Fleur Delacour's Year of Living Dangerously
By Femme Teriyaki
Disclaimer: These characters are the figment of J. K. Rowling's imagination. I do not claim to own these characters. This writing style (à la Bridget Jones), I owe to Helen Fielding.
Summary: A tale of Lusts and Loves via Fleur Delacour's private diary. After Fleur Delacour is sufficiently Americanized and, worse still, Mugglefied, is there any way she can return to her normal wizarding, French self? No. But it'll be fun watching her try… Welcome to a year in the life of a self-mocking, self-deprecating, low-self-esteem drama queen.
January: The Un-Divine Intervention / the De-Mugglefication of Fleur Delacour
Day One of Free Independence
Monday, January 17th
On train, leaving King's Cross
7:13 a.m. – They cut me off. First they Mugglefied me, then they cut me off! My parents told me to get Mugglefied, to get acquainted with the way Muggles live and act—they cut me off from the wizarding community for a year, with nothing but owls to communicate with. Supposedly, such a jarring entry into the way the "other half lives" was supposed to show me the true value of my Beauxbatons education.
In this year of Mugglefication, I fell in love with Orlando Bloom and Jude Law at the same time, cried when Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston broke up, booed that other Simpson girl, and watched Napoleon Dynamite sixteen times. It was a true cultural experience. I discovered MTV, then discovered VH1 (and threw MTV dans la poubelle). Ibecame a slave to the internet, American Express, MasterCard, and Visa, and became unduly obsessed with this thing called "fan fiction." America was delightful, but it allegedly had a few adverse effects on me. (My family is threatening to block channels for every time I say "like," "whatever," "seriously," and "duh.") The only adverse affect I see is this: Now, now that I have finally adjusted to the Muggle way of living—they've cut me off!
They took my credit cards (all six of them) and cut them in half. They said they'd "been coddling me too long," and told me that I would no longer be living at their expense—what they meant, of course was: Get a J-O-B. They've sent me back to the Wizarding World, and now I'm job interviewing—at Hogwarts. I know, right? Endless joy…
7:24 a.m. – I miss Muggle food. Treacle tarts aboard trains are fantastic and all… but I'd kill for McDonalds right now. In the truly American way, I have gained twenty pounds and have been put on a diet; my parents believe that I am grotesquely overweight and have sent many, many diet books with me to Hogwarts. On pain of death, I will begin Pilates. More joy.
7:32 a.m. – List of things to do, starting now, to start losing my a) American-ness b) Muggle-ness and c) weight:
1) No more watching VH1—this will not be une très grande problemme. Benefits: Will be off of bum and thus inhibiting further weight gain; will be losing both American-ness and Muggle-ness in process. Can devote more time to Windsor Pilates and Kathy, the chipper woman on the cover of the book.
2) Will begin South Beach Diet as well. Will spend so much of time watching food, there will be no time left to indulge in Muggle pleasures.
3) Will lower daily calorie intake 10 calories for every time "like," "duh," "seriously," or "whatever," is used. 20 calories if in public. (Imperative: must not contribute to negative blonde stereotypes.) 5 if writing and 2 if just thinking.
4) Will write to family en français daily, to regain some of French-ness.
5) Will refrain from use of American curses. Though they do roll of the tongue. I digress!
6) Will not compare life to that of Keira Knightley and become jealous basket-case.
7) Will sadly destroy Orlie and Jude posters. Will convince self to give away Pirates of the Caribbean DVD. (Permission to cry at such occasion is granted.)
8) Will stop sitting on bum reading American trashy books. Will settle for sitting on bum reading French trashy books about witches and wizards. Will not cast Jude Law or Orlando Bloom in the title roles.
9) Will not think about internet and/or email. Will not wish for a real-life "Control-F" option, because that is what magic is for. Will not think of cyber-boyfriend, Michael.
10) MUST BREAK UP WITH AMERICAN CYBER-BOYFRIEND.
7:45 a.m. – Am standing outside of Hogwarts, not quivering at all. Granted, the last time I was here was an embarrassing disaster resulting in numerous near and actual fatalities, among these the death of any remote chance of personal competency. However, I'm sure that Hogwarts isn't a festival of hormones, human sacrifices, and sexual harassment all the time. Plus, that freaky Draco kid's probably graduated. I'm cool. I'm fine. Chouette. On y va. Step inside.
8:00 a.m. – Am v. afraid to step inside. Will be speaking to Headmaster, Endearing McGandalf-Face, and will face Bushy Haired Smart Girl Who Frightens and Hates Me. Will collapse under strain. Will need unlimited amounts of caffeine.
NTS: De-necessitate thyself off of coffee. Will only cause weight gain and unhappiness.
8:13 a.m. – Had une conversation constructive avec Professor Dumbledore. Believes would make good teacher's assistant and should start there before moving up, progressing in the world, speaking aloud, etc. Apparently, should sit in on each class before deciding which teacher to assist. Awkwardly enough, Messieurs Snape and Flitwick fell over when I opened the door. Dirty snoops. Am v. tired, but convinced that no coffee is needed. Will not be tempted to ask little house-elf qui me suit constamment for any. BE STRONG, FLEUR. Il faut que je sois forte!
Dear God. Am feeling v. fat today. Must, at advice of mes parents, begin Un Petit Journal de la Nourriture today.
Breakfast: Un croissant avec chocolat (will forgive self later). Orange juice.
Snack: Three chocolate frogs.
Snack (part II): You know those little wafer straws, with the chocolate on the inside? Those. I wasn't really counting.
Conclusion: Weakness, thy name is chocolate.
9:02 a.m. – Have been terribly weak all day long, not just from the deprivation of essential food groups, i.e. coffee, things drizzled in chocolate, frozen and sweetened dairy products, éclairs, etc. No, also weak in terms of resolve, as have been thinking desperately of credit cards. Oh, what I'd give to have ma petite American Express back! But my parents have snapped them all in half—I can no longer shop in the state of New York, in Paris, London, or Sydney. Everywhere you want to be, my derriere. The tragedy of my circumstance almost makes me feel poetic.
Deny thy credit and refuse thy cash! Or if thou wilt not, but be sworn by fashion, and I'll no longer be an expert shopper!
Oh, to have my American Express again…
9:30 a.m. – Have courageously decided to sit in on Potions first. Have noticed Bushy Haired Smart Girl (BHSG) glaring at me. Professor currently believes am taking notes. Said professor will not stop staring at new, business-like sweater. Am feeling v. uncomfortable. WHY WON'T SHE STOP GLARING AT ME???
Perhaps she is threatened. Believes will steal affections of certain messieurs? Believes am not fat and disgusting, but rather attractive and thin? (If so, is très folle.) Wishes to defend slightly cute, red-haired freckled boy to left from my affections? Or rather… dashing… and desirable… Boy Who Lived to right?
Students. Fleur. Students! Very illegal thoughts; will subtract 100 calories from diet in order to compensate for such perversity.
Harry Potter: currently 16 years old; Fleur: currently 19 years old. Illegal! And not at all charming in the Demi Moore – Ashton Kutcher sense of it, at all.
NTS: Must stall such Lustification until July.
5:30 PM – Have calmed self down; am stifling growing Lustification for HP, as is appropriate. Will not cross BHSG—apparently, she goes by Hermione Granger. Have discarded Orlie and Jude posters, but have kept POC. Realizing that this is because Orlie in action is better than Orlie on paper. Even if he is life-size.
Affolé d'Affaires Courant:
Name: Fleur Delacour.
Height: five foot seven.
Weight: a disgusting amount which equals X.
Lust Situation: Stifling.
Cyber-boyfriend: Relationship thriving against will.
Favorite Class SF: Flitwick (is nice despite supreme oldness)
Least SF: Snape (classes filled with odd innuendo usually directed à moi; seems to despise HP, possibly due to jealousy over HP's gene pool).
Pilates Minutes: 4
Orlie-thinking Minutes: 35
Jude-thinking Minutes: 30
HP-thinking Minutes: 69
HG glares: 3
Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 16
Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 63 to 1.
Day Two of Free Independence
Tuesday, January 18th
4:05 a.m. – Am wondering how such inappropriate Lustification came to be. There were no warning signs of future lustability the last time I was here—there was no "I may soon become disturbingly desirable" tattoo on a certain heroic wizard's forehead! Were only minor hints of such Lustification at Triwizard Cup! Am now wondering why did not just kiss Harry on lips rather than cheek. Merde!
Of course, must remember that now am v. fat; the famous, desirable, and talented beyond belief Potter shall never be interested in me. Barely noticed presence today in class, even though Snape seemed to find my sweater quite interesting, the dirty salaud. Was instead too busy perfecting potion; Potions Master gave him a D anyway. Was outraged, but afraid to say so. Do the teachers at such a top institution always display such blatant favoritism / hatred?
Should I take assistant job for Monsieur Snape to protect Harry from injustice??? Even though Monsieur Snape gives as many winks as pale, blonde-haired oddity Draco Malfoy? V. conflicted and unsure. Current trashy book cannot hold my attention—keep thinking of Halcius Pottotius, medieval wizarding champion, as HP! (Stop being a skank in your mind.) Am distracted and up v. late, but have had no caffeine all day (v. good, horridly painful). Have already taken away 69 calories for each minute spent desiring HP. Must STOP.
4:45 a.m. – Have received post from Late-Night Owl—am not sure who could be. I am unused to being accosted by strange owls in the middle of the night, especially since all of four people ever send me letters, mostly relatives. Am opening letter. Owl looks very unfamiliar.
4:48 a.m. – Have opened letter; am surprised mais vraiment content. La lettre est de mon amoureux secret, Michael. Am now pleasantly surprised to realize that my cyber-boyfriend is a wizard after all (not merely delusional) even if he does happen to be an American one. Almost comfortingly, letter is filled with American spellings and no Oxford commas. After having read Eats, Shoots and Leaves, am obsessive over Oxford commas.
Michael's letter has come with picture (smart boy), which I shall look at now—
O—Mon dieu!Is single most gorgeous creature ever? Or is Harry? (Do. Not. Answer. That.) Looks like Prince William only better looking somehow, probably because less awful family stuff to deal with. Has sex appeal of Johnny Depp, but pure hotness of the darling Orlando Bloom. Yes, we want him badly. Yes! He is ours! (Perhaps too much royal "we," considering have just rejected Prince William.)
We—I also wonder how address procured. Found out IP address from emails? Floo'd home? Squeezed out of ma soeur sans valeur that will be staying at Hogwarts? Sent lovely romantic note?
Maybe my sister did actually do something right. Maybe I'll take the "sans valeur" out of her name.
Then again, why should I? She's still a tart.
Perhaps Michael just has a very persistent owl…
Such a paper-cut; will not risk bleeding on face of my new favorite person. Must find bandage.
5:30 a.m. – Bandage found, cut healed, and picture salvaged. Am decidedly madly in love with said "Michael" whose last name I know not (why should last names matter—this is true love)! Am v. excited that American cyber-boyfriend is undeniably attrayant, but depressed that shall have to dump in case of re-Americanization. Will die if cannot see in person.
Name: Fleur Delacour.
Height: five foot seven.
Weight: x + 1.5 (equals fat Fleur)
Hair: Blonde (still; should not dye? New job, new state of free independence, perhaps calls for new hair color?)
Eyes: Blue (Parents took away colored contacts! Can no longer experiment with shockingly colored irises! Whither my creative outlets? If I try a charm, I know my eyes will never turn back, will be blinded, etc. Sticking glass into my eye feels so much safer.)
Lust Situation: Shifting (Has now shifted to ACB)
Cyber-boyfriend: See above.
Favorite Class SF: Still Flitwick for same reasons.
Least SF: Has become History of Magic. Cannot help but fall asleep and awake only because the little Malfoy boy whispers obscenities in my ear. Causes nightmares. Malfoy, not class.
Pilates Minutes: 16 (progress!)
Orlie-thinking Minutes: 24
Jude-thinking Minutes: 22
HP-thinking Minutes: 94
HG glares: 10
Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 27
Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 1 to 1
6:15 a.m. – Am eating breakfast and watching weight like mad, crazy anorexic sister Renée. And while I watch weight, am noticing Professor Greasy-Hair watching me. NTS – Eat less.
Breakfast: secretly stashed Nutri-Grain bar. Yummmm… cappuccino-flavored. Artificially flavored glass of pure diet-y-licious-ness.
Calories: approx. 280.
6:17 a.m. – All right, that Hermione Granger is completely disturbing the peace over here. I cannot even enjoy my desperate substitute for coffee without such evil glare-ness. Grrr…
NTS – Hire assassin/dietician/Pilates instructor.
6:19 a.m. – Now realize that it bothers me v. much that lucky Hermione Granger gets to sit with Harry all day long in all his yummy underage-ness, eating breakfast with him, taking classes with him... Alors! Such Perversion! Arrêtez!
6:23 a.m. – Am now seething as I watch lucky Her-Sliminess Granger laughing at some brilliant, sexy joke Harry must have just told. (Emily Blunt from The Devil Wears Prada appears on my left shoulder, screaming: "She doesn't deserve him, she eats carbs for God's sake!" If I were more morally balanced, surely someone would appear on my right shoulder too.) Have heard through Secret Staff Grapevine that equally brilliant (but not nearly as sexy) Granger is dating unsightly red-haired, freckled child. If so, why does she glare at me so? She cannot possibly think I am after aforesaid freckled child!
Harry's leaving—alors! Have now just discovered Harry's derrière… must away…
6:30 a.m. – What were you thinking, Fleur?! That was v. perverse. Never look at said derrière ever again, unless it is your dying moment. And you want to die happy, of course.
8: 14 a.m. – Am currently enjoying the company of stand-in DADA teacher, Remus Lupin. As actual DADA teacher was caught up in a bit of official dark-arts-fighting business and will not be here until Feb., Prof. RJL is standing in. Is v. nice and v. fair to Harry, and now has beaten out Professor Flitwick for Best Class Ever.
8: 20 a.m. – Am realizing that Harry must be Best DADA Student Ever. Think of his experience! Am imagining Harry bravely fighting the Dark Lord; am skipping times 1 through 4 because of the perverse way underage-ness of this thought. Am instead imagining the 4th year fight, parce que je me souviens how he was then. Am trying not to OD on such complete hotness of his bravery, fall out of chair, faint or similar.
"There are several curses…"
Go, Harry, go!
"…that will disable your opponent…"
Alors! How on earth did he get so divine…?
"…long enough for you to get to your feet…"
And so brilliant…
"Can anyone name these curses? Anyone?"
"Fleur, would you kindly tell the class the answer?"
"Erm, no, that's not the answer," says Professor Lupin, turning an interesting shade of magenta and loosening his tie in discomfort.
OH SHITAKE MUSHROOMS ON A PLATE FULL OF MERDE.
Did I just say that out loud?
9:37 a.m. – Am mortified. Cannot speak.
10:25 a.m. – Have not eaten single bite for sheer mortification of event. It's like in Mean Girls when Cady wasn't paying attention, and Mrs. Norbury asked a question, but she was too busy staring at Aaron Samuels, and then she was like "so cute," but then "soooo sexy" is SO MUCH WORSE THAN "SO CUTE!" So cute could be "That sticker on that binder is so cute!" So sexy can mean one thing and one thing alone—Harry Potter! Pour l'amour de Dieu!
I must go die now.
12 NOON – I am shamed! Je voudrais mourir! It seems that whenever I walk down the hall I am plagued by whispers. "Did you hear about Fleur Delacour in Seamus's DADA class?" a student asks, his voice laced with the details of my nymphomania. "No, tell me!"
Les Feux d'Enfer!
FIRES OF HELL!!!!!
6:47 a.m. – Am too distraught to write any longer. Will break vow of silence tomorrow. Hate this frigging job.