Burnt Offerings and Warm Hearts
As Fleur and Hermione returned to the palace after their shopping trip, the air between them was light, almost playful. Fleur had guided Hermione through various shops, selecting delicate fabrics and jewelry for their upcoming wedding. While Hermione wasn’t one to show overt excitement for such things, Fleur noticed the subtle contentment radiating from her. Hermione’s occasional amused remarks and quiet smiles were proof enough that she cherished the time they spent together. For Fleur, that was more than enough.
The sun was dipping low on the horizon by the time they reached their private quarters, its golden light streaming through the grand windows of the palace. Fleur paused at the threshold of their ornate kitchen, an idea forming in her mind. Turning to Hermione, she announced, "I think I should cook tonight."
Hermione stopped mid-motion as she slipped off her jacket, hanging it neatly by the door. She arched a skeptical eyebrow, though her lips curved with faint amusement. "You want to cook?" Her tone was incredulous, but there was a playful edge to it. "You do realize we have a perfectly good chef on staff, don’t you?"
Fleur's grin widened, her blue eyes gleaming with determination. "Yes, but tonight I want to do something special for you, ma chérie. You humored me today with the shopping—now it’s my turn to give something back."
Hermione hesitated, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned casually against the doorframe. The earnestness in Fleur's expression softened her usual practicality. "Alright," she conceded, her voice low and warm. "But I’m warning you, Fleur—cooking isn’t as simple as it looks."
"How hard can it be?" Fleur replied, laughing lightly, brushing off Hermione’s caution with a wave of her hand. She was confident—or, at least, determined enough to give the impression of confidence.
But determination, Fleur quickly discovered, wasn’t always enough.
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Two hours later, chaos reigned in the kitchen. Pots clanged, ingredients littered the countertops, and a faint haze of smoke hung in the air. Fleur, with her sleeves rolled up and a streak of flour on her cheek, glanced nervously at the oven as the timer blared. She pulled out a roasting pan, only to find the roast more blackened than golden, its edges crisped to an unfortunate crunch. The vegetables she’d lovingly chopped earlier had disintegrated into a wilted, overcooked heap, and the sauce simmering on the stove had transformed into a sticky, unidentifiable blob.
As Fleur surveyed the wreckage, she let out a groan, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her updo. "This was supposed to be romantic," she muttered under her breath.
But Fleur wasn’t one to give up. With a few adjustments—mostly involving scraping off the charred bits and arranging the food as artfully as possible—she set the plates on the dining table. The flickering candlelight and elegant table setting, at least, lent an air of charm to the less-than-appetizing meal.
Just as Fleur was finishing, the rest of the family began to arrive. Hermione’s parents, Monica and Richard, entered first, followed by Fleur’s family—Apolline, Jean, and Gabrielle. The guards stationed discreetly by the walls exchanged wary glances, clearly bracing for the inevitable tension.
Richard eyed the food with barely concealed suspicion. "This is… different," he commented, his diplomatic tone doing little to mask his concern.
Fleur, now seated beside Hermione, fidgeted with her napkin, glancing nervously at her fiancée. She had braced herself for Hermione’s reaction, expecting a polite yet firm critique of the meal’s many shortcomings.
To everyone’s surprise, however, Hermione picked up her fork and knife without a word. The scrape of her knife against the overcooked roast echoed in the quiet room. She took a deliberate bite, chewing thoughtfully before reaching for the vegetables.
The tension in the room was palpable, every eye fixed on Hermione. Monica and Apolline exchanged confused glances, while Gabrielle struggled to stifle a giggle behind her hand. Even the guards shifted uneasily, clearly unsure whether to intervene or applaud.
Finally, Richard broke the silence. "Hermione," he began cautiously, "you do realize the food is—"
"Yes, I’m aware," Hermione interrupted smoothly, setting down her utensils with deliberate grace. Her voice was calm, her tone unwavering. "But my wife made this meal for me. Why wouldn’t I eat it?"
The simple declaration left everyone momentarily stunned. Fleur’s heart swelled at the sound of those words—my wife—spoken with such quiet conviction. For a moment, she forgot about the burnt roast and soggy vegetables, focusing only on the warmth in Hermione’s gaze.
Richard leaned back in his chair, blinking in surprise, while Monica’s expression softened into a knowing smile. Apolline beamed with maternal pride, her eyes glistening as she glanced at Fleur. Jean chuckled, shaking his head with an amused grin. "Well said," he murmured.
Breaking the tension further, Gabrielle chimed in brightly, "If Hermione’s brave enough to eat it, I suppose the rest of us can try too." With exaggerated enthusiasm, she speared a limp vegetable, earning a chorus of laughter from the table.
As conversation resumed, the mood shifted. Laughter and stories filled the room, turning what had started as a culinary disaster into a night of warmth and camaraderie. Fleur reached for Hermione’s hand beneath the table, her fingers curling gently around hers.
"Thank you," Fleur whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Hermione turned to her, her expression softening into something rare and unguarded. "You don’t have to thank me," she replied, her voice low and intimate. "You tried to do something for me, Fleur. That’s all that matters."
Fleur’s heart soared. In that moment, surrounded by family and laughter, she realized that burnt dinners and culinary missteps didn’t matter. What mattered was the love they shared—a love strong enough to turn even the most chaotic moments into something beautiful.