Disclaimer: JK Rowling's, not mine!

Mundane fact #1: My life is not mundane in the slightest. And neither is my name, despite what Teddy Lupin might think. It's Victoire, dammit, and if he calls me Vicky one more time I swear I'm going to throttle him.

What part of "exotic French ancestry" doesn't he understand?

Just because his real name's boring doesn't mean everyone else's are.

Mundane fact #2: I can't think of another mundane fact, which worries me a bit, because how am I ever going to write books for teenagers if I can't even master the art of the chapter starting list?

It's probably because I'm a bit rusty from the holidays. That's the thing with writing. You stay up until all hours at school, desperately scribbling down every scrap and scene onto anything you can find, dreaming of the day you can sit at your desk all day, the hours stretching in front of you as you dramatically pause and stare out the window, a drop of ink on your nose...

(That's the other thing I haven't mastered. Getting ink on my nose by accident. It's the ultimate writer's accessory, isn't it? The other day I tried doing it, on purpose, you know, just to see what I'd look like - but Teddy caught me halfway through and I ended up with half the bottle up my nose. Maybe I should try it with a quill next time.)

Anyway, the holidays didn't quite work out that way. The thing about my window is that it overlooks the beach. And the thing about beaches is that they're a really marvellous form of procrastination.

Especially when you've got writer's block, and Teddy Lupin's standing outside said window and yelling out "Vicky! Get some sun onto that skin!"

I told him to shut up, and ran outside to slap him before he could add something about my pasty-white legs.

It's not as bad as it was at the start of summer - but let's face it, with Mum's genes I'm never going to be a swimwear model. Unless the Veela thing somehow shone through and swayed the selection panel, but I don't think one-eighth quite cuts it any more. Especially when you've got blue snot dripping from your nose.

Thanks, Teddy.

Anyway, I don't care that I don't have a tan. Milky-white - no, milk's almost as bad as pasty - how about lily-white? Lily-pale? No, white sounds better than pale, definitely. And the lily part is definitely staying.

I wonder how I'd be described in a book?

Her lily-white fingers stretched idly across her wand, twelve inches of dragon heartstring - then leapt back as she remembered her vow. For there was something more powerful even than magic - the power of the written word...

Not bad for a first attempt. Except for the twelve inches of dragon heartstring part. What kind of number is twelve? I mean, I'm no Arithmancy student, but that doesn't mean I can't have opinions on numbers - and I definitely have a negative one on twelve. Maybe it's the even number thing. I'm definitely an odd numbers girl. It's because I'm a writer, you see - and writers are always the oddballs in society.

That's what I keep telling Teddy. And then he starts laughing before I can add the bit about oddballs being immortalised in history.

Now that I think about it, he'd laugh even harder at that. Maybe it's for the best that I didn't get to say that out loud.

Pity real life doesn't have first drafts.

"Victoire! Are your bags packed yet?"

Mum. Dom's bags aren't packed either, but is she yelling at her? "Almost! Just a couple of books left!"

She makes some dramatic French hiss/gesture thing. I wish I could describe it - no, I wish I could do it, but whenever I try I feel like a snake, which isn't the effect I'm going for at all. Why couldn't we have grown up in France? Then I'd know all her gestures, and have plenty of Gallic charm, and when I came over in seventh year as an exchange student -

(I'm still debating whether to kill off my parents. On one hand it sort of goes with the mysterious French girl thing, and it'd mean I could go home for Christmas with assorted cute boys without feeling guilty about abandoning my family. And on Christmas Eve, we could have a dramatic "first Christmas without my beloved Mama" moment under the mistletoe... But, you know, they're nice people. Maybe they could just be kidnapped by goblins?)

- well, all the boys would fall madly in love with me.

"We're leaving in fifteen minutes! Why didn't you pack last night?"

"Because I was reading them last night," I say reasonably, getting up from the kitchen table. "How am I supposed to read books if they're in my suitcase?"

She shakes her head, glaring at me from her spot at the window, and I realise I've got plenty of time. Dad isn't even back from fishing. "Tell your sister to bring her bags down, too."

She turns back to the window, and I throw up my hands (behind her back, of course. I'm not going to get into a hand gesture war with Mum). Dom probably hasn't even started packing, let alone finished. At least I've done my clothes.

Dom is definitely a Dom. I sigh, sometimes, thinking of the possibilities, but there's just no way someone like her fits a name like Dominique. I open her door, half expecting to find she's snuck out with dad, but to my surprise she's in her room, knee-deep in clothes.

"Working hard, I see." I nod approvingly. "Mum wants your stuff down now."

She rolls her eyes. "Unless you're allowed to use magic at home and nobody told me, that's a bit impossible right now."

I shrug, and throw her a sisterly smile as I walk down the hall, whistling a happy tune. Or something. I'm not all that great at whistling, but I'm in that sort of mood, so I'm determined to try.

Teddy can do this thing where he whistles through his teeth, so the sound comes out but he doesn't move his lips at all. It's pretty cool, actually, because he has awesome control over what pitch (is that the word? I have a feeling I should know, being a creative type and all, but music lessons were never really my forte) comes out. Secretly I wish I could do it, but I'd never dream of asking. I can't bear to face that smirk on his face, dammit.

My bags are packed. I wasn't lying when I said that. There's just all my writing stuff to go -

- And admittedly there is a lot of it. I just bought this great new set of inks, actually. There are eight of them in the pack, and they come in this little wicker basket with a picnic blanket underneath. It sounds stupid but it's actually really useful for absorbing spills.

I don't think that was the purpose of it, though.

I really love ink. No-one else understands it. It's probably because I'm a writer, so I feel a special affinity with writing materials. It's just - blue isn't just blue, no matter what Dom says. Sometimes you feel like being serious, so you choose a dark navy with a really thin nib, maybe even an italic, and you write in beautiful flowing cursive about the meaning of life and the origins of magic. And other times you just want to rant in your diary about boys and pimples, and you pick up a nice thick aquamarine and dot your i's with little hearts. I don't understand how she can't see the difference.

Then again I can't remember the last time she picked up a quill.

I pack up the ink set and roll up my empty parchment. There's one page with writing on it, but I shove it into my bag without looking at it. I've got plenty of time to improve my writing, I tell myself uneasily.

I look around the room, but there's really nothing left to take. Everything's already in the trunk, except my journal and my favourite quill - they'll go in my backpack for the train.

"Trunk's ready!" I yell down to mum.

"Well, bring it down, then!"

She's glaring at me through the ceiling, I can tell.

At least we're not at the Burrow this year. Last year we all camped out there - yup, the entire Weasley family - and went to King's Cross from there. Honestly, she has nothing to worry about here. Nothing can compare to the chaos that was the Weasleys on the 31st of August...

"Can't you levitate it or something?" I beg, peaking my head down the staircase. "It's really heavy."

She narrows her eyes up at me. "Maybe if you took out the ten pounds worth of ink you have in there -"

"Fine, I'll carry it!"

See, this is the reason heroines in books are always only children. It's so - what was the word I used before? - mundane. Everything about family life is. No-one in books ever worries about carrying trunks down.

Because it's bloody awkward.

I probably shouldn't swear, should I? Mum doesn't let us, but I reckon it's part of my evolution as a writer. Okay, so bloody isn't exactly edgy and dark, but it still feels a bit naughty to me. And that's the main thing, you know? You have to push past your boundaries if you're going to get anywhere with your work.

At least that's what Ask Amy said in the latest issue of Writer's Quill Quarterly.

Or even if they do have to carry down their trunks, it's because their evil stepmother forces them to carry all the family's trunks, like a house-elf. And they never talk about the actual carrying down of the trunks. It's always something like -

Victoire sighed, as she lifted the last of her stepsisters' trunks. They were filled to the brim with ballgowns and dancing slippers, and for a fleeting instant she allowed herself to imagine herself in one of them, a delicate tiara resting on her golden curls...

See? No mention of how you can't quite see the next step past the trunk, and you reach down awkwardly and have to sort of wave your leg around until you feel the floor underneath you. Or how awkward the rectangle is as a shape. Especially when you're trying to go around the corner where the stairs turn - you'd think that'd be the easy bit, wouldn't you, because it's flat? Wrong! - and you're trying to turn the trunk along with it, right? But of course it doesn't work, because the trunk's wider than the turn, and you realise you're going to have to flip it around, and you wince at the thought of your brand new inks spilling all over your first-day robes -

"If the wind turns now, your face will stay like that forever."

I nearly drop the trunk on my toes. "Teddy! What are you doing here?"

He points over his shoulder at dad, who's just walked in the door absolutely covered in sea foam. "Couldn't miss seeing you off on the train, could I?"

I scowl, and plonk the trunk back on the floor. "Liar. You're just coming to gloat because you don't have to go this year."

"You doubt my loyalty to my favourite cousins?"

"We're only your favourite cousins because we live at the beach!"

"Blasphemy." He comes up the stairs and grabs my trunk. I feel like a bit of an idiot, but mostly I'm glad I won't have to repeat the disaster that was the last flight of stairs.

He sets it down on the floor, on its side. I groan, knowing he's bound to have knocked everything around in there.

He notices my expression. "You're not worried about your inks, are you? Because if you expect your trunk's gonna sit flat on the ground the whole trip from here to Hogwarts, you're bonkers. Morning, Mrs Weasley! Looking forward to having the house to yourself again?"

Mum raises one eyebrow - another thing I wish I could do. "If Bill spends the rest of the school term fishing I will have it entirely to myself." Dad opens up the bag containing his catch of the morning, and she turns to face him, hands on her hips. "Out! How many times do I have to tell you to clean them before entering my house!"

Her house, huh? It's obvious who wears the pants around Shell Cottage...

Teddy's already helping himself to an apple, and as he crunches - ugh, I can hear him chewing - Dom comes down the stairs, bag-free. "Oi, dad," she yells. "Trunk."

"Coming, honey," he says benevolently.

Great word, benevolently.

Except when it means your sister's getting a free ride, dammit!

Teddy looks like he's about to say something, so I deliberately school my expression and try to remember my happy whistling mood.

"Five minutes," mum says.

"Don't worry, Mrs Weasley," Teddy tells her. "Bill's very good at carrying Dom's trunks."

"Because he does it every year!" I interrupt, and he winks. I feel like even more of an idiot.

Still, at least I'll be free of Teddy-related annoyances for a term, at least. Don't get me wrong. I like Teddy. He's great fun. He's just...

Okay, this is going to sound really weird. Teddy Lupin, to me, is underwear hanging on the washing line. Yeah, I was right, that does sound weird. I'll start from the beginning.

When we were little, we hung up our washing on this wire dad had strung between two trees. It drove mum mad, actually. One of my earliest memories is her yelling at dad for the millionth time about when they were finally going to get a proper washing line. A real domestic, you'll say, and it's a good word, actually. Domestic. Of or relating to the home. I'm not actually sure if that's the real definition, but I've learnt that if you add "of or relating to" in front of whatever you were going to say, you end up sounding like a walking dictionary. It's a pretty cool trick, actually.

Anyway, these particular two trees were right in front of the kitchen window. And whenever we had guests over, they'd sit at the kitchen table and stare straight out at them - and by extension, at what was hanging on the wire between them.

Namely, my frilly pink underwear.

We never got a proper line until I was in, what, fourth year? It became a bit of a running joke, actually, for everyone except me. Even mum eventually started seeing the funny side. But I was fourteen, okay? What fourteen-year-old wants all her friends to see her underwear hanging right in front of their faces?

And you know what? Teddy Lupin didn't even care. In fact, he said once he didn't even notice. Ha. I snorted at him when he said that - getting cordial all over my dress, of course - and the idiot told me I didn't need frilly underwear to embarrass me, because I could do that well enough myself.

Bastard.

And I don't even feel dirty saying that.

But that's just it, isn't it? He's the sort of person who knows stuff about you that you hide from the rest of the world. He knows I wear frilly pink underwear. Which I don't! Ever since I started buying my own I've gone for small and white and completely unremarkable. But we don't have that washing line any more, so he can't see my much improved taste in underwear.

I mean, not that I want Teddy Lupin seeing my underwear.

You know what I mean.

He's just... there, like an annoying older brother, except an annoying older brother would occasionally do nice things like offer to beat people up, or sneak drinks for me from dad's cupboard, or perhaps bring cute friends home from school for the holidays.

Teddy just stands there and laughs.

And chews. "Stop crunching, dammit," I hiss at him, under my breath.

It doesn't work. "Don't swear, Victoire," dad tells me from the top of the staircase, as he reappears with Dom's stuff. The latch on her trunk looks a bit strained, and I feel a moment of pride in my superior packing ability. If I'm going to roam all around Europe with just my journal and a quill, I have to learn to pack light, right?

"Geez, Dom," Teddy exclaims, ignoring me. "How much stuff do you have in there? Surely you can't need that many clothes?"

"Of course that's not clothes, idiot," I say, exasperated. "It's all her Quidditch gear. She probably only had space for one shirt the entire year."

Dom pokes her tongue at me, and jumps on the bannister to slide down the rest of the staircase. Mum doesn't comment, because mum doesn't even notice. How does Dom always get away with this stuff?

"That's it," mum announces, and I realise Dom's trunk has reached the bottom floor. No thanks to Dom. I glare at her, but I suddenly realise what mum meant.

"Hang on, we're leaving now?"

Mum doesn't answer. She doesn't do any gestures either, but she can do amazing things with her eyebrows.

Dad swings Dom's trunk up again - he's barely put it down, poor bloke, you'd think she'd help him, wouldn't you? He nods his head at Teddy, who throws his apple core in the bin and heads for mine.

No. He was right about the inks. There's no way I'm letting them be thrown around all the way to Scotland.

"Realised I was right?" he asks with a smirk, but he opens up the trunk and hands me what I'm looking for. I'm not sure whether to hope my white underwear's visible or not, but I can't get a good look from the other side of the trunk. He hasn't made any comments, so either he's saving them for later or there's nothing objectionable on the top layer.

I'm tempted to tell him anyway, but I realise it'd probably sound really odd in current company.

Most of which has left the room already, actually. I look around, and realise Teddy and I are the only ones left.

I give him a look. Then I give the trunk a look. Then Teddy stands up.

"What?" he asks, still grinning. He always looks like that. Like he's chewing gum. He's not, but he always looks like he's about to pop it at you. "You're not expecting me to carry that outside, are you?"

"I took it all the way down the stairs!"

He snorts. "You barely managed half," he reminds me, pushing his hands into his pockets as he walks out the front door, whistling.

"You're just showing off!" I yell after him.

Fine. I don't need Teddy's help. Without the inks there's hardly anything in the trunk - worth worrying about, anyway - so I yank it up and shuffle awkwardly after the others.

There aren't any awkward shuffles in books, either.

We're going to King's Cross by Portkey this year. Well, just outside of it. Which probably means I'll have to lug this thing a couple of miles down some Muggle road with everyone watching. Last year we were at the Burrow, so we took Uncle Harry's Ministry cars and pulled up right outside the station.

Why can't dad work at the Ministry?

Everyone else is standing around the can already. Mum glares at me, looking pointedly at her watch, and suddenly Teddy gives a 'hurry up' gesture and I realise she's not just trying to be organised and early -

The Portkey!

I try to run, but I've got my trunk right behind me and it's dragging along in the soft sand - suddenly it's not just mum and Teddy, everyone's yelling at me, but I'm nearly there - two more metres - I just need a finger -

I dive for the can.

They disappear.

And the weight of my trunk throws me forward, and I land with a grunt on a patch of weeds.

I've missed the Portkey.

"Real smooth, Vicky," comes a voice to my right.

"Teddy?"

He's sitting on the ground, hands stretched out behind him and sand all over his legs. "What - the Portkey -"

"You missed it. I would have thought that was obvious. Have a nice trip, by the way?"

Insufferable! I throw a handful of sand at him and try to get up.

Ouch.

"Teddy?" I say again, this time for a completely different reason. "Teddy, my foot hurts."

"Your foot?" His gaze travels down my legs - then he jumps up. "Merlin, Vicky, that's not bloody surprising. Your trunk full of that damn ink fell on top of it."

I try to tell him a) that I've already taken all the ink out of it and b) not to call me Vicky ever again - and then I look down at my foot. My bleeding ankle. My bleeding ankle, which is bent at an angle no ankle, bleeding or otherwise, should ever be bent.

"That, uh, doesn't look good," I say, after a minute of silence where we're both staring at my foot.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

I move it experimentally, wincing. "It feels sore. But I can't feel the cut."

"You can damn well see it," he mutters, looking down at the blood. "Here, I'll try to whip something up for it. Don't move, you'll get sand in it."

See, this is what I mean about Teddy. He's always there at the most awkward moments possible. And - despite what it probably sounds like - this is not a romantic situation in the slightest. I'm lying on my back and my top is all skew, and Teddy's kneeling in front of my ankle and I'm suddenly wondering about whether I've got dirt under my toenails.

Toenails! I shudder, and Teddy looks sharply at me. "Are you alright?" He's pulled out a first-aid box from somewhere and he's just started applying some herb I've never heard of.

I can't tell him about the toenail thing. Why would I be worrying about toenails? I try sort of pointing my toes, so he can't see, but it doesn't work because my sandals have such a thick sole and they refuse to bend - plus it hurts like hell, so I put them back. They look fine, I think, but there's a dark mark on the third toe from the left and I don't know if it's sand from this morning or just a shadow.

"Vicky?" he asks again, sitting up.

"What? I'm fine," I say quickly. "Just, uh, stung a bit."

He nods, and returns to his work. "Relax your foot, you're making the bleeding worse."

What a disgusting, mundane, private, stupid thing to be worrying about. I can't believe myself. It's just what happens when Teddy's around, you see. Any other guy and I'd be swooning at the thought of him fixing my broken ankle.

"How does that feel?" the dark-haired stranger whispered to her. Around them, the night's wind roared, and he had to lean close to her blushing cheek to say the words. The intimacy shuddered through her, and suddenly the intrigue and the mystery of the evening overcame her.

"Kiss me," she whispered back, instead of answering him...

"How's that?" Teddy asks suddenly, nowhere near my blushing cheek. He's bandaged up my ankle with a sort of splint, and I try to stand up.

Ouch, again.

It doesn't seem so bad, now. Whatever he did seems to have made the pain - not go away, but disappear to a distant part of my brain so I only have to acknowledge it as an intellectual curiosity.

Not that I can stand on it.

Teddy rolls his eyes. "Don't try to stand on it, you idiot." He looks around, then makes a decision: "Come, I'll help you up. I'll take you side-along to the station."

"What about my bags?" I ask, as he helps me up. Again, any other guy I'd be clinging to his neck and swooning, but with Teddy it's more of an awkward shoulder hug that doesn't quite work out, because I fall over a bit and he has to grab my wrist to stop me.

"I'll come back for them later, or your dad will. We'll get them to Hogwarts some other way."

"My train bag?"

"Right." He looks at me, then at the bag, currently lying three feet away, stuck to another patch of weeds. "We're going to have to wobble together, aren't we?"

I roll my eyes. "Teddy. Are you seventeen or what?"

"I'm eighteen!" he protests - then realises what I meant, and his face turns red - and not because he's using his Metamorphagus powers. "Accio bag," he mutters, and I laugh.

"Idiot."

"Don't insult the guy who's about to take you side-along," he warns, and with a whoosh, our feet leave the ground. I haven't gone side-along in ages, and the squeezing sensation nearly kills me.

Except for my ankle, which is interesting. The pressure is actually rather comfortable -

And then we land, and I look around to see where he's taken us. "A bathroom?"

"Disabled loo, platform nine, King's Cross Station," Teddy announces proudly, as though he's showing off a ballroom to the Minister for Magic. "Oh, shut up, it was the closest I could get you. And no-one's going to comment about us being in here together, because you're obviously out of it."

I try to protest, but he's already looking around the room. "What if someone had been in here?" I squeak, and he rolls his eyes.

"That's what memory charms are for."

"Teddy Lupin! You can't just go modifying the memories of every Muggle you meet!"

He shrugs. "To be honest? I didn't really think about it. More important things to worry about. Now, for the final touch -"

He transfigures a pair of crutches from the pile of empty loo rolls. "Don't lean on these," he warns, handing them to me. "They're basically cardboard."

I use one of them to smack him on the shoulder. "Hurry up, or we're gonna miss the train."

"Like you missed the Portkey?"

"Shut up!"

He holds open the door for me as I hobble through. None of the Muggles notice us, and moments later we're crossing the gate and arriving on platform nine-and-three-quarters.

"Victoire!" someone calls out. "You missed the Portkey, you silly girl -"

Mum. Suddenly I'm grateful for the busted ankle. "I tripped just as it left. Teddy helped me fix it up."

She's already kneeling in front of it, checking out Teddy's handiwork. She sniffs, then finally admits it'll hold until I get to Hogwarts. "But go to the hospital wing as soon as you get there, understand?"

"If you get there," Teddy says loudly. "Not to ruin the very touching family reunion, but the train's about to leave..."

I'm absolutely not going to miss the train! I've had enough drama for one morning. I hobble over to the closest doors, with mum's assistance, just as the train whistles out its final call for passengers. "I'll write!" I call to mum and Teddy, and I manage a wave to dad and the rest of the Weasleys just as the train begins moving.

Turns out it's surprisingly easy to get a seat on the Hogwarts Express when you're on crutches - even fake ones. I can't find my friends, but a group of first years conveniently vacate a compartment for me - lovely young people - and I sit back with my leg up and wait for them to come to me.

Teddy has done a pretty good job, I have to admit. The bandage is really neat, something that appeals to me - there's a lot of romance in having a desk piled with parchment and quills, but you do want medicine to be a little more structured - and I can barely feel the pain, except when I move it. Teddy's going to be a gamekeeper this year, so I guess he has to be good at first aid...

I take a peak at my toes. Dirt-free, I decide with a grin, and settle down for another year at Hogwarts.

A/N: I know you're not supposed to write notes saying not to read your story, but you'll forgive me this time, right? This is my NaNoWriMo story at the moment, and I'm currently staring at the massive Rose/Scorpius fic I wrote last year and never got around to editing and/or finishing. I'm fairly close to finishing this story, but anyone who's ever done NaNo will realise it'll require ages' worth of editing after November. So I'm posting this first chapter up to force myself into finishing!

So. Warnings. This is fluff, there is no plotline beyond high school drama, it'll be long and I'm not going to update for ages (although once I do they'll come fairly quickly). But hopefully someone out there likes it, to inspire me to actually finish a NaNo story for once :) thanks for reading...