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crack_van2010-06-06 05:59 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-06-06 05:59 pm
Entry tags:
Five Women Who Hate Fleur Delacour by snegurochka_lee (PG-13)
Fandom: HARRY POTTER
Pairing: Gen; Fleur Delacour, Gabrielle Delacour, Narcissa Malfoy, Molly Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Minerva McGonagall, Luna Lovegood
Length: ~7,300
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: Fanfiction by Snegurochka
Why this must be read:
Because this piece highlights the often ugly way women talk about other women, while still staying sympathetic to all the characters. The voices of all these women are spot-on, and I especially adored the friendship shown between Fleur and Luna; probably the last two characters that you would think about interacting together, but it works in this story and serves as a contrast to every bad thing ever said about Fleur Delacour.
Molly loved all her children equally, of course, but it was difficult not to keep a bit of a soft spot for Bill. He'd been with the other children as long as she had, after all; sometimes she felt as though it had been her, Arthur and Bill who had raised them together. He'd always taken Charlie and Percy outside with a broomstick and a tiny Quaffle when she'd needed time with the younger children, or changed Ron's nappies if she was busy with Ginny, or kept Fred and George from setting the house on fire while she was breaking up the latest row between Percy and Ron.
That awful hair and earring aside, Bill was reliable. Bill was sensible. Bill deserved a reliable, sensible wife.
Bill did not deserve a wife who threw flirty looks at other men – in his own family! – and sauntered down the street with red lipstick and loose hair, just teasing the hell out of any man who passed her. She couldn't cook and showed no interest in learning; she went on and on about wishing to improve her Eeenglish and yet Molly could still barely understand a thing she said; and the only thing she seemed to be good at was prancing around the Burrow, sticking her nose in everything and then pontificating about how much better that thing would be in France.
"Zis soup, eet eez too 'eavy," the girl whinged all the time, pushing her bowl away and pouting at Molly. "Een France, we eat light food. Eet eez why we are so thin! So beautiful!" Then she would cast an appraising glance over Molly's solid figure and toss her hair over her shoulder.
France this, France that. Honestly! It was getting harder and harder to keep telling Ginny to mind her tongue, when Molly herself wanted nothing better than to give that stuck-up girl a piece of her mind.
When she was younger, Molly had dreamed of travelling abroad. She took Muggle Studies and learned about the great castles of Bavaria and the ruins of Rome and Athens. She was never very good with languages, but occasionally she would doodle words like Mollé or Mölly in her notebooks and practice moving her lips around the strange sounds. But dreams were dreams, and reality was reality, and no wizard or witch ever made a living with their head in the clouds, anyway. Fred and George would be well advised to remember that, she often thought.
No, Molly was best suited for Ottery St. Catchpole, and she knew it. Her family had seen enough trouble during the First War; no need to court more. Life was busy enough! She had Arthur and the children, and really, Fleur had no idea what it was like to run a household of nine people – ten if she counted Harry, eleven with Hermione, twelve during the holidays when Charlie sometimes brought a friend home, thirteen with Fleur herself, and – Well. If the girl wanted soup that wasn't heavy, she could make it her damn self, and then listen to the complaints from a crowd of hungry people wondering where on earth the potatoes had got to.
A woman with her head on straight didn't have time to go out for tournaments, after all, or to wander around Europe bickering about the food and flaunting herself in front of all the men. If Fleur was serious about Bill, and serious about starting a family with him, well, that would be one thing. But all these trivial pursuits – working a little bit at the bank, studying English a little bit when she felt like it, lying out in the sun for hours and writing letters to her mother and sister – well, it must be nice to have time for all of that. Molly hadn't had time to sit down for ten minutes at a stretch for over fifteen years! Girls these days thought they could just ask life for an easy go of it, and life would deliver.
"Oh, give her a chance," Moira Higgins would tell Molly with a wave of her hand over cribbage and tea on Thursday afternoons. "She's not the worst you could do for a daughter-in-law now, is she?" Moira's daughter-in-law raised Hinkypunks for a living, though, so what would she know about it?
"What if she finds some competition in Argentina she wants to flounce off to after the wedding?" Molly would bark back, shuffling the cards hard enough to shred them. "What'll Bill do then? Who's to say she won't get tired of the rain in England, or the food, or all the things she complains about, and run off to the next Portkey back to France?"
Fleur Delacour was irresponsible, a woman who got by on her looks alone and took all kinds of risks just because she was so certain that blonde hair of hers would get her out of any trouble she might manage to land in. Every time she got an idea in her head, she ran off to a new country to test it out, probably not even caring about the people she left behind. She had no sense of responsibility, no sense of loyalty to her family, and no idea what it was like not to get what she wanted.
Molly hated women like that.
Five Women Who Hate Fleur Delacour
Pairing: Gen; Fleur Delacour, Gabrielle Delacour, Narcissa Malfoy, Molly Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Minerva McGonagall, Luna Lovegood
Length: ~7,300
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: Fanfiction by Snegurochka
Why this must be read:
Because this piece highlights the often ugly way women talk about other women, while still staying sympathetic to all the characters. The voices of all these women are spot-on, and I especially adored the friendship shown between Fleur and Luna; probably the last two characters that you would think about interacting together, but it works in this story and serves as a contrast to every bad thing ever said about Fleur Delacour.
Molly loved all her children equally, of course, but it was difficult not to keep a bit of a soft spot for Bill. He'd been with the other children as long as she had, after all; sometimes she felt as though it had been her, Arthur and Bill who had raised them together. He'd always taken Charlie and Percy outside with a broomstick and a tiny Quaffle when she'd needed time with the younger children, or changed Ron's nappies if she was busy with Ginny, or kept Fred and George from setting the house on fire while she was breaking up the latest row between Percy and Ron.
That awful hair and earring aside, Bill was reliable. Bill was sensible. Bill deserved a reliable, sensible wife.
Bill did not deserve a wife who threw flirty looks at other men – in his own family! – and sauntered down the street with red lipstick and loose hair, just teasing the hell out of any man who passed her. She couldn't cook and showed no interest in learning; she went on and on about wishing to improve her Eeenglish and yet Molly could still barely understand a thing she said; and the only thing she seemed to be good at was prancing around the Burrow, sticking her nose in everything and then pontificating about how much better that thing would be in France.
"Zis soup, eet eez too 'eavy," the girl whinged all the time, pushing her bowl away and pouting at Molly. "Een France, we eat light food. Eet eez why we are so thin! So beautiful!" Then she would cast an appraising glance over Molly's solid figure and toss her hair over her shoulder.
France this, France that. Honestly! It was getting harder and harder to keep telling Ginny to mind her tongue, when Molly herself wanted nothing better than to give that stuck-up girl a piece of her mind.
When she was younger, Molly had dreamed of travelling abroad. She took Muggle Studies and learned about the great castles of Bavaria and the ruins of Rome and Athens. She was never very good with languages, but occasionally she would doodle words like Mollé or Mölly in her notebooks and practice moving her lips around the strange sounds. But dreams were dreams, and reality was reality, and no wizard or witch ever made a living with their head in the clouds, anyway. Fred and George would be well advised to remember that, she often thought.
No, Molly was best suited for Ottery St. Catchpole, and she knew it. Her family had seen enough trouble during the First War; no need to court more. Life was busy enough! She had Arthur and the children, and really, Fleur had no idea what it was like to run a household of nine people – ten if she counted Harry, eleven with Hermione, twelve during the holidays when Charlie sometimes brought a friend home, thirteen with Fleur herself, and – Well. If the girl wanted soup that wasn't heavy, she could make it her damn self, and then listen to the complaints from a crowd of hungry people wondering where on earth the potatoes had got to.
A woman with her head on straight didn't have time to go out for tournaments, after all, or to wander around Europe bickering about the food and flaunting herself in front of all the men. If Fleur was serious about Bill, and serious about starting a family with him, well, that would be one thing. But all these trivial pursuits – working a little bit at the bank, studying English a little bit when she felt like it, lying out in the sun for hours and writing letters to her mother and sister – well, it must be nice to have time for all of that. Molly hadn't had time to sit down for ten minutes at a stretch for over fifteen years! Girls these days thought they could just ask life for an easy go of it, and life would deliver.
"Oh, give her a chance," Moira Higgins would tell Molly with a wave of her hand over cribbage and tea on Thursday afternoons. "She's not the worst you could do for a daughter-in-law now, is she?" Moira's daughter-in-law raised Hinkypunks for a living, though, so what would she know about it?
"What if she finds some competition in Argentina she wants to flounce off to after the wedding?" Molly would bark back, shuffling the cards hard enough to shred them. "What'll Bill do then? Who's to say she won't get tired of the rain in England, or the food, or all the things she complains about, and run off to the next Portkey back to France?"
Fleur Delacour was irresponsible, a woman who got by on her looks alone and took all kinds of risks just because she was so certain that blonde hair of hers would get her out of any trouble she might manage to land in. Every time she got an idea in her head, she ran off to a new country to test it out, probably not even caring about the people she left behind. She had no sense of responsibility, no sense of loyalty to her family, and no idea what it was like not to get what she wanted.
Molly hated women like that.
Five Women Who Hate Fleur Delacour