Character Appreciation: Veela
Buttons: Gabrielle Delacour
Chocolate Frogs, Newton Scamander: Make a magical creature the main feature of your story
Word Count: 459
"Come, my dear," her grandmother says, and Gabrielle quickens her pace.
A bright grin tugs at her lips. Gabrielle can still remember Fleur getting to go with her grandmother to have her wand crafted. She had been so jealous of her sister, so desperate to be old enough for her turn. Now, the moment is finally here, and she feels the flutter of excitement pulse through her veins as she follows the older woman into the want shop.
Her grandmother speaks with the shop owner, but Gabrielle barely hears them. Her bright eyes widen, and she moves along, looking at the finished wands. A moment later, the wandmaker appears before her, studying her careful.
"Trust Anya," her grandmother says. "She has an eye for these things."
"Oui, Bonne-maman," Gabrielle says as the wandmaker summons a measuring tape and measures her.
It feels unnecessary, but she doesn't protest. If her grandmother says Anya knows what she's doing, Gabrielle will trust her.
The wandmaker nods before disappearing behind the counter, muttering to herself. Gabrielle turns her attention back to her grandmother who stares in the mirror, brushing her fingers through her silvery hair.
"You are part Veela, my darling."
Gabrielle nods. "I know, Bonne-maman."
"Many will think this means that you are just a pretty face," the older woman continues, tipping her head to the side with a faint smile. "You have so much human blood, that it will probably feel more like a curse than a gift."
Gabrielle purses her lips. It does feel like a terrible burden some days. She is not even a teenager, and complete strangers look at her like she's little more than a body they want to claim.
Her grandmother grins, and there's a wicked glint in her pale eyes. Her features flicker, and her mouth and nose elongate, forming a fearsome beak. Gabrielle catches a brief glimpse of her greying feathers before her grandmother's features return to that of an elderly human woman. "Remember, my dear," she says, plucking a few stray hairs and examining them with narrowed eyes, "there is so much more to us than our beauty. We are wild, fierce creatures."
"Oui," Gabrielle agrees, though she doesn't quite agree. How can she be fierce when she is so small, so delicate?
But her grandmother is built the same way, and only a fool would assume that she is weak. The older woman is a constant reminder that beauty and ferocity can exist with one being.
Anya returns and accepts the hairs before disappearing again.
"My hair will serve as the core of your wand, Gabrielle. Whenever you use it, I want you to remember that you are more than just beautiful. My blood flows in your veins, child. Make me proud."