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In the almost forty years Bill Weasley had been alive, he’d been many different things. A son, a brother, a friend. An Order Member, a husband, and a war hero. His favorite moniker, without a shadow of a doubt, had to be the title of ‘father.’
Having kids had changed him and his outlook on life in a way he hadn’t been prepared for, but also in a way that he cherished beyond understanding. Initially, he hadn’t been sure he’d ever have kids—and not necessarily because he’d never wanted them, but because the possibility of having them seemed both so far off and a type of luxury he’d never be afforded.
But here he was, with three children who were a mix of his eyes, his ears, his hair, and his laugh. (Though his favorite parts about all his children were the parts they inherited from their mother, Fleur.)
It was winter, and winter at Shell Cottage meant sealing charms on the creaky windows, hand-knit lovelies on their feet, and a constantly burning fireplace in the living room. It also meant the kids were indoors more than they were out—the wind off the sea was hellish at the best of times and downright unbearable at the worst. If the kids wanted to play in the snow, they Floo-ed to their grandparents’ house and were usually joined by a number of cousins.
Kids inside the house meant Bill was always in desperate need of fun new activities for them, and even in more desperate need of Muggle surveillance equipment to keep an eye on the little buggers. Trying to get the full story out of them when something had gone wrong was worse than pulling teeth. Victoire was the only of his kids to inherit his eyes, though they’d all three inherited their mother’s ability to simultaneously steel and soften their gaze and if not hide the truth, then at least make him forget that he was angry. Bill had grown used to that.
He had also grown used to the laughter and the pitter-patter of feet that echoed from the second floor. He couldn’t remember what his life had truly been like before that noise—before Victoire, Dominique, and Louis. At least he didn’t want to remember, because that meant he had to remember the harder and more quiet times in his life…the constant paranoia and the overwhelming fear that every morning would be his last.
So he focused on happier times.
Yet then there were times like this, right after he’d turned on the wireless and settled into the plush leather armchair by the fire, when things were quiet and a sluice of dread would shoot through him. Not because he thought something nefarious and dangerous was afoot—at least not usually, he thought—but because it more often than not meant something was happening that his children did not want him to know about.
It was a different kind of paranoia, so with a sigh, he got back to his feet and ambled through the house in search of his offspring.
He found them almost immediately, drawn to them by the faint sound of clanking pans and a hurried “shh!”that sounded like Dom. He smiled indulgently to himself before he rounded the corner to the kitchen. Despite his best efforts to remove his smile and look disapproving, he grinned even larger at the scene in front of him.
At the island counter, Victoire stood between her younger siblings in front of a large mixing bowl, and all three of them were covered in flour. There were two empty cupcake tins off to the right, and in front of Louis were a slew of spoons with the remnants of cake batter on them; knowing his son, Louis had begged for the spoons so he could lick the batter, and knowing his daughters, they’d indulged him as they always did.
Bill, somehow keeping the laughter out of his voice, asked them, “What exactly are you three doing?”
“We’re making cupcakes, Dad…obviously,” Dominique replied with a twirl of the whisk clutched in her hand. The batter that was clinging to the silver tines speckled over her red hair, but she was too busy rolling her eyes at him to notice.
“Oh, my apologies,” Bill replied, a hand on his chest in mock contrition. Dominique’s sass and attitude were one of the many things he loved about her—one of the many things she got from her mother—and since she was never disrespectful with it, it was a source of constant amusement for Bill. “Can dear old dad help you?”
“I’m a witch, Dad. I can make my own cupcakes,” Victoire replied, her voice firm and her shoulders straightening. She looked up at him quickly before her eyes darted away and a slight blush rose to her fair cheeks. She added, “You can stay and watch, though.”
Bill pulled up a stool across from them and sat down, careful to keep his arms off the unclean counter. He watched his three children continue making their cupcakes with increasing love for them—and a little horror at the sheer mess they were managing to make. Louis, with his tiny five-year-old voice and his slow stutter, read out the words from the cookbook with much encouragement from his two sisters. Though this was the only endeavor of theirs that wasn’t completed without some degree of chaos.
They followed the recipe very well—surprisingly well, considering their age and the fact they each wanted to do every part. He soon realized all their careful control was a charade, and this wasn’t their first attempt, as evidenced not only by the three dirty mixing bowls in the sink behind them, but by the near-empty flour jar that Fleur had refilled just yesterday. No matter that they were wearing a good majority of the flour, there was simply too much missing for this to be go-around number one.
Whenever Louis was not tasked with reading the next step in the recipe, there was something mysterious happening with the flour on the counter in front of him; the flour lifted in small puffs, and he giggled cutely every time one poofed in front of his face, his little nose scrunching. This explained why they all had flour in their hair. Louis’ bouts of accidental magic were pretty constant these days—so constant that Bill and Fleur were insistent that he was actually very in control.
Victoire was the only one who seemed to be committed to actually completing the cupcake making process, and she was going at it with a type of focus that only a nine-year-old could be in possession of. Then, as Victoire was carefully measuring out a tablespoon of vanilla extract, Dominique’s elbow smacked into the carton of eggs, and the eggs went flying off the counter, splattering on the floor. Louis giggled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, and Victoire grew visibly more frustrated as the extract spilled over.
Bill got to his feet. “Here, I can—”
“For the seventeenth time, I’m a witch,” Victoire interrupted. “I can do this, Dad.”
“Okay, okay,” he surrendered, retaking his seat as the faint sound of stomping winter boots met his ears. He didn’t think the kids heard, but he was grateful for Fleur’s early return from work. His brother Ron had joked when Louis was born that he and Fleur were outnumbered now—that their kids could mutiny and the two of them wouldn’t be able to do anything. Bill had been insistent that wouldn’t be the case until the kids had control over their magic, but here he was, with not one of them in Hogwarts, as he waited with bated breath for Fleur.
When she walked in, her cheeks rosy from the cold and snowflakes in her beautiful hair, she stopped in her tracks as she caught sight of what was in front of her. Fleur put her hands on her hips, cocked her head in a way that made him want to kiss her immediately, and blew out a breath that fluttered the few strands of white-blonde hair in her face. There was a chorus of “Hello!” from the girls and Louis’ excited bubble of “Maman! Maman!” as Fleur pulled out her wand and stepped farther into the kitchen.
She gave Bill a look that said, what in the world?
He just smiled at her sheepishly, trying to let her know without words that he’d been allowed absolutely no control over the situation.
The kids were rapidly explaining to her what they were doing—well, the girls were explaining, and Louis was just hugging her legs and putting white handprints all over her fancy black work slacks. Fleur kept a gentle hand on Louis’ head as she listened to the girls, nodding at them.
In a matter of ten seconds, Fleur had waved her wand and the dishes were washing themselves, the counter was free of debris, and the mess of broken eggs on the floor vanished. Fleur grabbed Louis under his arms, lifting him and setting him on the clean counter, and then officially greeted Dom and Victoire with a quick kiss to the tops of their heads.
“Let me taste the batter,” she requested curtly, but not unkindly or without her usual maternal warmth.
Victoire lifted the spoon to her mother’s mouth, and Fleur made a humming noise in the back of her throat.
“This is good, mon ange,” Fleur complimented. “We’ll add more butter, and then put them in to bake, yes?”
Victoire nodded.
“So your mother gets to help?” Bill asked, not actually upset but frowning plaintively at Victoire anyway.
“Well, yeah, Dad”—Victoire grinned—“she’s a witch.”