The experiment continues. Huge thanks to Maggie.

Victoire

Victoire Antoinetta Weasley was perfect.

It wasn't her fault. She'd never really had a choice.

When she was nine years old, a photograph of her had appeared in The Daily Prophet – an innocent child in a frilly white dress, long blonde hair spilling down her back, staring up at the war memorial in the Ministry of Magic, her reflection broken apart by the names of the dead engraved into the stone. Overnight, she'd become an emblem for the Wizarding world, a responsibility that had demanded perfection, and so, perfect she had become.

There was never any pressure for perfection from her parents or grandparents or aunts and uncles. They loved her no matter what. Victoire knew that. But after that ninth birthday and that famous, iconic photograph, the pressure poured in from other sources. She was an icon. A paragon. The quintessential picture of innocence, the physical embodiment of all that had been fought for years before she was born.

"Victory's Child" was the title of that photograph.

There were days when Victoire hated that photograph.

It wasn't as if she'd consciously set out to be some picture of innocence that day. It had been her ninth birthday, she'd thrown a temper tantrum because she'd picked up on the fact that her birthday was being overshadowed by something, and when her dad had explained the war to her, she'd asked to go to the ceremony. She'd just wanted to see her uncle's name on the wall. She hadn't asked for the moment to be captured on film. She hadn't asked to be mentioned by name in her uncle Harry's speech. She hadn't asked to be singled out through her birthday and her name and her presence.

She was the oldest Weasley grandchild. Her uncle was Harry Potter. Her name meant victory, and she was born one year to the day of the end of the biggest war most of the wizarding world could remember. And all this had been highlighted by one photograph that had taken the world by storm, and now, the eyes of the world rested on her once a year, whether she wanted them to or not. Perfection was expected. Perfection had to be delivered. Perfection was, therefore, the only option available.

Perfection wasn't easy. Victoire struggled with it daily, especially when she got to Hogwarts. Because it wasn't just about being a good student and a model Gryffindor, being top of the class, on track to become Prefect and Head Girl. It was also about being friendly and likeable and social and personable.

It was lucky that Victoire was naturally outgoing, that she had an easy smile and knew how to talk to people. It was lucky that she could make friends easily, that she was genuine and sweet and likeable before she put the effort in. She was one-eighth Veela, and it wasn't enough to convince men to fall at her feet or allow her to charm crowds of people, but it was enough to help make her sunny and friendly and charismatic, even more so than she already was. She was the kind of girl one couldn't help but like.

She made school seem effortless, and she had time for everyone. By the time she was thirteen years old, the whole school knew her name, and knew that she was always willing to serve as a tutor or help with homework or offer advice or a shoulder to cry on. Victoire Weasley will help you, that's what everyone knew to be true.

They didn't see how much work that truly was. They didn't see how every minute of every day was assigned a purpose, be it class or homework or socializing. They didn't see how she spent the summers between years studying her dad's old textbooks, trying to get a head start on what she would be learning that year, so that she might have some chance of staying on top of it all. She signed up for all the extra classes her third year partly because twelve OWLs were expected and partly because she knew a Time Turner would make things immeasurably easier.

She broke the Time Turner rules just a little bit, not a lot, not so anyone would notice. But she'd wake up perhaps once or twice a week to the warm weight of a second person in her bed. She never saw the second person, because Victoire was always careful about Disillusioning herself before using the Time Turner to get some extra sleep, but the beds weren't large, and Victoire could always tell when she was sleeping next to her hours-older self. Waking up to that extra weight was always her cue to climb out of bed and head to the Common Room and work steadily for the next few hours on her schoolwork. Essays finished, spells mastered, whatever she'd been having difficulties figuring out managed and learned, she'd turn the clock back and recapture the lost hours of sleep.

But that was behind the scenes. That was what nobody saw. That was the side of herself that she kept carefully hidden away – the side that struggled. The side that didn't understand the material the first time around. The side that had to work to overcome failure. Because if there was one thing she couldn't let anyone see, it was her failures. What right did she have to struggle, she who everyone looked to for inspiration? How was it fair for her, the girl everyone counted on, to display her shortcomings for everyone to see? No, she wouldn't let her fellow students, her teachers, her family down. She would be what they needed her to be, whatever she had to do, hard as it might be sometimes. Her fits of temper, her frustrations, the times she wanted to rage at the world? She let those out in the solitude of the late-night Common Room, where no one could see, and by the light of the morning, she put on her best smile to greet the world as the sunny and carefree Victoire Weasley everyone knew and loved.

Perfection was lonely. Victoire hated herself the moment she thought that, and hated even more that it was true. To be lonely in a school where everyone knew her name seemed selfish. To long for someone to whom she could admit and reveal her shortcomings when she was surrounded by people who wanted to call her their friend seemed ungrateful. But the truth that she couldn't deny was that while everyone wanted to know her, no one seemed as interested in getting to know her. And while everyone wanted her to be the one to fix their problems, no one seemed willing to reach out and return the favor.

A month before her fourteenth birthday, Victoire was contacted by The Daily Prophet and the Wizarding Wireless Network. They wanted her to attend the 15th Anniversary ceremony. They wanted her to give an interview. They wanted to recreate the photo that had been taken five years previous. With a flattered and honored smile, she graciously accepted, provided that it was all right with her parents and teachers.

And so, on May 2, 2013, Victoire sat in the Ministry's Hall of Memory, smiled and shook the hand of the Prophet reporter Millie Jenkins, and answered the questions that would put her even more in the spotlight than the photograph had five years before.

"Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Miss Weasley," Miss Jenkins said. "And, if I may, happy birthday."

"Oh, thank you," Victoire said warmly, slightly surprised by the birthday wishes.

"Because today is your fourteenth birthday, as well as being the fifteenth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the last Great War. How has it been, Victoire, growing up with this fact? Did your birthday get overshadowed at all?"

The interview went much as Victoire had expected – they talked about that birthday and what had been going through her mind, they talked about her family and how lucky she was to have had the childhood she did, they talked about Hogwarts and how much she enjoyed her schooling. And Victoire said all the things that the quintessential image of innocence was supposed to say.

And then Miss Jenkins asked an unexpected question.

It came about in a predictable enough way, talking about the Uncle Fred Victoire had never met, and what seeing his name on the wall had meant to her.

"The wall was overwhelming to me," she said to Miss Jenkins. "And I had to focus my attention down to something small, and that something was his name. That one name on that huge wall, that was someone my family had lost. That was someone that I had lost, even though I never knew him. And I remember thinking that every little girl probably had a name on that wall somewhere. Everyone I could meet had a name on that wall, had been touched and affected by these things that had happened. And while some might see that as overwhelmingly sad, I've come to see it as something uplifting, in many ways. Because it means that I have this connection to everyone I meet. We have all been affected by the events of fifteen years ago, and that is significant. This wall reminds us that we have a responsibility to keep this from happening again, whether we were there last time or not."

And then Miss Jenkins had asked The Question.

"Victoire, you say that we have a responsibility, to keep this from happening again. What do you think we can do, how can we fulfill that responsibility in our everyday lives?"

And suddenly, Victoire saw an opportunity presented to her that she had never thought about taking before. A chance to become more than just some image of innocence. To try and put voice to a thought that had been growing out of the growing frustration and loneliness of the last year of her life. To say something meaningful instead of just what everyone expected to hear.

After all, she thought in a moment of blinding clarity, the whole world was listening to her. Didn't she owe it to them to have something worthwhile to say?

"I have an answer," she said, interrupting Miss Jenkins in the middle of her condescending statement about not being afraid if she didn't have an answer to that big question. "We have to make sure that we stop judging people unfairly for things they have no say in or things that are out of their control. In the last war, it was blood status, thinking that a person could be easily defined by who their parents were and how far back they could trace their bloodline."

"Are you saying that blood status discrimination is still an issue?" Miss Jenkins asked with raised eyebrows.

"I'm saying that since the war ended, we've paid a lot of attention to making sure that it isn't, but there are lots of other ways to discriminate against people that haven't been addressed yet, but are just as silly as thinking less of someone for being a Muggleborn."

"Such as?" Miss Jenkins asked with genuine curiosity.

"Like lycanthropy," Victoire said, knowing that this would be the moment the world sat up and took notice. This was the point of no return, and rather than turn back, Victoire took a deep breath and took a stand and said words she hoped she would be remembered for far longer than a photograph snapped of her when she was nine. That identity had been handed to her. This one, she was choosing.

"In most cases of lycanthropy, the person in question is bitten as a small child, and they have no more control over that than they do over their blood status or hair color, and yet, we treat them with fear and hostility. Lycanthropes can be considered a danger to other people a mere handful of hours out of every month, and that's only if they lack access to Wolfsbane potion or other protective and preventative measures. I know plenty of people who are more consistently dangerous than that, and yet it is the lycanthropes who are treated with suspicion and often lack basic human rights. And the stigma extends to their children as well, despite conclusive evidence that lycanthropy is not hereditary."

"And before you ask," she said as Miss Jenkins opened her mouth to break in, "no. This has nothing to do with my father. But there is something about my father I would like to say. My father was attacked by a man named Fenrir Greybeck. A five year old boy was also attacked by Fenrir Greybeck, a boy far less able to defend himself against such an attack than my father, in his twenties, and a trained curse breaker. And yet, my father was treated with reverence and respect while this five year old boy was ostracized and treated with hostility and contempt. All because Fenrir passed his lycanthropy to one of these victims and not the other. That five year old grew into a good and gentle man who was respected and loved by those who took the time to get to know him. And I know this man's son. He's a student at Hogwarts, and I've grown up with him, and he stands apart at school. He doesn't have many friends, and I think a lot of it has to do with the stigma attached to him because of who his father was, and that isn't fair."

Maybe someday, Teddy Lupin would thank her for this. But even if he never did, if she could use her position to make people think about that boy on the edges a little differently, she'd have succeeded.

"Lycanthropy is one example of a much larger issue," Victoire continued when it became clear that Miss Jenkins was speechless. "Discrimination happens along lines much less distinct and obvious than that one - poverty, ethnicity, history. Differences that are feared rather than celebrated. You asked how we can fulfill our responsibility to keep the Great War from happening again, and that's my answer. Start celebrating differences. Reach out to someone you normally wouldn't and find a connection. There will always be something. It can start as simply as a smile and a kind word, being friendly and open to everyone you meet. That's what I try to do. That's what I would encourage everyone to do."

"So, it's not just about werewolves?" Miss Jenkins asked, with what was surely supposed to be a conspiratorial smile that Victoire was meant to share. She didn't.

"Lycanthropy is a big picture issue," she said, perfectly serious. "And I'm only fourteen. Someday, I hope it can be one of the issues I help to tackle. But in the meantime, I'm going to do what I can in the halls of my school, for and hopefully with all the students who share it with me."

"Well," Miss Jenkins said after only the slightest of pauses. "Victoire Weasley. Budding activist. With an unusual but compelling call to arms. Thank you, Miss Weasley, for your insightful words and call to action. And with that, we say farewell to Victory's Child."

Farewell to Victory's Child, indeed, Victoire thought, because she knew it to be true. She would no longer be remembered for a photograph.

No, she thought with a solid surety. She would be remembered for something far more important, and something of her own creation. And maybe some people would start thinking about what she'd said, truly considering the words from the mouth of their perfect golden girl. If the world was determined to see her that way, she might as well use the power to accomplish something meaningful.

On her ninth birthday, Victoire Weasley became an icon. On her fourteenth, she became a personality. And the eyes of the world rested heavily upon her as they waited to see what she would become next.

This is my Victoire from The Way It's Supposed to Be. I wrote that for a birthday challenge fest, and I chose Victoire because someone who shares a birthday with the anniversary of the end of the war was just fascinating to me.

And one visual really stuck with me from that story - the image of a little girl standing in front of a wall of names, her reflection broken up by the lettering. And I thought, what if someone had snapped a photograph of that? And what if that photo had become a famous, iconic image? How would that have informed how Victoire grew up?

Enter Perfect Victoire. A child in the spotlight in a vastly different way than Harry's kids, under a vastly different kind of pressure. A child who has to be perfect because the eyes of the world are upon her.

But more than that, I wanted to create a Victoire who stood at the completely opposite end of the spectrum from this universe's Teddy. I'm really looking forward to throwing these two together and crafting a relationship out of two such different personalities.