Molly’s future daughter-in-law peeked around the corner of the screen. She looks, for the first time ever, shy.
“The buttons,” Fleur says in explanation. “One moment.”
They’d spent the morning together in Diagon Alley, buying the ingredients for Le Gâteau. Fleur had shrewdly negotiated prices, buying pastry flour and Tahitian vanilla, tiny edible pearls and silver-tinted sugar, so much of each that Molly was sure she’d be able to make wedding cakes for years, and could, assuming her other sons pulled their heads out of their respective bums and found wives.
After lunch they’d Flooed to Fleur’s tiny flat in Muggle London so Molly could see The Dress, still called such because her French is mostly cooking terms.
“Let’s see it,” she calls, and the girl steps out from behind the screen, pink-cheeked.
She held her arms out and twirled in a circle. It’s a stunning, beautifully ruffled warm white gown that sets off the tone of her skin, overlaid with an open-weave black lace on the bodice.
“What do you theenk? Not very traditional. Mama says eet es too avant-garde, but Bill will love it, no?”
Much as they clashed, Fleur was what she’d always hoped for her boys to find - a woman who can hold her ground and stand up for what she wants.
“Très magnifique,” Molly says, blinking back tears and likely butchering the language, but Fleur throws her arms around her anyway.
Say Oui to the Dress
Molly’s future daughter-in-law peeked around the corner of the screen. She looks, for the first time ever, shy.
“The buttons,” Fleur says in explanation. “One moment.”
They’d spent the morning together in Diagon Alley, buying the ingredients for Le Gâteau. Fleur had shrewdly negotiated prices, buying pastry flour and Tahitian vanilla, tiny edible pearls and silver-tinted sugar, so much of each that Molly was sure she’d be able to make wedding cakes for years, and could, assuming her other sons pulled their heads out of their respective bums and found wives.
After lunch they’d Flooed to Fleur’s tiny flat in Muggle London so Molly could see The Dress, still called such because her French is mostly cooking terms.
“Let’s see it,” she calls, and the girl steps out from behind the screen, pink-cheeked.
She held her arms out and twirled in a circle. It’s a stunning, beautifully ruffled warm white gown that sets off the tone of her skin, overlaid with an open-weave black lace on the bodice.
“What do you theenk? Not very traditional. Mama says eet es too avant-garde, but Bill will love it, no?”
Much as they clashed, Fleur was what she’d always hoped for her boys to find - a woman who can hold her ground and stand up for what she wants.
“Très magnifique,” Molly says, blinking back tears and likely butchering the language, but Fleur throws her arms around her anyway.
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