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Dominique Weasley took a deep breath and looked around her common room. The amount of pink in the room disgusted her. Why couldn't she have been sorted into a house with a different color? They had a house with a pastel blue, a soft green, and a light yellow. Anything would've been better than the amount of pink staring down at her.
Dominique had been at Beauxbatons for five hours and she already hated every bit of it.
First, she got sorted into Barbegazi, of all the houses. As far as she could figure, it was the French equivalent of Hufflepuff. She would never really know what Hufflepuff was like, thanks to her mom, but her cousins had told her.
Her mom told her that every house was wonderful, that Beauxbatons was wonderful, but so far it had lived up to zero of Dominique's expectations.
The food there was nothing compared to Grandma Molly's, the other students there were snobbish, and looked down at her for not being French, and, most of all, she was alone.
She hated it.
Her and her mother argued all summer, Dominique begging to go to Hogwarts like her cousins and her older sister, but eventually her mother won. According to Victore, they had a similar argument when Victore was ready to start school, but their father stepped in and Victore ended up going to Hogwarts. Two years later, their father died. Three years later, their mother insisted that Dominique went to Beauxbatons. They still lived in England, even though their mother preferred France, so that they could be closer to the Weasley side of their family; there was more of them than Delacours.
It was bad enough that Dominique was forced to go to Beauxbatons, but then she was placed in the (arguably) worst house, the one with the (definitely) worst color. She hated pink; it clashed horribly with her bright red hair.
The mean students made the pink seem harsher, worse, than it normally would be—they just gave her strange looks, a foreigner, and spoke in French. A few girls even laughed at her when she tried to join their conversation, using the small amount of French she knew from her mother and her French cousins. She was never the good one at French; that power was reserved for Louis, her younger brother. He would fit in perfectly with the Beauxbaton boys, a perfect blonde, graceful and pretty. With her messy red hair, Dominique stuck out like a sore thumb.
Yet, she still had seven more years to go at the preppiest of wizarding schools.
She was counting down the minutes.