Fleur Delacour. Beauty.
Fleur knows what makes her beautiful.
It is not her sort-of startling face which, even if voided of its gossamer radiance and fragility, would shine through smudged lipstick and eyes heavy-bagged from long glaring matches with the goblins, not the legs that made skirts appear as though they were made to be hiked up.
It is not her mind, meticulously crafted to diamond sharpness night after night in Beauxbatons glass libraries, to prove herself worthy of her wand, despite her half-bred heritage, to prove herself more than a mindless physical masterpiece.
It is not her integrity, nor steadfastness, nor the heady bravery that made her a war bride to the bone, more than the wedding that ended in embers, more than white dress cut to shreds by curses.
And it is not her flaws, the near invisible scars and shadows that mar her silvery perfection, left by a childhood of excessive self-confidence, left by years on a pedestal, carried by catcalls and jeers both, left by the Triwizard tournament, left by war.
The things that make her beautiful are not hers, not entirely, they are: Gabrielle rolling her eyes at her increasingly English ways, Victoire being absolutely horrendous when time comes to visit the grandparents, Bill and his rakish smiles and generous hands and openly-adoring gazes.
There's love there, and it outshines veela magic by aces.
"I am beautiful enough for the both of us, I theenk!"