Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or anything else belonging to JK
Rowling. Everything but the plot belongs to her and her publishers alone. I
am not earning any type of profit on this. No copyright infringement is
intended.
Notes: This is sort of a work in progress... I'm not sure which parts of what I'm about to write I'll actually like. For example, this one. It's... blah. But ah well. More to come.
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Beautiful ~
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Fleur Delacour was part Veela. She was beautiful, and she knew it. The mirror told her so every morning. It wasn't the type of mirror who would compliment you just because it was yours, and it wasn't the type who would say such things just to be nice. It only told the truth, and only told it when you asked for it.
Every morning, ever since she was little, Fleur would walk toward the golden frame and stare. Stare into her deep blue eyes and ask the mirror, "Am I beautiful?"
"Why, of course you are. You're a Veela."
"Part Veela."
"Well it certainly shows. You're lovely; you should show it more. Put on a bit of makeup, let your hair down."
So she did. When Fleur was ten years old, she played with purple eyeshadows and soft pink blushes and snapped at her friends for playing with her hair and putting it up.
When she got older, she woke up to a rainy morning and asked the mirror if she was beautiful. "Yes, you are. You look wonderful, don't you know that?" Fleur looked at her reflection. A messy clump of hair was stuck to the side of her head, and the eyeliner she'd been too lazy to remove the night before was smudged into dark circles under her eyes.
That night, when she got back from several hours of Paris shopping (because the wizard shops in the small French town where she lived were only so exciting after several years) and after all those stares and short gasps and "wow, she's so beautiful"s, Fleur took a small figurine sent from her mother off of her dresser.
She turned to the mirror. "Am I beautiful? Yes or no."
"Yes!"
Fleur took the figurine, and smashed it into the mirror, sending shards of glass into the air and onto the floor.
She cut off all her hair with a dull pair of scissors and threw all her many compacts and tubes of lipstick and containers of blushes and foundations into the fireplace.
But when she went to bed that night, and saw that picture of her grandmother sitting on the nightstand... she knew she was still beautiful, and so she cried.
Notes: This is sort of a work in progress... I'm not sure which parts of what I'm about to write I'll actually like. For example, this one. It's... blah. But ah well. More to come.
---
Beautiful ~
---
Fleur Delacour was part Veela. She was beautiful, and she knew it. The mirror told her so every morning. It wasn't the type of mirror who would compliment you just because it was yours, and it wasn't the type who would say such things just to be nice. It only told the truth, and only told it when you asked for it.
Every morning, ever since she was little, Fleur would walk toward the golden frame and stare. Stare into her deep blue eyes and ask the mirror, "Am I beautiful?"
"Why, of course you are. You're a Veela."
"Part Veela."
"Well it certainly shows. You're lovely; you should show it more. Put on a bit of makeup, let your hair down."
So she did. When Fleur was ten years old, she played with purple eyeshadows and soft pink blushes and snapped at her friends for playing with her hair and putting it up.
When she got older, she woke up to a rainy morning and asked the mirror if she was beautiful. "Yes, you are. You look wonderful, don't you know that?" Fleur looked at her reflection. A messy clump of hair was stuck to the side of her head, and the eyeliner she'd been too lazy to remove the night before was smudged into dark circles under her eyes.
That night, when she got back from several hours of Paris shopping (because the wizard shops in the small French town where she lived were only so exciting after several years) and after all those stares and short gasps and "wow, she's so beautiful"s, Fleur took a small figurine sent from her mother off of her dresser.
She turned to the mirror. "Am I beautiful? Yes or no."
"Yes!"
Fleur took the figurine, and smashed it into the mirror, sending shards of glass into the air and onto the floor.
She cut off all her hair with a dull pair of scissors and threw all her many compacts and tubes of lipstick and containers of blushes and foundations into the fireplace.
But when she went to bed that night, and saw that picture of her grandmother sitting on the nightstand... she knew she was still beautiful, and so she cried.