QLFC, Chaser 1, Round 3
Main Prompt- The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde: Write about someone whose beauty is only skin-deep.
Additional Prompts- (theme) isolation, (plot point) a wedding, (dialogue) "You're better than this."
Word Count- 1586
"You're better than this," said Appolline Delacour as she stared down at her daughter from her considerable height, a gentle hand resting on the slight curve of her pregnant belly. Gabrielle was due any day now and Appolline's half-veela skin was practically glowing. Fleur was awed into silence, her previous pleadings to play gobstones with the other children immediately forgotten in the face of such beauty. "Now stand up straight, Darling. Delacours do not slouch."
Fleur straightened her spine in the ruffled periwinkle dress she wore and returned her attention to the adult guests at the gala, a demure smile settling on her face like a second skin. Her mother was right, of course. The other children were nowhere near as capable of holding conversations with adults as she was. Fleur was simply too mature, especially for her age, to play silly games in the back room of the manor with the other children.
She was a Delacour. And Delacours were better than everyone.
"You're better than this," said Appolline Delacour as she stepped behind her daughter's easel to view her latest project. "Your brushwork is stilted, Darling. Lift your elbow a bit more and start again."
Fleur pivoted on her foot to stare up her mother, schooling the look of shock from her face just in time so as not to appear ungrateful. Her mother was simply instructing her on how to improve her skills. Appolline (who had her own works of art sold at auction for outrageous amounts of money and had been praised for her talent for decades) surely knew better than a nine-year-old girl. Fleur let her anger dissipate, grabbed a big brush from its case, dipped it into the white paint, and erased the landscape she'd been working on for the past month. Fleur and her mother both knew her next attempt would be better. It had to be.
She was a Delacour. And Delacours could always improve on perfection.
You're better than this, wrote Appolline Delacour in the letter she'd sent to her daughter in response to her class ranking at Beauxbatons. I sincerely hope you have not been laxing in your studies, Darling. I would hate to see you squandering your potential...
Fleur hadn't realized she'd been frowning until one of her classmates, a girl with a crooked nose and lopsided ears, nervously got her attention by stuttering out a quiet, "Are you o-okay?"
Fleur's head snapped up from the parchment in her hands, startled that someone was actually speaking to her. Although Fleur had been polite and cordial to her classmates over the past few months, she hadn't exactly come to Beauxbaton with the intention of making friends with people her own age. From what she could tell, none seemed to be anywhere near her level of sophistication, and she'd written them all off by the second day of school as mere acquaintances. The fact that she had been ranked third in the class when the mid-semester grades were posted a few days ago had come as quite a shock for the first year quarter-veela, and she was still reeling.
Unsure of how to answer the girl seated across from her at the banquet table, Fleur gave a polite nod and glanced back down at the letter. She'd thought her mother would provide some comfort when she'd written to her about her school ranking, but the words on this page in Appolline's exquisite handwriting appeared only to have increased Fleur's anxiety. Fleur scoured her mother's sentences for anything that she might have taken out of context since she wasn't able to hear it come from her mother's delightful voice.
Perhaps she meant to be encouraging when mentioning my potential?
Fleur tried to make herself believe this. She really did. Instead she just felt hollow.
"Are you sure?"
Fleur's head snapped up once again, surprised to find that that girl, the one with the crooked nose and lopsided ears, had inquired again about Fleur's general well-being when she'd thought the interaction completed.
Fleur blinked as the girl raised a questioning brow. "I-" she stuttered. "I don't know." She winced.
"Oh, well let me know if there is something I can help with."
Fleur thought that was a very nice thing for someone to say, but she refused to let herself be pitied.
She was a Delacour. And Delacours never accepted help.
"You're better than this," hissed Appolline Delacour when she visited Hogwarts the morning before the Triwizard Tournament's third and final task. "I do not understand how you are currently being outclassed by a child in this tournament, Darling. Do try to explain yourself."
Fleur held her tongue, but only just.
She'd learned a lot in her six months spent at Hogwarts.
Seeing her fellow champion, Viktor Krum (whose talents were exceptional), slowly come out of his shell, even going so far as to ask a girl to the Yule Ball, led Fleur to realize that perhaps she had isolated herself from her peers for far too long and for no discernable or rational reason.
And it was the incredibly handsome Cedric Diggory who forced Fleur to realize that she was arrogant when it came to her own beauty. She'd never met anyone who was so unaware of his own allure, nor had she met anyone so extraordinarily friendly. Fleur could have been making friends (and boyfriends) this whole time, and it frustrated her to no end when she realized that her unreasonable beauty standards had held her back from doing so.
And it was Harry Potter and his idiotic friend, Ronald, who saved her sister from the lake in the second task when she couldn't. They both changed her mind about the uninformed and immature youth that she'd snubbed her nose at for all those years. Through their eyes, she was able to accept that it was possible to be both foolish and brave, to be both naive and apt. To be both young and old.
Fleur parted her lips, unsure exactly of what words had formed on the tip of her tongue while her mother waited impatiently for the answers to her questions. But before a single syllable could escape her lips, she was bumped into and thrown off balance, caught swiftly by a pair of very capable arms.
Fleur was returned to an upright position and a handsome face with pinched auburn eyebrows took up her entire line of sight. His nose was a little crooked and his ears were slightly lopsided. One had a feathered earring dangling from it. "Are you okay?"
The quarter-veela was at a loss for words. So she simply nodded.
"Oh, good." The man grinned, nodded at someone over Fleur's shoulder, and stepped around her. "Good luck with the final task," he said in farewell. The man made his way to Harry Potter and clapped him on the back. After a few beats more of observation, Fleur returned her attention to her mother.
"I'm still waiting for an explanation," declared Appolline Delacour.
Fleur had no explanation for the way her heart beat in her chest like it might break a rib. Her mind was still on the man with the auburn hair and the feathered earring, so she shrugged her shoulders as if to say she had no report to give for her dismal performance so far in the tournament and her mother would just have to deal with that.
She was a Delacour. And Delacours did not have to explain themselves to anyone.
"You're better than this," Fleur whispered to herself, her quill still poised above the wedding invitation as she hesitated to write out her mother's name.
A pair of capable arms wrapped around her from behind and she fell back into Bill's embrace with ease. "What are you whispering to yourself over here?" he murmured against her cheek.
"Nothing of importance," Fleur replied, twisting in her chair to face her fiance. The scar that marred his face didn't even phase her now, even though the attack that caused it had only happened a mere week ago. She sighed when saw the dubious expression in Bill's blue eyes. "Fine. Do you think I'm a horrible person for not wanting to invite my mother to the wedding?"
Bill rubbed her bare arms with his thumbs as he considered her question. After a beat, he replied, "No."
That was all Fleur needed to hear. The decision was made and her mother would not be invited to Fleur's wedding to the man she loved so dearly. Appolline Delacour would not be happy with this decision. But of course her mother would never let her disapproval be widely known.
She was a Delacour. And Delacours couldn't show weakness, because they were better than everyone else…
Weren't they?
"You're better than this."
It's what Appolline would have said if she noticed Fleur's misstep during her and Bill's first dance as a married couple. It's what she would have whispered in Fleur's ear when she saw that her guest list included the always eccentric Xenophilleus and Luna Lovegood. It's what she would have hissed when Gabrielle showed off her choice of bridesmaid gown with all the tacky gold bows. It's what she would have declared just before Fleur walked down the aisle to marry the scarred redheaded Englishman with the enormous family.
Fleur hoped her mother realized soon that her self-isolation was not the luxury she'd always preached it would be.
Fleur knew that now.
For she was a Weasley. And Weasleys were never alone.