Harry got off early. It was Friday afternoon, the spring was just giving way to summer and the sun had managed to burn away the morning's cloud cover. It was a good day.
He picked up a bouquet of roses for Fleur on his walk down the alley from the ministry to their flat, and the day only got better when he made it home and found that she was home too.
“Bonjour mon amour!” He called, because she always got a kick out of his attempts at French.
She was in the kitchen, and didn’t quite laugh at his greeting, but she brightened at the roses and he didn’t notice her odd mood as he launched into an account of an uneventful day at the aurors office.
“Where do you want to go for dinner, amour?”
Her smile was dangerous, and he did catch it this time, but he didn’t understand.
“I will cook for you my love,” she told him and he blinked at her. Fleur was not a bad cook, just an infrequent one.
“-Okay…” He furrowed his brow, but she was off into the kitchen, and she was perhaps banging pots and pans around a bit more forcefully than necessary.
He had an hour or so to get worried, she rebuffed any attempt to help, which was concerning in and of itself. The second time he tried she pushed him away after forcing a glass of his finest fire whiskey into his hand.
She presented him with what was frankly a very impressive serving of lasagna. It was steaming and picturesque in its perfectly stacked and squared off shape. It looked amazing, and he would’ve loved to dig in.
He knew better though.
She was not behaving normally, and he surmised this would be the moment he would finally learn why. She did not join him at the table, it was not set for two, she present the pasta dish and then stood to his side expectantly.
“It looks amazing!” He complimented, forcing cheer he did not feel. He did not know what she was doing but he was concerned. Had he done anything recently to warrant poisoning? He didn’t think so.
“Are you going to join me?” He asked, and perhaps that was a mistake, but he was at a loss.
“Take a bite, mon coeur.” She said, and there was no attempt to mask the cold anger there. He would have shrunk away from her if showing weakness were wise in this moment, instead he just sunk his fork into the food, breaking off a bit and raising it slowly. She wouldn’t actually poison him right? He was pretty sure.
The lasagna was delicious.
“Is it good?” She asked, knowing the answer. He just nodded, mouth full of food, and there was not an ounce of honest joy in her smile. She turned and stalked toward the kitchen.
“I'm glad you like it,” she called before disappearing from sight.
“You can get your fill from the Italian whore you're seeing.” She bit out, returning from sight. He choked, just at the point of swallowing the bite.
“F-Fleur- What…” He couldn’t get the question out, an object was flying at his head. He dodged with the instinctual ease of a seeker, and that just served to anger her more. He caught sight of what it was she’d hurled at him, and his amusement was marginal and smothered in apprehension.
Fleur was passionate, and pregnancy had done nothing to temper her temper.
“Fleur, that’s hardly fair-”
“Tell me more!” She shouted over him, “of your infidelity, I am dying to ‘ear about her.”
“They’re just chibata buns-” That was the wrong thing to say.
“A bastardization of proper French bread!” She said hotly. He stood, hands up and placating.
“They were out of baguettes-” he tried, her eyes went wide.
“You zhink zhat makes zhis okay?!”
“It was that or that or frozen, I was just trying to make a sandwich-”
Her facade cracked, and a grin split her face for half a second. She was back in control instantly, but the damage had been done, he straightened and glared at her.
“You’re evil!” He accused and she giggled, her anger dissolving in a heartbeat. “You made lasagna for a bit?” He demanded, embarrassed and relieved in equal measure.
“Of course not!” she laughed, “It is bought, you zhink i could make zhat?” She crossed and gave him a kiss for thinking so highly of her cooking.
“Well did you at least buy yourself something?” He asked, stealing a second kiss for his troubles.
She glared at him again, but this one was only half put on. “Of course not.” She said haughtily, and then she pushed his plate off the table. It didn't break, but it did bounce and the delicious Italian dish splatted sadly on the floorboards.
“You will not eat zhis filth.” She informed him, tugging him toward the door and out to get some proper (french) food. He allowed himself to be dragged away, looking forlornly at the pitiful pile of pasta on the floor.
It had been really good.