Disclaimer: Not mine, of course!
A/N: Began as a Fleur/Roger, but didn't turn out that way. Based on the following prompt:
All That Glitters Is Not Gold
Fleur opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the darkness of the room. Where was she?
Nowhere she could recall. As she became more accustomed to the light, she could see drapes and a wooden chest of draws. She was directly facing a door, slightly ajar. There was a bra on the floor. She recognized it.
Oh. Oh. Oh Merlin it was hers. She tried to sit up, but found she was firmly held down by a dark arm. The arm belonged to a man she couldn't remember without looking at him. It was resting directly on her bare waist, slightly brushing the underside of her breast. She settled for raising her hand and touching it to her head.
Her head pounded at the touch, like the feeling of thudding drums. She gently moved the arm from her body, careful not to wake the sleeping form. She quietly set her feet on the floor. Her vision was oddly blurred as she made her way to the door.
It was a bathroom. Good. There would be a mirror in there. She turned to look behind her at the person in bed. Roger Davies. Her date from the previous night.
Fleur suddenly felt even dizzier than before. She stumbled into the bathroom and sat down on the side of the bath. What the hell had she done last night?
She briefly remembered walking by a lake, giggling, spiked pumpkin juice starting to go to her head.
'Fleur, I love you,' he had said, grabbing both her arms to force her to face him. 'I need you tonight.'
He had kissed her forcefully. She had reciprocated. He said he loved her. She hadn't the heart to turn down someone who loved her as much as he professed to.
Stupid Fleur, she thought, no one loves you like you want.
She looked at herself in the mirror opposite. Long hair ruffled and knotted where hands had been run through it. Blue eyes that portrayed little emotion. Skin and body so perfect they made her feel sick. Any normal person would look awful, but she still looks immaculate.
And she hates it.
She hates her gift. It is no gift. It is a curse, a fucking curse.
What sort of gift is beauty? Being known only for the way one looks. Women dismissing you as a whore before you've even spoken to them. Guys never taking the time to get to know you, looking no further than your face, or on occasion your breasts.
People seemed to want beauty. They desired it beyond anything. Fleur would happily have traded at any moment.
People didn't seem to realise how often something horrible and worthless is mistaken for something wonderful, something to be worshipped.
Because Fleur knows better than anyone that all that glitters is not gold.