Chapter Text
There is this very common trope in films and television shows, in which the least popular girl in class just so happens to be exceptionally good-looking even before her required makeover - see Tai from Clueless , for instance. Fleur used to hate that trope when she was younger, finding it stupid and completely unrealistic, and yet here she is; sitting alone at a two-seat desk and doodling absentmindedly on her notebook. In these very few days since the beginning of term, several small groups have formed in her year, yet none of them seem to include her.
Truth be told, she expected things to be quite different. She pictured herself as this gorgeous and fascinating Parisienne who would enchant people by her mere presence, and her fellow students as awestruck pilgrims who would get in line to talk to her. Perhaps it is this misplaced self-confidence and the lack of effort from her part that has put her in this position - not to mention that her undeniable beauty, combined with her pride, must seem rather intimidating.
No wonder that she is left alone once again at the end of the lesson, when everyone else storms out of the lecture hall in groups of three or four. Fleur sighs and decides to stroll around campus for a bit, in an attempt to cheer herself up. Lonely breaks can be depressing.
Passing by a hallway, she notices a commotion in one of the small exhibition halls; an older student has put their works on display, and there is quite a crowd huddled around the paintings. She pushes her way through to have a look herself, and what she sees surprises her; it is unclear what they depict, but Fleur is oddly drawn to the fluid shapes, the vibrant colours, the bold strokes - these paintings show nothing and everything at the same time.
It is something she has never considered before, something as abstract as that expressing such specific emotions. Fascinated, she asks a student if he knows the artist, this Nymphadora Tonks , and he points to a girl sitting at the back of the room.
Nymphadora Tonks has a head of short, bright pink hair and is wearing a striped shirt and denim overalls. She couldn’t look more like an artist even if she tried , Fleur muses to herself, she’s only missing the paintbrush tucked behind her ear . Despite the apparent success of her exhibition, the artist seems dispirited, and a tall, lanky black guy with a hat is patting her back soothingly.
Suddenly, the guy notices Fleur and discreetly elbows his friend. The pink-haired girl raises her head and looks at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.
“Miss Nymphadora Tonks?” she asks reluctantly, careful with the pronunciation of the peculiar name.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Her tone is now completely cool, nothing like her expression a few moments ago. “Although I’ll ask you to call me just Tonks, will you? I hate my first name.” She winks at Fleur, and she nods with a smile.
“Just Tonks is fine,” she agrees, “and way easier to pronounce. I really loved the gallery! Modern art is normally not my cup of tea, but I must admit that your work surprised me.”
Her face lights up at those words. “Did you hear that, Jermaine?” she says to her friend, and he gives her an I told you so look. She turns back to Fleur. “Well, that means a lot to me, thank you…”
Fleur realizes she’s looking for a name. “Oh, I’m Fleur Delacour,” she says and gracefully extends her hand for a handshake. Nymphadora Tonks grabs it a little clumsily with both hands and shakes it. Her palms are warm and soft, and the friendly touch makes Fleur smile.
“I thought you might be French,” she remarks while searching for something in the pocket of her overalls.
Fleur has tried her best to conceal her accent, but she realizes her name has irreversibly betrayed her. “Just how obvious is it?”
Tonks has retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and is taking one out. “Very,” she says while fishing for a lighter in her other pocket, “but I mean this as a compliment. I’m going outside for a smoke, care to join me?”
Fleur follows the artist outside while her friend Jermaine is eyeing them with a cheeky grin she cannot interpret. The sky is clear and the weather quite warm. They walk around the grounds for a while as Tonks lights her cigarette and takes a puff.
“So,” she says and a small cloud of white smoke escapes her lips, “you say modern art is not your cup of tea. You’re not the only one. Many people have a regressive opinion on what is considered art, or what makes good art, or whatever you might want to call it. But the nature of things evolves, and so do our definitions of them. And the definition of art is now different than it was three centuries ago, you know what I mean?”
Fleur simply nods, impressed by the sophisticated way Tonks speaks, and intrigued by the things she is saying.
“If you enjoyed my work,” she continues, “that means you can recognize the essence of this type of art, despite being conditioned to think it isn’t worth your attention. But Fleur, just because something is new and unprecedented, just because you aren’t used to it, it doesn’t mean you should reject it. Not before you give it a try, at least.”
Fleur likes how Tonks has just pronounced her name with a proper French accent, and wonders for a moment if she knows any French. “Maybe you’re right. Do you have any recommendations for me then? Any books or…”
Tonks chuckles. “Books? No no no, you cannot learn art from books. Listen, have you been here long?”
“Just a couple of months.”
“Have you visited the Tate Modern yet? You know, that gallery by the river, the one with the tall chimney.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“They are hosting works of a contemporary painter named Patrick Heron right now, perhaps you should go check that out. Or better yet,” she says with a glimmer in her eye, “I’ll take you. I’ll give you a free tour, and buy you coffee afterwards. What do you say?”
“Oh, absolutely! Thank you so much!” Fleur is delighted to be making such a cool new friend, and writes down her number on a scrap of paper for Tonks.
“I’ll call you,” promises the pink-haired girl and smiles. “It was nice to meet you, Fleur Delacour. I have to go back inside now, but I’ll see you around, right?”
“Right,” says Fleur, unable to hold back an excited grin. “Goodbye, Nymphadora, and thank you.”
“You’re welcome, love. But please do me a favour.” She drops the cigarette butt on the ground and smoothly stubs it out with her boot. “Don’t call me Nymphadora.”