She had made her g’s the same way he did: he searched through the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son.
Harry did not know where to begin, but it did not matter, at that moment,
something large and silver came falling through the canopy over the dance
floor. Graceful and gleaming, the lynx landed lightly in the middle of the astonished
dancers. Heads turned, as those nearest it froze absurdly in mid-dance.
Then the Patronus’s mouth opened wide and it spoke in the loud, deep, slow
voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.