something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Ah've been sent because Mister Potter's been required tae go backstage fer preparation, so he'll like'y miss the first bit of dinner. Ah'm very sorry." She coughed, sheepish as her professional voice became informal. "Really sorry. See, my boss ambushed him on his way back tae ye lot an' took 'im tae the back. Your husband shouted Ah should let ye know not tae worry, enjoy the appetisers, and tae let 'im take care of it. Though it may take a wee bit."

"I swear, that man." Ginny shook her head, retaking her seat and unwrapping her shawl. "Ms. Lovett, is Ripley always such a terror?"

"When he fires me, Ah'll let ye know." The woman gave a helpless shrug, before becoming horrorstruck. "But it's Nellie, please, and sweet Circe Ah can't believe Ah'm meeting ye like this! Was bad enough havin' the Harry Potter annoyed at mae, but now Ah've not even mentioned your World Cup victories. Ah've also been ignoring Ron and Hermione Weasley! Please don't be offended?"

Ron couldn't help but snicker, though felt a tinge guilty at the downtrodden expression Lovett sent them. Hermione was doing better with a sympathetic smile.

"We aren't about to blame the messenger," the brunette reassured the woman. "We all understand having a demanding boss. But could you let Ripley know that kidnapping the presenters is going to make them even less inclined to come back?"

"Unbelievable." Ginny was more ruffled by Ripley than Hermione. "Harry wasn't feeling well! The nerve of that man."

"Relax, Gin." Ron also gave the once-again-panicking Lovett an understanding look. He ignored his sister's look at the nickname. "Missing dinner isn't going to kill him."

The arrival of an elderly couple to their table ("Count and Countess Patridge!" was Hermione's greeting. "I was hoping to see you. Thank you again for your support of the newest werewolf rights legislature.") and the departure of Ripley's assistant ("Aye, Ah have tae go. The man is like a bairn, needs three diff'rent types o' milk tae warm up fer a speech! Sorry again.") made way for a comfortable silence.

Ginny had borrowed Rossi's napkin wolf (who was still busy with Vane and had given a distracted nod when she'd asked permission), snagged Harry's purring cat, and was busily making a flower-and-plate 'house' for the animals who were circling and sniffing each other. Hermione's owl seemed happy to stay put (nestled in her cleavage, Ron couldn't blame the thing) while the mini-Nimbus was making a cautionary buzz around Ginny's plate.

Oddly, a few of the light whiffs wanted to join the fun. Soon enough, the surrounding tables had dimmed as a small number had 'abandoned their posts' to cheerfully fly around Ginny. The napkins were less than amused. The cat hissed and even though flower turned away, though the fire only produced warmth rather than flames. Their neighbouring tables also weren't that happy, as the dining hall had almost entirely filled at this point.

The Count and Countess seemed delighted at the napkin display, though this was perhaps due to it being a distraction from the nauseating sight of Rossi doing his best to swallow Vane's face (not that she was protesting). Ron tapped his plate, thoughts elsewhere even when the owl and broom had decided to join the small whiffs in soaring about their table.

He couldn't get something out of his head. He was more transparent than he realised, because it wasn't long before Hermione was poking him. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Nothing." Ron frowned to himself. "Ripley's assistant is bugging me. She seems familiar but—nah, can't place her. It's not her face, I haven't seen her before. But it's something?" He scratched his chin, looking back up at the two women. "Her name. Nellie Lovett, right? Her last name, it—" he froze before an exasperated groan left him, "oh hell."

"What?" It was Ginny's turn.

"It's really nothing." Ron leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes with a sigh. "Mrs. Lovett's a character from that Sweeney Todd play. Some of the Aurors won't stop singing the thing and, apparently, it's gotten stuck in my head. Can't escape this case these days. Now I'm seeing it in random people's last names!"

Ginny muffled a chuckle, though was sympathetic. "You and Harry are peas in a pod, he won't stop complaining about that musical either. Though I swear I heard him singing the opening number in the shower the other day."

"Traitor," Ron mumbled, casting his thoughts away from the assistant.

"Oh, it's catchy," Ginny continued good-naturedly. "I've been thinking of seeing it on the West End, myself. Still figuring out how to drag Harry to the show. You two in?"

"No thank you, I'll pass," said Hermione. "I get more than enough of the Sweenies at work."

"Same," Ron echoed.

"Sorry, I should've known you've both seen too much of this." Ginny sipped her water. "I'm lucky, having some distance to it. Sure, Harry brings his work home, and it was dreadful when Parvati was taken. But the number keeps rising. What is it now, two dozen?"

'Try double that,' Ron thought, picturing the earlier, underreported disappearances that hadn't been connected by the press to the Sweenies. Thankfully, further discussion was halted by a loudly clearing throat.

"Ah hem. Ah hem!" Reginald Ripley pronounced in a reverberating tone from the stage, having just cast a sonorus on himself. He waved his arms to the side, a bright beam on his face. As the red curtains opened behind him, a sudden rush of whiffy lights illuminated him like a shining halo. Due to this transference of light, the rest of the hall had descended into a dull dim which was just enough to make out one's surrounding table.

"Ladies and gentlemen and variations thereupon, may I have your attention please!" The roar of conversations around the room descended into a hushed silence. "Thank you, thank you. I wish to welcome all our esteemed guests to our little shindig—the Halloween Gala!" There was polite applause, led by Ripley's enthusiastic clapping.

"Many thanks to the Ministry for hosting us tonight. To Minister Shacklebolt, of course, and our wonderful planning committee! Can all of you stand up? Give them a hand, please. It's thanks to their hard work that we're able to have this glorious night. Of course, this is also only possible thanks to all of your generous support. We're already breaking records for charity, but I intend on dragging every knut I can out of you this evening!"

Another applause mingled with laughter. Ron stifled a yawn, clapping on automatic. He couldn't take his gaze away from Ripley's colourful outfit. The voluminous purple robe with twinkling gold stars was outrageous enough. But it had nothing on his streaked violet hair and teetering silver hat that looked like a mix between a beehive and a Christmas ornament. He looked more closely: were Ripley's teeth glowing?

"We cannot forget why we're here tonight," Ripley's voice fell into what he clearly thought passed for sombreness. "This year, we're celebrating a decade of peace! A decade of prosperity! Ten wonderful years of growth, where our beloved nation has healed and made great strides into the future!"

There was a louder applause this time. Even Ron found himself caught up in it.

"But there is still work to be done. All of us know the ugliness in past months, but look below the surface! At the underfunded St. Mungo's! The ill-funded orphanages for the war's children! The reparations to so many who lost their homes, their health, their security! We cannot forget, and this is what these memorials are about. To give to those still recovering."

Ron admitted to himself that Ripley's speech wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected it to be (though the man's costume was an eyesore). He hadn't been to the other galas, but if the emphasis really was on charity? Judging from his companions' expressions, they were thinking similarly.

Ripley waved his arms to help silence the burgeoning claps. "In this series of memorials, we have already given thousands of galleons. We, as a people, have celebrated heroes as Albus Dumbledore, and regretted such tragic societal mistakes that created the likes of You Know Who! Tonight, though, is about remembrance. No day is better than Halloween to remember the end of the first war and the first fall of He Who Must Not Be Named. So we will celebrate, and feast!"

There was loud applause at the last. Ron felt Ginny stiffen beside him and there was also a frown on Hermione's face. He wasn't sure if it was because Ripley hadn't said Voldemort's name, or if it was because he was making it out to be a holiday. Likely both.

"Yes yes, rejoice!" Ripley cheered as the clapping settled. "I'm sure many here recall the celebrations of Halloween 1981. I personally don't—which is a shame, as I woke up the next morning with a raging hangover and two lovely brunettes. What a wild night, eh?" There was a burst of laughter. Ginny was scowling, fingers twisted together. "Ah, memories. Though yes, there was a dark side to that night of mirth. The family that was at the centre was torn apart, and in its remains grew a hero!"

Ginny moved to stand up. Ron placed a hand on her shoulder, shooting her a pointed look. She glared back at him, but at least stayed in her seat. Hermione at least wasn't trying to leave her seat, though she did look about ready to use Ripley as target practice. Ron couldn't blame either of them—he was feeling about the same.

"But that is all for later," Ripley dismissed with a wave of his wand. "For now, let's go over the layout of the evening! First, we have a delightful arrangement of appetisers coming up. Simply point your wand at the menu item and pronounce its name. For the non-witches and wizards in the crowd, any appendage will do." He gave the room a saucy wink, met with a roll of guffaws. "While we're eating tonight's speaker will come to the stage! In case you've missed the headlines blaring from the Daily Prophet, I'll keep quiet on that to not spoil the surprise."

There was another wave of laughter.

"Next there will be a break before dinner. This is the part where I pry all the knuts from your hands!" Ripley gave a jolly chuckle. "We'll be serving up an auction with your meal. To bid, simply wave your wand—or assorted appendage—in the air and cry out your bid. These helpful fiery friends will come to you and shift into your bidding number. Put it up quick, you won't want to lose out on our prizes! A list of which will appear during dinner. We have plenty to bid on: from tickets to the World Cup in the Seychelles, to a shopping spree at Gladrags Wizardware and Harrods, to an autograph signing with the famous Potters!"

Ginny choked on air, staring at Ripley in mild horror. Ron failed miserably at hiding his laugh, though even Hermione was smiling in bemusement. Vane sent a glare at all of them, giving an extra loud smack! on Rossi's lips. The Patridges inched further away from the snogging couple.

"Another one of yours?" Hermione quietly asked her husband as Ginny turned a steaming red.

"Nope," Ron whispered back. "George, you think?"

Ripley was still talking. "After that, there will be a break for the rest of dinner and dessert. Then comes my favourite part, a party game called Raise Your Wands! If you're familiar with muggle customs, it's like a Paddle Call. If you aren't, you'll find out soon enough! It's a chance to donate lavishly and brag while doing it, so plenty of fun to go around." Another wink and some guffaws from the audience. "Our Halloween will wind down with dancing, chatting, and after dinner drinks. But this is all aways down the road! For now all of you can sit back, relax, and order your appetisers. Our speaker will be out before you know it."

On cue, menus appeared on their plates (much to the still-playing cat's and wolf's annoyance). Ron promptly picked his up, glad to be at the only nice part of the evening (though, to be fair, slow dancing with Hermione sounded nice).

Hermione was still frowning at the stage. "Maybe this was a mistake. Did you hear him? All the talk about charity, then he glosses over the end of the first war as a drunken night out!"

"What did you expect? The bloke couldn't even say Voldemort." Ron read the menu, which was made easier as some of the light had returned to the table when Ripley had stepped behind the curtains. A slow rumble of conversation reignited through the hall. "Know what you're having?"

Hermione frowned. "We've had the menus for all of five sec—"

"Mozzarella sticks." Ginny promptly nodded, having instantly made her choice. Ron grinned proudly at his sister. Hermione's exasperated look now covered both of them. "What? Growing up, I had to know what to grab first at dinner or these berks would get it."

"We would." Ron agreed. "Course, that meant there was never any lasagna left. 'cause she was a speedy shrimp demon."

"I'd never eat all the lasagna! Don't call me a shrimp."

"You'd hog the entire platter. Also, why aren't you protesting the demon comment?"

"Salad, I think." Hermione had ignored the argument once it was clear that the siblings had gotten on a roll. She looked anticipatorily at her plate before she recalled how it was done. Drawing her wand, she placed it on the appropriate line. "The caesar salad, please."

As a delectable appetiser appeared on her plate, Ron and Ginny instantly remembered that there was something better to do than argue.

"Garlic bread, extra garlic," pronounced Ron, jabbing his menu. He took a big sniff of the smell and promptly ate a piece. He'd begun talking again while chewing, but had then stolen a look at Hermione and waited until he'd swallowed. "Yeah, but seriously: how pissed off do you think Harry is after that?"

"He's surely screaming at Ripley backstage. 'Celebrating Halloween', hah! And like we'd sign anything. The nerve of that man!" Ginny gently slid the playing napkins off her plate and copied her relatives. "Mozzarella sticks, please."

"What even are those?" Hermione asked as Ginny picked one up.

"Deep fried Scottish goodies," she replied, some of her good humour returning.

"American, not Scottish," Ron corrected his sister.

"Scottish." Ginny bit one.

"It's deep fried cheese: American. They have all the weird fatty dishes."

Ginny chewed some before retorting. "Edinburgh's delicacy is a deep fried Mars Bars. Scotland clearly wins."

Ron stopped eating to look at her. "Mars what?"

"Muggle chocolate bar, Harry showed me," Ginny answered before Hermione could.

"Huh," Ron contemplated this, then returned to the question at hand. "Really though, that's American."

"I think you're both missing the point." Hermione stepped in. "Which is: Ginny, why on earth are you eating that?"

Ron coughed something that sounded very much like, 'deep-fried-pickles-with-peanut-butter'. But before the argument could pick back up, their attention was drawn to the stage by Ripley reentering from behind the deep red curtains. "That was quick. Harry must be raising hell back there."

"No, Ripley doesn't look afraid. That's odd," Ginny said, squinting at the stage as the lights darted back to the flamboyantly dressed wizards. "He's eager, all but jumping about. He's excited about the speech?"

"He's excited about getting a furious Head Auror out of his brightly coloured hair," was Ron's vote. "I bet you anything Harry's going to come out filled with indignant, brutally sarcastic anger."

Ginny scoffed. Ripley reapplied the sonorus, this time for the immediate area around him, and began quieting the crowd. "I'm not taking that bet."

"Attention, ATTENTION! Thank you." Ripley gave a large beam, arms again extended outward as the light danced around him. "Feel free to keep eating, but I ask that you stay silent except for applause and laughter. We're all in for a treat! This is a once in a blue moon event. I daresay that many of you bought a ticket for tonight simply to hear our keynote speaker. We didn't miss the fact that this dinner sold out immediately after news of his attendance hit the papers!"

"Thus, this chap needs no introduction." Ripley gave a low chuckle, as though he was sharing a secret with the audience. "Unlike his usual public appearances—rare as they may be—our speaker will not be discussing his own extraordinary history. Oh, I tried to push him into it! But the wizard would not be budged. So I reluctantly agreed he need not say a word about himself."

"Don't get me wrong." Ripley drew out every pause to dramatic effect. Ron rolled his eyes at Hermione. She shrugged back, half-smiling. Ginny was frowning at the stage, waiting for Harry to stroll out from behind the curtain. "The oft-overlooked witch about to be applauded deserves all the praise in the world. As our speaker will soon explain, Lily Marie Potter was an incredible woman. Not only did she bring to a close the first war against You Know Who, but her sacrifice indirectly assured a victory to the second!"

"Here to memorialise her heroic deeds is her son. Known as the Boy Who Lived and the Man Who Conquered, he is the youngest ever Head Auror as well as the youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class in the modern age! Lord Potter-Black's many accomplishments can only be matched by his great humility. I am honoured that the typical recluse could join us this evening. Without further ado, join me in welcoming my good friend: Harry Potter!"

"Good friend, my arse," Ron mumbled to a quietly giggling Hermione. They and the rest of the crowd were applauding, waiting for the wizard to appear. "Like Harry can stand the Lockhart clone. Also, Lord Potter-Black? Recluse? Whatever Ripley's on, I want some."

"Shush!" Hermione murmured, pausing in her clapping to elbow him. She got her chuckling under control. "Behave."

"I always do," Ron grinned. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, he frowned at the stage. Applause continued to ring about the chamber, but Ripley was peering around him, his beam becoming strained. "Harry's taking his time."

"Harry?" Ripley coughed, smile fading. He squinted out at the crowd. The clapping softened as whispers rose. Ripley looked right at their table, becoming more confused when Ginny's puzzled expression met his. "Harry Potter? Ah, Mr. Potter?"

The curtains didn't ruffle.

"See, I never thought I'd live past twenty.
Where I come from some get half as many.
Ask anybody why we livin' fast and we laugh, reach for a flask,
We have to make this moment last, that's plenty."
—Alexander Hamilton, Hamilton

A/N: Cue the main plot (at long last)!

I mean, it's not like the earlier story's now irrelevant. But 'what's past is prologue' and all that rot!