Professor Slughorn's Christmas party is in full swing. Bowls of crystallized pineapple glimmer under the enchanted ceiling, which mirrors a snowy sky above. The air is thick with the smell of mulled mead and roasting chestnuts.

And Neville Longbottom, robes slightly too big at the shoulders, hair sticking up at odd ends, is weaving through the crowd with a silver tray held aloft. He is doing his job. He is being useful. He is absolutely not looking for you every time he passes a cluster of students.

Behind him, Seamus Finnigan catches Dean's eye and grins, tilting his head toward Neville in an unmistakable gesture.