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Rose Potter is seven years old, and she has never wanted anything more than the yellow sundress.
Of course, Aunt Petunia would never buy one for her. She knows better than to expect it. Rose wouldn't even be here, in the storefront today, but Dudley and Vernon have gone on a father-son excursion for the weekend, and Mrs Figg isn't home to babysit.
So here she is, holding Aunt Petunia's shopping bags. As she walks behind her aunt, she turns to see the dress one last time.
It's a pretty dress, with white flowers on it. Something like the other little girls at school would wear. Not Rose, no.
"She's a proper tomboy. All rough and tumble games out in the mud sorts, I'm afraid. Can't be bothered to keep a dress clean," Petunia laughs, in the way of explanation when someone pries.
Rose accepts this explanation; after all, being chased by Dudley and his gang all day long, she does get her clothes dirty.
Still, she wishes she had something as pretty as that dress.
Rose Potter is ten, and Aunt Petunia lets her keep an old skirt of hers instead of throwing it away. It is entirely too loose, she needs one of Dudley's old belts to fasten it. She doesn't wear it often, not wanting to ruin it.
Rose Potter is eleven, and the Hogwarts uniform is one of the best pieces of clothing she's owned. It's just a plain set of robes, skirt, a white shirt. But it's brand new. She loves it.
That Christmas, though, she loves the emerald green sweater Mrs Weasley knits for her even more.
Over the years, Rose doesn't think about it much - her appearance, pretty things. Hermione scoffs at their dormmates antics - curling their hair, carefully applying eyeliner or dabbing a bit of lipstick.
But she still wouldn’t mind owning pretty things. Hermione’s delicate charms bracelet. Lavender’s little locket, with a heart pendant. A nice pair of earrings. Pretty trinkets.
The first time Rose owns something truly pretty is her outfit for the Yule Ball. It's a beautiful silver, that shimmers in the light and makes her frame look - lithe, instead of bony and underdeveloped.
Lavender and Parvati help her get ready.
"We have always wanted to do something with your hair," Lavender says, holding a fistful of her red curls.
"My hair? It's awful," Rose says skeptically.
"Your hair is gorgeous! It just needs a little help," Parvati says.
And Merlin, do they work wonders. She can barely recognise herself in the mirror. Her hair is still curly, but instead of a frizzy mess, they fall around her shoulders in gentle waves. The silver of her dress makes her red hair look darker, lovelier . For the first time, she thinks she is pretty.
Even Ron is astound when he looks at her, though only for a second. He has eyes only for Hermione. They both make a good pair, fumbling through the first dance and stowing in their misery.
In all honesty, Rose can't tell if she's more jealous of Cedric or Cho. She bumps into them, as she's getting herself some punch.
"You look beautiful, Rose," Cho says, with a bright smile.
"Th-thank you, Cho. So do you," she says, mortified at her stutter. Cho really does look lovely. Her mood is slightly better as she sits next to Ron.
Voldemort returns, and Rose doesn't have time to think about pretty things. She's fifteen, serving detention for Umbridge. Sixteen, on the swing sets of Privet Drive, knowing she'll never see Sirius again.
She's seventeen, as she packs her duffle bag with all her clothes - Dudley's cast-offs, the overlarge t-shirts and baggy jeans, her Weasley jumpers, her Aunt's faded skirts. Rose leaves the uniform; she has no use for it now. She doesn’t part with the dress robes she wore at the Yule Ball, however. Can’t bring herself to leave something so pretty.
She’s in Grimmauld Place, on the couch. Hermione’s gone to Australia for a couple of weeks, and Ron’s at the Burrow for lunch. He’d drag her off the couch, too, but he lets her be. It’s Halloween.
Not that the rest of the world cares. She’s supposed to be at the Ministry today. The trials start from next week. For Death Eaters, Ministry officials who were complicit in Voldemort’s regime. Those who claimed to be under the Imperious. Her testimonies are required for what seems to be the hundredth time.
She looks at her reflection. The ugly, gingham skirt and Aunt Petunia’s old faded blue jumper. The most decent clothing she owns.
And then it hits her: why is she wearing these old castoffs, all these years later? Why does she have to, anymore?
Rose goes shopping. She goes to the fancy muggle stores she’d stare at, now without Aunt Petunia’s grip firm on her wrist. She splurges, without an ounce of guilt. Clothes that actually fit her, shoes. Heels that she’d probably trip over in. A pretty bracelet. Earrings.
She walks, holding her own shopping bags, and one particular dress catches her eye from the window.
The dress has no frills unlike the one she fancied all those years back. It falls just above her knees, and with a pair of sandals, it flatters her knobby legs.
Rose Potter is nineteen, and finally gets to wear a yellow sundress.