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When Tonks meets Fleur for the first time, her nose is between goose and pig. Bill couldn’t have picked a worse moment to introduce his girlfriend. Here they are, grown adults, members of the super-secret Order of the Phoenix, gathered around the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, ready to discuss war. Here Tonks should be, an experienced Auror, supposedly serious and scary (and maybe strikingly beautiful, too), bravely participating in a movement to save Wizarding Britain. Instead, here Tonks is, caught with her nose between goose and pig.
She’d just been trying to lighten the mood, get the kids to crack up and forget the empty chair at the head of the table for just a moment. Things admittedly had taken a turn for the worse after the fiasco at the department of mysteries, but somehow, Tonks thinks that her Uncle wouldn’t want them all to dwell overmuch on his absence. He might have died to protect his godson, but he had lived to make him smile. He would probably rather they remember him with jokes and laughter than with tears and heartbreak.
Of course, noble intentions don’t stop her from looking rather silly. She fixes her nose quickly, and in her fluster only knocks over one teacup, but she feels the damage has been made. It’s even worse when compared to Fleur herself. She’s gorgeous, of course, that goes without saying. The light from the fireplace catching her hair so it looks like spun strands of silver and gold, held back from her face with an elegant hair pin in the shape of a butterfly, its wings made up of sparkling blue stones. She and Bill have obviously come straight from work, given that they’re both still dressed in Gringotts uniforms, but where Bill looks uncomfortable in the stiff fabric and high collar, Fleur manages to look like she should be on Witch Weekly’s cover (and really, who can look good in a uniform designed by *goblins*? Fleur, apparently). The uniform top might button all the way up her neck, but it leaves her arms bare, accentuating creamy skin and delicate wrists. The stone-gray colour of the fabric accentuates the blueness of her eyes, and Tonks bets she must be wearing mascara as well (not even a Veela’s eyelashes can be that long and dark, surely).
Gorgeous though she may be, poised, calm and collected even in face of chaotic nose changes and clumsy Aurors, but as they interact further, Tonks would be lying if the words “ice queen” didn’t come to mind. Ginny has been talking about “Phlegm” for weeks, and so far, she seems to be living up to her reputation. Her expression is definitely on the cool side, eyes distant, her smile merely polite. She stays close to Bill’s side, speaks little, mostly monosyllabic yes's and no's. She speaks so little, Tonks can barely detect her French accent. When she reaches out to shake hand, Tonks notices that she’s wearing gloves. They’re very elegant gloves, blue silk decorated with soft white lace, buttoned at the wrists with the tiniest button Tonks has ever seen. They fit in beautifully with the rest of Fleur’s outfit, seem to tie the entire look together.
To Tonks' eye, they seem absolutely incongruous.
Grimmauld Place might be a dismal place to be in, but its kitchen is the one place where coziness reigns supreme. It is warm and bright, permeated by the smells of Molly’s excellent cooking and filled with the murmur of friendly voices. It is somewhere where one can be comfortable. People take off hats, discard coats and gloves, loosen ties, kick off heels. They lean back in chairs, slouch against the walls, throw arms around each other. Fleur’s pair of dainty blue gloves seem absolutely antithetical to that. They separate her from those around her, put a barrier between her and all the others she is meeting that day. Between her pale skin, fresh and smelling of flowers, and the hands of hard-working people, tired from a full day’s work but still here, ready to do their part to bring some light during dark days. Tonks imagines the hands of her colleagues, grimy, stained with ink or potion ingredients, sweaty, dusty, calloused and scarred hands, touching those pristine gloves. She looks at her own hands: covered with scribbled reminders, palm sporting a band-aid where she nicked her hand while cooking. Her fingers are stubby and clumsy, incapable of graceful, elegant movement.
Fleur might be beautiful, a skilled Triwizard Champion, graceful, the picture of perfection. Tonks knows that a shiny piece of gold does not a galleon make, though. Her first impression of Fleur is not good. If she got this far, though, then she can’t be the delicate flower her name and butterfly hair accessory suggest. She vows to pay attention, and see if the Order’s newest member manages to change her mind. She tips her chin up and shakes Fleur’s hand firmly.