Chaque jour est un jour
Comme les autres doux jours
Le potage, l'ouvrage
Peut-etre l'amour
Le soleil, il voyage
Le monde fait un tour
Ainsi cest toujours le meme ...
(Translation: Each day is a day like the next. The soup, the work, perhaps love. The sun travels across the sky, the world turns; thus, it is always the same one.)
That Fleur Weasley, nee Delacourt, was annoyed was nothing new. That she was annoyed with someone other than herself was.
Fleur was the kind of woman who held herself to the most exacting standards imaginable. There was nothing inherently wrong with an attitude like that; it had been just that attitude, and the attention to detail that it demanded, that had made her Beaux-Batons' representative in the TriWizard Challenge. But it also tended to make her angry with herself at least a dozen times a day, over minor slips that most people would shrug off and have done with.
And, oddly enough, Fleur did not extend her expectations to others. She cut herself absolutely no slack, and therefore had plenty left over for everyone else. For her to get annoyed with someone else was rare indeed. But right at this moment, she was very annoyed, and the object of her displeasure was her youngest brother-in-law, Ronald Weasley, and his best friend, Harry Potter.
It should be obvious, even to these English people who were so out of touch with their emotions that Fleur sometimes wondered how they even recognized them, that Ronald and Harry were in love with each other. Fleur saw it in dozens of little signs that no one else seemed to notice. At this rate, she herself would be a great-grandmother (she winced slightly at the thought of being that old) before either of them finally made any sort of move. It was infuriating!
Even though she seethed with frustration inside, Fleur allowed none of her emotional tempest to spill over into the lunch she was preparing. Ronald and Harry were joining her for lunch, after all, and Fleur would no more allow herself to serve anything less than a perfect meal than she would allow herself to miscast a spell. She checked on the soup on the stove, to make sure it was simmering properly and not scorching on the bottom—
And then stopped.
She shouldn't.
She really, really shouldn't.
And Fleur turned and opened the leftmost of her cabinets, the one that held ingredients that no Muggle cookbook would ever mention……