Pomona had once seen someone describe London in a Muggle magazine like this: it was a city covered in scars. Even the buildings that had escaped the bombings of World War II were dim and filthy. The smog and coal smoke of the Industrial Revolution made it impossible for people to appreciate the surprising visual details in its architecture, until black became the dominant color, with the occasional tree perhaps adding a touch more green.
Then there was red: red double-decker buses, post boxes, and telephone booths. It seemed that every so often, the government repainted them, leaving them standing there like fresh plants that had just broken through the soil.
On the following page of that article was a female model in a red dress, with short, curly blond hair. But even if Pomona returned to her half-Veela appearance, she would not have worn that dress. It did not suit someone as short as her.
Yet in the end, she had not chosen the robes she had bought from a wizarding fashion shop. Instead, she had chosen Chanel's little black dress. When you did not know how to dress, you could never go wrong with it. At the very least, it kept you from pairing pajamas with tall rain boots like certain wizards.
Pomona had seen Bill once after he graduated. He had been wearing dragon-hide boots and an earring, looking completely different from when he had been in school.
Then her attention returned to her reflection in the greenhouse glass. Her flowing gray hair made her look like a blooming Blackroot—big head, small body. Black gave the illusion of visual contraction; it not only narrowed the body sideways, but also shortened one's apparent height.
But she had no time to change again. After putting on her cloak, she