Fleur returns home after along day at work. Her face and hair charred from a failed mission, her hand constantly rubbing at her eyes in irritation at an itch. She moves toward the living room where her husband sat reading a the daily prophet. Shaking her head, she drops her things on the table ignoring the a few things falling of in response to the momentum. Harry not reacting to her loud behavior, clears his throat. "What's wrong, love?" he begins but he receives only a tired sigh in return. Still hiding his face behind the newspaper, he continues. "Why so quiet, hm? Is my firebird not in a fiery mood today?" he chuckles. Beginning to wonder about the pregnant silence, he drops the paper, effectively folding it in half backwards. He first notices her rather dirty hand on the table, before moving toward her upper body. Her shirt was lined with scorch marks, small holes giving glimpses of her pink camisole behind it, still intact. Reaching her face, he just slightly recoils in shock. Taking in her charred features, small giggles escape him before laughing out loud. His beautiful wife's face was blackened like a miner's. Her beautiful eyes circled in clear skin, but otherwise rimmed by black charcoal. Her hair, usually a perfectly combed platinum-blonde, stuck out in the oddest of directions, the endings still smoking. At Harry's humorous reaction, her eyes form predatory slits, the air around them taking on a new tension.
Calming himself, partially in response to his beloved's lethal sitting posture, a grin still remains on his face before addressing his quiet woman again. "Last I checked, my dear, it was you who did the torching and not the other way around. Have you taken on a new hobby, or is this a new curse breaking practice?" he barely got out before giggling himself silly again. Closing her eyes, shaking her head in annoyance, she sighs in resignation at the inevitable humiliation she'd most definitely suffer. "A new member of our team messed up a spell." she begins, rubbing her eyes once again, "It literally blew up in our face. If I hadn't absorbed the fire, they'd have all been burned to ashes." Smelling the air again, she clicks her tongue in frustration. Getting up from the table, she moves toward the bathroom, intending to gauge the size of the disaster. Before Harry could further comment, small steps made themselves known to the room. Avéline, their little daughter of four, waddles next to her father. Her eyes carefully studying the living room as if in search of something, finally looking up at him. "What's that smell?" He laughs as his wife's scream in anger and indignation fills the house.