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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