Hermione laughed, bright and true. She felt quite like that time fifteen years ago, when Viktor had told her she was beautiful and, for once, she had taken the compliment easily. When, for one first, glorious moment, she’d allowed herself to be a girl, a girl in a beautiful dress, who was being flirted with, who did not doubt the fact that she was beautiful and worth flirting with, and who, therefore, had no need to scoff at the compliment and turn the conversation to other matters.