A/N: A quasi-fic written for an application. Still, it's writing and it's HP ergo it's fanfiction. Unbeta-ed. Disclaimer applies.
Basic background: Gabrielle Delacour (Fleur's little sister, for those who don't remember her) is now 19 and works in London as a fashion photographer. She's quite young but talented and is building a solid reputation.
Summary: Gabrielle Delacour conducts a shoot.
There are rules to this industry…
The model was late. Gabrielle fumed silently. Everyone else was ready, the designs patiently waiting on their racks. What good were the designs if there was no one there to wear them? She checked her timepiece for the eleventh time and glared at the still closed doors. These infantile models, she thought, annoyed, they are never on time and always breeze through as if they are the ones in charge. They are so, so, unprofessional!
'Yes, quite.' She heard a low voice agree with her and turned unsurprised to find her assistant perched on the table that held her equipment. Gabrielle didn't bat an eye at the realization that she must have spoken out loud.
'Be careful with those cameras,' she warned, 'They are very expensive.' Perhaps costing more than you make in a week, she thought to herself as she looked at the young boy, though he was probably closer to her age than she gave him credit for.
The wardrobe assistants were getting restless and they were renting this studio by the hour. Gabrielle gritted her teeth; that model, ce femme-enfant would never work in this town again. She had postponed all their scheduled shoots before this one – usually on the day they were scheduled, sometimes hours before the scheduled time, and treated everyone else as if they were compelled to carry out her every whim. Gabrielle had to time or patience to deal with such immature tarts and she very nearly Flooed her editor to cancel the column when the annoying creature walked in.
Pasting a see-through smile on her face, Gabrielle glided forward to set the witch at ease. After all, the model had to be happy for the entire charade to work. That she had to pander to this second string poseur was just one of the pitfalls of secondary fashion markets.
'Mademoiselle,' she greeted and removed the woman's coat. Le bonne femme stared down her rather large nose at her, with disdain etched plainly on her features.
'You're the photographer?' she asked derisively, with a disparaging look at Gabrielle's clothing. If she had been holding her wand, Gabrielle was fairly sure it would have spit sparks – the Veela hair core was temperamental enough without her volatile emotions.
There was nothing wrong with what she was wearing. She purposely chose the least flamboyant outfit in her wardrobe in an effort not to out-dress her model. The only concession to her vanity was the ostentatious pair of shoes she put on.
'This way, mademoiselle, s'il vous plait.' She found that her patrons responded better when she made liberal use of her French background. One could only wonder what lengths to which she'd have to go to please this one. Inhaling deeply, knowing she would need all her patience, Gabrielle handed the faux fur coat to a wardrobe assistant and picked up her camera. Taking another deep breath to calm herself, she withdrew her wand and methodically dimmed the room to her preferred level of light. As the accustomed ambiance settled, she grew purposeful and visions of the upcoming shoot became clear.
The model walked back into the room, all legs and heels in the latest creation by an upcoming witch. The model walked onto the background with minimal fuss and took a pose. Unoriginal, was Gabrielle's first thought, but it will do for now. She concentrated hard on the visions she had and snapped shot after shot while the model found more ways to deliver unoriginal, uninspiring poses. In between her changes of wardrobe, Gabrielle looked at the shots she had captured. She scanned them fleetingly, committing to memory those that stood out and dismissing those that did not.
Satisfied with her work and the representation of the designer's collection, but unsatisfied with the model's performance, she restored the lighting and watched as an assistant packed her equipment carefully. She was seriously considering dismissing the untalented diva without pay but knew her editor would be less than pleased if the model decided to sue. She twirled her wand between her fingers, absentmindedly, not noticing the yellow sparks that burst from the tip.
'Ms. Delacour, your equipment is packed,' her assistant said, interrupting her internal tirade.
'Merci, Thomas,' she responded and shrunk the boxes into palm-sized packages then slipped them into her purse. Fed up with the entire situation, she walked swiftly out of the room. The model could deal with the accounting department for her compensation.
fin
Notes:
Ce femme enfant – that woman-child
Le bonne femme – the wretched woman
S'il vous plait – please
Merci – thank you