It's been a shock to Fleur, that anyone should challenge her supreme femininity. More so that anyone should challenge it and win. She has always been the femme fatale, the tease, the vamp, the seductress and the coquettish little girl. She is the hunted and the adored. She is the painted and the poeticised. She has never been the artist before.
She gazes at her sleeping icon in the moonlight, and once again marvels at the sumptuous expanse of womanhood beside her. Even in repose she is magnifique, the breathing as stately as ever and the hair curling like an oil slick around noble Roman shoulders. Suddenly her breath stills, and after a second liquid eyes open.
"Fleur. You are awake." Drowsier than usual, but still imperious. A possessive hand comes to rest on the Veela's hip. Far outside, there is the faint creak of Durmstrang's ship on the lake.
"I hate it here."
Madame Maxine frowns slightly, and strokes her charges waist in the silence.
"I hate the food. I hate the weather. I hate that smelly old castle. Do not laugh at me Olympe, I do!"
Fleur feels the hand move down across her back and up to her shoulder. The sheer weight and warmth is comforting, but she continues to stare sullenly at her lover's half smile as a large finger traces her cheek.
"So they do not have our sophistication. It is no reason to hate, I think. We are to be honourable and gracious Fleur, remember that."
"Ah! Fleur turns over in exasperation at this. You do not understand" she mutters, and chooses to ignore the throaty chuckle from over her shoulder. She pouts into the darkness for a while, but when her back begins to feel cold she decides she will forgive Olympe today and allow herself to be held once more as she falls asleep.
But Fleur is awake long after Madame Maxine's breathing has steadied again. She really does hate Hogwarts, because it will never be good enough for Olympe. As with everywhere they go, she sees the looks, she hears the whispers and sniggering behind her back, and she hates it, hates it, hates it. And then! Then, to see those same uncouth students shovelling their foods like pigs and not even standing for their own headmaster - it is disgusting. Of course, Olympe is always polite enough to pretend she does not see, and lady enough to not complain even behind closed doors. Fleur thinks she must never become like the Hogwarts children. She must strive to be like Olympe instead. Soon, her last waking thoughts are a renewed resolve to say little, eat less, and always be proud to stand tall for the woman she loves.