Her baby was born cold, stiff. There was nothing to be done: all male Veela are stillborn and have been ever since the race of elegant, ethereal nymphs first stepped out of the deep woods of Olde Britain. The knowledge wracked Claudine. She could hardly take in the sorrowful touch of the wet-nurse on her shoulder, nor the sneer of shame that came over her own mothers immaculate face.

Approximately nine months prior, Claudine had been dancing alone in the moonlight, on the edge of a glade close to her families homestead. Her thin limbs moving with an ecstatic grace as she welcomed the soft drift of the moon in the night sky. This was the Danse De La Lune, performed by Veela annually on the full moon of their birth, which renewed the magical core that infused Veela. Claudine's skin glowed with beauty borrowed from the moon and pledged to her for another year. She was unaware that she was being watched, watched with a hunger that would ensnare her. As her eyes drifted to a close and she was lost in the art of her dance, her predator snuck closer on confident feet. She was caught.

Her escape was made the next morning, but the damage had been done. She could intuitively feel inside her centre the presence of another. Haltingly, begrudgingly at first but with small increments in pace until her belly was well oversized and Claudine had begun to come to terms with her new situation in life, and looked forward to her child. Not that it mattered now, not that any of it had mattered. Her baby was softly wrapped in pure white linen and quietly taken away. She hadn't even been allowed to hold him.
The labour had been uneventful, the wet-nurse ever patient and encouraging; until the crucial moment when the child Veela inherits its magic, given by the mother at the moment of birth from her very core. The magic aligned to the male child, and was rejected: the backlash severed the child's frail grasp on life completely and silenced the magical core of the mother.
Claudine's body would survive, even with the return of her magic uncertain. But she was broken; the child in her belly had begun to encompass her entire life, now she could hardly grapple with the loss of it, so suddenly, so irreversibly. Too weak to even weep, she stared into nothingness and allowed the despair to claim her completely.

Many miles away, across the Channel and in the stark clean white of St Mungos, a chubby baby with a shock of black hair cried out its first breaths, cradled against the breast of Lily Potter while her bright green eyes were glued to those of her husbands, beaming out his pride.