It was a bright, sunny afternoon.
They lay on the sofa, basking in the winter sunlight streaming through the roof, eating sweets while listening to Bach being played downstairs.
It was a game that made one languid all over, as if soaking in a hot spring, too lazy even to get up.
They were so happy and sweet that they hardly seemed like parents who had just lost a child. Not a trace of grief could be felt; it was as if having only each other in the whole world was enough.
But if Pomona had had a child back then, even if her husband had not been so satisfactory, she might have shifted her energy onto the child, like Narcissa.
That was also why Pomona and Fleur had cleaned the Black family home together. "Those of the same kind" ought to be closer, but Pomona and Fleur were two utterly different people.
Fleur was special, and Madame Maxime especially doted on her.
Many things were difficult for anyone who was not mixed-blood to understand.
That was also why Filius kept his distance from people and devoted himself to music. He could pour all his energy and passion into music instead of, like certain fools, sinking into love.
Everything had begun with the ball, but it had not been entirely because of the ball. Thirty years was not a short time for humans, yet that girl from France had shaken them out of their hazy state.
France called itself a romantic and poetic nation. That might have been very appealing to inexperienced young people, but older people needed to see things clearly and thoroughly. Sometimes young people desperately needed an adult's advice, such as being told to find work in another country.
The Anglo-Saxon model appeared to offer equal opportunity,