For the weekly drabble challenge at MuggleNet, that I decided to enter this week (obviously). The translations of the french words aren't really needed to understand the meaning of it, and I don't feel like typing them out >.>
Title: School Rivalry
Rating: G
Word Count: 370
Fandom: Harry Potter (Bill x Fleur)
The first time they truly fought was before Victoire turned one year old. It had started with a simple enough comment from Bill Weasley, but Fleur Weasley had vehemently disagreed.
“She’ll be a wonderful Gryffindor,” he had mused, only half paying attention to his words.
Fleur, playing with Victoire, froze, before stating firmly, “She von’t be a Gryffindor, she vill go to Beauxbatons.”
“Why would she go to Beauxbatons?” Bill had laughed, clearly underestimating the seriousness of his wife’s tone.
“Because,” she huffed, rising to her feet, “’ogwarts iz novhere as elite as Beauxbatons. Victoire must ’ave ze best.”
“And Hogwarts is the best,” Bill replied hotly.
The argument escalated, and threatened to become even worse. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Victoire’s crying interrupted their voices. Fleur instantly broke off the argument, but not before sending Bill a firm look that clearly said that the matter was not closed. She bent and gathered up her daughter, hugging her close.
“Oh, ma petite puce, did ve scare you vith our shouting?” she asked softly, letting Victoire cry herself out. “Hush, ma chérie, we’ll stop arguing.”
Once Victoire quieted, Fleur took her into her room, leaving her in her crib. When she returned to the living room, Bill was standing there with a very satisfied grin. Before she could press him for an explanation, he moved to their store of toys and extracted two. One was a soft toy that Victoire had almost since she was born - a griffon, adorned with scarlet and gold. The other was a doll that she’d had almost as long. It wore the Beauxbatons uniform.
“How about Victoire choose her school?” Bill offered, his meaning clear.
That night, they left both in Victoire’s bed, and vowed to see which she slept with. The next morning, when they found their daughter fast asleep, Bill grinned at his wife, very pleased with the solution.
“Ah, mon dieu. I suppose she vill be a Gryffindor, then,” Fleur sighed, conceding defeat.
Together, they left her to sleep for a little longer, curled around the griffon, her pudgy nose buried in the griffon’s fake fur. The doll watched them from where it had been left the night before, a calm watcher and guardian.