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Mrs. Weasley didn’t hold with fancy, snooty French food so Fleur made bread in Molly’s sunlit kitchen– big coarse brown loaves, long crusty baguettes, soft rolls studded with dates and almonds. She let seeded rye cool on the precise spot on the kitchen counter where the draft would waft the smell up the Burrow’s rickety flights of stairs.
Fleur wanted to make crepes the way her grandmother had taught her, with a twist of lemon and a touch of sugar, but she thought Molly would sniff at those delicate folds of pastry. Instead, Fleur whipped up a batch of scones and weighed them down with handfuls of raisins and a sneaky pinch of nutmeg.
She tied back her long hair with a scarf, like her grandmother had taught her. She cleaned up after, like she taught her. She didn’t slice into the loaves until they’d cooled all the way through, just knocked gently on their hard crusts and listened to the sound.
(Fleur had made crepes for Bill the first morning they had woken up together, not because it was romantic, or because he was beautiful with his long hair strewn over her pillow, but because she had woken up comfortable and content in a patch of sunlight.
She had spent long childhood summers in her grandmother’s little cottage. When butter and sugar melted slowly on her tongue, Fleur thought of fields of yellow mustard flowers, of cast iron pans passed down through generations, of her grandmother braiding her hair with careful old hands and calling her clever, kind, good, and never beautiful.)
Fleur left the bread on the table like a peace offering. She left flour on her forearm, some flecks of caraway seed on her cheek, like a signature. Molly came bustling into the kitchen after a long day arguing on some community affairs board or other in town and found Fleur scrubbing down the last of the counters, her wand flicking, her sleeves rolled up.
(Bill had told her, “You don’t have to win her over, you know.”
“But I can,” Fleur had told him, and smiled.)
She wasn’t sure, though, until Molly took a slice of the seeded rye, smeared it with butter, and took a bite like she was actually tasting it.
“How did the meeting go?” Fleur asked. Arthur came in partway through Molly’s answer (which grew in passion, irritation, and volume as she went on) and made his way through most of a baguette and a can of corned beef (Fleur winced and didn’t comment).
Fleur watched like a hawk (not a songbird) as Molly made her way through each baked good, as Arthur got full and wandered off the bed, as the kids who were home that week strolled in and out, filling their hands and bellies.
When Molly bit into a scone, smiled, and said, “I like the nutmeg,” Fleur’s hands hesitated on the teapot she was filling with conjured hot water. “Ever try it with a bit of allspice?” Molly asked, and it sounded a little like an uphill climb, but she was trying. “I don’t get to play around as much as I’d like here.”
Fleur put down her wand. Molly had taken a bite of everything Fleur had offered up on that kitchen table, watched how the grain of it pulled apart in her hands, inhaled deep. “Have you ever made crepes?” Fleur asked.
“Before Arthur and I were Arthur and I,” said Molly slowly, round cheeks flushing as she looked down at her half-eaten scone. “There was a Beauxbatons boy studying abroad a semester at Hogwarts…”
They broke out the Christmas cards that boy– now a restaurateur in wizarding Marseilles– still wrote her every year. If they got a little butter, sugar, and lemon on them, they didn’t think he’d mind.
“Who taught you to bake?” Molly asked as they washed up after, starlight flitting through the windows into the barely lit kitchen.
“My grandmother,” said Fleur. “She was beautiful.”
Molly snorted. “Well, of course,” she said, but Fleur shook her head.
“You know people tend to have more than one grandmother, yes? My grandmama was all human, a mother of four, a baker, and she didn’t like veela any more than you do.”
Molly dropped her gaze to the sudsy tip of her wand.
Fleur shrugged, and she knew the gesture looked graceful, elegant, beautiful in the pale white midnight, that it would always look that way no matter what she did. “But her daughter fell in love with a half-veela wizard, and then there I was in her pantry trying to sneak another berry tart after bedtime. She taught me everything I know about making things– food, cabinets, flower beds. She loved me– loved me well– and by the end it stopped being despite anything.”
They both went to their beds full, bellies heavy of midnight crepes, fingers still sweet with the remnants of them.
The ghoul banging pipes above Ron’s old room woke Fleur in the morning. Warm sunlight curled through the warped glass of the window.
Her bed was empty, but Bill pushed through the creaking door with his hands full– two plates of fried eggs and her own brown bread buttered up and toasted crispy and golden. “From mom,” he said, and kissed her on the temple.
(Your picture was not posted)
Mrs. Weasley didn’t hold with fancy, snooty French food so Fleur made bread in Molly’s sunlit kitchen– big coarse brown loaves, long crusty baguettes, soft rolls studded with dates and almonds. She let seeded rye cool on the precise spot on the kitchen counter where the draft would waft the smell up the Burrow’s rickety flights of stairs.
Fleur wanted to make crepes the way her grandmother had taught her, with a twist of lemon and a touch of sugar, but she thought Molly would sniff at those delicate folds of pastry. Instead, Fleur whipped up a batch of scones and weighed them down with handfuls of raisins and a sneaky pinch of nutmeg.
She tied back her long hair with a scarf, like her grandmother had taught her. She cleaned up after, like she taught her. She didn’t slice into the loaves until they’d cooled all the way through, just knocked gently on their hard crusts and listened to the sound.
(Fleur had made crepes for Bill the first morning they had woken up together, not because it was romantic, or because he was beautiful with his long hair strewn over her pillow, but because she had woken up comfortable and content in a patch of sunlight.
She had spent long childhood summers in her grandmother’s little cottage. When butter and sugar melted slowly on her tongue, Fleur thought of fields of yellow mustard flowers, of cast iron pans passed down through generations, of her grandmother braiding her hair with careful old hands and calling her clever, kind, good, and never beautiful.)
Fleur left the bread on the table like a peace offering. She left flour on her forearm, some flecks of caraway seed on her cheek, like a signature. Molly came bustling into the kitchen after a long day arguing on some community affairs board or other in town and found Fleur scrubbing down the last of the counters, her wand flicking, her sleeves rolled up.
(Bill had told her, “You don’t have to win her over, you know.”
“But I can,” Fleur had told him, and smiled.)
She wasn’t sure, though, until Molly took a slice of the seeded rye, smeared it with butter, and took a bite like she was actually tasting it.
“How did the meeting go?” Fleur asked. Arthur came in partway through Molly’s answer (which grew in passion, irritation, and volume as she went on) and made his way through most of a baguette and a can of corned beef (Fleur winced and didn’t comment).
Fleur watched like a hawk (not a songbird) as Molly made her way through each baked good, as Arthur got full and wandered off the bed, as the kids who were home that week strolled in and out, filling their hands and bellies.
When Molly bit into a scone, smiled, and said, “I like the nutmeg,” Fleur’s hands hesitated on the teapot she was filling with conjured hot water. “Ever try it with a bit of allspice?” Molly asked, and it sounded a little like an uphill climb, but she was trying. “I don’t get to play around as much as I’d like here.”
Fleur put down her wand. Molly had taken a bite of everything Fleur had offered up on that kitchen table, watched how the grain of it pulled apart in her hands, inhaled deep. “Have you ever made crepes?” Fleur asked.
“Before Arthur and I were Arthur and I,” said Molly slowly, round cheeks flushing as she looked down at her half-eaten scone. “There was a Beauxbatons boy studying abroad a semester at Hogwarts…”
They broke out the Christmas cards that boy– now a restaurateur in wizarding Marseilles– still wrote her every year. If they got a little butter, sugar, and lemon on them, they didn’t think he’d mind.
“Who taught you to bake?” Molly asked as they washed up after, starlight flitting through the windows into the barely lit kitchen.
“My grandmother,” said Fleur. “She was beautiful.”
Molly snorted. “Well, of course,” she said, but Fleur shook her head.
“You know people tend to have more than one grandmother, yes? My grandmama was all human, a mother of four, a baker, and she didn’t like veela any more than you do.”
Molly dropped her gaze to the sudsy tip of her wand.
Fleur shrugged, and she knew the gesture looked graceful, elegant, beautiful in the pale white midnight, that it would always look that way no matter what she did. “But her daughter fell in love with a half-veela wizard, and then there I was in her pantry trying to sneak another berry tart after bedtime. She taught me everything I know about making things– food, cabinets, flower beds. She loved me– loved me well– and by the end it stopped being despite anything.”
They both went to their beds full, bellies heavy of midnight crepes, fingers still sweet with the remnants of them.
The ghoul banging pipes above Ron’s old room woke Fleur in the morning. Warm sunlight curled through the warped glass of the window.
Her bed was empty, but Bill pushed through the creaking door with his hands full– two plates of fried eggs and her own brown bread buttered up and toasted crispy and golden. “From mom,” he said, and kissed her on the temple.
(Your picture was not posted)
