Fleur let out a shriek of frustration as a skirt was ejected violently from the closet. Harry, sitting on their bed, winced. Another moment passed before a sundress–one of Fleur’s favorites–was also forcefully discarded onto the floor of their bedroom.
A few minutes later, when several dresses–all still on their hangers–were thrown out of the closet and onto the bedroom floor, he finally decided to speak up. He took a moment and–in as considerate of a voice as he could muster–spoke.
“Is there anything I can do to help my love,” he asked in French.
His wife appeared in the doorway to their closet in naught but her underwear. Her eyes blazed with the frustration of a woman teetering on the edge of violence.
“You have done quite enough.”
She turned and his eyes drifted quickly to her abdomen. In the past few weeks, it had begun protruding in a very recognizable fashion. It had apparently reached a tipping point.
He debated for a moment telling her how beautiful he found her. However, he thought better of it when, only a moment later, a pair of slacks came rocketing out of the closet and splashed against the wall.
“I’ll tell her later,” he thought, turning his attention back to his book