No one wondered why the new girl was hired at Gringotts bank. It was not up to them to question a good thing. When working long hours crunching numbers and negotiating with disagreeable goblins it was nice to have something pretty to look at.

Fleur knew why she had been hired at Gringotts bank. She no longer questioned why her beauty got her ahead, she was used to it. When working long hours doing paperwork and running errands for her boss, she could always feel all eyes on her. She didn’t like it…

“You wanted to see me sir?” Bill said, walking into his boss’ office.

“Yeah,” the portly man grumbled, putting out his cigar in the bronze ashtray on his desk. “I’ll be requiring you to do some overtime.”

“With all due respect sir, I’m already working fifty hours a week,” Bill replied anxiously.

“You’ll be tutoring my secretary,” his boss continued, ignoring his comment, “It’s her job to take my messages, but I can’t understand a word that comes out of her mouth!”

“Why did you hire her if you can’t understand her accent?” Bill asked, a smile tugging at his lips. He raised an eyebrow at his boss, knowing full well the reason the tall, shapely, blonde had been hired.

“I don’t pay you to undermine my authority Weasley, and I don’t pay Miss Delacour to babble at me in French. So if you value your job here at Gringotts, you’ll get to work teaching her better English,” his boss snapped.

“Alright then sir,” Bill said, nodding curtly before walking out of the lavish office. Right outside the door was the small desk at which sat the new secretary. When she noticed Bill staring at her, she huffed and gave him a cold glare.

“Is zere something I can ‘elp you weeth?” Miss Delacour asked bitterly in her thick French accent.

“I’m Bill Weasley,” he replied kindly, holding out a hand for her to shake. She simply stared at it with disgust.

“I’m sorry Monsieur Weasley, but I do not, ‘ow you say, ‘go out’ weeth coworkers,” she told him, turning back to her work.

“I’m sorry Miss, but that’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Bill chuckled. “My—our—boss asked me to help you with your English.”

A faint blush crept across her pale cheeks as her frosty blue eyes met his. “Oh I see. My mistake zen,” she apologized. “Monsieur Blake did mention a problem weeth my speaking.”

“So, erm, when would you like to meet to get started?” he asked dazedly. Her eyes were alluring, as were her soft pink lips that were curled into the faintest smile.

“My shift ends at six o’ clock. I will meet you zen at zee Three Broomsticks in ‘Ogsmeade,” Miss Delacour told him.

“Alright then,” Bill agreed, snapping out of his reverie, “See you then…”

Tapping his fingers idly on the worn wooden table, Bill checked his watch once more. It was quarter after six, and he was at the Three Broomsticks, alone. Back at the Burrow, his mother would be serving up a delicious roast chicken right about then, and he cursed his boss for making him work even longer hours.

Then, out the window of the pub, he caught sight of the shimmering long blonde hair of Miss Delacour. She was being held up by a tall bloke who was staggering drunkenly, so Bill went out to see what was the matter.

“Such a pretty face,” the drunk slurred.

Miss Delacour spit at his shoes. “Pig,” she snapped.

“And feisty as well!” he chuckled. “Why don’t you come give ole me a little company and I’ll buy you a drink?”

“Out of my way,” she warned, pushing her way past him. But the drunk grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. Running a single filthy finger down her jaw line, he said,

“I could show you a good time if you’d let me.” She gagged as the overwhelming smell of whiskey filled her lungs.

“Excuse me, but get your bloody hands off her,” Bill demanded, drawing his wand.

The drunkard pushed Miss Delacour away, and she stumbled over to Bill. “My apologies sir,” he said, bowing dramatically and almost falling over, “I didn’t know the lady was taken.” And with that he cackled loudly before staggering away.

“Are you alright?” Bill asked.

“I’m fine,” Miss Delacour replied, rubbing her wrist. “Merci,” she added humbly. She walked into the pub, taking a seat at the table which Bill had been waiting for her at, and ordered a cup of tea from Rosmerta.

“And a butterbeer for me, thanks,” Bill added.

Miss Delacour did not look up at him, being too embarrassed from her encounter with the drunk. It wasn’t like it was the first time such a thing had happened, but she never got used to it. Men pawing at her and eying her as if she were some prize to be won—it was the curse of being part veela.

“So Miss Delacour—“

“Please, call me Fleur,” she told him.

“Fleur,” Bill repeated happily. “Yes well, are you ready to begin with your lessons?”

“Oui,” Fleur replied, taking a sip of her hot cup of tea that had just arrived. “I know enough to get by, you see, but I’m afraid zat my accent is un peu hard for people to understand.”

“It is only so for people too ignorant to listen when you speak,” Bill replied, thinking of his boss. “There is a difference between hearing and really listening.”

“So true,” Fleur laughed. “You are a very kind man, Monsieur Weasley.”

Bill gave her a small smile, but furrowing his brow. “As odd as it may seem, I think we’ve met before,” he said vaguely.

“I would ‘ave remembered you,” she replied dismissively, “You and your tres rouge hair.”

“No, no,” Bill insisted. “You’re the Beauxbatons champion, right? From the Triwizard Tournament last year?”

“Oui,” Fleur confirmed, “But I ‘ope you will not judge me from zee rubbish zat Rita Skeeter wrote about us all.”

“Actually, my brother Charlie was one of the dragon wranglers there for the first task. And maybe you would’ve met my brother, Ron…” he told her.

“Ah! Zee friend of ‘Arry Potter!” Fleur exclaimed.

“Yes,” Bill chuckled, knowing that wasn’t the way Ron would want to be remembered by the stunning French lass. “But we’re off topic now, aren’t we? I suppose we should get started.”

Two hours later, after they’d finished their drinks and substantially improved Fleur’s English, Bill laid down a few sickles for the tab. Fleur looked warily out the window, biting her lip.

“If you are nervous about running into anymore erm, aggressive blokes, I could walk you home,” Bill suggested. He coughed nervously, “That is, if you’d like me to.”

“Merci,” she said gratefully. As they walked out of the pub together, she said, “I am not scared, I ‘ope you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not scared of zee men who force zemselves on me,” Fleur clarified. “I could take any one of zem in a duel and come out victorious.”

“I have no doubt that you could. You’ve faced dragons and grindylows and even our boss,” Bill said with a smile. “I’d say you are if anything, quite brave.”

“You mock me,” Fleur said, pouting.

“I do not!” he laughed.

“Everyone else does,” she replied.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head.

“Do you call me a liar?” she asked.

“No, but mockery is for fools, and you are no fool. You are very bright, actually,” Bill told her.

“I’d rather you be ‘onest than try to flatter me,” Fleur said, pouting once more.

“I am being honest,” Bill insisted. “You’ve nearly doubled your English vocabulary in only a few hours. You are a smart girl, Fleur, whether you believe it or not.”

“Per’aps you are just a very good teacher,” she said kindly.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes before arriving at Fleur’s doorstep. She placed a delicate hand on the doorknob, but didn’t turn it, didn’t move at all. Instead she stared up at Bill thoughtfully.

“We ‘ave spent zee evening together,” she said.

“We did,” Bill agreed.

“And zee entire time, you deed not once tell me I was beautiful,” Fleur said.

Caught off guard by her frankness, Bill took a few moments before asking, “Are you disappointed?”

Shaking her head, she replied, “Not at all. I am pleased.”

Bill grinned at her, and she smiled back. Ever so slowly, she turned the doorknob and pushed open the door, stepping inside.

“And now I bid you adieu,” Fleur told him. “I ‘ad a wonderful time tonight Bill.”

“I look forward to our next lesson,” he replied.

“Goodbye Monsieur Weasley.”

“Goodnight Miss Delacour.”

She shut the door behind her, and Bill slowly descended the steps. He wondered about her as he walked down the road aimlessly. She was enigmatic to say the least. The way she turned from cold and aloof to warm and friendly so effortlessly. He liked how she didn’t talk for the sake of talking—when she spoke her words were compelling. So that he didn’t just hear her, but he listened to her. So that he hung on each word that came forth from her soft pink lips. And somehow, Bill Weasley knew that he wouldn’t mind working overtime.