A/N: This story was written for The Houses Competition, Year 3, Round 5.
House: Gryffindor
Year: Head Girl
Category: Standard
Prompt: 2. [Last Line] Next time she/he would listen to _.
Word count: 1495 words (written on Google docs)
Betas: Thank you to Shiba (Shibalyfe) for beta'ing! (and CK (Theoretical-Optimist) for looking at the other version) Xx
Additional A/N: I've tried to stick to canon as much as possible, and therefore, this is set before James was born. It's known that Fleamont was a Gryffindor, and that both he and Fleamont had a lot of trouble conceiving for many, many years. It's not canon how he felt about his father's wealth, though—that is unknown.
Warning: At the risk of spoiling part of the story, there are allusions to animal death. It is very mild, but I thought you'd want to know first.
As always, thank you for reading!
Next time, he'd listen to her
"It's a brilliant idea, right?"
"It's a terrible idea! Absolutely not, I forbid it." Euphemia crossed her arms.
Fleamont supposed she thought it somehow made her scary. It only made his grin widen, however, and he spread his arms towards the window.
"See all that land out there? It's made for a Crup!" he said.
"Just because we have a few acres, it doesn't mean we need a fork-tailed dog running around. What if the Muggle neighbours caught a glimpse?"
Fleamont shrugged. He was sure his father would probably be able to save him from anything the Ministry dished out—Henry Potter certainly had enough power on the Wizengamot—but he knew how Euphemia felt about that.
"Fine, what about a regular dog? Lots of people have dogs."
Euphemia arched a thin eyebrow. "And since when have you wanted to be like other people? I'm sorry, but animals are just too much work."
"I'll take care of everything," he said. When she shook her head, he decided to go with another tactic. "A Crup could be like a child..."
He felt awful using it, knowing that he and Euphemia had spent years trying to have a child, but he had to try something.
"That's true…" she said, biting her lip.
Her blue eyes had a faraway look about them, as though she really was considering the possibility of having something other than a child to spoil.
She shook her head, though, and the look disappeared. "Sorry, but no. Please trust me, Flea, a dog isn't a good idea."
His shoulders dropped and the grin slipped from his face as his wife turned to the sink.
Sighing, he stared out the window, wondering if he'd ever get a pet. When his eyes clapped on the back shed, however, his smile returned.
Next time, maybe he'd listen to Euphemia. Right now, he had some work to do.
"Chickens. It had to be chickens."
Fleamont slung his arm over Euphemia's shoulder. "Beautiful, aren't they? Cheap, too—twelve for only seven Sickles."
They may not have have been Crups, but as he watched the brown creatures pecking around the yard, a smile lit up his face. He'd heard chickens could be just as entertaining.
"What in Merlin's name were you thinking?" Euphemia said, punching his shoulder.
Rubbing it, he beamed at her. "They're more practical than dogs. You won't have to worry about running out of eggs anytime soon."
She glared at him. "What are they doing in my garden? I just finished planting those daisies!"
"And I've heard they're excellent for keeping bugs away. Besides, we can't get rid of them now—young Tom from The Leaky Cauldron also seemed quite keen on buying them. You wouldn't turn them into food, would you?"
Euphemia sighed. "No, I don't want them killed. You, on the other hand, are another story. You better ensure you take care of them, because I want nothing to do with them, alright?"
Fleamont waved his hand at her. "You have my word."
She wasn't finished and began listing all the things he'd need to do for them.
He'd listen to her another time, though; right now, he needed to figure out just how much the shed should be expanded for their coop.
"I'm home! You won't believe—Mia?" Fleamont wandered into the kitchen, but his wife wasn't sitting at the table like usual. "Honey, are you home?" he called, walking around the house.
The family room door slid open at that moment and Euphemia stepped inside. From the way she pointed at him, her cheeks red, he knew he was in trouble.
"Those chickens…" she said, shaking her finger.
"Are giving you lots of eggs?"
Euphemia pulled a twig from her hair. "I've just spent the last two hours chasing those birds of yours out of my garden. Have you seen the state of my strawberries?"
"Well, I'm not that much of a fan of strawberries…" When he saw the way her eyes flashed, he hastily changed the topic. "I have some good news."
She sighed. "You've finally decided to listen to me?"
"No! Well, I mean, yes… Anyway, they accepted it! They love the idea of Sleakeazy's Hair Potion," he said.
Euphemia's frown disappeared. "You mean…?"
"No more relying on Father's gold!"
He enveloped her in a hug. Neither of them particularly cared about the money, but it had always been a sore spot for him that he hadn't been as successful as his father, grandfather, or any other Potter for that matter. Now, he'd have a chance to prove his own worth with his invention.
"This deserves celebrating!" Euphemia said, smiling at him. Her eyes wandered over to the bag in his hand and her smile widened. "Did you stop by the shops?"
Fleamont smacked his forehead. "I almost forgot! I bought some treats for the girls," he said, and soon, he was running out the door to give the chickens the Flobberworms he'd bought for them.
He could hear Euphemia muttering about 'spoiling the damn birds,' but he'd have to listen to her complaints another time.
"A-roo-roo-roo-roo-roo!"
"Flea…"
"Mmm?" Fleamont yawned but kept his eyes closed.
"When you told me you got twelve chickens… did you make sure they were chickens?" Euphemia said.
He could feel her eyes boring into him, but he didn't get up. He had a lot of work to do in the morning.
"Aren't all chickens female?" he asked.
A sharp pain hit his shoulder. "Idiot."
"A-roo-roo-roo-roo-roo!"
"The crowing will stop soon," he said, rolling over.
"No, it won't. My neighbour used to have a rooster growing up, and it would crow from midnight onwards. Usually, because something was wrong," she said.
"I'm sure everything's fine. Go back to sleep," he mumbled.
"A-roo-roo-roo-roo-roo!"
It wasn't enough for Euphemia, however, and soon, he felt the bed shift. "Where are you going?"
"To check on them," she said.
"I thought you didn't care?"
"I don't, but it doesn't look like I'll be getting any sleep at this rate."
Fleamont yawned and pulled the covers up. Next time, he'd put a Silencio on their coop to keep out the noise.
"Mia… are you here?"
Euphemia wasn't around the house, but this time, Fleamont knew she'd be in the same placed that she'd been every day that month. Stepping out into the backyard, he soon spotted his wife coming out of the chicken coop.
"Euphemia?"
"Sorry, Flea, I was just checking on Gretchen," she said, kissing him on the cheek.
"Who?"
"The older Isa-brown hen. You know, with the spotted wings? Anyway, she's fine now; the little cardigan I knitted should stop the moulting."
"Oh, right, right," Fleamont said.
All the chickens looked exactly the same to him now, and he had no clue how Euphemia managed to tell them apart, let alone find names for all of them. He had better news, anyway, and he beamed at the brunette.
"Sleakeazy's has taken Europe by storm!" he said, thrusting a copy of The Daily Prophet under Euphemia's nose.
Her eyes widened as she read the article. "Aren't you clever? There's not going to be a wizard on the continent with untamed hair now," she said, smiling at him.
Her smile was worth more than any of the publicity, and he took her hand. "Come on, let's go out and celebrate."
"Okay. I might need you to fix the coop later, though. There's a hole in the back wire, and Naomi seems to—"
"Yes, yes, let's go."
Next time, he'd listen to her chicken stories. Right now, there was champagne to drink.
"We did it, Mia! Sleakeazy's is now in the states—honey?" Fleamont dropped his briefcase and hurried over to the kitchen table, where Euphemia was sitting with her head in her hands. "What's wrong? Did you have another… incident?"
His heart plummeted; he knew he shouldn't have left for America, not when they'd tried to conceive the week before.
His wife shook her head and sniffed. When she looked up at him, he could see that her eyes were red and puffy.
"No, no, I wasn't carrying," she said. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "A fox got into the coop last night. There were feathers everywhere."
"Oh…" he said, rubbing her back. He breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm sorry you had to see that, but at least it was just the chickens." He turned and walked to the stove. "Let's have a cup of tea."
When she didn't answer, he turned around. "I thought you were sick of cleaning up their poop?" he said.
Euphemia blew her nose again, and slowly, she nodded. "You're right; I didn't want them in the first place. They were just chickens."
Although she gave him a small smile, it didn't warm his heart like it usually did. If anything, seeing her watery eyes made it crumble, and he finally understood why she was so opposed to a pet.
Next time he would listen to her.