Author's Notes: Written for the Victoire Weasley month of Twelve Months of Next-Gen at the NextGen Fanatics Forum.

This shall be a series of unrelated Victoire-centric drabbles/ficlets/one-shots/whatever. I have no idea how many of them it shall include – however many I can finish in June.


Aren't You a Pretty One?


"Aren't you a pretty one, Victoire?"

Victoire forced a small smile, looking up at her grandmother with the same sickeningly sweet expression that she used any time anyone told her that she was a pretty one. She despised it, because every person in the world seemed to think that it was a wonderful compliment, and the only one that they could give her.

For God's sake, even that's a nice skirt, Victoire would be better.

"Thank you, Grand-mére ," Victoire said politely. She perched on the edge of the couch, smiling sweetly while they turned to her mother and started to speak in rapid French.

Victoire had never learned French.

She allowed her eyes to glaze over, even as she kept her posture straight and her face forced into the delicate mask of politely restrained happiness that she wore so often. She clenched her hands into fists so that she would not fidget.

Maybe she ought to cut her hair short, the way Dominique had, she reflected. But that wouldn't solve anything. It wasn't her long hair that made her pretty, or her straight nose or curvy figure or nice, clear skin. Hell, if that was what made someone pretty, then Victoire wasn't even close to being the prettiest girl in Hogwarts.

No, it was the damned Veela blood.

The Veela blood that stopped anyone from seeing anything besides that she looked nice.

Out of the seven boys that Victoire had considered boyfriends, not a single one of them had ever shown much interest in anything outside her looks. She had shown them her (not very good) paintings, and they had said that they were almost as pretty as her. She had played the piano for them (not very well) and they had said she looked gorgeous when she played.

She didn't even look very nice.

But Victoire couldn't say that – much less tell people to stop calling her pretty – or people would think that she was one of those girls who said that she wasn't pretty to fish for compliments… people would think that she was ungrateful.

And she was.

She was ungrateful, because being pretty was a very stupid thing to act as a single defining trait.

And so she did her best to block out Grand-mére's voice when she said that Victoire was pretty, and imagined that she was saying Aren't you an interesting one, Victoire instead.