Imagine, if you will, a Fleur that lives in a simple single space appartement, trying to make a living of her paintings. Paintings about a magical world.
She's not very successful, but she has an eye for beauty, and a taste for the simpler pleasures of life.
His neighbour, Harry, remembers her from school, how could he forget that year. Or that face. She was colder and less approachable then. The time away from her family seemed to have been good for her.
She certainly would not have been caught dead in a messy bun and a paint stained overall before, but as she waved from where she stood trying to open her door -it always got stuck- he could not help but think that she had never looked more beautiful