A/N: Danielle wrote this but made me post it, because she's Danielle and felt like making me do it. Okay then.
Disclaimer: The sky is blue. Day and night come and go. Harry Potter is not mine. All true facts.
You're beautiful. Everyone knows that. It is a mere fact of life. It could be used everyday, interchangeably. Instead of saying, 'The sun will still be in the sky today', you could just as easily say 'Fleur will still be beautiful today'.
You grew up in your lavish world of fashionable clothing and horse drawn carriages, parading from manor to manor, from masquerade party to cotillions, the center of everything: the girls' jealous glares, the boys' gazes of infatuation, the adults' smiles of pride.
You were your mother's daughter, someone she would treat as a best friend rather than daughter.
As such, you were never denied anything.
Until you met that annoying, grinning Weasley boy with the ponytail and fang earring.
And somehow, you fell in love with him.
Of course, you're not exactly sure HOW you fell in love with him.
Maybe because he was something you had never met before. He was something you had never found inside the marble walls of Beauxbatons, at all those fabulous extravaganzas and marvelous bashes.
He was something you had never tasted, and you soon found out, he was like a drug.
You couldn't quit him. You lay at night thinking about him, when you would see him again, what you would wear, how you would smile.
Very soon, everyone you knew became annoyed with you.
"What is with you?" your mother had asked sternly over desert one evening, a crystal goblet in her hand.
"Nothing, Mama," you had replied.
But, alas, your mother knew.
"Has he any money?" she had asked abruptly.
"None, Mama."
"A fine manor? A respectable family? Does he give you necklaces and tiaras of diamonds and rubies and beautiful clothes, like all the other boys?"
"No, Mama, he has none of that. He cannot afford to buy me necklaces and tiaras and clothes," you had told her, bubbling with happiness and grinning ear to ear.
"Then why, my child, are you grinning ear to ear?"
"I'm not sure, Mama," you told her, still beaming.
She had sighed, told the house elves to bring out the wine, then turned to face you again.
"I will tell you why you are ginning like an idiot," she had said coldly. "You love him."
"I knew that already, Mama."
"No, Fleur."
"No what?"
"No, you can't marry him!" she had snapped at you.
"Why not?" you remember asking, shouting.
"Because you are a Delacour," your father had told you from behind his pipe, and Gabrielle had nodded her agreement from farther down the table.
"Snap out of it, my little princess," your mother had pleaded. "You deserve a handsome prince with riches and fame.
"Bill is handsome," you had said sulkily.
"But he is not a prince," your father had corrected. "Gabrielle is after a prince!"
"Gabrielle is twelve," you had sniffed, "And Harry Potter is good friends with Bill."
"But he is very rich and famous," your mother had pointed out.
"I don't care," you said stubbornly, "I love him, Mama."
You remember very clearly their sighs of exasperation.
"You've known him barely a week!"
"He is bad news, my child!"
"Sister, please think!"
So you had thought. You had known him a week. Perhaps the next day you wouldn't be hopelessly infatuated with him.
Perhaps, you only liked him because he treated you like you weren't beautiful, like the sun wasn't in the sky.
"You're right," you had admitted, to their collective smiles. "Call, Phillipe, Mama, and tell him I'd love to have brunch with him."
"There is my little princess!"
But the next time you saw him, it only got worst. He became even more addictive.
"Hey, Blondie," he had greeted you.
"Excuse me?" you remember asking.
"Blondie," he had repeated slowly. "That's what I call you."
"Oh," you had growled, "Then hello, you…Firehead!"
"There's the spirit!" he had winked. "Later, Blondie."
He left you breathless. You didn't like that; it was your job to leave people staring after you, dazed.
You were assigned to the same department in Gringotts. Very soon, you found yourself hoping to see him, all the time.
Two weeks after meeting him, he asked you on a date.
He threw it out so casually, you didn't realize it was a date at first.
"So, Blondie," he had asked you, leaning against your desk, his hair falling into his bright eyes, "You like the Weird Sisters?"
"Yes," you had grinned, looking up at him.
"Would you accompany me to their concert this Saturday?" he said gallantly.
"Of course, Bill."
"Great."
He had then marched away, back to his own desk. After several minutes of thought, you realized what had happened and absolutely stormed after him, shocked.
"Did you just ask me on a date?" you had asked.
"Uh, yes," he had replied arrogantly, leaning back in his chair. "I like you, Blondie."
"You don't do it like that!"
"Do what?" he had asked, mystified.
"Ask me out like that! You did it all wrong!" you remember shouting.
His smile had fell off his face.
"Okay," he said, standing up slowly, before walking around his desk to stand before you.
He bowed low.
"Fleur Delacour," he began, eyes twinkling, "I cordially invite you to a Weird Sisters concert this Saturday. Do you accept this invitation?"
"Yes, I do, Bill Weasley," you had replied, fighting of fits of laughter.
"Then I will pick you up by broomstick at your house at 9, Miss Delacour?"
"Certainly, Mr. Weasley."
"Excellent!" he had beamed, before strutting away.
That's when you realized why you loved that annoying, grinning Weasley boy with his ponytail and fang earring.
He was what your parents would disapprove of. He was so horribly exciting, and exotic, and dangerous, in a way no one else you had ever met had been.
And he made you laugh. Before you met him, your were a painting in an expensive, world-renown museum, a painting encased in a frame of gold and jewels, a masterpiece. Many people would stop and stare at you, admire you, but you were untouchable, unattainable.
Until a foolish, arrogant art thief stole you.
So on Saturday night, in a pair of Christian Dior, tight fitting, concert-esque, robes, he had picked you up for your first date.
Not a brunch.
Not a ball.
A date.
And as you clung onto him on the back of his Firebolt, you realized this was where you wanted to be.
And nowhere else could ever equal it.
You were always proud of your elaborate life before. But whooping with joy high above London on a broomstick with him, it seemed a blur of formal parties and acting snobby. It seemed like a life not worth living.
The concert was fantastic. You jumped up and down, screamed, and shook your curtain of blonde hair. But you saw all the lovely witches in short skirts and eyeliner trying to grab Bill's attention. You realized just how handsome Bill was. And you saw the way those beautiful girls looked at you, looks not full of jealousy, but of amusement, disbelief.
Disbelief that a guy like Bill would ever look twice at you.
And when Bill put his arm around you, you heard the derisive laughter. You were never more aware of your wide, blue eyes devoid of black eyeliner and your blonde hair.
You don't belong here. You belong at a yacht club, at a fundraiser or cocktails party.
You realized Bill has never told you you were beautiful.
You looked miserable, and you knew it. Bill knew it, too.
"Blondie, do you want to leave?" he had bellowed in your ear over the guitar solo.
You had nodded, wordlessly, and he flew you to his apartment, wordlessly.
You arrived at the tiny apartment, full of strange artifacts and piles of clothes. Oddly, you loved it. Loved that he didn't have a mansion on a cliff overlooking the ocean, or a chateau in the countryside, or a townhouse in Paris. You loved that Bill didn't have all the possessions that you were taught made a man extraordinary, but he still was.
He handed you a butterbeer, and grinned sheepishly.
"Sorry for the mess!" he had grinned, before waltzing to the kitchen to search for another butterbeer.
You had taken a sip, and the warmth and the fizziness had filled you with comfort and bravery to ask the question that had been plaguing you.
"Bill? Do you not think I am beautiful?"
He had stopped rummaging in the fridge to stare at you in confusion.
"I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever met," he had told you quietly, walking towards you. "But you don't need to be told that every day, like you don't need to tell Hagrid he is massive or my brother Percy he's a prat. You already know. I will tell you in different ways, every day, that you are beautiful."
You remember asking, demanding, how he was going to tell you that you were beautiful.
"With a kiss," he had said softly, mischievously, before dimming the lights.
End.