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 “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 onto the floor, followed by
Mr. Weasley and Fleur’s father.

 “I like this song,” said Luna, swaying in time to the waltzlike tune, and a few
seconds later she stood up and glided onto 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 well?”

 “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 vus not a guest of Fleur’s I vould dud him, here and
now, for veering 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 powerful 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 recognized it at
vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vall at Durmstrang ver he vos a pupil there. Some
idiots copied it onto 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 recognized the triangular, finlike shape.

 “Are you – er – quite sure it’s Grindelwald’s -?”

 “I am not mistaken,” said Krum coldly. “I walked 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 have easily 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 recognized the
symptoms.

 Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was making fun of him. He
drew his hand from inside his robe and tapped it menacingly on his thighs; 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 wand?”

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

 “I had not realized I ever discussed my vand with fans,” he said.

 “So… er… where is Gregorowitch these days?”

 Krum looked puzzled.

 “He retired several years ago. I was one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch
vand. They are the best –although I know, of course, that your 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’ wand had done on
the night that Voldemort pursued him across the skies. The holly and phoenix feather
wand had conquered the borrowed wand, some thing that Ollivander had not anticipated
or understood. Would Gregorowitch 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 around the edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find Ron, to tell
him about Gregorovitch, but he 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
the 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 porkpie hat were singing “Odo the Hero” in the corner.

 Wandering through the crowd so as to escape a drunken uncle of Ron’s who
seemed unsure whether or not Harry was his son, Harry spotted an old wizard sitting
alone at a table. His cloud of white hair made him look rather like an aged dandelion
clock and was topped by a moth-eaten fez. He was vaguely familiar: Racking his brains,
Harry suddenly realized that this was Elphias Doge, member of the Order of the Phoenix
and the writer of Dumbledore’s obituary.

 Harry approached him.

 “May I sit down?”

 “Of course, of course,” said Doge; he had a rather high-pitched, wheezy voice.

 Harry leaned in.

 “Mr. Doge, I’m Harry Potter.”

 Doge gasped.

 “My dear boy! Arthur told me you were here, disguised…. I am so glad, so
honored!”

 In a flutter of nervous pleasure Doge poured Harry a goblet of champagne.

 “I thought of writing to you,” he whispered, “after Dumbledore… the shock…
and for you, I am sure…”

 Doge’s tiny eyes filled with sudden tears.

 “I saw the obituary you wrote for the Daily Prophet,” said Harry. “I didn’t realize
you knew Professor Dumbledore so well.”

 “As well as anyone,” said Doge, dabbing his eyes with a napkin. “Certainly I
knew him longest, if you don’t count Aberforth – and somehow, people never do seem to
count Aberforth.”