Before the age of six, Nyx never really had a reason to think about or question their talent. They’d known about it before then but they hadn’t ever seen it as something unusual. The fact that their eyes changed colour with their mood or their freckles danced across their skin like the ever moving starry sky was not strange.Yes, their grandmother didn’t do it but why would she? She was cool looking and didn’t seem like the type who wanted to change anything about herself. And of course their mother hadn’t done it before but she had so many spells that changed the form of other things that Nyx saw that as basically the same thing. And neither of them really said anything about it. Not anything that indicated that it was strange. Not in front of Nyx, at least. Not that they could remember.

So is it really a wonder that the first time they questioned it was because of their growing but still tiny little sister? By then, Psyche was already three and filled with that same curiosity everyone has as a toddler. She’d pointed at Nyx’s face one day and asked rather plainly, “Why pink?”

Of course, Nyx explained as much as they thought was necessary and said with a shrug, “I feel pink,”

They thought that would be the end of it.

It was not.

That simple question sparked a discussion with their whole family and after it, Nyx had a million and one questions and twice as many ideas.

That day they learned that this power came from their latest documented ancestor— from their mothers side, of course— Aphrodite Dove. She had been a beautiful woman and rather skilled with the Metamorphmagus talent. She changed her form often, her appearance as fluid as she wished.Most of the time, she changed it to what others desired. Rarely did she do what she herself wanted. This was very important to their family history. It was one of the reasons why they treasured a persons wants and needs, it was why they were a matriarchal family, it was the start of the family tradition to name their children for Ancient Greek deities. But in this moment, the most important part of it to Nyx at that time was that she was where they got this ability from.

For about a week after that day, they tried and tried and tried to change something deliberately. It didn’t work out. Then, they decided that they didn’t care too much about that. It was super cool regardless.

Their talent remained a constant in their life that they did not think much on, just like before that conversation. However it became more important to them afterwards.

As they grew older, it was this talent that allowed them more easily understand themself. After all, isn’t it much easier to live your life when you don’t have to over think what it is you are feeling? Their eyes changed colour based on their emotions and once they figured out approximately what each one meant things became so much simpler. It was easier to figure out that you didn’t like long hair when your body essentially told you by making it shorter. Part of the reason that they chose Nyx as their name was because of a comment Psyche had made about their ever changing freckles— how they looked like stats in the night sky.
Freckles that they wouldn’t have behaved that way if it weren’t for them being a Metamorphmagus. Sure, not everything changed all the time and it wasn’t as if everything they learned about themself was because of this talent. But it certainly made things easier.

So while Nyx didn’t have a reason to ever think about their talent before the age of six and didn’t actively consider it very frequently afterwards, it was still very much an important part of who they were.

Marshal Walker had never known much about his family tree. But as soon as he had begun visiting his grandmother, he began to know more than he thought he liked. Every time his mother had scraped together enough money to afford a visit, he would spend as much time as possible listening to her stories, absently chewing on the brownies he loved so much.

On one particular visit, his grandmother sat him down in their usual room. The walls were draped with ancient wallpaper, splattered with water spots from bursting pipes over the years. The small windows dotted the walls, casting mystifying shadows on otherwise sunlit furniture. She didn’t seem sad nor happy with her housing establishment, but to Marshal, it was his second home. No matter how rickety the guest beds were, or how you had to turn the sink knob around twice to turn the water on.

On this particular evening, his grandmother sat down in the creaking rocking chair set in the corner, and began the meticulous rocking that always seemed to make Marshal fill with tired fatigue. She took up the needle and thread attached to a partially finished… something. She had been working on it for as long as Marshal could remember, which all but really said she had no talent in knitting. Her fingers were surprisingly quick for her age, though her long, silvery hair often got tangled in the string. The sock-sweater-scarf thing had little strands of bright silver weaved into it, and Marshal could recall each time she flinched as a hair strand caught in the weaving. In his childish opinion, he thought it looked quite pretty. Maybe she would let him have it one day.

“How has school been, Mars?” She asked in that melodic, soft voice. This was the question she inquired every time, starting off simple before diving into the deep history she loved to rant about. He kept his eyes locked on the needle, dipping in and out of the already woven thread. It was like a worm, pulling up out of the soil, leaving a small bump of wool, and then diving down underneath. Almost like a dolphin in the waters, as well, jumping and diving gracefully and quickly.

“Okay.” He shrugged. “Ms. Form made us do the tables again.” He pouted childishly.


“The times tables?” His grandmother inquired without looking up. Marshal nodded.

“Well, that is a shame, isn’t it? Good thing I have a very interesting story to tell today.” A sly smile tugged at the corners of her wrinkled mouth, soft pink lips curving up slowly. Sitting up in anticipation, Marshal leaned forwards. His golden curls tumbled into his eyes, and he shook his head vigorously, anxious for the new story.

She set down the knitting materials, and he gaped openly. This fantasized story must be incredibly important. She would only set down her needle and thread if she really had something to say. Lifting her head, she swished her soft long hair over her shoulder, looking him in the eyes.

“How much do you know about your family tree?” She gave him no time to answer, her eyes twinkling.

“Veelas are mythical creatures. Constantly full of life and dance, swaying around the meadows like lilies on the water. One of their most noticeable and likable qualities is their beauty. Hair long and shiny silver, always waving in the wind no matter the breeze. Skin pale and fair as a shining moon.” Young Marshal gasped, pointing a finger at her hair. She winked. “They were known for luring in men and women of any kind, making them feel extremely attracted.” Marshal marveled in wonder at the tale.

“Are they real?” He asked.

“Yes.”

Little did he know at the time, as he was still a naive child, his life was about to change noticeably.
Or maybe not.

He had known he was a nice looking boy. His mother would always remind him of that fact. But to him, it was a barrier, something that set him apart from the other children. He would occasionally be teased by the other children about his perfect features. His skin was too smooth, they would say. One particular bully would say it was translucent, like a frog. That unfortunate taunt earned him the nickname “Hop”, that stuck throughout his childhood years. New kids didn’t understand it, but he did. And he hated it.

His mother was similar in features, with her carved jawline and her pretty doe eyes. She just had a hard time handling it, a barrier between her and her beauty like strangers placed together for group work. She always claimed she got it from her grandmother, as if putting the blame or the reasoning onto her mother. But Marshal could see she was beautiful, especially when the sun hit her skin and made her look like a goddess, gently set on earth by the hands of an other-worldly being.

He also found himself not understanding how to handle his looks. Opinions varied to a point where he hardly knew what he looked like, whether he had nice curls or greasy matts, or if he had shiny eyes or glossy marbles. The only reason he knew why he was beautiful was not only because he knew he was Part-Veela, only by his grandmother’s word, but also because he knew his mother believed it. She didn’t lie, especially not about this kind of thing. He was as aware of his beauty as he was aware of his mortality.

Learning he was Part-Veela was strange. Once the truth was unveiled, he had begun learning more stories about Veela and Part-Veela from his grandma, from her considerations of modeling to how she met her husband. It was all so much, and Marshal found it difficult to ease into it just like that.

Once he got the letter to Hogwarts, he had high hopes about learning much more regarding his magical side and potentially finding others like him.