A/N: A Name, a name, my kingdom for a name! As I cannot think of one, at the moment, it shall remain Untitled. Suggestions would be most welcome.

As much as entirely possible, I've tried to emulate myself into Fleur, but keep her better than me at the same time. :) Comments and criticisms would be appreciated, as would a beta reader. There will not be much Harry/Ron/Hermione in this fic, as there is no need for them. This chapter is merely introduction. Another will be up shortly. Like, as soon as my Advil kicks in. My first attempt at a slightly fluffy story. Be kind, s'il vous plaît!

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. None.

She had never known what it was like to be turned down by a boy—or a man. They all loved her, no matter what. She was gorgeous. She wasn't sure if any of the men she had dated had ever looked up from her cleavage to look her in the eye, but it didn't matter. Her love life was good, she had been selected for the Triwizard Tournament, and there was this delicious looking man standing by the Harry Potter boy. He had long hair, and an earring, and he was eyeing her over her mother's shoulder. She just knew it! But she played a little hard to get, and turned to Gabrielle.

"Ah, ma cherie, Observe-moi travailler!"

(A/N: Roughly translated: 'Ah, my dear, watch me work!' Not sure if I have my French entirely correct. Please let me know!)

Gabrielle looked up at her sister, excitement on her small features. She knew her sister was pretty, and she knew she would be one day, too. She watched and learned from her sister. For all that the Delacour girls were beautiful, they had brains. They also had a terrible penchant for being arrogant and snobbish.

"Fleur! Tu es fou! Il est trop vieux." (Fleur! You're crazy! He's too old.)

"Il n'est pas, mère." (He is not, mother.)

"Oui, il est!" (Yes, he is!)

Fleur rolled her eyes at her youngest sister. They grinned at the same moment, and the cheekbones they inherited from their grandmother shone through. Their poor mother sighed, and pulled out her wand to clean the dust off of her silk robes.

"Zis filthy old castle…"

Fleur nodded to her mother, and they started chattering away in French about how cold, and filthy the castle was. It was certainly nothing like home, with the magnificent balconies overlooking the waterfall and lake. (Magically created, of course.) The entire palace at Beauxbatons was light and airy, with nothing in the basement except house elves. No one would dare to try to go down there to hold a class, but they held potions in the basement here. Potions! The very class—indeed, the art—where you needed your eyesight and your senses about you the most.

For all that she was here as a guest, and not supposed to be doing any work (other than the Triwizard Tournament), Fleur could not help herself. She was a bit of a brainiac in her own right, though if you talked to her, you would swear that she was a complete ditz and nothing else. It was part of her charm—the 'oh, help me, I'm a damsel in distress'. Nearly every man fell for it, and if he didn't, then he wasn't a gentleman and wasn't fit to date in the first place. Fleur liked older men. She couldn't help it. She was mature for her age, and wanted the person she was with to be mature as well. She wanted to join the Ministry when she graduated from Beauxbatons. She heard they paid well, and besides, she liked the power. She was planning on becoming the first female Minister of Magic France has ever had. It would be fitting. She was an upper class Frenchwoman, bred of nobility and beauty, and she had natural grace. She was also stubborn as a bull and positive she was always right.

Nodding to her mother, and squeezing Gabrielle's shoulder, she walked out of the room. Presumably she was going to retrieve something from the massive coach that had brought them to this miserable place. As she walked by the tall boy standing near Harry, she flipped her long blonde hair over one shoulder. Gabrielle saw the man's eyes nearly pop out of his head, and giggled. Her mother murmured something unintelligible under her breath.

Giggling and running across the lawn to the carriage, Fleur's hair streamed like ribbons behind her. She was a sight to see, and she knew it. She held her head high, as always, for she could feel eyes on her back, watching as she gleefully made her way to the coach. When she opened the door of the carriage, and all the female inhabitants saw who it was, they all sighed at the same time. They were all jealous of her, even though some of them matched, or surpassed her in sheer beauty. None of them had the self-confidence that Fleur did. At the same time, all the male inhabitants glanced up from where they were playing a game of exploding snap on the floor, and then turned back to the game. Fleur was not impressed. It was one thing to play hard to get, and this was another matter entirely. They snuck glances at her, telling themselves that they weren't attracted to her—she was far too lofty and arrogant.

Fleur grabbed her wand from the bunk that was her bed, on the northwestern side of the carriage. It really was much bigger than it looked from the outside, and that was saying something. Each of the students who came along had their own bunk, with a canopy and storage underneath the bed. Fleur had taken to protecting hers with invisible wards at night, for she was never sure what type of 'visitor' she might have.

Later that night, at dinner, Fleur took her mother to meet with each of the staff at the head Hogwarts table. Her mother was impressed with Professor Dumbledore, though she did whisper quietly in French that she thought he was a bit odd. That was a mistake, as Dumbledore, master of many languages, heard her, and replied that yes, indeed, he was quite odd. Madame Delacour merely uttered a tinkling little laugh, and congratulated him on his perfection of the difficult proper enunciation. Dumbledore was not charmed, but the sparkle never left his eyes. As they moved down the table, Fleur got a chance to introduce her mother to Professor Snape. Fleur knew he was the potions master, and potions was by far her favourite subject. Fleur, for the first time in her short life, was embarrassed when her mother visibly looked down her nose at the professor. She knew his greasy hair and robes did not convey a sense of obsessive hygiene, but really, it was unfair of her mother to judge the man without knowing him. Her eyes fell to the floor, and lifted only slightly to look at him. She discovered he was looking back at her, and her mother swiftly bade a farewell to the professor, and then pushed her along. Fleur was embarrassed because of her mother's reaction, she was sure, but it was not the first time something such as that had happened. It was, however, the first time she had been embarrassed and not accepted it merely as birthright.

The Delacours in France were much like the Malfoys here in England. They were, in fact, related, albeit distantly. (It was generally assumed they shared a common veela cousin.) Although both families were involved in the Dark Arts, neither Draco nor Fleur were caught up themselves. Lord Voldemort had only barely touched France, so the Delacours were not followers. They merely dabbled in the Dark Arts to impress their allies and intimidate their enemies. There was a great deal of pride about the Delacours, and their heritage. Unfortunately, they did not consider the influx of veela into their own bloodlines a filthy thing. Only if one of theirs had married a muggle, or a muggle-born would their indestructible pride finally be broken. And of course, this was not encouraged.

After a semi-stressful time at dinner with her mother, Fleur retired to her bunk in the mammoth carriage. Her mother and Gabrielle had returned to Hogsmeade, where they had traveled by Floo Powder back to Chateau Delacour, the family's historic home in South France. Fleur had never realized just how touchy her mother was, nor had she realized how innocent her darling younger sister was. For although the child held promise, it had not blossomed yet. Gabrielle was eight years younger than her sister, and she should do well to remember it. And the Potions Master… She was not sure in the least why she was drawn to him. He had to be around 15 years older than she was—a bit much, even by her standards. Not that she had any intentions of being anything more than a friend to the man. She was merely interested, not attracted. But she would be sure to enjoy a Potions lesson tomorrow, she thought.