As the laughter subsided, Dean Thomas emerged from the crowd and took the place formerly occupied by Lavender. The package in his hands, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with twine, resembled Lavender's in shape if not in size, its dimensions being roughly half those of the enchanted mirror. Both Harry and Hermione felt their hearts leap in anticipation as Dean snapped the twine with a Severing Charm so that Harry could peel away the heavy paper.
It was, as most had expected, a painting. But it was a painting of a skill and genius to take one's breath away. Encompassed by a frame of antique wood was a masterful rendering of Hogwarts castle and its surrounding grounds. And to the surprise of no one, the painting was alive with motion. There was a ripple on the lake marking the languid passage of the giant squid. The borders of the Forbidden Forest were alive with the shadowy movements of centaurs and hippogriffs. Tiny figures on broomsticks were flying above the Quidditch pitch, scarlet pinpoints which were undoubtedly the Gryffindor house team, intermixed with darting motes of pale green which just as obviously represented the Slytherin team.
Varicolored specks also moved across the Hogwarts grounds, including one very large dot which Harry could swear was swinging a dead rooster in his hand. Harry's eyes rose above the picture frame to where the real Hagrid stood, head and shoulders above the crowd, his black eyes shining with unrestrained joy.
"A lot of it is just symbolic," Dean said. "There's not really a Quidditch game going on now, of course, since school hasn't started yet."
Even as he spoke, a tiny red dot swooped up, rather like a Seeker who had just caught the Golden Snitch. The specks in the seats of the tiny stadium quivered as if in celebration (all except those in the Slytherin section, naturally). Harry grinned at Dean, his blood pumping as if he himself had just won the Championship Cup for Gryffindor one more time.
"But I did Charm it like the ceiling of the Great Hall," Dean said, his finger moving here and there across the canvas. "Those clouds moving across the sky are really there. When you look at the painting, you'll know exactly what the weather is at Hogwarts. When you see snow on the ground here, you'll know there's snow there as well.
"And at night," he continued, "the castle windows will light up at random and gradually go out by midnight.
"All except Gryffindor Tower, that is. That light stays on until past Three a.m." Dean winked at Hermione, who colored slightly under her former house-mate's discerning eye. Ron saw this exchange, and immediately a light went on in his eyes.
"Of course! That'll be Hermione, staying up all night studying!"
"Well, it certainly isn't you!" Molly said with a light touch of reproval lurking just beneath her otherwise festive tone.
"That's for ruddy sure!" Seamus echoed, clapping Ron on the shoulder jovially.
"I'd be careful about casting aspersions, Seamus," Hermione warned, tapping the side of her nose meaningfully. "Remember, I helped Professor McGonagall grade the seventh-year N.E.W.T.'s. Minerva, do you happen to recall Seamus' final marks?"
"I do indeed!" McGonagall said sternly. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she added, "However, I shall refrain from disclosing that information at this time. A wedding reception is hardly the place to indulge in...obscenities."
Universal laughter rang out, and, to his credit, none laughed louder than Seamus. As he wiped his eyes, he caught an encouraging nod directed at him by Dean. Seizing the moment, Seamus took his friend's place before the young marrieds and dipped a hand into his dress robes. He drew forth a tiny box with intricate scrollwork marking its surfaces. Many of the adults were visibly impressed, and there was an unmistakable flash of recognition in Dumbledore's blue eyes.
As Hermione tilted back the lid of the box, Harry drew from it a small whistle that gleamed in the sunlight with a sheen of pure gold. Curious, Harry instinctively lifted the whistle to his lips --
"NO!" Seamus cried, surprising nearly everyone (though not, it seemed, Dumbledore, who merely smiled). As Harry lowered the whistle, Seamus gathered himself and resumed with some relief, "I'd treat that with respect if I were you, me lad."
"Why?" Harry said, regarding the whistle curiously. "What is it?"
"That," Seamus preened, "is nothin' more nor less than a Leprechaun Whistle!"
Harry never knew that someone could swagger without actually walking, but Seamus seemed to be doing a pretty fair imitation.
"A what?" Harry said, studying the object in his hand as he fingered the fine gold chain to which it was attached. "I never heard of a Leprechaun Whistle."
"'Tis not surprising," Seamus said with a regal air, "you having been blessed by the Good Lord with nary a drop of Irish blood. Rare, that is," he announced as he nodded toward the whistle. "There's not one been given in more than a hundred years."
"One hundred and twelve," Hermione said casually as she took the whistle from Harry and scrutinized it in the bright sunlight.
"You know about this thing?" Harry said in complete surprise.
"'Course she does!" Ron declared, as if stating nothing but the obvious. "She's Hermione, isn't she? Probably knows the name of the first bloke to have one, come to that."
As all eyes, Seamus' most of all, fastened on Hermione, she looked thoughtfully at the gold whistle in her hand.
"His name was Sean McEnnis. While out hunting, he found the Leprechaun King up a tree, chased there by a rogue wolf. The King was injured; he'd used all the magic he could summon to reach the highest branch. But he was too weak to magic the wolf away, or even to call for help.
"McEnnis was returning empty-handed from his day's hunting. He'd nocked his last arrow to kill a deer, which his family desperately needed for food, but when he saw the Leprechaun King's plight, he didn't hesitate, killing the wolf instead.
"The King was so grateful, he conjured a pot of gold on the spot and presented it to his savior. But McEnnis refused, saying it was unseemly to accept gold for performing a simple act of compassion.
"So the king, unwilling to let McEnnis' selfless deed go unrewarded, removed this very whistle from around his neck. One blast would have been enough to summon his people to his aid, but, wounded and exhausted, he hadn't the strength to blow it. He gave it to McEnnis as a keepsake, on which terms the hunter gratefully accepted. It was only after the hunter returned home to his family that he learned the truth.
"While McEnnis slept, the Leprechaun King came to him in a dream. He promised that, should McEnnis ever be in desperate need of help, even unto the peril of his life, he need only blow the whistle and a legion of Leprechauns would rush to his aid as if he were the King himself. He further told McEnnis that the magic of the whistle prevented him from discarding it, or giving it to another. Thus persuaded, McEnnis gave in and kept the King's gift. It's not recorded if he ever used it. No doubt the Leprechauns know, but none keeps a secret like a Leprechaun. Right, Seamus?"
"Sure an' that's the truth of it," Seamus said, shaking his head. "And I had to stop you, Harry, because the whistle can be used only once. Once blown, it returns to the Leprechaun King so it can lead him back to the one in need. And, well...no offense to Hermione, but only you can use it, Harry."
Seamus gave Hermione an apologetic look, greatly relieved to see that she had, indeed, taken no offense.
"But," Harry said bewilderedly, "I haven't done anything to deserve such a gift."
"Have you not?" came a quiet, grandfatherly voice from the crowd. All eyes turned toward Dumbledore, who was regarding Harry as he might his own son or grandson. "Ask those who will grow up and live happy lives in a world free of the tyranny of Lord Voldemort. I daresay they will tell a different story."
"Tis a rare thing that this gift is bestowed on one not of the blood," Seamus said soberly. "But when I gained audience with the King, I asked him if he knew of anyone who deserved it more, blood or no."
"I agree," Hermione said, replacing the whistle in its box and closing the lid. "If Harry doesn't deserve it, no one does."
As a smiling Seamus made his departure, there was a lurch in the crowd, accompanied by a grunt of apparent surprise. Neville Longbottom burst into view, propelled as if booted by the hooves of a centaur. Neville cast a flustered look over his shoulder, the hint of a smile on his round face. He seemed not to have seen the owner of the foot which had made contact with his backside, but his suspicions appeared nevertheless certain.
Looking somewhat embarrassed now, Neville stepped forward. In his hand he held not a box or a parcel, but what appeared to be a folded and crumpled length of white tissue paper. He handed this to Hermione, who peeled the paper back curiously and promptly let out a gasp of surprise.
A single rose resided within the enveloping paper. But it was a rose such as none had ever seen. Not red, nor white, nor pink. It was brown. But not merely brown. It was, in fact, a myriad different shades which burst upon the petals in tiny, soundless explosions, flowing back and forth like oil upon water, a magical kaleidoscope of indescribable wonder. It was a miniature American Fourth of July in earthtones, a silent symphony for eye and soul and heart. Mahogany, ochre, sienna, sepia, mocha -- hundreds upon hundreds of variations, encompassing every imaginable description, and some which human eye nor human mind had never imagined. And all contained in a single bloom held tremulously in the hand of the woman who was its inspiration.
"I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life," Hermione squeaked, her eyes filling with tears. "Did -- did you create this?"
Neville nodded, his face reddening uncomfortably. "I worked with Professor Sprout all last year to breed it," he said in what sounded almost like an apology. "G-Ginny always said that you thought your hair and eyes were...dull and...uninspired. She said you...sometimes wished they were...anything but brown. B-but I always thought you were...I mean..."
Neville swallowed heavily, during which pause none spoke nor made the slightest sound.
"Anyway...I bred this...and Professor Sprout said it was real pretty, and that everyone would want one. But I didn't make it for everyone. Just for you.
"But Professor Sprout told me that, even if it was only for you, I had to register it with the Ministry as a new magical species. And when I filled out the form, they told me I had to give it a name, so no one else could use it. I thought about it for a long time. And then the perfect name came to me. I -- I knew there was already an American Beauty Rose. So I...decided to call this...the Hermione Beauty Rose. Is -- is that alright...?"
The dam of Hermione's self-control broke. She fell onto Neville, hot tears cascading down her cheeks. Neville looked positively horrified as he stood rooted to the spot, his eyes darting about madly in every direction. "So..." he said feebly, "...you like it, then?"
This proved to be too much even for Hermione. Her sobs dissolved into insane laugher as she continued to hug Neville, raining kisses upon his cheeks until they burned like living flames.
"Blimey," Dean whispered to Seamus as Hermione gradually composed herself, backing away so Harry could help her smooth out her exquisite robes. "I should have paid more attention in Herbology."
"And we used to laugh at Neville behind his back," Seamus said, quite as impressed as Dean. "The laugh's on us now, innit?"
When Hermione was back in her chair, Parvati having appeared from nowhere to help her restore her face and hair to a semblance of order, Harry extended his hand to Neville, the rose held reverently in his other hand.
"Good job, mate," Harry said.
Still somewhat flustered, Neville shook Harry's hand and quickly melted back into the crowd, clearly not enjoying all this attention after so many years of being virtually ignored at school(except in Potions, of course, where he would have dearly loved to be ignored by Snape and the Slytherins). As he strove to slow his wildly beating heart, he felt a hand place itself on his shoulder, where it remained as the crowd swelled forward, each endeavoring to be next to bestow his or her gift. Neville did not look around to identify the owner of that hand. There was no need. The light dusting of freckles on the slender fingers was testimony enough. Though still considerably less than at his ease, Neville smiled in spite of himself.
Author's Note: So, who will be the next trio to gift the newlyweds? Answers next week. Thanks for reading.