Her trunk negligibly heavier thanks to a box of school nurse sanctioned lady goods, Victoire skipped the final step and took something of a ballerina leap toward the platform— or that platitude of pubescent wizards and witches who now had a year’s education under their belts robes. She held her wand aloft, over the cloud of silvery hair that trailed after her billowing blouse as her feet planted themselves firmly on the magical side of King’s Cross.

If her eyes sailed from one end of the platform to the other, in an attempt to make sure siblings of the younger variety caught the enviable figure of Victoire Weasley, wand-wielding witch, she could not be blamed. What else was school for, but to hold its dormitory-style intellectual mystique over the head’s of Dominique and Louis?

Right. Learning. Right. Of course.

It was a shame, really, that magic wasn’t allowed outside of the school. Save the ever ubiquitous lumos, to which literally no one paid attention, Victoire had not a spell with which she could impress the likes of Nicky and Louis without repercussion. And what was worse: there were no consequences to their accidental displays of magical aptitide.

Victoire straightened up, smoothed the front of clothes, pressed down a rare stray hair, and shuffled slightly into the trunk butting against the back of her shin (it had floated gently to the ground under the guidance of a porter’s wand). She frowned. Where were they?

Looking over her shoulder, back at the train, she caught sight of a new dorm-mate and quickly replaced the slight vexation with a smile. “See you fall term, yeah?” She asked casually, watching the girl appear and disappear in each successive window as she maneuvered her way through the car to meet an elder brother in the prefect’s carriage.

When the other girl said something about a day in London, perhaps ice-cream at Fortescue’s, Rory almost burst with excitement. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure and she waved her wand in farewell. “I’ll owl you this week!” She called cheerily after her.

The elder sister's goodbye to her school pal was cut short by a freckled ginger blur! Nicky Weasley emerged from the crowd at top speed, several annoyed-looking parents and students glowering in her wake, suggesting that she had nearly uprooted them in her rush to greet Victoire.

"Rory!" she shrieked, her tone far girlier than usual as she swept the willowy blonde into a fierce hug—one that threatened to smother her, given enough time.

Nicky did release her, though, after a few moments, peering very slightly up at her very slightly taller sister. She beamed at Victoire, over-enthused to see her—as if she hadn't just been home for Easter a couple of months prior.

Of course, stuck at home with Louis, months felt like years. It wasn't that she didn't love her little brother, or enjoy spending time with him... there was just a very different bond between the two sisters—even if they did bicker constantly.

The first few days of Rory's return, however, would in all likelihood be very pleasant! If a day had to be assigned, it was likely that Monday or Tuesday would renew the girls' insatiable need to fight.

For now, though, Nicky was as eager as ever to be affectionate with her big sister.

"How was your year? Did you learn any cool magic? Do you have a fan club of boys yet? Did you try out for the quidditch team? I mean, I know you can't use your own broom yet, but you know what I mean!"

She paused for a moment, feet twisting around in her shoes anxiously—feet that were, Rory might notice, clad in Ravenclaw-themed socks—before her face fell and her lips parted slightly.

Nicky fixed her sister with a pointed gaze for just a moment before asking, entirely too loudly, and in a tone of bewildered shock:

"Oh my gosh—you got your period?"

Molly had been dropping off and picking up members of her family at Platform 9 and ¾ for so many years that today, she wondered how none of the muggles recognized her. Even after all of these years, she had never quite captured the essence of muggle fashion, always adding what seemed to be one too many pieces of knitwear.

This was an especially exciting year as it was Victoire’s first. Her grandbabies were getting so big! Molly was absolutely chuffed to be walking through the Kings Cross station with her grandchildren. It brought her back to several decades earlier, before all of the tragedy - and the marriages, the births, the celebrations. The latter were things she should think about - although she couldn’t help but grow a bit wistful as she spotted a set of twins walk past her.

Rory was ecstatic to finally be attending the famous wizarding school. Molly had always assumed she would be sorted into Gryffindor, like all of her children had been. But Rory was far more bookish than any of them had been, which had landed her in Ravenclaw - which made Molly just as proud.

She was excited to give the girl a squeeze; it had been months since she had last seen the precious girl. Molly kept an ear out for any news involving Hogwarts, an old habit that she had developed mostly during Ron’s years at school. He seemed to get into even more trouble than his twin brothers had in their time.

“Oh my gosh, you got your period?”

Hearing this brought Molly back into the present day. She scanned the hordes of students for her flaxen-haired granddaughter. After a moment she spotted Rory, but before Molly had the chance to greet her, Dominique began interrogating her older sister. It was nice to see them getting along. She managed to slip in a quick hug between Nicky’s questions.

"Oh my gosh—you got your period?" 

“Shhh, Dominique!” Molly gasped. She couldn’t keep herself from smiling. She put her arm round Rory and said quietly, “Is it true? Have you become a young woman?”

Victoire did not know what came first: the fiery glimpse of red, the tug of arms, or the telling Rory. Nicky had not bothered to warn her with a tap on the shoulder or a distant call. It wasn’t her style, ever. And Victoire, despite her efforts to appear Exceptionally Older and Wiser, put together as any of her friends exiting the train to greet their families, was pleased as pumpkin punch for the sisterly assault on her senses.

Spring Break and the theft of socks was a distant memory (for the moment). It was as if they hadn’t seen each other in years as Rory teetered against the younger Weasley, arms entangling, hair falling in a sheet to meet a wilder red.

“Alright, alright,” she said huffily, for eavesdroppers, but she couldn’t keep the grin off her face— and couldn’t stop her fingers from pressing down fussily, lovingly against Nicky’s hair in a manner that was shockingly like Fleur’s. “I think you’ve grown,” she murmured, with just a little bit of longing for days spent standing on tippy toes in the door frame that marked their progression.

The onslaught of questions was met with an unwitting grin. “Fantastic,” she whispered loudly, a succinct summary for a girl who was usually not stingy with her words. But what other way was there to describe Hogwarts? “I didn’t try out for quidditch.” She puffed up a bit, feeling her feathers ruffled. “They generally don’t take first years. They’re only allowed school brooms if they make the team. It would have been dismal. I want my broom when I try out.”

A valid excuse, even if, secretly, Victoire might have been the tiniest bit hesitant to try out against all of the older students. If that was the real reason, well. Nicky didn’t need to know.

A blush rose in her cheeks at the mention of boys. She stared daggers, then glanced down to recoup from the heat. A glimpse of her house colors cooled her face, but it was short-lived. Victoire did not even have a chance to smile, to lure Nicky toward Ravenclaw before the Sorting Hat got its clutches on her. For the next embarrassing inquiry was the most embarrassing.

“DOMINIQUE!” Victoire hissed. Again, the perfect echo of Fleur.

A more matronly, less scandalized voice repeated the chastisement, and Victoire looked up to find her grandmother beside them. Relief rushed across her face. “Grandmum!” She squeaked, leaning in to meet Molly’s hug. Her warmth and familiar scent were as lovely as ever.

Again, the respite was short-lived when Weasleys were involved.

“Grandmum, not here,” she pleaded, her face draining and then beaming red as Nicky’s hair. “And it doesn’t make you a woman! It just… it just happens to everyone.” Her eyes flew around the platform, making sure her new friends were out of earshot. They flew back to Molly. “Don’t tell Louis. Or Dad. They wouldn’t understand.” Louis probably didn’t even know what a period was. And if her mother had told Bill, little Victoire did not think such a betrayal possible. Perhaps he didn’t even know what they were, however grownup and intelligent her father. Did Goblins have periods? Victoire could not even remember meeting a female one. Perhaps her father had not got around to learning about them, what with his line of work. Wishful thinking, Victoire Weasley.

The truth of that was as obvious as Nicky’s likelihood to end up in Ravenclaw. Rory pressed a hand to the small of her sister’s back, and began to shoo her toward the platform wall. “I see you’re a fan of my socks,” she said, recovering, catching a better glimpse as she pulled away to lean down and tug at the handle of her trunk.

“DOMINIQUE!”

Nicky's shocked oval-shaped mouth twisted into a conspiratorial grin as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

"You did!" she insisted, more quietly this time—though, in truth, not quiet enough; a handful of Victoire's peers had paused to look at the girls. The boys look somewhat nonplussed, while the girls' expressions were a mixture of sympathy and surprise.

Before she could grill her sister, though, Nicky was shushed by her grandmother. Her grin dissolved into a frown, and she crossed her arms, pouting quietly.

What was the big deal? So Rory got all... bloody once a month. It was just something that happened to girls. Why should they be so hush-hush about it?

“Is it true? Have you become a young woman?”

“Grandmum, not here. And it doesn’t make you a woman! It just… it just happens to everyone.”

"Duh!" Nicky exclaimed.

"If Rory's a woman, then we might as well call Louis a man," she tacked on, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t tell Louis. Or Dad. They wouldn’t understand.”

"Why wouldn't daddy understand?" Nicky asked scathingly. "Has it occurred to you, smarty pants, that dad has been married to mum for years? Or that he was there when we were born? He might know more about it than you do, y'know."

Determined to be in a mood, though, Nicky simply shrugged her shoulders at Rory's comment about the socks. After a moment, though—and with a gentler tone than before—she replied:

"... they were from you..."

This seemed to clear the matter up succinctly, as far as Nicky was concerned, and she moved on—or, rather, backpedaled to the extremely awkward (not to her!) topic that they had been discussing before as she snatched Rory's purse up into her hands and pulled out a fistful of... feminine hygiene products.

"Where did you even get these?" Nicky asked with a delighted giggle. "Oh—does the nurse keep them on hand for surprise cases like you?"