My name is Gabrielle, boviously Gabrielle Delacour interested me. It wasn't just the name that was so appealing, though; I felt like being a Veela, even just a part one, would be hard.
Anyway, just a random character study I came up with while parasailing (no, really).
Gabrielle Delacour eyed at the mirror disdainfully. As usual, it reflected her glowing, fair skin, her icy blue eyes, her shimmering, glossy, white-blonde hair. The 'nez de lutin', as her mother called it, much to Gabrielle's distaste.
The more Gabrielle looked at the mirror, the harder it was to turn away. Light, athletic build. Unblemished, glowing complexion. Every one of her perfect features pounded in her head.
'Visage d'un ange!' her mother would cry to the heavens, cupping her dear daughter's face in her hands. Small feet. Delicate hands.
Gabrielle soon found it was almost impossible for her to tear her eyes away. Here in France: 'Une si jolie fille; elle sera les epousent bientot.' And just recently, at the Weasleys': 'Cher, doux Gabrielle. Si elegant!'
No matter where Gabrielle went, her Veela family followed her. 'Un Delacour, vous avez dit? Aucune merveille, elle est certainement Veela.'
Even at Hogwarts, it was always 'Oh, Gabrielle, please go to the Yule Ball with me?' The poor, smitten boys, stumbling through memorized French, mispronouncing every word: 'Jay tee-may, Gabrielle!'
It was always polite smiles, dainty lifestyle, perfect manners. Even if she did want to go do something scandalous, go tear her dress, play in mud, they would only say she was spunky. She had tried it once; 'Un attitude ardente!' her mother had called grandly, chuckling.
The worst thing her mother had called Gabrielle was volatile, and even that was affectionate.
'Comme une petite princesse!' 'Comment la delicatesse elle est!'
Even her wand was dainty, perfect. Aspen, with a rose quartz-tipped end and a Veela hair core; from her grandmother, to be exact. 'A bit temperamental, Veela hair core wands are,' he mother had said 'but such a grand old tradition!'
Gabrielle would give anything in the world to go a day without being followed by the admiring, even adoring stares of those around her. She was never Gabrielle; she was always the beautiful young part-Veela.
No one ever got past her face, her hair. They only saw the trivial things. It was never love, only some deformed version of lust.
'Sa mere doit etre si fiere.' 'Si poli!'
If only there was a way to turn of the Veela charm. If only she could find someone who saw Gabrielle for Gabrielle. If only she could meet one person who saw what a horrible person she was. If only...
'Si seulement je pourrais etre aussi parfait que Gabrielle,' a first year had sighed dreamily as Gabrielle passed her in the hall. She had to clutch her wand, almost crushing it as she suppressed the urge to whirl around and cry, 'I'm not perfect! I'm me! Just me!'
Gabrielle's vision was getting hazy. Her dainty, petite hands had a death grip on the sink, and she had bitten her perfectly manicured fingers without realizing it. She consoled herself with these ten small imperfections; for surely her mother would charm them back to normal as soon as she saw them. She would have to enjoy it while it lasted.
She closed her eyes. The little red-haired girl, her age. Ginevra? Whoever she was, Gabrielle worshipped her above all others.
'Snooty, conceited brat, that Gabrielle,': those were her exact words, spoken behind closed doors. She had fought the urge to swing open the door and kiss her.
Gabrielle reached into the pocket of her dainty lavender dress robes, pulling out her wand. She fondled with it for a moment, running her thumb over the smooth, memorized surface. She could practically feel the Veela energy coming off it; that cunning, sly, aura.
She remembered Grand-pere. He had always compared Gabrielle to a silver dagger; dangerously beautiful, stunning in a twisted way.
She wished, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Grand-pere was here to tell her that now. No one else saw the warped beauty in her face. For them, it was pure.
That was why Grand-mere had loved him, she realized. He was almost immune to Veela charms. Grand-pere had always been wise enough to see through the aura of perfection into the layer of sly, devilish attitude underneath. He had compared Fleur to a Siren; she had been outraged.
Fleur had hated Grand-pere.
Suddenly, it all seemed like too much. The rage, the angst, the brokenness; it had all built up, and now it reared its head as an ugly monster in her chest.
Overcome with emotion, Gabrielle raked her nails across her face, crying out with broken sobs. Even the small, faint trails of blood were beautiful; uniform, accentuating her prominent cheekbones and defined nose.
'L'incorporation de la perfection.' 'Aphrodite sur terre.'
She had never gotten below a B in her life. Even when she'd downright neglected to do her Potions homework, Madam Moreau had simply chuckled, mumbled something about rebellious, independent attitude, and asked her to bring it in tomorrow.
Was it odd that the one thing she wanted above all else in her life was an F?
One of the worst parts was her impulsiveness to do everything to her full ability. It was instinctive to be perfect; it was easy. Weirdly, it took more effort to be bad than it did to be good.
Her wand was quivering excitedly in her pocket, having picked up on her strong, fragile attitude. Veela had always had violent tendencies; why should their wands be any different?
She remembered one boy in Germany; surly, brooding. 'Ein feines Probenmaterial eines Madchens,' he had whispered to his friends. 'eber ich habe sie eingewickelt um meinen finger in keiner Zeit.'
She had pointedly ignored him for the rest of the ball. If there was one thing that angered Gabrielle above all else, it was being handled as one big stereotype.
"Venez ici, Gabrielle!" A familiar voice called grandly from downstairs. Gabrielle closed her eyes, concentrating hard; when she opened them, her face was unscarred, her nails uniformly long and elegant.
"Dans un moment, mere," she called absentmindedly, her angelic, high voice ringing in the air and echoing through the house. As she left the room, she kept an eye on the retreating figure in the mirror.
Only now could Gabrielle face her mother.
I seriously doubt all of you are fluent in French, so here's the translations, in order of when they appeared in the story.
Pixie nose
Face of an angel
Such a pretty girl; she'll be wed soon.
Dear, sweet Gabrielle. So elegant!
A Delacour, you said? No wonder, she's definitely Veela.
A fiery attitude!
Like a little princess!
How delicate she is!
I wish I could be as perfect as Gabrielle,
Grand-pere=Grandfather, Grand-mere=Grandmother
The embodiment of perfection.
Aphrodite on Earth.
(In German) A fine specimen of a girl, but I'll have her wrapped around my finger in no time.
Come here, Gabrielle!
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