Embrace your vices.
Veela. Damn.
There's something about them that's just― damn!
It's in their lascivious eyes that tempt and tease every time they blink and they let those eyelashes flutter through the air batting down every possible worry or trouble. It's in their white-gold hair that naturally splays out as if an invisible fan were perpetually positioned before them for the purpose of blowing a sensual life into each flowing strand.
It's in the glisten of their luminous skin, always with the threat of a good workout's perspiration and the heat of an excited fluster. A look that proclaims the experience of a veteran but the vivacity of a virgin. They are ever perfectly fit for a ball and for a bed.
It's in their long legs. And those legs' connection to their hips and the outlines of every muscle and bone as you trace them up and they lead you to the two most perfect hills on the planet.
It's in their areolae.
But it's also in their natural grace; it's in their hypnotic movement.
It's in their complete picture. It's the whole, far greater than the sum of all their individual perfections. They are the object of every man's fantasy and every woman's jealousy.
An angel ain't so damn superlatively beautiful.
They exist as a beauty so perfect that the ancient stories say if but a single hair were plucked from a Veela's head, she would shrivel up and cease to live. So connected was her being with the very idea of perfection in the bards' description that if a single flaw, no matter how small, were forced upon a Veela the creature would no longer be perfect, and thus no longer be a Veela, and thus no longer be, at all. I can believe it. And I'd believe them if they told me that humans use gold as currency because it resembles the color of a Veela's hair and that on a cold, clear night we like to look at the moon because it reminds us of their skin or that the main reason we, as humans, evolved to be diurnal beings was so that we could better gaze upon the beauty of a veela in the light of day. (Not that they don't light up one's world at night.)
Their very existence is a testament to man's predilection to vice and a blot against any proselytizer proposing a virtuous lifestyle. For if man did not give into the Veela's raw sexual energy, then the Veela would not exist as a species. Nature has brought this wonderful species about, and our inner nature drives us to preserve the species' continuation. Why should we deny that which created them and, also, that which created us?
We, as humans, hold vampires, werewolves, hags, goblins, giants, and, of course, veela, all creatures who hold evils and vices at the very essence of their existence as if they'd been created solely for the realization of those vices, as the equal classification of being and not as beasts. We hold them thus in equal classification with ourselves not to hold their sentience to our purported level of restraint but to allow ours to sink to theirs.
For men are, in truth, savage beasts. We proclaim ourselves as human and we create these classifications and a system of laws and government to try to support this bold proclamation. However, when we claimed these beings were our equal in mind and comprehension, we, then, swiftly, stole away all their rights and persevered to treat them worse than beasts. We did it, did it before they could do it to us. We did it so that they wouldn't have the right to say that we couldn't. We did it so we'd feel justified in doing it. For we, as humans, can only be satisfied with others below them.
We are not humane. Humane creatures would not let their brethren freeze and die in the street, especially when with a swish, a mere flick of the hand that could hardly last over half a second, they could conjure up for this cold, dying brother or sister a whole building replete with warm hearth and bed, and humane creatures would share their bread with these people in the street and those elsewhere, especially as an engorgement charm could double or triple their own bread's size. Humane creatures would not throw Stan Shunpike or even any guilty man into Azkaban. No, we are beasts. Anyone saying otherwise does not read history, does not look outside or else he lies.
I'm a beast.
Give me a good fist fight. Give me blood and my revenge. Give me a wench and a warm plate of meat.
Give me a Veela.
Their flawless image is but skin-deep, but when has that ever stopped one before?
Indeed, humans prefer it that way. We love to put on a good face and will go to great extremes to encourage that outside image of ourselves while keeping our own beastly, shadowy background contained, hidden, there within our shadowy background. While hiding our own miscomings, we delight in gossiping over and exposing others' flaws or failures; we love that darker part of our neighbors, partly because we can hold it against them and partly because we can feel connected to them, in that we are not the only ones who sin. Partly, we wish to think that all others are beasts and ourselves the only good people in the world and even when we err, we are not so bad as those others, and partly, we do like to feel connected: there are others out there, just like us. We love the immaculate outer image. And we love that flawed hidden image, that part which we go so far as to say makes us human.
Thus it is also with the fascination of the Veela.
For the Veela, also, contains both the beauty and the beast, but with a perfection unparalleled in the human counterparts. Their perfect outer image is without blemish. Additionally, their beastly image, complete with vicious beaks and harsh, scaled wings, is just as perfect. They can even, from their hard and taloned hands, conjure fire, the symbol of vicious wrath which cannot help but to evince the great idea of the terrible dragon, that epitome of the ferocious beast.
In this one body, there is the transcendent complementation of these two perfections, and this complementation greatly demonstrates that the whole of the Veela is, indeed, worth much more than the sum of her parts. For the beauty and the beast in no way, as in some childish conception of an algebra of life, cancel each other out as opposites do in mathematics.
The Veela's dual perfections, both that of refinement and that of beastliness, only serve to cement her allure. We, as humans, crave to know that beneath their image of perfection is a hideous beast as dark as the beast within ourselves or darker still. And we crave, all the more, to know that despite that perfect image of the hideous beast, that body contains also the image of a stunningly radiant beauty. We want that to be true of us. We want that image. We want the Veela.