Disclaimer :Not one character making an appearance in the following text belongs to me. Such is life.

OoOoOoOoO

Image of perfection

Magnificent Sisters and Sadist Mothers

"We tried to shut him in a pyramid, but Mum spotted us."

So, let's get down to this diary business, shall we?

Ahem.

For all future historians who are reading this in an attempt to fathom the intricacies of the workings of my marvellous mind, bear in mind that you are never going to succeed.

Cos I'm too way too amazing and out of your league. Ha!

On second thoughts, if youarea historian, and are reading this to analyse my current policies about muggle legislation and guardianship rights (weren't my opinions about the being-and-beast classifications just brilliant? I know, I'm a fan of those too!), and this is going to go on record…

Let's just keep that "ha!" between the two of us, yeah? I'm only 18! I'm too young to be judged!

Now that we have sorted that out…

If you aren't a conceited prat, like I once was, you probably have heard of Confucius. You know, Chinese chap, long white beard, the works?

All right, you haven't. Bloody wizards.

See, Confucius was this really great guy. If you've hadanycultural education, you'd know that he was actually named Kong Qiu, that he was a scholar, not a warrior, and that he grew up really poor - stereotypical Weasley poor!

But what I'm sure youdon'tknow is that Confucius was actually the son of a squib. You see, his dad belonged to this pure blood family, who was really ashamed that their son had no magic of his own, and uncharacteristic of their time, they only disowned this son and let him grow up a muggle, instead of just offing him.

Yeah, you could add in your Prophet article that Dominique Weasley was a history buff even as a measly school kid. Cool, right?

Back to Confucius.

Now, he liked his dad a great deal, and kept up the entire we're-ignorant-muggle-peasant-folk-come-on-wizards-laug-at-us gimmick for ages. But then he grew up, realized it was all for nothing, got his shit together, and went on to work on his intellect, something which eventually earned him a political position in the ruling family.

What I'm really trying to say here is –

You know what, never mind.

You're not getting all the dishy material here. No way, nuh-uh.

You can't just expect me to spill all of my bloody motivational crap right here, do you? You have to work for it, young man! Or you know- young woman! Whichever is applicable!

Doesn't have the same ring, does it? Looks like blokes were just designed to fuck up and be told off!

Anyhow.

Confucius was a really wise man, and he always said that the destination lies in the journey itself. A muggle called Ralph Waldo Emerson said the same sort of thing centuries later, but you'd better keep Confucius in mind if you want to make any sense of what you're about to read.

Not that you'd make any progress even with help, but still.

Now, Confucius. He'd better be right, cos after the Gringotts cart ride that was fifth year, if anyone tells me that all that me and my friends (Merlin bless their souls) got up to was nothing but teenage drama, I'll punch their teeth out.

Even if they're right.

Why, you ask? Cos you're about to discover just how important it is for a regular wizarding kid to –

No, I'll let you find out for yourself. And I can guarantee you this is going to be fun.

I'm Dominique Weasley, and this is the story of how I lost my mind and got a life.

"Dominique, ma chère, seet still for a moment, weel you?"

I glared at my reflection in the mirror. I had spent the last fifteen minutes writhing and squirming more than a toddler imprisoned in a high chair during a sugar rush. I'm sure you'd want to know why, so here goes.

My faith in humanity had begun to fade when my mother had pushed me on to a chair (not the above mention toddler's high chair, mind you, I'm too big for that) to brush my hair. The past quarter of an hour had passed with me launching a freedom struggle against conquérant Fleur Weasley (who, for some reason, still speaks with a pronounced French accent after 20 years of marriage to my Queen's-English-abiding father – what's up with that?). Not that I could succeed, of course, as clearly, my mother was hell bent on forcing her will upon me. Or my poor scalp, that is. And no one has ever been able to subdue Fleur Weasley nee Delacour once she has made her mind up about something.

Why doesn't the day I go back to Hogwarts should have a moral obligation to be bearable?

"Mum, I look horrible!"

"No you don't!" my mother widened her eyes as though I had just suggested using the Imperius curse on Victoire. Not that I would mind though…

Bummer. Speak of the devil.

"Maman, let it go. Her hair gets frizzy with excessive brushing", said Victoire, leaning against the doorframe. Victoire Weasley aka perfection personified. She is tall, has a perfect figure, flawless pale skin, and a sheet of long, glossy red hair that hangs down – sorry – flows down her waist, the tips brushing her hips.

Hey,that rhymed…

Anyway,on with my thoughts on that fateful morning.

As you'd have, no doubt, gleaned from my description, Victoire is exceedingly, almost painfully beautiful. And intelligent. And confident, charming, and a Gryffindor to boot. Elle est magnifique!

I wanted to kick her.

No, don't get me wrong. I love my sister. I really do. I mean, who wouldn't, she's bloody perfect!

You may have guessed the problem by now.

Victoire is too perfect for her own good, or my own good, if I may say so. Let me elaborate.

When she was four, she could play 'silent night' on the piano. When I was four, I blew up the report that dad had been working on for eight months.

Not intentionally, I swear!

When Victoire was six, she could read elementary runes. When I was six, I brought home gnomes to understand gnommish, which, as it turns out, only croak and bite. Mind you, I did try to bring some more from the burrow, but mum found me trying to smuggle a 'particularly profane' batch. I mean, c'mon, they just said some things that Uncle Fred and Uncle George had taught their garden gnomes years ago. My selection of gnomes, with their colourful description of Merlin's unmentionables, were probably just a highly evolved branch of descendants – that's a brilliant sample for learning gnommish. But their talk of the aforementioned unmentionables made Victoire turn up her pretty little nose and walk away. Sweet.

By the time Victoire was eight, she had discovered magic, and predictably, within two days, she had perfect control over it.I was classified as a squib until two months before my eleventh birthday, when I somehow managed to turn my hair green.

You'd think that was the end of it, but it wasn't. Through all my misadventures, Victoire emerged like some bloody star of a pathetic muggle soap opera.

And yeah, I know what muggle soap operas are. I watched one at Laura's house. Blake Lively is a blonde goddess!

On to illustrating how Victoire brought me down…

When I accidentally knocked over an oil lamp over dad's report, Victoire heroically pitched in and tried to put it out with water. How foolish of her – a six year old ought to know that oil fires can't be put out with water. And while I pulled off the curtains from the windows of the study like my dear sweet sister should have, Victoire, the damsel in distress that she always is, squealed and backed out and knocked off a jar containing some Egyptian alchemical powder that explodes when it comes in contact with water.

And well, that was the end of the report. And the study.

Somehow, the two of us escaped unscathed. Grandpa Weasley said it was because of our magical abilities, but somehow the entire rescue thing went to Victoire's credits, while I got blamed for the disaster. So no, it was not Victoire's fault for knocking down the jar, it wasn't dad's fault for keeping it in the house, and it wasn't even the Egyptians' fault for inventing the bloody thing. No! It was just my fault for blowing up the report when I was just four!

And they blame me to this bloody day.

Even during the gnome incident, it was Victoire who tried to chuck the gnomes out without actually knowing what to do. (Have you ever met an eight year old who doesn't know how to handle a gnome?) But no, Victoire had to intervene and rid the house of those 'abominable pests'.

Yeah, those were the words she used.

At eight.

Bloody perfect, right?

Anyways, the gnomes just clung to her pretty hands and bit her so hard that mum had to take her to St. Mungo's. And it was still my fault, not hers.

And don't tell me I'm trying to place the blame – I'm completely justified.

It wasn't just these accidents that set us apart. Victoire is beautiful – haven't I told you already – while I'm, well, just me. I have silvery blonde hair that reach down to the middle of my back, and blue eyes. But before you squeal 'veela!', let me explain – my hair is neither as sleek as my mother's, nor as glossy as my sister's. Its somewhere between curly and wavy – I think – but it has never achieved the sort of bouncy elegance that everyone talks about. In short, it looks drab.

As if it wasn't bad enough having that sort of hair, I have to wear it long too. Mum just doesn't understand that I would give anything to have my hair cropped short. You know, figuratively. But no, if you have even a drop of veela blood, you have to have long hair, and prance around like a pony, batting your eyelashes at everyone.

You think I sound bitter? You bet I am.

And oh, the blue eyes. I bet you were wondering, weren't you? Well, here's the thing – my eyes are inky blue. Not sweet, pretty, colour-of-the-April-sky pale blue, but inky blue. Don't misinterpret that as deep blue – my eyes are just that, blots of blue ink. So basically, I look like a vampire with creepy eyes, stuck in a bad hair day for all eternity. Not very appealing, is it?

"…weel be better if I send some potion along – Dominique, 'ave you been listening?"

"Huh?" I could see Victoire shaking her head hopelessly as she turned and walked – sorry – glided out of the room. Mum pulled at my hair in a dejected sort of way, finally laying aside the silver brush she was holding and tying my hair up in a not-so-flattering pony tail.

"Dominique, you 'ave to learn 'ow to take care of yourself. Your poor maman cannot do it forever." She placed her hands on my shoulders "and that eencludes taking care of your appearance too. Can't you be a leettle like your seester?"

"Er, mum, didn't you just hear dad calling?"

"Dominique, you are not getting away like zees! You 'ear what your maman says?"

I sighed. It's always like this. Every year, the first day back to Hogwarts begins with me being dragged out of bed, while all the stuff in my half packed trunk is inspected. Alright – so I forgot to pack my wand back in third year, and my pewter cauldron back in the first. So what – an owl can always deliver wands, and the dungeons are full of spare cauldrons, thank you very much. But no, on the 1st of September of each year, my entire trunk is upturned and the contents ticked off from a bloody checklist; then mum makes me pack it again, even makes me fold bloody socks! I mean, why do I need to fold socks when I can just stuff them in my cauldron? But no, mum makes sure that I toil like muggles at something that's absolutely pointless.

My mother is a sadist, you must have noticed.

So well, with my trunk inspected and packed, my mum starts trying to fix my appearance. Fortunately, my hair has a mind of its own. And so do I.

Mum tried Sleekeazy – I poured it of the bathroom window. Pity it has no effect on grass.

Mum tried to charm my hair. I ran away and hid behind dad's back, and the spell hit him instead. Dad's stubble swayed in the wind for a week, I swear. Such good times.

And then there's all that brushing. But thank Merlin, it doesn't work.

And so, my hair stays the way it is. And even though it's drab, I'm thankful.

I bet you're wondering why I choose to have drab hair – I'll tell you why. You see, everybody in my family is perfect. Dad is brave and perfect. Mum is beautiful and perfect. Louis, my brother, is sweet and perfect, and Victoire is perfect in every effing way.

And I'm not.

I don't care that I'm not perfect. What I do care about is the fact that everybody wants me to be so.

Harsh, right? I know, I think so too.

"…Dominique, downstairs! This moment!" I just realized that mum wasn't in the room anymore. Nor was my trunk. I could hear a great lot of banging downstairs. And that could mean only one thing.

We were late. Again.

OoOoOoOoO

Author's Note :This, and the following chapter, are the crappiest ones I've written so far. But it does get better! Thanks for reading!

Please review, it means a lot!