#by being more roman than the romans

It was not as though she did not know what she was, or as though she was afraidof the petty prejudices of wizards.

But perhaps it was better to keep some things secret, purely for convenience’ sake, you understand. It was not as though she was so very different from them.

Sometimes, yes, she heard her girls whisper behind her back, looking at her askance. And sometimes, yes, some families would rather send their daughters elsewhere - else find tutors for them (tutors, ironically, she herself had taught). But in the end, they would always come to her, her girls, and ask her whether they ought to have damask or brocade robes, robes of silk or robes of tafetta - and she always knew, far better than those ri-di-cul-ousmagazine, which robes were en vogue.

So how could she be very different from them? She was one of them. She was not a violent, barbaric, barely intelligent creature. Madame Maxime simply kneweverything, therefore, normal. So how could they, the girls she had taught how to dress and how to walk, how to bow and how to deliver an insult just-so stand by and quietly let their headmistress be called barbaric?

Yes, there was method to her madness.

Behind every succesful Ministry man, after all, was a Beauxbatons witch.

(Madame Maxime requested by storylinecaroline)