It takes some growing up for Hermione to realize that one of the ways girls who are insecure about their own looks and appeal survive in a appearance-obsessed world is by telling themselves that pretty girls--beautiful girls, charming girls, the girls that boys fall all over themselves over--are shallow and selfish and having nothing to offer beyond their pretty faces.
She'd thought of Fleur that way once upon a time, and it takes her a long time to admit to herself that it was mostly because she was intimated by the older girl. Fleur terrified her for some reason she could never actually face up to. All she knew was that, even accounting for veela blood, Fleur seemed like a completely different creature than she herself was. It took Hermione even longer to realize the irony that she'd dedicated her life from a young age to campaigning for the rights of other species, and all the while she was scared of the Other she saw in Fleur.
The first crack in that fear, in that labeling, came with the older girl staying with Bill after the werewolf attack: uncomfortable, Hermione had decided that even if girls like Fleur have no substance, that at least they must, like everyone else, be able to love. She tried not to think about it too much, though.
But it wasn't until after the war that she began to see Fleur as a person and not a type. Part of her realization came from just being around her sister-in-law and seeing her in action: she was, Hermione discovered, an excellent wife and a wonderful mother. There had to be some substance to someone like that. A much, much older Hermione will finally understand that, as much as getting to know Fleur, Hermione was finally able to stop being so scared of Fleur because she herself was finally secure in Ron's love for her. It wasn't an easy thing to admit to for a woman who had always tried to define herself on her own terms, but maturity allows her to conceded that it was true.
But maybe the day that Hermione had to completely throw out the last tattered scraps of her long-held preconceptions of Fleur Delacour is the one where they're all crammed around the Burrow's table (and even the cramming, shoulder to shoulder and elbow into ribs, doesn't disguise the knowledge that there is a face missing here) and George, in between big forkfuls of his mother's treacle tart, is teasing Hermione about her job.
"A whole world to rebuild after the war, and you're focusing on house elves?" She knows he only half means it. He admires her convictions and the way she doesn't back down when she believes in something--he wouldn't be a Weasley if he didn't. But he's also confused as to why she'd lend that conviction and her brains to something he sees as trivial.
She's about to open her mouth and explain for the seven hundred and eighty-third time just why this is important when Fleur's musical voice cuts through the surrounding Weasley pandemonium.
"I think it is admirable, Hermione, what you are doing."
Hermione blinks, stares at her. Fleur's smile is almost blinding, but Hermione sees, for maybe the first time, that it isn't some gilded attempt to make men swoon; it's real and genuine and just happens to be beautiful.
"A society will be judged by the way it treats its most vulnerable members, isn't this true? And you are their champion."
Maybe it's to be expected (especially considering what got her and Ron together in the first place) that after that Hermione and Fleur become friends. And it doesn't take long for Hermione to realize how ridiculous her fear was in the first place: that maybe, really, she hadn't been scared of the other woman so much as she was scared of herself and what her place might be in the world.
It's a sobering thought, but this understanding is worth the accompanying humility: Hermione's never had many female friends before, and she finds that they open up an entirely new world she was missing out on. Not to mention that Fleur makes an excellent ally in her crusade for house elf rights. Hermione might have grown up, but she is, after all, still herself.