.

In which there is breakfast, a proposal, and some trees

(September, 1814)

.

Family trees are funny things — great, convoluted things spread out across distance and time, with branches grown from the same seed and yet so often unrecognisable to one another.

(Some family trees are a circle, but as we are in polite company, we shan't talk of it.)

If one considered the Viscount Weasley, for example (and if one were smart, they wouldn't), they might observe — well, could hardly miss it if they tried — a display of not-inconsiderable wealth.

A library larger than some cottages, which he wasted no time in. An assortment of swords he had no skill with. Several horses he took no pleasure in riding (and the horses felt the same). A dressing room full of the newest fashions of each season which looked ridiculous enough without his assistance (but he did his best).

And in order to earn this luxury and importance (real or perceived), all he'd had to do was allow himself to be born the eldest son of his father Silas, the viscount before him, who was himself the eldest son of his father Leon, the viscount before him.

And so on to his father William, the viscount before him.

And so on.

But from there, if one followed the branches in a different direction, through William 's younger son Felix to his youngest son Septimus, they would arrive at last at his youngest son: Dr Arthur Weasley of Ottery St Catchpole in Devonshire.

And there we find ourselves in a different forest entirely.

The good doctor might share a name and a similar shade of hair with his something-or-other cousin more times removed than anyone cared to count — but the similarities ended there.

The primary trouble with Dr Weasley was that he'd had the audacity to be born the youngest son of a youngest son of a youngest son. But then he'd gone and made things even worse in a number of ways.

He was principled, for one thing, which was never a good start. A life as a country physician was not what his parents would have chosen for him, but Arthur could not be contented with the Army or the Church or politics. He could still call himself a gentleman, but just barely.

As if that hadn't made him enough of a lost cause, he'd gone and married purely for love — which is really only fashionable when one party is rich.

Arthur was decidedly not rich — and even though Miss Molly Prewett, daughter of a successful merchant, had come with a respectable enough dowry, she was no heiress either.

Thankfully, Miss Prewett's parents — whilst hardly thrilled with the match — hadn't cut her off (her mother-in-law had not been so fortunate when she'd decided to marry Arthur's father Septimus so many years before). And a good thing, too, because between Arthur's modest income and Molly's just-this-side-of-comfortable settlement, they were just barely able to provide for the formal education of each of their six sons (a condition on which Molly would not budge).

Six sons, yes.

And a daughter, because Arthur never learnt.

In a bizarre twist of fate, the one girl in the family had come into this world slightly richer than any of her brothers, save for the firstborn William who would inherit the estate (such as it was). For, being the only girl, the modest amount settled at the time of Arthur and Molly's marriage for any daughters' dowries would not be divided amongst any but herself. The amount attached to her was unlikely to induce offers from any but the most smitten men (though, thanks to her great beauty, there were no shortage of those) — but if she never did marry, well, with that amount she might sacrifice a deal of comfort but she was fairly unlikely to end up in the poorhouse.

What little money was not tied up in Dr Weasley's estate translated to a meagre settlement indeed for each of the five boys who fell between William and Ginevra, and if they could not make their own fortunes then, not unlike their little sister, they would simply have to marry their fortunes.

To add insult to injury, William was the one least in need of any inheritance; the same good sense and dedication that had led him to deciding to be born first had also led him to distinguishing himself in the Army, and then in matters of diplomacy in the last years of the war.

But an estate divided by six was nothing at all; it must be kept together.

And indeed, the estate at Burrough House, about fifteen minutes' easy ride from the village, was not nothing, exactly. It was a charming, well-kept country house, if on the small side — only five bedrooms — on good land, bordered by the river to the west and the small orchard to the south.

It had been comfortable for a family of five, arguably cosy up until child number six, and frankly calamitous in the years between Ginevra's birth and William's finally going off to school.

Nowadays, however, with three of the boys gone off in the world and all but the youngest two children fully grown, scenes such as the one that could presently be found in the breakfast room, could almost be described as downright civilised.

Dr Weasley had gone early to see to young Nicholas Martin who'd taken a nasty fall the day before, and Mrs Weasley was taking her breakfast in bed as usual; and the bright little room — companionably silent up until now except for the clink of silverware, the contemplative rustle of newspaper, or the odd yawn — was the dominion of the young and the restful.

George, fifth in line, had a distinctly rumpled appearance about him, and a hint of a slouch in his posture owing to a slight curvature of the spine he'd developed in adolescence. His unbuttoned waistcoat and lack of a cravat at this moment gave a misleading appearance of indolence, belying an active mind and a quick wit.

Ronald, the youngest boy and the last to join the dining party on this occasion, yawning and stretching as he did, had not even managed the waistcoat and appeared in his shirtsleeves.

Ginevra, youngest of all, was at her ease in a dressing gown, taking bread and butter as she pondered the day ahead.

Only Percy, third eldest of the seven, was at all properly attired — which according to George was quite unforgivable, seeing as Percy spent a not insignificant amount of time in London and as such should have been used to town hours; and therefore it was abominable of him to be fully rigged out before ten o'clock even in the country. Percy, who had never slept past seven in his life — except perhaps once when he had attended a ball lasting until three and allowed himself to sleep until eight-thirty — had taken this criticism under submission as he sipped coffee and perused the newspaper.

"Chuck us a roll, George," said Ron as he entered. George obliged and Ron caught it in his hands as he dropped into his usual chair. "Thank you."

"Your most devoted," replied George amiably. There was a pause as he poured out some more coffee for himself, and then: "Except I wish you would not call me George when I am so much better looking than him."

He raised his coffee to his lips with the air of someone who had said nothing out of the ordinary, whilst a stillness overcame the rest of the room, Ron and Ginny staring intently, trying to decide the meaning of this. Because surely they would have known if —

"I say," came a familiar voice from the stairs, "I do believe there's some scapegrace running around here wearing my clothes!"

Another George came into view wearing a mischievous grin identical to that worn by the George at the table, who now sat up perfectly straight, having demonstrated that no amount of time away from home could impair his ability to expertly mimic his twin's posture and mannerisms.

"Freddie!" cried Ginny, having now accepted the delightful, impossible shock of it all. In her excitement in bolting up out of her seat, a bit of bread she'd broken off arced through the air and landed neatly in Percy's coffee; though this went unnoticed as Percy, whose nose was still buried in the paper, had only just begun to peer over the top of it to take in the developing scene. Ginny ran around the table and flung her arms about Erstwhile George's neck as he laughed and motioned for her to hush so that they might not be heard above stairs.

"Oh," remarked Percy with sedate interest, extending a hand to shake Not George's. "Dashed good to see you, Fred. On furlough, are you?" With that, he disappeared behind the paper again.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Ginny commandeered the situation as Ron reached across the table to shake hands with Fred, and before Fred could answer she demanded of George, "Did you know?"

"'Course I knew! Had to smuggle our Lieutenant in here last night under cover of darkness."

"He means I climbed up the back of the house," clarified Fred.

"And listen," added George, "don't say anything when Mama comes in, we've got a wager as to how long it takes her to notice."

"Verity certainly didn't," said Fred, referring to the housemaid. "I passed her on the way down here. Have you any idea the things she mutters about you when she's on your left side?"

George, fully deaf in his left ear since early childhood, simply grinned and began portioning a few slices of cold beef onto his plate.

It had been two years since they'd last seen Fred, and Ron and Ginny bombarded him with hushed questions so that their voices would not carry. Fred's recitations of his movements had only reached as far as the summer of 1813 when suddenly he stopped and cocked an ear towards the stairs. The faint sound of Mrs Weasley speaking to Verity above stairs floated down to where they sat.

"Mama!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "Come, Errol!" He gave a low whistle, and after a moment's contemplation the old canine who had been sprawled underneath the table seemed to decide it was worth removing himself from his strategic position, so as not to allow Master Fred to disappear from his sight again now that he'd come home. He loyally followed Fred into the adjacent parlour, followed with some confusion by three pairs of wary eyes and George's significant grin, moments before Mrs Weasley made her appearance.

"Good morning, my dears!"

"Good morning, Mama," chorused four voices.

Though she'd already taken her own breakfast in her room, Mrs Weasley took her usual seat at the foot of the table.

"Ginny, dear, I should like you to wear that blue silk dress today, the one we bought in Honiton. I've asked Verity to set it out for you." Her voice was deliberately light, and Ginny paused in the act of buttering another roll. Ron's brow furrowed as he sipped his coffee and Percy rustled the pages of his paper slightly, but all were silent until —

"What in heaven's name for?" enquired Ginny suspiciously.

"Your cousin Bernard is home from London and has expressed his intention to call on you today, isn't that handsome?"

"No, it deuced well isn't handsome!" exclaimed Ginny, quite cross, as George and Ron each let out a long-suffering sigh. Mrs Weasley quelled them with a look.

"Hush, Ginevra," she returned. "And don't let Bernard hear you using such unattractive language! I declare I don't know but I'm astounded he continues to call on you at all after what happened in February!"

Ron gasped in a valiant effort to hold in his laughter, and tried to appear as though he were merely choking on a bite of potato.

"It isn't funny!" shot Mrs Weasley.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," maintained Ginny, to which Mrs Weasley exclaimed, "You set his coattails on fire!" causing Ron and George to abandon themselves to laughter. Percy cleared his throat disapprovingly.

"I did nothing of the sort, but I'm sure I wish I had. I don't care how many times Cousin Barny calls on me, he's oafish and boring, and I am not going to marry him no matter how many times you invite him around without telling me!" She threw down her knife upon her plate with a clatter and crossed her arms, now sunk fully into the sullens.

Folding his paper at last, Percy offered, "A position as a viscountess is nothing to sneer at, Ginny. You'd outstrip all of us, and I dare say if you would give Cousin Bernard a fair — "

"Oh, go to the devil, Percy!" she shot.

"Language!" returned both Percy and their mother.

With the air of one trying to defuse the situation, George interjected, "I wonder where Errol's got to this morning. There's scraps enough here to keep him occupied for the better part of the day. Errol!" he called out, rising from the table and disappearing into the parlour, apparently in search of the beast.

A moment later, he re-emerged from the parlour, only now wearing a blue waistcoat rather than the green he'd had on before, with Errol following closely on his heels. Neither Ron nor Ginny nor Percy made comment, though the corner of Percy's mouth twitched and he made a show of brushing invisible specks of lint from the sleeve of his coat.

"George, dear…" ventured Mrs Weasley uncertainly. For a moment she rather thought she beheld Fred, not George; but knowing she could never have been the last to learn if Fred had come home unexpectedly, she pushed this thought from her mind and asked, "Was not your waistcoat… well, green?"

"Eh?" Fred-as-George looked up, having directed Errol to take his place curled up under the table once more. "Oh, it's a trick of the light, I dare say. Do you see?"

He turned this way and that, demonstrating the persistent not-at-all-green-blueness of his waistcoat; and Mrs Weasley did not see, deciding that perhaps the matter would make more sense after a glass of wine.

It was at that moment that a knock sounded at the front door, answered in indistinct tones by their solitary manservant, who appeared shortly thereafter in the breakfast room bearing a sealed letter.

"Letter for Mr Ronald."

"Thank you, Chudleigh," said Ron, accepting it with a quizzical look that turned to one of glee when he beheld the pen in which it was addressed. "It's from Harry!"

He tore it open and scanned the first few lines, his lips moving in silence before he exclaimed, "He's coming to visit! He says he may come later this very month, if that's agreeable to you, Mama, and — oh, famous! He's already talking of London in the spring and says I must go with him!" He looked up, his blue eyes jubilant.

Mrs Weasley had scarcely opened her mouth to respond when Ginny shot forwards in her seat, pointing an accusing finger at her brother and interjecting, "If Ron goes to London, I don't see why I shouldn't as well!"

Eyes snapping to her daughter, Mrs Weasley responded in deprecating tones, "You went to London two seasons ago and decided to come home without a husband, despite receiving three offers!"

"It was only two!"

"That's true, Mother," said Percy fairly. "It was only two. The third suit was Lawrence Fawley's, and Ginny hid underneath the table when he came to call."

"I thought it was behind the curtain," said Ron.

"No, it was under the table," replied Percy and Ginny at once, the latter with a devious grin.

"And anyway," continued Ginny, deflecting the subject away from her trail of dejected suitors, "what possible reason should Ronnie have to go to London? Are you going to tell him to get married?"

"Certainly not," said Mrs Weasley. "He's far too young."

Ron stuck out his tongue at his sister.

But Mrs Weasley's tone was distracted now, her mind turning back to the contents of the letter and the prospect of such a distinguished visitor in her own home.

"Is this your friend the future Earl of Buckston?" she asked her youngest son.

"The very one! Finally returned from the Continent. Mama, I mean to write him straight away!"

Her eyes slid appraisingly to her daughter. Marriage to a Viscount seemed a dull prospect indeed compared with an earl.

"Certainly you should, my dear! He may come as soon as he will!"

"Buckston, Buckston…" Percy muttered absently, thinking. Then his lip curled the slightest bit. "Isn't he a Whig?"

"Where are your pearls, Mama?" enquired Fred-George. "I need something to clutch."

Percy shot him a withering glare before checking his pocket watch and rising with a lofty, "I'm off to Moorpark."

"And I'm going to visit Luna," announced Ginny — who, having suspected exactly what her mother was thinking, quite forgot that Fred and George's game had yet to be revealed, instead wanting to get as far away from her mother's plotting as possible.

"Well, do be sure to be home before two o'clock, for that is when your cousin intends to call, and it wouldn't do at all to disappoint him when he's been invited," said Mrs Weasley — though she said it halfheartedly, her mind in a whirl, thinking that while it would be very poor manners indeed for Ginny to absent herself from Cousin Bernard's visit, she now no longer cared to push Ginny onto him, not when there was an Earl to be had; and she began to wonder how best to keep Cousin Bernard on the catch for Ginny in the event this new plan did not work out.

"Well, I haven't invited him!" protested Ginny.

Mrs Weasley ignored this. "And take one of your brothers with you, for I know you never take one of the grooms, and I'll not have you seen riding alone, not today!"

She shot a look at Ron, who protested the charge, having no desire to spend an hour sitting alone in utter boredom, with nothing to occupy him but old copies of Mr Lovegood's newspaper, whilst Ginny and Luna gossiped.

"Here, Mama," offered Forge, "I'll escort Ginny. I've a mind to visit my Uncle Godfrey today."

"I believe you've paid my brother-in-law a visit nearly every day this week, though I hardly think your attention is spent on him," she said shrewdly, in a manner that George might have protested — but Fred merely grinned and said, loudly enough that he might be heard in the parlour:

"Oh, indeed! I mean to make ardent love to Angie Johnson."

"Villain!" exclaimed a voice from the parlour. Mrs Weasley had, at that moment, opened her mouth to chastise 'George,' but she gaped in astonishment as another George, clad in a green waistcoat, strolled into the room, looking pleased with himself but rather pink in the face.

"An infamous thing to say, Lieutenant," George added, "and I'll thank you not to pitch that gammon outside these walls!"

For their mother's part, Fred's off-colour remark about his twin's intentions towards Miss Johnson were all but forgotten as she realised the game.

"Oh, Fred!" She flew towards him and wrapped him in her embrace as he laughed and protested weakly. "I knew something was afoot! Trick of the light, indeed!"

It was half an hour before Fred managed to escape his mother's clutches — which was just as well, considering Ginny still had to dress before setting out, ignoring her mother's admonitions that it was starting to look like rain and perhaps she'd better take the carriage instead.

Fred and George took Ginny as far as the fork which led to the village in one direction and to their uncle's estate in the other, relinquishing her from the escort she did not want and telling her they would see her later in the village when it was time to come home. She urged her horse, Harpy, into a gallop, and the twins proceeded at a leisurely pace in the other direction.

Colonel Godfrey Weasley lived an easy distance from both his younger brother Arthur and their oldest brother Bilius. Holden House was all at once smaller than one might expect it to be, given Colonel Weasley's respectable fortune, and larger than one might expect it to be, given the fact that he had never married and had no children.

He did, however, have a ward: a Miss Angelina Johnson, daughter of the late Lieutenant Colonel Ezra Johnson.

Angelina had lost her mother at barely six years of age, after which she and her father had departed the West Indies for England. Another three years and life had, cruelly, also taken Lt Col Johnson, leaving Angelina with an inheritance of some fifteen thousand pounds and a guardian who, true to his promise to his dear friend, cared for her as his own daughter — as well as two particular boys her age down the road, who'd decided instantly that she was to be their friend.

And so it had been for nearly fifteen years.

The twins going off to school at some point had been quite an inconvenience, but once they'd got to university they were thoughtful enough to get themselves rusticated once — and then George a second time after that after Fred had joined the Army, causing Dr and Mrs Weasley to cut short George's Oxford days as well.

So Angelina had seen George's face nearly every day for the past two years — but Fred's not at all.

Angelina was in her parlour staring at a bit of embroidery she couldn't manage to get right for some reason, seriously considering having a fire made up just so she could throw it in, when she heard a distant tap, and a moment later another. And then another. And then voices.

"...not in her room…"

"...have to do this the hard way…"

"...worn a hat if I'd known we would have to be civilised today…"

"...one more for luck…"

And Angelina, having flung the offending embroidery aside, rushed to the window in time to see a familiar redhead throw a pebble at a window one up and two over from where she presently stood. And next to him, another, equally familiar redhead on horseback.

She pounded on the window excitedly and then rushed to the front door, outside, and around to the back of the house.

"Fred, is that you?"

"Eh?" replied the twin on horseback. "Never met him."

"Well, come down off of there at once and say hello!"

The men looked at one another.

"How do you know I'm Fred?" enquired the one on horseback.

"Because I know. And you're riding Cannon." She indicated the horse, pointing out that Fred, who did not live at home anymore, had to have borrowed Ron's hack; whilst George had obviously ridden there on his own, Arkie, whom he now held by the bridle.

"How do you know we haven't switched?" grinned Almost-Certainly-George.

Angelina paused for a second, looking between them as they smiled expectantly, and in doing so they confirmed her instinct. Moments later she would realise also that, once you had them side-by-side, Fred was just a bit leaner and George a little paler. But in that moment, what struck her was the way Fred was looking at her — the way you might expect a friend to look when they hadn't seen you for two years — a keen way George would certainly have had no reason to look at her.

"Come down at once!" she repeated to Most-Definitely-Fred, and as soon as he'd complied she flung her arms around him.

"You look just the same!" she pronounced in approval.

"So do you," Fred lied, trying to remember whether he'd found her this pretty two years before. "But in fairness," he continued, gesturing to George, "you've seen me every day."

"Oh!" she laughed. "Well, go, have my horse saddled, I won't be a moment!"

With that, Angelina dashed inside to put on her bonnet and pelisse and a shawl for good measure, as there were the beginnings of a chill in the air; she hadn't the patience at the moment to fully change into her riding habit.

Colonel Weasley was out, so Angelina called out to the housekeeper that she was going, not stopping long enough to be quizzed as to where or how or with whom, and rejoined her friends at the stables where her groom was just finishing preparing Comet.

By now the groom knew better than to try to ask whether she'd like an escort whenever riding with Mr George Weasley was involved, and he assisted her into the saddle and waved the three of them off, silently thanking and questioning how he'd managed not to be fired by this point.

Angelina was a tall woman with a regal stature — better posture than the best soldier at attention (at least, when she wasn't doubled over laughing) — and she struck an impressive figure on horseback. Not a thing about her was fragile; she had a presence, a rich laugh, decisive features. She was a singularly handsome girl.

And as soon as Fred caught himself thinking that as they rode along, he told himself that he'd lost his godforsaken mind.

They talked as they rode in the direction of a little wooded grove near a stream at the outer boundary of Colonel Weasley's property, George content to stay mostly quiet as by now he'd heard this recitation of Fred's adventures about four times; and just about everything Angie said to Fred, George had been there for.

They reached a shaded spot they'd been hundreds of times before, where there was a collection of small boulders that served as reasonably accommodating chairs, and plenty of grass if one grew tired of those. Fred had a fit of chivalry in which he offered his coat for Angelina to sit on, but after that curious interruption they relaxed for an hour or more, talking and laughing and making plans, until Fred marked the position of the sun and said they'd better get to the unenviable task of delivering Ginny back home.

Each one taking a hand, the twins obligingly pulled Angelina to her feet, and Fred and George had turned to retrieve the grazing horses when Angelina spoke.

"A word, George?"

Fred looked at him inquisitively, and George shrugged, at a loss. And when they looked around at Angelina they saw that she had no intention of moving from her spot.

"Ah…" George looked to Fred. "You go on and collect Ginny, I suppose, and I'll see you at home."

"I can wait, certainly," offered Fred, but this was shot down quickly by Angelina; and so there was nothing to do but take himself off, exchanging one last wary look with his brother.

Angie seemed to be waiting until Fred was well and gone, watching him disappear around a bend in the road. George leant against a tree and crossed his arms until she spoke at last.

"Have you given any further thought to my proposal?" she said without preamble.

"Ah, which proposal was that?" he asked blithely, surveying their surroundings with the air of one who wanted nothing more than to admire the trees.

"The only proposal I've ever made you, George," she responded impatiently.

"Oh, yes, that one. Dreadfully sorry, it's just that I have so many suitors — "

"George."

"Did I blush, by the way? I hope I blushed."

"George."

He swiped at the tip of his nose and, with a ponderous sigh, began pacing a slow path, head down, toeing every now and again at the grass. And when he finally glanced up she was staring at him in that imperious, expectant way.

"Dash it, Angie," he bantered, facetiously torn, "it does seem so ungentlemanly to refuse but — "

"Good, then it's settled."

"No, it ain't settled!" said he, dropping the act. "Have you windmills in your head? This is a terrible scheme — it's why you ought to leave the scheming to me — "

"I'm serious."

"So am I! If you wanted to get married so badly, why haven't you taken your pick of, oh, the entire half of Devonshire that's been trying to do it over the past five years? I haven't the faintest idea why you're trying to play the part of some sort of spinster. Every party, every assembly, there's no talking to you for all you're surrounded by gentlemen."

She scoffed. "Fortune hunters."

"What, all of them?" he exclaimed in disbelief. "Surely not. Davies I know is worth twenty thousand; that's what Mama said, anyway, and she always seems to know these things — "

"If they're not fortune hunters, they're dull, insipid, or leering."

"Which one is Davies?" asked George, amused.

Angie ignored him, continuing, "And just because they have money doesn't mean they're not after more of it."

"Nor does it mean that they are! You give yourself far too little credit, Angie, far too little. Do you really think that's your only inducement? You're almost twenty-three and you've got more men dangling after you than the girls who've just come out!"

"Yes, and you don't find that odd? I'm nearly on the shelf, and yet there they are, every party."

"What a curious problem to have."

"George, look at me."

He sighed before fixing her with a sarcastic stare.

"I'm twenty-three, as you say, and what else?" she asked.

"Terribly frustrating?"

"I'm Black, George. I'm twenty-three and I'm Black. Tell me all of those men would still be surrounding me if even just one of those things were true and I didn't have fifteen thousand pounds."

George toed at the earth again. He couldn't very well tell her she was wrong, but part of him also couldn't say she was right. Even if he had grown up almost a cousin to her, he had to admit that she was a nice-looking girl (if someone had it in mind to look at her that way). She was witty and gracious. She loved dancing and was an admirable rider and just plain great fun.

Granted, she was opinionated and direct — if that weren't clear enough at the moment — and perhaps that wasn't quite the draw for some men. She didn't dissemble and look away. But on the other hand, you had to suppose that exceptions might be made even for that when there were fifteen thousand—

Ah.

George cleared his throat, steering away from the possibility that he'd been entirely wrong on this point.

"Well, glad as I am to know you don't find me, er… dull, insipid, or leering, was it? How have you decided that I'm the solution to this problem? If you insist that there ain't one among them that's acceptable, don't marry at all, then — you're rich enough."

"You know very well that I don't have full control of my money until I do," she said reproachfully. It had been stipulated by her late father that Colonel Weasley, her guardian, should be the trustee for her inheritance unless and until she married. And even if he was fair about it, for Angie it was the principle of the thing.

Then her face softened infinitesimally. "And I don't want to be alone forever. I want someone there; don't you?"

George chose to ignore the implication that, without this arrangement, he would not have anyone 'there' with him — even if it were probably true. He would never be in demand and they both knew it.

"And I trust you, George, and I know you. I don't need more than that. And you don't treat me like I'm something exotic."

"Certainly not, you're from Plymouth."

Angie allowed herself a little snort of irony before persevering: "And you can't deny it's advantageous for both of us. I need access to my fortune and you — "

"Need a fortune?" he finished.

There was an amused smile playing about his lips that did not quite reach his eyes, and Angie sighed and closed the distance between them finally.

"Georgie, don't be cross," she implored, trying in vain to smooth a tweak in his collar. "What you don't need is a wife who minces her words, I know you."

"No, indeed, why would I want a wife who spares a thought for my dignity."

He said it more peevishly than he'd meant to, and he took her hand from his collar and patted it with his other hand.

"Here, see, we're already quarreling. Never ruin a friendship with marriage, I always say."

Angie scoffed. "I have never heard you say that."

"Well, you've never proposed to me before." He flashed a grin, looking up at her, for she was just a bit taller than him.

She suppressed her own smile. "If you'd see reason, it wouldn't need to change anything between us."

Now George laughed, an ironic, unstoppable chuckle as he dropped her hand and rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at his boots. "Yes, I'd thought you hadn't quite considered everything."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, Ang." He wandered away, cutting an aimless path, head still resolutely down, if only to hide the colour of his face from her at that moment.

"There are…" He passed a hand over his mouth. "Christ, I shouldn't even — But you must know — suspect, at least — that there are certain things that are rather unavoidable in a… between a…"

He flourished his hand in a circle to fill in what he was unwilling to say.

"Oh." She waved an impatient hand. "I'm sure we could settle the details."

" 'Settle the details,' " he echoed with a weak laugh, face in his palm.

"If you're so worried about it, you can take a mistress — there, I don't mind."

George nearly tripped over a twig.

"Take a — Angie!" His head snapped up, his mouth agape.

"Oh, look, there, now you are blushing. How becoming."

Wide-eyed and scandalised, George looked rapidly around as if to make sure nobody was crouching behind a tree to overhear this conversation that would ruin her in an instant.

Angelina caught what he was doing. "I almost wish there were someone here to hear it. Then you'd have to marry me," she said pertly.

"That's not funny," he protested faintly into both hands, waiting for his pulse to slow, battling between appalled and, somehow, inescapably amused. "God, Angie. Who… the devil… is talking to you like this?"

Angelina let out an imperious snort. "Besides you this very moment, you mean?"

George threw her a pugnacious glare, still totally scarlet.

"And stop acting like a girl in the schoolroom," she chastised. "I know you know what I'm talking about."

"I don't know why you know it."

"How perfectly ridiculous. Even the Bible speaks of adultery."

"I grant you I'm no expert, but I'm fairly certain it doesn't talk about inviting one's husband to pursue it. Or speaking of it as if it's common practice."

"Is it not?"

He ignored this. "You of all people couldn't possibly be foolish enough to be discussing this with anybody. Let alone saying it as if you're commenting on the weather."

"George, it's only you. And stop worrying, it's only things I've heard from other ladies."

Then, at the astonished look on his face, she added smugly: "Oh, yes. We talk."

He averted his eyes, trying to formulate a response, when she spoke again, softer and more serious.

"Do you think we know nothing? Of what our lives will look like? Maybe I don't know the particulars, but I know whoever I marry can do as he pleases anyway. Whatever that is. I know my husband will own me — he won't own my money, because my father set it up that way, but he'll own me. And I'm to submit. And according to married women, accept the fact that he'll have other interests — be grateful for it, even.

"So if that's to be my life, I'd like it to be with someone I trust. And if there's no affection involved beyond friendship, well, then I don't see why any of those realities should bother me."

George cleared his throat. "You have thought this through."

She responded with a dignified nod.

"Suppose I ask you this, though: At what point in this grand plan of yours did you spare a thought for whether Georgie might actually want to choose his own match?"

Angelina hesitated for a moment under the weight of his ironic smirk, before arguing with a little laugh of disbelief, "Oh, George, you've never been interested in it! I've never seen you try to court anybody."

"Oh?" He shot her an impish look of intrigue, finally regaining his usual self. "And how much attention have you been paying to who I've been courting?"

She sighed impatiently. "None, because you never do it; you're always with me."

It was true, though whether it was due to choice or circumstance he could hardly say. He'd definitely had involvements with a couple of girls during his university days that could not be considered 'courting' by any stretch of the imagination. And while he was still a bit young for marriage, he couldn't really say why he hadn't pursued many other flirtations or dalliances since coming back home. Not that a twenty-three year-old gentleman with physical ailments and no money or occupation to speak of would have been in particularly high demand anyway.

"All I'm saying — " Angelina interrupted his thoughts — "is if you haven't the inclination anyway, or if you'd just like to not make a fuss about it… just consider it. We get on well together, you know we do. We wouldn't want for anything, don't be too proud to see that. And all I need from you is your name, and we go on just as we are now."

George felt very hot, which was odd considering it was finally starting to drizzle and the clouds were growing greyer by the second.

"Let's get home." He cast a significant glance up at the sky before taking his position by Angelina's horse and presenting his interlaced hands for her to step up into the saddle.

"Georgie?"

"Horse, Angie. Come on."

Dropping it for now, she stepped up lightly (her hand braced on his shoulder like it had hundreds of times before, so why was he thinking about it now?), and once they were both mounted they set off at a canter.

"I never thought I'd be saying this in my life," said George after a minute of silence, "but I can't believe you're just after me for the money."

He flashed her a teasing smile, which she returned, and the slight chill that had had nothing to do with the weather began to lift, even as the rain began to sprinkle more persistently.

"You should ride ahead so you don't become soaked," he suggested, as he was going about as fast as his back could reasonably tolerate.

"I'm fine where I am," she insisted, and they continued in comfortable, if increasingly wet, silence.

And just as they always did with Angie, things felt easy once more.

George assisted her down in front of Holden House and, giving Comet into the care of the groom, waved away Angelina's insistence that he come in to wait out the rain.

He was halfway up into the saddle when he came down again.

"Angie!" he called as she reached her front door, already opened for her by the butler.

She turned and cupped her hand around her ear but he waved her closer.

"Twenty-four," he said when she'd run back to him, one hand pushing her bonnet forward to shield her face from the rain.

"What?"

"If you really haven't found anyone acceptable by the time you're four-and-twenty, and I haven't either, I'll do it. I'll marry you."

She looked surprised. "Are you sure?"

"I am. Mostly because I'm sure I won't need to."

"But if you do?"

He extended his hand with a grin, but she flung her arms around his neck.

"No, no, no!" he laughed. "You have to strike hands on it, it's an agreement."

She stepped back and offered her hand into his, caught off guard a bit when he gripped it and pulled her closer to speak into her ear.

"You have to try, Angie."

After a second's pause, she nodded and, brown eyes looking into brown eyes, gave him a firm handshake.

.

.

The rain was coming down in earnest when Fred dismounted in front of Mr Xenophilius Lovegood's little shop that couldn't seem to decide whether it was a book shop or a stationer's or a newspaper office. Ginny, in Luna's room above the shop, was only alerted to this fact when Fred exchanged a shouted greeting with the innkeep across the road.

"My brothers are here to collect me," she sighed at the sound of his voice. She was stroking Luna's long, flaxen hair as the latter had her head in Ginny's lap. "He really ought to let me just stay here longer since it's raining."

"Your mother would worry," mused Luna without opening her eyes or making any effort to get up.

"She's got sense enough to not want me riding in the rain. And to be perfectly honest, I'm not even certain she's looking forward to this visit by my cousin any longer — not since she's learnt that my brother's friend the earl is coming to visit."

"Hmm."

It was a soft, noncommittal sound, but Ginny looked down at Luna with a wary, "What?"

Luna quirked her eyebrows but didn't actually open her eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," protested Ginny nevertheless.

"I'm just thinking."

Ginny stroked one finger down Luna's forehead and nose before giving it a little tap. "Well?"

"Who do you suppose would be more put out by you actually liking someone your mother approves of: you or her?"

"Ugh." Ginny shoved her friend away and swung her own legs down to the floor. "You're no help, as usual. Well, come on, then; would you like to come down and say hello to Fred?"

"If you'd like me to," was Luna's easy reply.

They made their way down a cramped staircase to the room behind Mr Lovegood's shop which held two printing presses — one wood and one iron — and countless haphazard stacks of various unprinted papers and old, unsold copies of Mr Lovegood's provincial newspaper, which had quite a small circulation that did not reach beyond the village (and was definitely not the paper Percy had been reading that morning).

From there they went through into the dim little shop whose disorganised shelves were piled with various secondhand books and some pamphlets. There they found Fred and Mr Lovegood immersed in a conversation about logography and stereotype (Fred was listening more than he was contributing).

"Where's George?" enquired Ginny.

"Seeing Angelina home. Miss Lovegood, at your service!" Fred gave her a quick bow.

Luna saluted him.

Fred shot a look out the window to where the rain was falling, if not heavily, then steadily.

"Ginny, I don't think there's anything for it but for you to stay here a while."

"Certainly not!" retorted Ginny once someone other than herself had suggested that course of action. "I'm not going to leave Harpy standing about in this rain all day, and the ride won't trouble me at all."

"You'll be drenched clean through!"

"Then we'd better go fast. Are you with me or not, Lieutenant?"

So they took their leave of Luna and Mr Lovegood and set out at a smart canter, their speed only impeded as road conditions required in this weather. Fred assumed his mother was going to have his neck for this.

Burrough House came into view at precisely the moment their cousin the Viscount's carriage had arrived, and Ginny held up a hand for Fred to slow. They drew up for a moment until Bernard had disappeared into the house, and then set off once more. Fred motioned for Ginny to dismount closer to the house, but she insisted on riding to the stables with him, even though it meant a further walk to the house in the rain.

"What are you up to Gin?" called Fred over the patter of rain that filled the air around them, noticing that Ginny looked far too happy under the circumstances.

Ginny didn't respond, but veered suddenly off the path to where a puddle of mud had begun to collect.

And before Fred could say a word, she'd gone and jumped straight into the centre of it, splashing muddy water nearly a foot above the hem of her dress.

Fred's laugh was joined seconds later by a similar cackle from another rider trotting by. Head ducked against the rain, George ran up after depositing Arkie at the stables, and together, finally, they proceeded to the house.

"Are we late, Mama?" called Fred. "There was a bit of rain, you see — "

"What have you been — !" Mrs Weasley, emerging from the parlour, gaped at the sight of her three waterlogged children.

"Ginevra," she hissed. "Get upstairs at once and change, and do something about your hair!"

"Oh, no, Mama!" said Ginny, removing her muddy shoes as her brothers did. "I couldn't possibly keep Cousin Bernard waiting."

Then, to Mrs Weasley's abject horror, Ginny marched straight into the parlour.

"Hello, Bernard." She gave him an unbothered curtsey before removing her bonnet and shaking it out. "Did you know it's raining outside?"

"Ah…"

Lord Weasley had a minimum level of observational skill that allowed him to conclude Ginny was (on this day and other days) teasing; what he lacked was the motivation to develop any sort of self-awareness that might have led him to consider why she was doing it.

"Yes, yes, I have noticed," he managed.

Ginny seemed blithely unaware how her soaked dress clung to her figure, and as Bernard reckoned it would be bad manners to comment on it, he simply did the polite thing and allowed himself to continue staring.

"Have you been waiting long?" She sat down, to Bernard's consternation.

"Er, no, I arrived just moments before you did."

"But you're so dry."

"Yes, well, I came by coach."

"Oh," she said disparagingly.

Bernard decided to interpret her tone as one of disappointment that the weather was not good enough to offer her a ride in his enviable carriage.

In the hall, Fred and George were laughing into their fists at the beginnings of this conversation they overheard, until Mrs Weasley succeeded in shooing them up to their room before she rejoined her daughter and future son-in-law.

"Should we save her, do you think?" Fred commented to George when they'd reached the top of the stairs.

George, having peeled off his coat already, was struggling with the wet fabric of his cravat as they entered his room. "Save him, more like. Tell me, how is old Lovegood? I haven't been there for a couple of weeks, I'm afraid."

George had taken a keen interest, some time ago, in the operation of Mr Lovegood's printing press — as he did with any sort of device or machinery — and had actually spent quite a bit of time in the back of Lovegood's shop learning how to use it — even assisting from time to time. It was something of a hobby for him, but by now he knew nearly as much as Dillon, the journeyman employed by Mr Lovegood.

It wasn't until they'd finished changing — Fred now back to wearing his own clothes after the day's charade — that Fred enquired, "George?"

"Hmm."

"What did Angie want with you?"

George shrugged slowly into his coat before turning to face Fred. "Wanted to ask me something about whether you'd be coming to the assembly tomorrow."

Fred squinted. "Why would she need you alone to ask that?"

His brother threw him an exasperated look. "Don't ask me to understand women."

.

.

.

Notes:

'rusticated' - suspended from university and sent back home