out to win

2

Close enough

fleur delacour was always too pretty to be smart. 

she is cooed over and admired, dressed like a doll and adorned like a mannequin, intended to smile and stand in the corner and bring honor to her family through her silent beauty. her chubby cheeks take precedent over her razor sharp mind, her glacial eyes over her loving heart, her delicate hands over her strongheaded determination.

she confesses one time, hesitantly, to her first friend at eight years old that sometimes she feels like people don’t even want to get to know her before dismissing her as airheaded, only to have nathalie scornfully dismiss her misfortune to be born so pretty, oh no, what a hardship. she keeps her doubts to herself after that.

she arrives at beauxbatons amidst hushed whispers and widened eyes, stalks down hallways through murmurs of veela and look at her, all beauty and no brains. her very first class, she completes the transfiguration task within the first five minutes of instruction. her classmates call it a fluke. so she finishes first in charms. potions. defense. herbology. she is not given respect, so she snatches it out of clenched hands, airily forces it out of gritted teeth, wins it from the begrudging.

she stands, on the triwizard stage, the only female among four champions, facing a new crowd of doubters and naysayers, who look incredulously at her flowing hair and fine features, not her fierce spirit and sharp mind. let them be fooled by her appearance, let them underestimate and undervalue and undermine her. she would disprove them, this time and every time, by showing them just how much more she could be.

after all, fleur delacour was always too smart to be only pretty.