An: This has been a labour of mammoth proportions. Mainly because I had this idea ages ago, and then struggled to finish it. There're a lot of girls in the next generation. I'd never realised how many. Anyways, enjoy.

Pretty

At some point in her life, every girl ought to have a moment. The moment where she realises for the first time that she is attractive, that she is wanted, that she is pretty.

Victoire never had that moment. She had always been admired, always been aware of her looks, moving straight from cute to devastating. It helped that she had veela blood; it helped to emphasise her silvery blonde hair, the big brown eyes, the slim waist. She glided through her life never doubting that she was what any sane man would want.

Roxanne figured out it out when boys started to watch her walk away. She had always been comfortable in her own skin, even when she realised that some people had issue with the colour of it. But the instant she unexpectedly turned around in a Hogwarts corridor to see more than one boy staring in a good way, she felt pretty. Properly pretty for the first time.

Dominique was seventeen when she hit her moment. She had always felt as if she lived in her sister's shadow, that everyone looked past her to Victoire. It wasn't until she was out with her sister that she finally hit that point. Dominique was sitting at the bar, whilst Victoire flirted with a tall brunette . Who politely extricated himself before walking over to Dominique. To ask her for her number. And if she'd like to dance. Shocked as she was, she at least had the presence of mind to say yes, and let him lead her to the dance floor. Dominique had her moment when a man chose her over her sister.

Rose realised it when staring in the mirror. At eighteen, she should have been out doing something worthwhile or purposeful, but instead she was in the bathroom with her brother banging on the door, begging her to come out. She was preparing to go out, examining herself before she applied her makeup. And it suddenly struck her that she was pretty. She wasn't being immodest or vain or anything else that she could have been accused of. She had just noticed for the first time that she was attractive.

Molly hadn't ever realised, until she was the subject of a wolfwhistle, walking down the street. She smiled to herself and continued on walking, now in possession of the knowledge that she was pretty, that men would wolfwhistle.

Lily never noticed until the strapping young man proposed. When he dropped to one knee and pulled out the box, it was then, and only then, that she reached the self confidence level that was required to accept that she was pretty.

Lucy discovered it when she saw the photographs from her grandma's eightieth birthday. She had always known the others were beautiful, but in these photographs she saw herself properly for the first time. And she realised that she was attractive. That she was pretty.