It was Sunday. Again. Fleur sometimes wondered where the days went. It certainly didn’t seem like it had been a week since she had last been here, picking at Molly’s steak and kidney pie. Fleur had lived in England for her entire adult life and still found it difficult to swallow down the dense food that her in-laws loved so much. The meat was so
chewy and the pastry like a slab of stone. It certainly felt like a brick in her stomach after she had finished as much as she could handle. She loved the Weasleys, and all their
quirks, but the fact that they still preferred
pig slop to decent cuisine mystified her. And that was after Fleur had generously and continuously tried to refine their palates into recognising their mistakes. As long as Victoire didn’t follow in their footsteps…
Despite being absent of the seven children raised there, the Burrow still managed to maintain an atmosphere of bustle and chaos that never made Fleur feel completely comfortable. A home should be a place to relax as well, and there was nothing relaxing about precariously balanced piles of old magazines and random trinkets. But unlike years ago when she had been confined there, going stir crazy, Fleur was now able to come and go as she pleased, something that definitely helped her relationship with her mother-in-law. Space. And Molly was currently in her own home, at Shell Cottage, doting on her beloved granddaughter and spending time with her eldest son.
Every so often the Weasley family tried to give Molly the night off from cooking and let someone else take the reins. But, she had to be persuaded away, hence the bribe of uninterrupted time with Fleur’s daughter and husband. So Molly and Fleur had swapped places, despite some protests that Fleur should not be on her feet as much as she was. The part-veela had brushed those aside flippantly. She knew perfectly well what she could and could not do, thank you very much. She really did
not appreciate the unnecessary advice, even as she ignored the constant ache at the base of her back.
Fleur had already lit the oven when she had arrived and the kitchen had now begun to heat up into a more tolerable temperature. It was always so cold in England. She jabbed her wand in the direction of the counter, where a collection of old Prophets had been discarded, watching in satisfaction as they lifted themselves and floated through the air towards the fireplace, setting down in the grate. There. Now they were ready for burning. Molly must have forgotten to have moved them. Lucky she had Fleur there to help, even though Fleur knew that her help would no doubt not be appreciated. The older Mrs Weasley got so
controlling over chores at times.
Fleur eyed the bottle of wine that she had brought with her enviously. What she would do for
one glass. Wine was not as normal in England as it was in France, and following a blazing row with Bill when she was pregnant with Victoire, Fleur had agreed, for his sake and his alone, that she would not have
any alcohol while pregnant. Even a small glass of wine that would cause absolutely no damage whatsoever. But he was just protective and trying to be a good father. And she loved him for it. So she instead stuck with her glass of gillywater, knowing that the superiority of this label of wine would be lost on her uncultured in-laws.
A whir from the other room caught her attention, and Fleur made her way over to stare at the Weasley clock, watching Ginny’s hand flick from ‘travelling’ to ‘home’. No doubt the family had called in reinforcements, deciding that Fleur needed help to make a simple dinner. Honestly! Molly had managed six pregnancies plus children and a home, Fleur was a little offended that they considered
her unable to handle this. Waddling back to the kitchen, she pointed her wand with more force than necessary at a knife, directly it to start chopping carrots. It set to work vigorously, chopping perfect slices - Fleur wouldn’t settle for anything less - but also taking chunks out the chopping board in frustration. With another flick the knife calmed down. It would not do to actually prove Molly right. Fleur would fix the chopping board once she was finished.
The door creaked behind her, and Fleur turned around, her hair flicking across her shoulder as she did so. Her suspicions were correct. It was her sister-in-law. “Bonsoir Ginny,” she said politely as the other witch made her way inside. “How is it going?” Directing her attention back to the dinner preparations, Fleur made the carrot slices soar into the awaiting pan, the flame flicking on underneath.
“Would you like a glass of the wine?” She asked, pointing at the unopened bottle. “It is from Provence.” A lovely variety, her maman had sent it over just last week. “I have had no glasses. Bill worries très much!” Fleur continued without stopping, assuming that Ginny had been sent to act as spy. Her accent a little thicker than normal, frustrated at being checked up on
and being unable to have a glass of wine. “He is
darling but I am bonne and le bébé is also!” Fleur patted her expanded stomach, as if assuring it’s precious contents were perfectly safe.
Fleur smiled widely, her whole face lighting up. “You must drink for me, oui?
A meal without wine is like a day without the sun.” Quoting the famous French gastronomer, Fleur pointed her wand at the cabinet where the glasses were without waiting for Ginny’s response and summoning a solitary wine glass. “There is too much grey days in England already.” Magicking the cork off the bottle, the wine poured itself into the waiting glass then drifted over to Fleur where she held it out for Ginny to collect. “I will drink the gillywater, pah!” Fleur’s expression displayed how unsatisfied she was by the greenish liquid. She was
French, wine was in her blood.
@Ginny Weasley 
