ooh, oooh! can you do Bill learning French to impress Fleur? xx
“Good evening. I am your friendly neighbourhood door-to-door salesman here to flog you some wilted honking daffodils, guaranteed to survive at least the next half hour. Interested?” Bill raises an eyebrow and watches as Fleur tries to put on her most imperious, unamused face.
It lasts about five seconds. “Zey are hideous,” she proclaims, before taking them from him and stretching up to kiss him.
“Just like you, then,” he replies, before moving in to kiss her again. She waits until their lips are almost touching, then moves sharply away, leaving him stumbling slightly.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she says, not sounding it at all. “But I must attend to my cooking.” He follows her in to her tiny flat, closing the door securely behind him and double-checking it has been locked by both magical and muggle means. He’s pretty sure no one unwanted saw him come here, but you can’t be too careful these days. If she notices this, though, she doesn’t say anything, instead launching into a description of what she’s making him for dinner.
“So, I am making you something zhat is much more exciting than you would get here; we begin with soupe au pistou, and then for the main I am making daube Provençale et enfin, we ’ave gibassier, from the recipe of my grand-mère,” she explains, switching so rapidly between French and English he has next to no idea what she’s saying. “What do you zhink? I am sure you will like it, because of course France is famed for its cuisine, it is well known. We ’ave the best food out of all the countries, but you English in particular, well—”
“Ah, yes, le rosbifs,” he nods. “Truly, our cooking is terrible. Indeed, it is a wonder anyone survives beyond infancy, the food is so bad. I have heard stories of people choosing to starve rather than eat another mouthful of spotted dick. Personally I much prefer the nice French dish of slugs. I’m sorry, I mean snails. I get my squashy garden bugs rather mixed up, you see.”