Started writing these on a whim when the lineage showed up on my Tumblr dash. Updating this is not a priority, but I'll try to do it whenever I feel inspired.
I am not J. K. Rowling. Were I J. K. Rowling, the books would include about a dozen canonical alternate universes where things like Sev/Lily and Siri/Rem could have perfectly happy endings. (This would also, of course, completely ruin the emotional thrust of the story. This is why I am not J. K. Rowling.)
Enjoy! And r/r if you have the time. :)
"I am theenking per'aps Dominique," said Fleur in her liquid silver tones, one hand pressed absently to her belly while the other stretched up to shelve the products of their grocery-shopping and gardening. Four swollen red tomatoes, a bar of chocolate, a jar of Molly's favourite tea. Outside Shell Cottage the ocean swirled and roared.
Bill strode in with a small shovel and an easy grin. "Sœur Sourire? You always manage to surprise me, love."
His pronunciation was (vell, ever so nearly) flawless. And he had recognised the name. Of course they had watched The Singing Nun with Vicki half a dozen times, but still she had to press a small smile into her sleeve, hiding her delight to reply, "You could 'ave just said you do not like eet. No need for zis fussing about."
"I never said that." His murmur was quiet in her ear, and suddenly there were arms wrapped around her. She fought with the cabinet door for a moment before giving in and relaxing back into the embrace. Still she kept her eyebrows playfully raised.
"You 'ave not answered my question. You know zat if you do not vant another French name…"
"I," he said, placing kisses along her ear, "adore your French names."
She felt rather than saw Victoire toddle in on her chubby legs. "Mama? A bird is in our garden." There was a pout in the child's voice, and when Fleur peered over her husband's shoulder she saw her daughter's arms were crossed. "I think he is eating all the beans."
If Fleur's laugh was bells, Bill's was a distant avalanche, the creaking of a ship.
"He just wants the worms," said he, but Fleur disengaged herself from his hold and went to run a hand through the child's red-gold ringlets.
"I vill come see." Halfway out the door she turned back to her husband. "And zat is all very vell for you. I vas going to say zat if you do not want another French name, zen I vill divorce you, and too bad!"
The smile she flashed him was extra bright as she spun around again and drifted out the door, one palm over her unborn child and the other grasping the wrist of Victoire. He watched her go with a can of peas in his hand. Music floated behind her as she sang:
"En tous chemins, en tous lieux,
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu,
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu."