Foreshadowed

She sits on the bed and recalls three years ago, getting ready for the Yule Ball. Despite her book intellect, she really wasn't sure how best to fix her hair. Parvati and Lavender had been only too happy to help. She remembers as they fixed it, chattering on about various things as they made it shine and not look too fussy or dramatic.

A pretty dress, some shoes that grew increasingly uncomfortable as the night wore on, and some soft makeup.

She remembers Padma's awe as she walked down the steps, and what a gentleman Viktor had been that night. The memory of her trying to teach him how to pronounce her name elicits a weak laugh.

This session of primping is a parody of that. It occurs to her that the Yule Ball was foreshadowing for this, somehow. True, she used to dress nicely when her parents required it of her for family events, but since finding out she was a witch she'd only been really dressed up that one time.

When she explained the plan to Bill and Fleur, they'd looked at her like she was crazy, and maybe she was. A dim memory of being so afraid to break small school rules in first year comes to her mind; she laughs now, having broken several laws. They're still doing so - Harry never got his Apparition license, so they're one-third illegally Apparating. Still, the only injury was their escape from the Ministry, and that was Ron's.

Fleur pulls a black dress from the wardrobe and holds it out. She holds it up, avoiding her appearance in the full-length mirror, and Fleur considers alterations. The Polyjuice sits on the dressing table, and she painstakingly adds the hair. Its turns a gray-black, murky and dull.

It comes as no surprise. With a swift intake of air she downs half, corking the vial to save the rest. Fleur guides her to sit down as the potion takes effect, the pain shooting through her, and she's grateful for personal transfiguration and Invisibility Cloaks.

Finally Fleur steps back with a wince and she looks in the mirror. It's perfect: she is a perfect replica, and she's grateful that the Malfoys don't seem to have a cat.

She tugs on the dress, magically altering it where necessary to fit: the height is close enough, but she's a little thinner. Fleur finishes the zip and she murmurs a thank you, gritting her teeth at the sound of her own voice, making a reminder to be more shrill, more rude, more superior.

Fleur sets down some shoes and leaves her to her privacy. She wonders if this is what brides feel like, having a moment of privacy, alone with their thoughts, before they venture onto the stage of the public eye.

A quick spell fixes the shoes and, after a bit more consideration, she charms them comfortable.

She can't keep putting it off, so looks in the mirror. She hates what she sees; dark curly hair all over the place, and she wonders if it would kill the Death Eater to pick up a brush from time to time. Eyes a few shades darker than her own glare back and she's slightly unnerved.

Time's getting on. The potion will last a good few hours, given that it was well-made, but it doesn't mean she can afford to dither. She tugs at a few strands of hair and smooths her dress, and again the parody elements cross her mind. She doubts that Lestrange would worry about creased dresses.

And just for a moment, she was a teenage girl, fussing over her hair and dress.

The clomping of her shoes against hard wood floors is not something she is used to, and she scolds herself for not practicing walking in heels. This'll have to do. Luna, Bill and Fleur seem apprehensive as she exits, and it's lucky that Polyjuice only copies a person's looks, not personality.

The boys are waiting with Griphook, and Ron tells her that she looks hideous. It's enough to reassure her, and they Apparate away.