With sincere apologies to anyone who has a better grasp of French than I. Blame the English education system... (not mine!)
"Good evening. I am your friendly neighbourhood door-to-door salesman here to flog you some wilted honking daffodils, guaranteed to survive at least the next half hour. Interested?" Bill raises an eyebrow and watches as Fleur tries to put on her most imperious, unamused face.
It lasts about five seconds. "Zey are hideous," she proclaims, before taking them from him and stretching up to kiss him.
"Just like you, then," he replies, before moving in to kiss her again. She waits until their lips are almost touching, then moves sharply away, leaving him stumbling slightly.
"Oh, I am sorry," she says, not sounding it at all. "But I must attend to my cooking." He follows her in to her tiny flat, closing the door securely behind him and double-checking it has been locked by both magical and muggle means. He's pretty sure no one unwanted saw him come here, but you can't be too careful these days. If she notices this, though, she doesn't say anything, instead launching into a description of what she's making him for dinner.
"So, I am making you something zhat is much more exciting than you would get here; we begin with soupe au pistou, and then for the main I am making daube Provençale et enfin, we 'ave gibassier, from the recipe of my grand-mère," she explains, switching so rapidly between French and English he has next to no idea what she's saying. "What do you zhink? I am sure you will like it, because of course France is famed for its cuisine, it is well known. We 'ave the best food out of all the countries, but you English in particular, well—"
"Ah, yes, le rosbifs," he nods. "Truly, our cooking is terrible. Indeed, it is a wonder anyone survives beyond infancy, the food is so bad. I have heard stories of people choosing to starve rather than eat another mouthful of spotted dick. Personally I much prefer the nice French dish of slugs. I'm sorry, I mean snails. I get my squashy garden bugs rather mixed up, you see."
It amuses him to watch her try to keep up the unimpressed face again; she has many talents but hiding her emotions is not one of them. "It ees fine," she sniffs. "If you do not want to eat my food, I shall simply ask anuzzer of my boyfriends to come over and enjoy it with me."
"Oh, no, we can't have that," he says easily, spinning around a chair so he's straddling it. "I am very excited to try this mysterious daube Provençale avec ta grand-mère." He puts on an exaggeratedly bad French accent, and watches her lips twitch. "Yes, it is true," he says. "I have been practising my French so I can understand your mysterious ways. For example, I now know that you are using le saucepan et la spoon to cook mon dîner. Ah, oui. C'est vrai. Je parle le français comme une baguette. Ah, excusez-moi, comme une Français."
"This is not 'ow you think I sound?" Fleur asks with some horror.
"Mais oui!" he replies at once. "Everyday you are saying to me, hon hon hon, bonjour, baguette, j'aime le Paris et je mange le chocolat. Vite vite, tout le mond. I do not want to embarrass you, you see, by highlighting all your mistakes."
"Ah, oui?" she asks. She fires off several sentences in rapid French, so fast he has no chance of catching even one word in ten or following anything she might be saying to him, but he has no doubt it is very insulting towards the English in general and himself specifically. Still, this doesn't stop him nodding along like Percy at his most pompous, adding the occasional absoluement or c'est vrai.
She can't keep it up, breaking off into giggles that stop when a timer starts beeping suddenly, and she swears under her breath, grabbing a ladle and adding something to the sauce simmering on the stove. "It does smell delicious," he says truthfully, when she moves away from the pot again.
"Deliciousement, non?" she asks, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and taking a seat in the chair on the other side of the table. He swings himself around in his own chair, so he's now facing the right direction, and picks up the wine bottle that's between them, conjuring two glasses.
"Ah, well, you see, we have not yet reached the adjectives lesson, so I do not know if, grammatically, that is correct. However," he adds, pouring two generous glasses and pushing one her way. "We have done the truly important vocabulary lessons: this is le vin, or le vin rouge if we are being specific."
She smiles, raising her glass to take a sip, but he stops her before she can do so. "You are in England now. We do things the English way," he reprimands, and she rolls her eyes and says cheers as they tap glasses.
"What else 'ave you learnt in your classes?" she asks.
"Nothing really of much use," he concedes. "For example, I can now ask where the railway station is, or inform people that I have visited the town hall. I could not, however, explain to people why I had intended to visit the town hall in the first place. If I found myself in the market, I could ask to buy some apples, if I remembered not to get them confused with potatoes, or I could purchase two hundred and fifty grams of salami. I do not know what I would do with it, because I very much dislike salami, but there we go. That's language classes for you."
"You are taking a language class?" she asks. She puts her glass down on the table and stares straight at him, a slightly uncomprehending look on her face.
"Yes. A French language class, obviously," he replies. "Last night we had a listening test. It was very hard, actually. We had to listen to this woman rattle on and on about being at the market then answer questions like, 'did Marianne buy quatre, quatorze or quarante watermelons?'. I went for four, because I thought that seemed most logical, but it turns out she bought forty watermelons. Forty watermelons! Can you imagine? I don't know where you'd keep them, for a start."
"...in the fruit bowl?" she suggests, after a moment.
"It would have to be une fruit bowl énorme, in that case," he says.
"You really 'ave been taking zhis language class?" she asks again. There's a certain stillness about her as she watches him, so he sets his glass down, too, takes a deep breath and reaches for her hand before he responds. She pulls back slightly, so he lets his hands rest in the centre of the table.
"I am learning to speaking French for the purpose of communicating with the citizens of France," he says. "One day, we have lived in France, in Paris or in the countryside. We have a house and a dog and a baby. It is very nice. In the future, I am looking forward to living with you there. Or we can stay in England. I like England and I like France. If I am speaking French, we can in both live. It is the choice of you." There is a pause, then he reverts back to English. "Well?" he grins. "Marks out of ten?"
She gapes at him for a moment, then pushes back from the table suddenly, her chair making a loud scraping sound along the floor. Standing by the stove she stirs the pot with unnecessary vigour. She seems almost angry, and he tries not to let his surprise show, taking several slow sips from his wine glass as he ponders what his next move should be.
"Please tell me I didn't mistakenly suggest you do something anatomically impossible to a chicken, or something, in my attempt to impress you," he says eventually, trying to make her laugh.
"Your meaning was very clear," she says tightly. "But your grammar was appalling, your tenses were abominable and your sentence structure was dreadful."
"You forgot the alliteration on that last one," he replies, voice laced with sarcasm.
She whirls around from the stove, and he fights the urge to reach for his wand. "But I understood what it is that you meant." She presses her lips together and closes her eyes for a moment. When she reopens them, she speaks very quietly, and he has to strain to hear her words. "You are thinking...far into the future. It surprises me. That is all."
"Fleur..." He stands up, but doesn't move towards her—yet.
"Bill, I know you must stay here for now. I do not know what will 'appen, and I do not know 'ow long it will take, or even 'ow long England will remain safe. But, in the future, that you would want to move to France to be with me is..." She drifts off, making a grasping motion with her hands like she might pluck the words from thin air. "That would be..." she tries again. "I am not..."
"We don't have to live there," he replies. "Not if you don't want to. But I just thought we should have options. You know?"
She nods, then gives him the tiniest of smiles. "For now, I can think of per'aps one or two reasons to stay in England."
"I'm glad," he says, crossing the short distance between them, and wrapping his arms around her waist. She reaches up and links her fingers together behind his neck, batting her lashes at him.
"Why so?" she asks coquettishly.
"Well, although I did not think my grasp of the French language was too bad for someone who has only been learning it for three months, apparently my grammar was appalling, my tenses are abominable and my sentence structure was dreadful. I'm going to need at least another six weeks to get those in line. Best stay in England for now." He tickles her waist and she shrieks, lurching backwards.
"Fire your language tutor," she says, tossing her hair, when she's regained some dignity. "They are awful. From now on, I will teach you."
"Excellent," he says, reaching out and pulling her back in. "I've always felt that the classes were fairly irrelevant to my needs. I think you should start with an anatomy class."
"Ah, oui," she says. "We 'ave la main," she says, then kisses his hand.
"La main," he repeats.
"Correct. Then there is le nez." She kisses the tip of his nose, making him laugh, "Then la bouche." She pecks his lips and draws away, but he tightens his hold and deepens the kiss.
"What next?" he asks rather breathlessly, after a moment.
She smiles. "Oh, lots. Lots and lots and lots. Isn't it a good job that your teacher is so very attractive?"
"I don't know how I survive. Now, what is this?" He bends down and kisses her neck softly and gently, feeling her shiver.
"Lesson two," she says faintly. "La chambre. Shall we pick it up there?"
"An excellent plan." He picks her up, and she wraps her legs around his waist, giggling. The beautiful dinner is left to burn, but, it is later agreed, this was not entirely une catastrophe.