January 27th, 1888 — High Street, outside Gladrags

George’s grades for the first term had been excellent—so much so that Mr. Waterford had relented and signed off on Hogsmeade visits, after disallowing it the summer previous. He had not thought his firstborn responsible enough to balance the privilege with responsibilities, but after George had done well with quidditch in tow, well, even the grumpy old fellow had had to admit he had been mistaken (though did not do so in so many words).

And so, bundled up in a woolen cloak over school robes, George had trotted triumphantly down to the village with her friends for the first time, first marveling at the selection that Honeyduke’s had to offer, then enjoying a pasty at The Three Broomsticks. When the other boys left to go back to the castle, however, the Ravenclaw had chosen to linger, citing needing a new quill as an excuse though in truth, George was simply not quite ready to give up this newfound freedom. She had waved her friends ahead and insisted she would see them at dinner.

Then she had seen it.

It was nothing so fancy as they produced at the House of Lytton, but it was a ball-gown nonetheless, pearl flowers bordering the hem and bodice. It was beautiful and, more importantly, she was beautiful, for the window glass had plainly been charmed to allow passers-by—regardless of their height—to see themselves in the garment in its reflection. George had never worn a dress before, for that would have gone over terribly, but now the Ravenclaw found herself in something of a reverie as she imagined a life in which she might—distant though that dream might be.

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He/Him/His by those around her.
She/Her/Hers OOC and in her own narration.

While Gladrags may not have been the most glamorous location to buy new odds and ends, Ophelia had always believed that a well-rounded young lady should remain fully apprised of all of her resources. Her resources, in this case, being the full gamit of tailors, seamstresses, dress shops, and fabric shops available to her. One never could tell when there might be just the thing at one place that would not be available anywhere else, and while a less creative and less enterprising young lady might have overlooked it, Ophelia had always seen the potential behind any garment or accessory.

Gladrags was, of course, part of her rotation on her weekly shopping trips — which she had not been deprived of, despite of recent events. She was able to argue with Armando quite persuasively that any abrupt change in her activities would look too suspicious, particularly with the 'mystery' of the Chief Warlock's whereabouts still alive in the papers, and he had capitulated to her whims. That was usually how their arguments went, of course, unless she was hysterical.

The shop had offered her nothing of any particular value, though there was a robe that she might be able to alter from a riding dress into a Quidditch dress for the tournament next month, should nothing better arise. She had no idea what Quidditch dresses were meant to look like, if such a thing had ever even existed at all — perhaps the sorts of people who might be in need of Quidditch dresses were also the sorts who would do something absurd like wear trousers. It was entirely possible that she was breaking new ground, but if that was the case she intended to set a rather stylish precedent all the same.

She was on her way out of the shop when she nearly walked right in to a young boy who had stopped at the window — Gladrags was not, in her opinion, the sort of store to inspire awe, and so she had hardly been expecting someone to stop there. She glanced at the glass, curious as to what held his attention so thoroughly, and couldn't help but laugh at the image presented to her.

"I don't think it's quite your size," she teased lightly.

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   George Waterford

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The sound of a laugh nearly caused the Ravenclaw to jump out of her skin, and George’s cheeks flushed red as she realized the laugh—and its accompanying comment—had been directed in her direction. As her gaze moved from the display to the speaker, the illusion of what might be was all but shattered as the third year stood, panicked and embarrassed, trying to figure out how to respond.

“I—I didn’t know the shops could do that,” George uttered uncomfortably. “It’s not right.”

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He/Him/His by those around her.
She/Her/Hers OOC and in her own narration.

'It's not right' seemed like a rather harsh criticism to Ophelia, particularly for an unobtrusive spell that was hurting exactly no one. She frowned at the boy, then glanced back at the ball gown in the window. "It's an easy spell, I think," she said with a noncommittal shrug. She had never performed it, but one of her schoolmates at the Pendergast School for Young Roses had had a similar enchantment on a mirror they owned, which allowed them to go through every outfit in their closet without actually trying them on. Ophelia had never tried to replicate it because she found such indecisiveness tedious; she always knew exactly what she wanted to wear at least a full day before any event, and often much farther in advance.

"It's just advertising," she explained. "Anything to get someone to stop and look at their dresses. It made you stop," she pointed out.

  

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“Only because it was so…so…weird,” George retorted, now fully reddened, surprised at her own vehemence. She had loved it—loved it until she had been caught. Now, the Ravenclaw felt as if she had been witnessed committing a crime, a crime against the identity that the Waterford had so carefully crafted for their firstborn.

“But,” the third year allowed after a moment, “I suppose it’s…practical.”

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He/Him/His by those around her.
She/Her/Hers OOC and in her own narration.

Ophelia smiled just a bit at the boy's admission. Practical was such a masculine adjective to use when formulating a compliment, she thought, and she couldn't help but smirk at it. She was not entirely unsympathetic to his first statement, however; she supposed if she were walking by a window and suddenly caught sight of herself in a pair of trousers, she might have been equally stopped. Luckily, such marketing tactics were seldom applied towards men. With a very exceptions, Ophelia had never noticed men to be overly concerned with dressing in the latest fashions. Left to their own devices, most would only go shopping when they really needed something new. Well dressed men, she had long since surmised, were largely the handiwork of their wives or sisters (Mr. Devine, of course, would never be anything less than impeccably dressed once they were married — not that he left much wanting at present).

"Well, perhaps someday you can walk this way with a young lady you fancy," she said with a casual shrug. "I imagine that would make the appeal seem quite clear," she added with another smile. The boy was probably at least a decade away from being able to properly develop a taste for women, much less approach the idea of courting one, but that never stopped anyone from developing school crushes, did it?

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   Aldous Crouch

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George flushed even further at that, muttering something noncommittal. The notion that she might ever fancy a young lady had always seemed impossible, even before George had learned the truth about her sex. This lady, clearly far from being young anymore, was delusional if she thought otherwise!

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He/Him/His by those around her.
She/Her/Hers OOC and in her own narration.

Ophelia interpreted the boy's embarrassment to mean that she had overestimated his age, and therefore, his interest in the opposite gender. Girls did tend to be interested in that sort of thing more quickly, didn't they? It had been so long since she herself was in school that she tended to think all Hogwarts students looked unspeakably young, but she supposed this one did look on the younger side even given her predisposition to lump all students into the same generic category.

"Well," she said, making a slight tsk noise with her tongue as she pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. "You never know what will happen in time. Shouldn't you be with your schoolmates?" She didn't think there was a holiday that she'd forgotten about, and now that she had decided the boy before her must indeed be young, it suddenly seemed conspicuous that he was wandering about on his own.

  

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"Y-yes, ma'am," George allowed at last. At least she had mistaken the Ravenclaw's discomfort for that typical of a young boy—but it had been a close call indeed. "I'll go now, then, shall I?"

George did not wait for a response before turning on her heel to trot off as nonchalantly as possible (which, as it happens, was not particularly nonchalant).

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He/Him/His by those around her.
She/Her/Hers OOC and in her own narration.

Ophelia giggled briefly as the boy turned to go. She did not mean to laugh at him, but the entire situation was just so typical of a young boy, she thought, and it could not help but bring laughter to her lips. As he turned to go, she checked her pockets to ensure she hadn't left anything behind in the shop and went on her own way, quite amused by the encounter indeed.

  

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