AN: We are not one, but two - Rosemarie and Ophelia. Harry Potter is not ours, sadly.

January; Agree

The truth is, the truth hurts, don't you agree?
It's harder to live with the truth about you
Than to live with the lies about me.
Sorry - Guns N' Roses

In the depth of winter, a ball spun around a pale hand and the world turned also.

Hands groomed it, teased its secrets out; the image of a milky complexion settling in its crystal gaze. Eyes violet, button nose - "Ah, petit bouton sous nez - très mignon, cher petit-fils!" - flaxen ringlets smelt of rose. Ever since she was little, Victoire had known that she was literally the wizarding world's definition of perfection.

The crystal ball knew it too; it loved being beauty's companion. Fate had always favoured the beautiful. It told her secrets, things untouched and unknown, demonstrating how the unseemliness of other people's thoughts could disturb the future (sometimes).

Victoire's reflexion flickered and became replaced by one of the Furies, a certain redheaded tomboy. A little frown clouded her face, just like her crystal ball. Since she hadn't any homework to hand in to Professor Brown, she was just tinkering with it for a while, undisturbed. Dom's face only served as reminders of all the punishments any sane person could possibly get at Hogwarts, including Howlers (Maman's French accent only served to underscore her sister's incredible feat of leaving Filch's cat on a jinxed broomstick – Wat 'ave you done, you 'orrible girl? – Teddy had laughed away the whole thing).

Beauté. Perfection. Herself. Her crystal ball didn't listen to her demands, petulantly having her sister prance in front of her in dirty dungarees. Dominique wasn't not pretty in a sense, but she moved too rapidly for anyone to closely reflect upon her face.

And her practical tricks were driving everyone crazy.

What's that? The crystal ball had changed. Victoire bent closer to see – Dom had changed into her uniform now.

"We've had enough, Weasley," a girl hisses, hair dramatically swaying in the January breeze. "We don't like any of your stupid jokes; it's not funny at all -"

Dom crosses her arms, smirking. Who says I was looking for laughs? The toad was supposed to frighten you scaredy-cats, ya know? The only thing –

Who are you calling a scaredy-cat, Dominique? You know Monica can't stand the sight of a frog –

It's a toad, not a frog.

You wicked, wicked person –

And there the two girls were, nails lunging and scratching at skin open to the chilly air –

Enough, a boy says, and joins in –

Fists cheeks bruises ankles heads hair blood Dom. Is that Victoire Weasley's little sister, all beaten up there? It might be, but Victoire has pretty blonde hair, not ginger –

Shame on you; you're a disgrace to the Weasley family, what would Mr. Ronald and Mr. Harry say if they saw you like this –

Ugly, ugly, ugly bitch –

Your sister Victoire Vicky good better best -

Filch's coming! –

You deserve it, freak.

A messed-up tangle of wild red hair and that impertinent button nose turned up and away from the fleeing crowd. Walls echoing the world's dislike.

Freak freak freak freak freak -

And Victoire sat there, transfixed. The ball had now long turned silent and unyielding; probably too exhausted to reveal anything more. She'd have to stop playing with it too much, then.

Did they really hate Dom that much? she asked herself, twirling an unruly curl around her finger. It wasn't hard to not like her, not at all, but people would soon ignore her pranks and focus on her somewhat better aspects instead. Like the time Dom had broken one of Daddy's bric-a-brac from the last Quidditch Cup, and she'd tried her best to mend it by using all possible methods, both charms and even duct tape given to her by Aunt Hermione. She could be the sweetest girl, and honestly, some of Maman and Daddy's charm had to be put somewhere. Besides herself hogging most of it, of course.

But it was true that Dom was, quite frankly, a troublesome tomboy. No one outside of her family would like a grubby little mischief-maker. Teddy didn't count, since he was a part of her family, just like Uncle Neville and Aunt Luna were. And so, Victoire had no choice but to agree: Dom was not likable.

As for herself being good, better, best… A little smile, strikingly similar to that of a certain Delacour when she knew a certain Weasley had asked for her hand, appeared on her face. That, Victoire could definitely agree on.

It was time for dinner, a time for her to be admired from afar, and she had a lot to catch up with Teddy.