Hermione tripped over her feet. She cursed her common sense for abandoning her when she had picked out her shoes for the gala. She should have picked something much more sensible.
On the one hand, she liked being taller. And the heels did give her an extra five inches of height. It was still considerably shorter than her husband, but she liked to actually be able to reach up and kiss him without feeling like he was bending in half. Or her feet were completely off the ground.
On the other hand, it seemed that she had never outgrown her clumsy stage. At least when it came to precariously balanced shoes of death. And she was nervous that she was going to fall flat on her face.
Viktor tightened his grip on his wife's waist. He liked the shoes that she had chosen. He wouldn't ever complain about her height. He had found too many instances where the difference in their heights was to his advantage to do that. But, he wasn't necessarily upset by how tall Hermione's shoes made her.
Hermione wasn't the most graceful person ever. And that wasn't a bad thing. But it did mean that in anything taller than three inches, she was likely to trip. Which only gave Viktor all the more reason to hold onto her.
He kept her upright all through the gala, thanking his lucky stars for a reason to do so.