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Ladylike. by ilharrypotter
Chapter 1 : Of Rulebooks and Denial.
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 25

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Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything that looks familar.

Alright, here it is! This is officially my baby. I called "Come Back to Me" my baby, but I think this one takes the cake. It's going to be a novel, I hope, and it's ALL ABOUT DOMINIQUE WEASLEY! Because really, what do we know about her? Well, she's absolutely barmy, of course. But she's a Weasley, what do we expect? I'll let you read it to find out and learn about Dominique, but I promise- you'll love this girl. You'll love James and Fred, too. They're so entertaining to write about. And you'll love Mr. Scamander, the little cutie that he is. And of course, you'll love Lily- what's a good NG story without Lily Potter?

Like I said: this story is my baby. Read & review, because of all the hard work I'm putting on Ladylike really deserves some feedback. I'm begging you! 

THIS IS THE REAL LADYLIKE. Ladylike, posted by xxMerisaxx on fanfiction dot net, is NOT her work - it's mine. Any other copy of this story posted on any site is NOT the property of that author; it's mine. I haven't posted it anywhere. PLEASE REPORT THESE PEOPLE.


Incredible chapter image made by WolvesOfTheNewMoon @ TDA! 

This is my idea of Dominique, except with less pure blond and more strawberry, in case you were wondering.

All proper young ladies must always look lovely and appropriate for all types of outings. 

I slam the hardback volume my mother gave me on my eleventh birthday closed, throwing it behind me onto the mass amount of down pillows encased in scarlet and gold velvet that lived at the head of my bed. The book is entitled Things All Proper Young Ladies Should Know, and my mother insists it is the piece of literature for people like us to live by. “People like us” means people who are Weasleys, who are practically royalty in the world now, and my family especially- we’re part Delacour as well- might as well rule the world in Maman’s opinion.

Victoire, my older sister, who is twenty now and five years older than me, agreed wholeheartedly, and when I received the book, she promised me that one day, I will have no idea how I got along for eleven years without the book’s assistance. Right after, Maman seconded that statement heartily. They had looked thoroughly insulted when I outright guffawed at them, and my father, Bill, had tried his hardest to hide his approving grin. I think he is secretly pleased that at least one of his stubbornly opinionated, part-Veela daughters doesn’t believe in such nonsense, like his wife and eldest daughter do. Luckily for Bill, I am the Weasley “son” that my little brother Louis, who is good enough but too meek and frail to ever be the son Bill dreamed of, fails to be.

Today is the first day I’ve ever opened it, approximately four years after I received it. Within the first sentence of the first chapter, which is a full ten pages on appropriate clothing choices and unacceptable outfits, I am rather curious as to how that book is supposed to help me; so far, all it has done is essentially say that dressing comfortably and casually was a criminal offense. I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror my sister left behind when she moved out. If it is a criminal offense and the author of that book has any standing in the Ministry, I will have a life sentence to Askaban before I turn seventeen.

My first offense? I’m wearing jeans. Faded, wrinkled jeans, with holes in the knees and a spot of ink from a fit of frustration in the middle of my Herbology final last year. They are my favorite jeans, though. They fit me perfectly, and while they aren’t necessarily fashionable or ladylike, I find myself to look rather cute, in my personal opinion. I guess that my yellow satin blouse with the pearl buttons is close to being acceptable, if it wasn’t paired with a thin white camisole that bares far too much of my chest and completely unbuttoned. That book is a crock of dragon dung. If its bright blue and gold cover didn’t stand out horribly amidst the white sand in the backyard of Shell Cottage, I’d probably chuck it out the window.

It is one of those moments in which I feel myself yearning to have a friend- a friend that is a girl- with whom I could discuss the stupidity of this awful “rulebook”. Of course, I don’t have a friend that is a girl to discuss anything with. All I have are my three best mates- three blokes- who double as my cousins, James Potter and Fred Weasley, and the longtime family friend, Lorcan Scamander. That is how it’s always been, and that’s how it always will be. Most girls my age bother me out of my mind, and the very few that don’t have no interest in a girl like me. The girls I go to school with likely agree with every word in this bloody book, and like my mother, they think a fifteen year old girl who cares more about Quidditch and pranks than style and flirting with boys is completely out of the ordinary. Which, I suppose, it is. Therefore, James, Fred, and Lorcan are all I had left. But I prefer it that way- usually. Not right at this particular moment, though.

Someone knocks on my bedroom door. I run my hand through my strawberry blonde ringlets, considering ignoring the knock as if I couldn’t hear it. If it is one of my younger cousins, I will regret speaking more than one word to them, but if it’s one of the Potters or Fred, I will regret not allowing them in to save me from the stupidity of that ladylike rulebook. They are really all I have for things like that. Weighing the pros and cons quickly, I step towards the door. Before I can open it, my visitor pushes the door open themselves. Damn. I never remember to lock it.

“Dominique, do you think you could-” Rose Weasley starts the minute she steps into my bedroom.

“At least try to look decent?” Albus Potter finishes for her, stepping in right behind her.

The pair of fourteen year olds giggle and exchange high fives and their secret handshake. I grimace. What the fuck have I ever done to deserve this? Rose Weasley and Albus Potter are my cousins, and they make it a mission to be a massive pain in my arse every single day in which they breathe. It’s rare for them not to succeed. I love my cousins as if they’re my own siblings, but Merlin’s beard, are they annoying! Rose always fusses about my appearance or something like that, and Albus, like a good cousin/best mate, consistently joins in to finish her sentences. Obnoxious brats.

I glance down at what I’m wearing again, noticing for the first time my bare toes poking out from underneath the bottoms of my jeans. I haven’t gotten far enough in the book, but I’m sure it forbids going barefoot, too. Oh well. I will never listen to that book anyway, especially if it thinks I should wear shoes. I never wear shoes. I hate shoes. That’s beside the point, of course. For me, I am dressed decent. I’m practically dressed up. Of course, my standards are a lot different from Rose’s: Rose is prim, the type who buttons her blouses and cardigans up to her chin, constantly wears skirts to her knees, and will never go without shoes. She wouldn’t worship the “proper young lady” rulebook like my eldest sister, but she probably wouldn’t disagree with it, either.

Why did I open the door again?

“I mean, it’s Grandmum’s back-to-Hogwarts dinner,” Rose continues. She flips her bright red hair, which is long and wildly curly, over her shoulder, as she is always doing when she tries to act superior to me, and then rolls her Weasley-blue eyes at me.

Albus nods in agreement. I look over at him; I love Albus, just as I love the rest of the Potters. He is almost exactly like his brother, James, who tends to nod his head and agree with everything I say, in order to avoid conflict. He is much less aggravating whenever Rose isn’t around. Albus is a little mini-Harry, of course, right down to Lily Potter’s emerald green eyes and Harry’s black-framed glasses. He even sounds like Uncle Harry, albeit higher pitched. I love him to death- when Rose isn’t with him. She makes him unbearable. “Everyone is going to be there, Dominique.”

“I know that,” I snap back, turning away from my cousins. I hate when they call me Dominique.

Why does my stupid sister insist that she is capable of baby-sitting the Potter and Weasley spawns? I know my uncles and aunts need a break occasionally, and I will never criticize their choice to take one- however, I will criticize the decision to hand their children over to Victoire, who just so happens to live in the same house as me. Ever since Victoire and Teddy became engaged a few months ago, she has been all over the idea of taking care of the three Potter children, James- who doesn’t really need taking care of, as he’s my age, - Albus, and Lily. Hermione and Ron’s two children, Rose and Hugo, generally come along with the territory too, and Victoire seems to embrace the occasional duty with open arms. 

She tells Teddy that she is just practicing her motherly instincts-, which seems to scare the poor bloke more than please him- while confiding in me that she is really trying to get in good with Harry and Ginny. I think that is a useless venture, as Uncle Harry already likes Victoire just fine, even though Aunt Ginny thinks she is a less-French version of her she-devil mother. If I had enough patience to communicate this to my sister, it would save me many afternoons spend with my five cousins, only two of which I actually like. However, I don’t, so I suppose it’s my own fault.

“The Scamanders are going to be there,” Rose adds, as if this is some piece of new information that was truly intriguing. It isn’t.

I roll my eyes. The Scamanders- Rolf, Luna, and their twins, Lorcan, and Lysander- are always at Grandmum’s back-to-Hogwarts feast. They are at every single event Grandmum arranged. Every wedding, baby shower, birthday party, and celebration since I can remember, and probably before then too, the Scamanders received an invitation. They’re practically family members. I’ve known the twins since we were all babies, and Luna and Rolf are like another set of aunts and uncles. For Merlin’s sake, Rolf and Luna even had their wedding at the Burrow; the pictures still sit among the rest of the wedding photos on Grandmum and Grandpa’s mantel.

“You think she’d want to dress up a little if she heard Lorcan was going to be there,” Albus elbows Rose, as if the two of them have some secret between them regarding Lorcan Scamander and I. “I mean, hasn’t she been in love with him since she was a first year?”

Okay, maybe Rose and Albus are onto something. Quite a bit of something. Yes, I fancy Lorcan Scamander, and I have fancied Lorcan Scamander. He’s unnaturally gorgeous, in my opinion, and not half as weird as everyone else thinks he is, and I think no one can possibly pull off his silvery grey eyes and sleekly cut white-blond hair as he can, not even his twin brother. I find the scar that runs down the side of his face just another part of his attractiveness, and I will never let him criticize himself over it. I think his constant babbling about Nargles and The Quibbler is just plain adorable, and I never think the way he constantly misplaces everything he owns and the way he tucks his wand behind his ear are reasons to tease him. But no matter how long I’ve fancied him, I’ll never be able to tell him. No matter how much I like him and how adorable I find him, Lorcan Scamander will never know.

I believe the whole thing began when I was five. We had been playing together in the backyard of Shell Cottage with the older of the Weasley children, plus Lysander, his twin brother. He found one single, battered flower in the backyard amidst the grass, and he brought it over to me. His extreme happiness at the moment somehow triggered his childhood magic, and he transformed the not-so-pretty flower into a sunshine yellow tulip. His parents rushed over to praise him- he was the first of the five of us to show any sign of magic that strongly, and it was a exciting thing. Ever since then, somehow, I’ve been falling more and more for Lorcan Scamander. I still have the yellow tulip, too.

I narrow my eyes at Albus and Rose, who share perceptive glances between each other as if they know something when they so clearly do not. My eyes are the same shade of Weasley blue as Rose’s- eyes we obtained from our fathers, eyes that have ran in the family for as long as the red hair on Rose’s head has- and behind them rests the powerful temper all Weasleys, especially the women, possess.

That Weasley temper is boiling at the slight mention of Lorcan. It never takes much to set me off. This time, I hate that my cousins assume they are correct about something, even though they really are correct. I mean, what kind of rubbish is that? They’re fourteen years old, and they don’t have a right to assume things like that and be right about it. My temper is further provoked by the reminder that whether or not Albus and Rose are correct in their obnoxious assumptions, which they are, I will forever remain on a platonic basis with Lorcan. He’s my best mate, practically my second brother. To him, I’m just another one of the blokes. To him, I will always be just another one of the blokes. I’ve always been one of the blokes. I grimace inwardly. I hate when my cousins say things like that. Gets me thinking far too much.

“Will you two get out, please?” I reach forward to plant a hand on Rose’s shoulder, and I give her a not-so-gentle shove towards my open bedroom door. With my other hand, I brandish my wand, which has been tucked in the back pocket of my jeans. No, I’m not supposed to use magic outside of Hogwarts- Rose and Albus know that very well. However, they also know that, like James and Fred, I have no qualms about breaking that slightly important law. Especially not when I’m at my most annoyed. “Nice talking to you, but get the hell out of my bedroom.”

Albus smirks at me. It’s his I’m-the-son-of-Harry-Potter-and-my-dad-saved-your-arse smirk. It’s rather rare for Albus to use it; James trademarked that smirk when he was eleven years old, and Albus only sports it on rare occasions, like when I’m being an exceptionally massive bitch- massive for me, anyway- and trying to kick him out of my room.

I wave my wand dangerously close to the lenses of his crooked glasses. You’d think with all of the money Uncle Harry has, he can afford to fix Albus’ glasses- or at least tap them with a wand to keep them permanently straight. They are crooked enough to seriously bother me. I will talk to Aunt Ginny about doing something about that. People are going to start thinking Albus is a loser, for more reasons than just some of the cousins he has.

With another false wave of my wand, I have Albus and Rose halfway down the hallway. My cousin James takes their place, running his hands through his scruffy black hair. It’s overgrown and covers his ears now, in a fashion I hear is comparable to one of his namesakes, the great Sirius Black; from the other stories I hear about Sirius Black- and the notches on his bedpost at Hogwarts- the hair is not the only thing in which James and Sirius are similar. Much to my disgust and Fred’s amusement, James Sirius Potter the Second (he hates the idea of being James Junior, which I use against him when he pisses me off) has quite a few notches of his own- ironically, on the same bed that was once Sirius’.

“Well, Dommie, don’t you seem happy,” James says, pushing past me so he can saunter into my bedroom. He saunters everywhere he went. In pictures Uncle Harry has shown me of Sirius Black and James Potter, along with two other boys, one of which they say was Teddy’s father Remus, Sirius and James- the original James- saunter the same way. It comes with the names, I suppose, because James’ every step is filled with annoying haughtiness. He throws himself on the scarlet satin duvet cover, wrinkling the bed covers badly enough to give Maman a heart attack whenever she sees it. I’ll have to fix it once James gets off.

I cross my arms over my chest. “My name is Dom,” I snap at James. He’s always playing around with my given name and coming up with new, more obnoxious derivatives of it- Dommie, Nick, Nicky, ’Nique. Anything but Dom, of course. Sometimes I really have to remind myself that he is my best mate.

James laughs in that smug way of his. “Actually,” he responds. “Your name is Dominique Fleur Rachelle Amalie Weasley.” He says all five of my names in one breath at warped speed, and then grins contentedly, shifting his body to rest his weight on his elbow.

Oh, how I hate Maman for my three middle names. She just couldn’t decide at birth what name went best with Dominique- as if it really matters what your middle name is, anyway. The only things middle names are used for are for when you’re in deep dragon dung with your mum or grandmother and for complicating the process of filling out paperwork for the Ministry. Or, in my world, when you have a really aggravating cousin, who also happens to be your best mate, who entertains himself by using those three middle names to come up with the most insufferable nicknames in the history of the magical world.

I hate my mother for being indecisive. I really do. I’m never indecisive; of course, I don’t think before I make a decision either, which tends to have negative ramifications as well. So it’s still kind of an awful trait to possess, but at least I’ll never give my future daughter three middle names because I can’t pick one. Merlin forbid James reproduces, and my poor daughter has to deal with James Potter the Third creating terrible nicknames for her. Of course, James has very low chances of finding a girl to settle down with, since he’s such a Sirius, but I won’t be surprised if he somehow gets around the whole marriage- or at least a committed relationship- concept and spawns anyway. Just so my future children don’t have a James-less childhood. Yes, that is my best mate for you.

I fling myself on my back besides James, my strawberry blonde ringlets resting on the scarlet duvet cover next to my cousin’s Quidditch-toned shoulders. He grins at me, letting me know that he’s done being a prat for the time being. I sigh, pressing my head into the cushiony bed underneath me. So many afternoons have been spent like this with James, sometimes with Fred sprawling out with his head on my stomach and Lorcan leaning against the head of the bed, when I spill out the few problems I have and the boys offer their sometimes-good advice. James’ advice is always the best, once you translate it from Cocky Quidditch Player to normal English. James really is my best mate, despite how much of a git he is, and I don’t know what I’d do without him.

“Alright, Dommie, what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

I sigh. You can’t teach James anything. Even when you can curse him into an early death. “Your bloody brother insinuated that I like Lorcan Scamander.”

James sits straight up, and his black hair stands up from the static electricity it collected from my velvet pillows. He raises his thin, almost-feminine black eyebrows. “Don’t you?” he says, in a voice that is more confused than surprised.

“Of course not!” I slap his shoulder with my palm as hard as I possibly can. Bad idea. Muscles plus bony hands with a lack of force equals extreme pain. “Damnit, James. Fuck.” I shake my stinging hand in the air as I glare at James, who seems more surprised to hear that I don’t like Lorcan Scamander than he is to hear Albus accuse me of such. Of course, James thinks he knows me well enough to know whom I do and do not fancy- which, surely, he does. But in his mind now, he doesn’t. Even though I’m lying through my teeth, just as I always do when Lorcan becomes a topic of discussion.

My cousin flops back on the bed, and his black hair stands up in all directions around his tanned face, which is faintly splattered with the same Weasley freckles that are sprinkled on the bridge of my nose. He closes his eyes. “Oh,” he states plainly. “I thought you did.”

“No, absolutely not.”

What I mean to say is, “Yes, I absolutely do.” I sigh. Telling James would be easier than constantly lying to him, but that doesn’t stop me. I never tell James or Fred when I’m interested in a bloke- not that I’m ever really interested in any blokes seriously enough to tell anyone, let alone them- because I know that the second I do, they’ll either take the mickey out of me or pull that overprotective cousin thing and attack the bloke. Not telling them is less trouble, or so I convince myself.

I close my eyes as James had. I’m quite good at lying to myself when I need to.

This is going to be a very long year at Hogwarts.



THIS IS THE REAL LADYLIKE. Ladylike, posted by xxMerisaxx on fanfiction dot net, is NOT her work - it's mine. Any other copy of this story posted on any site is NOT the property of that author; it's mine. I haven't posted it anywhere. PLEASE REPORT THESE PEOPLE.

You knooooow you want to review... doooo it.

Sorry, I just really want to know if this sounds like utter crap of if it really sounds good! And just so everyone knows, the Mature rating will only be for language. I don't plan on throwing anything else in there that makes it Mature. 



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