You don't have to try so hard
You don't have to, give it all away
You just have to get up, get up, get up, get up
You don't have to change a single thing
Fleur Delacour stood in the bathroom, a lavishly decorated space adorned with daybeds and plush curtains. The sink was lined with crystals, the lit candles nearby spreading a sickly sweet aroma, reminiscent of sugared roses, and filling the room with a dusky mauve fog.
Needless to say, the prestigious school of Beauxbatons spared no expense, even when it came to the most menial of things.
The sound of the faucet was almost melodious as Fleur turned it on, cupping her hands beneath the trickle of water before splashing it across her face, relishing in the numbness that the frigid temperature of it provided. She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at herself as she ruthlessly scrubbed at her face, as if she could wash herself away. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to do this.
Tant de potentiel, pour quelqu'un d'aussi joli que toi, the young deputy Headmistress had declared upon her examination of Fleur for their mandatory career aptitude test. Vous pourriez être un modèle, ou même un veela pour l'équipe de Quidditch bulgare!
She'd spoken as though it was such an honor. Fleur supposed it was.
But it was not her honor to uphold.
She splayed her hands on her reflection, eyes narrowing.
This was not her.
This was not her.
But it was who she was supposed to be.
Fleur had fought before. Fought in the Triwizard Tournament, battling dragons and merpeople and all the horrors within the maze- but for what?
For her to be nothing but the pretty French girl from the school that did not cheer quite loud enough.
For her to be the girl whose sister had been saved by Harry Potter, the girl known for nothing but her grandmother's features, ethereally etched upon her face.
She was known as a reflection and nothing else. Take away the mirror, strip away the beauty, and who was Fleur Delacour?
No one.
She had danced with Roger Davies one night at the ball. A handsome boy, he had been that and nothing else.
Perhaps that was why they had found each other- having been so similar in that aspect. Their beauty and the blank slate that lay beneath it.
There had been whispers upon their entrance about what a beautiful couple they were, the most stunning of everyone there.
Shallow compliments, but Roger had smiled and graciously accepted them, and so Fleur had forced herself to do the same.
She was good at pretending, she'd realized that night.
For Fleur had discovered that the longer she pretended, the more the girl behind the facade of smiles continued to fade. It was a miracle she was not forgotten completely.
The career aptitude test may have been mandatory, but choosing a profession based on the deputy Headmistress's commentary was not. And so, though it was a reckless thing for her to do, though she had no idea if she would ever truly succeed in her endeavors-
Fleur moved to England.
She did not become a model, nor a veela for their Quidditch team.
No.
Fleur Delacour entered the workforce through none other than Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
Fleur fell into a steady, natural rhythm. Her work was slow-going, but she was getting by. She was learning.
The goblins couldn't care less about the way she looked, and Fleur found that refreshing. For once, she was able to be viewed and understood for her abilities rather than her looks.
But, the goblins were not everyone. The wizards who worked there treated her no different than her peers and comrades had.
That is, until she found the boy.
The only boy who looked not at her, but through her.
His name was Bill Weasley, and there was a familiarity about him that Fleur could not pinpoint. She didn't think she had ever met him before; she would have remembered such a man.
The easiness of his smile, the vibrant crimson of his hair, and most of all his eyes. Not their color, she wasn't even quite sure what color they were.
No, it was the way in which they looked at her. As though they were seeing not just the pretty face that the world saw, but something beneath it.
As though they were seeing the real Fleur, the girl washed into existence in a bathroom of mauve mist so long ago.
He was not Roger Davies, not the kind of boy who looked unnerved every time she was not smiling, not the kind of boy who would whisper in her ear how beautiful she was, over and over.
Bill was something more, for he saw Fleur as just that.
She was not sure of the exact moment she started to fall in love with him. For Fleur was not sure exactly how that sort of thing had worked.
She'd had boyfriends before, of course. Sh'd had people with whom she went much further than one dance at the Yule Ball.
But never had it ever felt like more than an obligation.
Never had it felt real.
Fleur was falling now, and she didn't know how to stop it.
She was not sure she wanted to.
Their first kiss was a stolen, short-lived thing, somewhere deep within the vaults of the vast bank. He had apologized sometime later for the rushed manner of it, but Fleur had pressed a finger to his lips, whispering even though no one else was around, "that was marvelous."
Her English had gotten better; that was thanks to Bill in part as well, and so she could not stop the wry smirk that played at her lips, the derisive sort of pride as she used such a complex word, and said it right.
Bill laughed, winding an arm around her waist. "Marvelous," he echoed. "I rather like the sound of that."
There were many kisses to follow, kisses and honeyed words and beautiful moments where time stood still. Where all Fleur could see through the hazy fog of love were his eyes and his brilliantly red hair, and the way he smiled when he looked at her.
She was at the small apartment she had bought for herself, now, packing her things. This was not home for her anymore. Her home would be with Bill.
She twisted the new golden ring that now adorned her slender finger.
There were no mirrors here, save for the small one she had procured without really knowing why.
She still had no idea
She'd found the thing while packing boxes and sorting- things to take, things to give away. For some odd reason, Fleur held it for a long, long time, simply staring at herself within it.
She looked more beautiful than ever, she decided, but it was not for the graceful way in which her features had aged from schoolgirl to young woman.
It was for the hint of mauve pinkness that flushed her cheeks, for the constant smile and the sparkle in her eyes that would not fade.
Fleur held the mirror over the donation box and let go.