Because I love Fleur and I wanted to write something non-Black family related.


You've never quite believed in fairytales.

Those small books with the pretty covers that Maman used to read you and Gabrielle before bed- the ones with the unicorns and the dragons and the handsome princes- they never really appealed to you. From a young age, you've always known that fairytales aren't real; that handsome princes didn't sweep girls off of their feet and ride off into the sunset. No, Gabrielle is the dreamer- you're more of the realist but you pretend, for your sister.

As you grow you become even more rooted in this belief; fairytales and Princes are child's play and you tell Gabrielle to grow up, just like you did. You realise quickly the world around you- people are harsh and there is not a Prince for every Princess. You see, that's what you are, really; a Princess. Or at least, you're treated as one. You soon learn, though, that a thousand kisses and all the possessions in the world do not bring happiness; they do not make a man a Prince.

No, Princes aren't real, you think.

And then you see him.

The tall, ruggedly handsome man with the long fiery hair and the heart stopping smile. He looks the part and you forget, for a second, that Princes aren't real; that fairytales are just fabricated fantasies. Would it be too much to, just for once, wish for a man to sweep you off of your feet?

If you believed in fate you might think that was what drew you to him again just a few months on; you might believe that bumping into him in the corridor of your workplace was destiny. You're a realist though and you push the thought to the back of your mind- Princes aren't real, fairytales are just fabricated fantasies and men don't save Princesses from their towers (even if you have been locked in one for nineteen years).

Yet when he does ask you out for a drink you can't help but say oui and when he grasps for your hand in the dark, you can't help but feel a rush of warmth.

Evil sister and mother in-laws are rumours from children's books but if they were real, you might have met them. You can't help but feel dishevelled slightly by the out-right rejection you receive, yet he holds you as you weep and you begin to think that maybe, just maybe, Princes do exist.

You're opening you're eyes, Miss Delacour; you don't begin to believe in fairytales- in those fabricated fantasies- until you are twenty years old yet as he kneels before you on one knee, you cannot think of any other way to describe it.

You never quite believed in fairytales, yet you've still managed to find your Prince; with him, you know you're heading towards your storybook ending.


Rararara. This was one of those things where you kind of put pen to paper and just write. I didn't even get anyone to beta this. I like writing these two.