Round 3 Reserve Chaser 3 for the Kestrels

Season 10, The Quidditch League Competition

Prompts:

[dialogue] "If you need a hand just say the word."

[colour] seafoam green

[word] linger

Fleur's eyes opened to the dark ceiling. Something was wrong.

The wards weren't warning her of a threat, and no storm was raging against the cottage windows, but she knew something was wrong. Then she heard it. A cough.

She rose as quickly as she could and headed to her daughter's bedroom. Her wand illuminated the room as she slipped through the door that had been left ajar, and Fleur could barely make out the figure of her four-year-old daughter twisted up in her light sheets.

"Maman," Dominique called out in a raspy, plaintive voice, and Fleur went to caress her back and shush her softly.

"Are you still feeling sick, my darling?"

Dominique raised her arms with a whine and Fleur tucked her wand in the pocket of her nightgown to lift her daughter. Even swaying from side to side was hard in her condition, but Fleur still had enough strength to rock her sick daughter back to sleep.

She was careful as she got back into bed, wishing to preserve the pre-dawn quiet and enjoy the serenity of her husband's steady breaths. Nevertheless, he stirred as she settled.

"Domi?" Bill mumbled, voice thick with slumber.

"She's still coffing," Fleur confirmed, tripping over a sound that remained hard for her even after several years living in Britain.

"I'll floo mum before heading out."

Fleur took a breath to argue, but Bill shifted closer, one hand automatically raising to her belly.

"Let her fuss over Domi and feed Vicky pudding, so you can focus on growing our third daughter, hm?"

Fleur melted in her husband's arms, kissing over his scars and playing with his long hair.

"You are crazy, mon amour. I've told you we're having a son."

/\

Bill had scarcely apparated out when Molly flooed into the living room with a great basket under her arm, catching Victoire for a hug as the seven-year-old girl ran towards the smell of mince pie.

"Hi, Molly. How are you?"

"Oh, Fleur, dear! Get off your feet, I've got something for you as well, and where's the sick little angel?"

"Dominique's resting in her room, her coff had her up before dawn."

"The poor dear," Molly clucked, already filling Victoire's arms with baked goods as the little girl regaled her grandma with tales of her adventures on the beach.

"Shall I put the kettle on, Molly?"

"What nonsense! Sit down I said. I'm perfectly capable of getting tea myself and you should rest. Eight months along, isn't it? The little dear shouldn't make us wait too long now."

"Are you still talking about Louis? He isn't even here yet!" Victoire whined loudly, voice going up and down as her eyes rolled and her shoulders rose and fell in time with the put-upon sighs that dramatically punctuated her sentences.

"You'll find we've barely started, ma poupette. Why, your grandma and I have barely exchanged two words."

Victoire pouted pointedly, and Fleur tittered at the over-the-top gesture, sinking on the couch as she saw that Molly had the potential strop well in hand. It was her third pregnancy and she wasn't too proud to sit down and relax with her mother-in-law in the room. Of course, that was when Dominique called out, "Maman!" in her raspy, congested voice, and Fleur had to twist and put a hand on the back of the couch to heave herself back to her feet.

"Oh, that sounds awful! I've brought a couple of potions— I can go straight in and to her."

"Molly," Fleur said, stopping the woman in her tracks. "Take a few minutes to settle in and catch up with Victoire. I've nursed insurgents through their injuries, I can handle a cold."

Molly instinctively brought a hand to her chest, heartsick at the reminder of the war, then nodded faintly.

Fleur smiled at the proof of how things had changed between them. There was a time when Molly wouldn't have trusted her with sick puffskein, huffing and puffing every time Fleur suggested something, and hoping her son would come to his senses and leave her for a British witch. But why linger on a different time? Fleur would be the first to admit that she had done nothing to encourage a more positive relationship with her fiancé's mother at first. She'd let her cold reception colour their relationship for almost a year, until the terrible battle that scarred her Bill forever. Fleur sighed and rubbed her belly, humming softly under her breath to push away the memories as she went to tend to her daughter.

When she came back, Molly was occupied unloading her baked goods in the kitchen while Victoire talked her ears off, and Fleur took advantage of the rare moment of relative quiet to stop and contemplate the calm sea lapping at the cliff. Under the morning sun, the surface shone seafoam green and although many things had changed, she was as fascinated by it as the first time she set foot in the cottage.

The whistle of the kettle startled her and she settled back on the couch just in time for Molly and Victoire to emerge from the kitchen with the tea service and some scones to tie them over before lunch.

"Leave the raspberry ones for your mother, now, you know how she likes them," Molly was telling Victoire as they set the coffee table with a small mountain of platters.

They started chatting as they drank tea and nibbled on the treats, and soon enough Victoire started swinging her legs, almost bored to tears but believing herself too mature to leave the adults and go play without her younger sister there to provide an excuse to do so. Fleur arranged a couple of scones on a napkin and sent her to deliver them to Dominique's room with a wink, and Molly chuckled when Victoire excused herself from the table with a little courtesy.

"She's a doll," Molly commented before picking up the previous thread of the conversation. "And so I finished the hat. I've been knitting all the basics, of course, but a blanket should be something special—"

"You know what would be a good colour, Molly?" interrupted Fleur, thinking of the beautiful view she'd stopped to contemplate from the window. "Seafoam green. Seafoam green for our little Louis," she concluded, once again caressing her bump.

"So I did hear Victoire correctly! Louis, is that going to be the name? You're confident it's a boy?" Molly asked, going on excitedly without waiting for a reply. "Well, a mother knows. Merlin knows Arthur thought I'd cracked when I started knitting little pink stockings after six boys!"

Fleur chuckled politely, but further comments were stalled by Dominique finally emerging from her room to greet her grandma and beg the mince pies off of her.

All the snacking caused their lunch to be greatly delayed, of course, and when it was time to cook Fleur and Molly had a reiteration of their longest-standing argument.

"Oh, are you already taking the meat off the heat?"

Fleur firmly set the steaks on her daughters' plates and maturely avoided bringing up the fact that "rare" had become the default since Greyback's attack.

"We've been having the same discussion for the past eight years, Molly. My children are half French, they won't be raised on you British's overcooked meat."

"If you're sure…"

And soon enough it was time to say goodbye.

Fleur let Molly fuss to her heart's content over her daughters and accepted her fair share, nodding along to Molly's last-minute recommendations as they hovered around the fireplace. She only put her foot down when she saw Dominique starting to flag.

"And avoid sharp corners, you wouldn't want to bump into—"

"Honestly, Molly!" Fleur laughed. "You'd think I hadn't done this twice already!"

"Very well, then, but… If you need a hand just say the word."

"Of course," Fleur agreed softly.

They hugged and kissed on both cheeks, and in a flash of fire, Molly went back to the Burrow.

Later in the evening, when Bill had returned home and kissed their girls on the head, Fleur melted against him and sighed in tired happiness, feeling all the aches that magic could mitigate but not erase.

Hopefully, little Louis would come soon.