Chapter Three

"Ma'am, Poppy must take her Mistress into town for Mistress's school things," Poppy croaked from outside the mirror. With reluctance, and the desire to cause no further burden, Briar unfolded her legs, and carefully pushed the antique, full-length mirror aside, crawling out from the hidden crevice behind it. The same mirror had adorned the same place for centuries, propped up against Briar's bedroom wall –she had discovered the hiding hole after the mirror had fallen from its place after a particularly nasty spattering of a potion-gone-wrong had struck it, the evidence of the event lay in the very right corner where the glass had been shattered, and a portion of the golden frame had been melted. The hiding spot was rather small, making it difficult to hide in for extended periods of time.

Briar righted the mirror, crossing the creaking mahogany and lowered herself onto the bedroom's window seat. Poppy retrieved a nearby stool, clambering atop it in order to reach Briar's shoulders, where she corrected the worn, men's woven jacket from where it hung, far too large, off Briar's shoulders. Poppy patted the woolen material fondly.
"You're a saint, Poppy," Briar praised quietly, watching Poppy's reflection in the window. Although being rather old –ancient it seemed, Poppy was still finely kept. Wearing a lovely handmade dress sewn from a discarded white tablecloth, protected by a threadbare smock –once again made by Poppy from discarded fabrics, even down to the little frills which accented it, which was tied together with a ribbon Briar had gifted her ages ago.
"Oh, no, Mistress. Poppy is merely grateful for your kindness –but now Poppy must take her Mistress into town."

Briar sighed, but obeyed, pushing up from her seat and allowing Poppy to grasp her arm with work-worn fingers. Poppy, who was older than both Briar and her father combined –probably –had still such a strong grasp.
With a large crack, the pair vanished –Briar squeezed shut her eyes, as travel made her sick, and waited until the stuffy air and silence of the old house was replaced with the smell of baked goods, dragon dung, and incoherent chatter enveloped her. Briar's pinched eyes flew open, and she took in the sight with wide eyes. Despite being rather young, Briar was remarkably well-traveled. She often accompanied her father on his less dangerous jobs, visiting foreign countries and witnessing sights which most eleven-year-olds would never have the opportunity to see. Of course, this often led to witnessing things that weren't necessarily appropriate for most eleven-year-olds. Although nothing –in Briar's opinion –could beat the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, no matter if it was the millionth time she'd seen it.

"Poppy has sent out for Mistress's items in advance," Poppy informed her, loosening her grip on Briar's arm, although she did not release her –due to the highly probability of Briar being swept up in the crowd and swallowed whole. "Perhaps, Mistress see to receiving her robes –but Poppy may not enter the store," the elf told her, leading her towards a mauve coloured store, the sign overhead with peeling golden letters claiming its name as 'Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions'
"Wh-Why not?" Briar asked, stuttering in her attempt to mask her anxiousness. In spite of being well-travelled, Briar was allowed very little independence, as most of her visits to foreign places were spent attached to her father's hip, or locked inside a tiny boarding room. "Poppy begs her Mistress's forgiveness, but Poppy fears she may be given clothes to be held," Poppy cupped her drooping ears, shivering violently, "And we house-elves scared of flying scissors, Poppy's ears like to be in one piece, yes, in one piece, Mistress." Briar bobbed her head nervously, rocking her hat askew. "All right, Poppy, stay outside the shop and wait for me, please?"
"Yes, Mistress," Poppy swept into such a low bow that her nose skimmed the cobble.
Briar took a deep breath, and turned the doorknob. The bell overhead chimed, and Briar released the door –it swung shut with a clang. She was utterly astounded, gaping openly at the swathes of cloth lining the walls, illuminated by harsh, blinding lights. Briar blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by the white glare –.

"Briar are you all right, dear?"
Briar's sharp eyes flashed open, and she turned away from the luminescent bulbs, her lips splitting into a half-hearted grin. "Er –yeah, yeah I'm fine, Molly. Haven't been sleeping much recently, that's all." Briar gestured to the unconcealed discolouring beneath her eyes.
Molly laid a hand against her cheek, tutting, "George really ought to relocate those …experiments …of his if they're keeping you up."
"I suspect it's mostly pre-marital nerves," a distant voice called from beyond rows of coloured swathes of fabrics and silks. "I know I had them when I was getting married!"
From beneath a bundle of lace and white chiffon, a stout witch emerged, adorned entirely in mauve from her dress to her cat-eyed frames. She beamed at the women, flourishing her wand to command a tape measure to fly about, taking in all of Briar's measurements. Madam Malkin's painted lips stretched in a toothy grin, "I found a few dresses I tucked away a decade or two ago," she gestured to the piles of white cloth which stacked higher than Madam Malkin herself. "So! Would you like a dress made from chiffon, rayon, and charmeuse, satin, silk, organza or a mixture of the lot?"
Briar just barely suppressed her groan.

It had been Mrs Weasley who had selected the gown Briar now wore, she had taken pity on Briar after she had been overwhelmed by the ordeal and had collapsed into a pile of discarded reject gowns.
Briar examined herself with a worn eye, impatiently swatting away an animated tape measure as it made an attempt to measure her bust for the sixth time.
"I like it," she announced, eyeing the simple bead-work adorning the drooping neckline. Briar gave herself another once over, before lowering herself with a groan onto a pile of cloth blinking away the glare from the overhead lights.
Mrs Weasley pursed her lips, "It's rather simple, although Fleur's was a tad more plain, but that's because she is-"Mrs Weasley cut herself short, shrugging.
"-A tad more veela-esque," Briar completed rolling her eyes skywards. "I feel like I'm playing dress up in my mum's clothes." Briar grumbled beneath her breath, brushing away invisible dirt from the bead embellishments on her capped sleeves.

"It's lovely, dear." Mrs Weasley assured her. "I'm sure George will love it."
"R-right," Briar muttered, turning her eyes downward and nervously tugging on the fang piercing which swung from her ear. She hadn't yet considered what George would think of her gown. –She swallowed thickly, her heart had begun to beat heavily. What if he didn't like it?

"George!"

Her brows began to furrow. The dress was rather big on her, what if she tripped going down the aisle!?

"Oh George!"

What if-

"George, dear, there you are!"

Briar blinked widely as she was met face to face with a finger, blinking yet again as it prodded her between her brows. Briar dropped her eyes as George laughed at her reaction, and she blushing furiously.
"You look fantastic, love," George told her, "Although with all that extra material your dress could be the tent!"
Briar managed a small laugh, "We'll get it re-sized, and the extra fabric can be used for patching up the tent after Charlie's had one too many drinks like he did at Bill's wedding."
George laughed sheepishly, his eyes crinkling with delight. "That's probably Fred's and my fault –we said that whiskey breath is attractive to French girls."
"What was that, George?" Mrs Weasley cut in sharply, her mouth twitching in a manner which usually predated a shouting match. George laughed again, his voice nervously shrill, "Nothing, mum! I think Fred's getting attacked by the ties again!"
George half-raised from his crouch, before glancing down at Briar who had been observing him with a raised brow. George glanced around at his mother, who hovered over the pair menacingly. "I'll let you know what we're up to later," he whispered, catching her chin with his fingertips and forcing a kiss on her sputtering lips. "Lobe you."
Briar groaned as his eyes sparked with mischief, and he leapt away from her. She watched his back as George hurried away, shouting something to Fred about, "The red ties being more aggressive than the blue!"