.

In which there is a rescue, a confession, and fireworks

(October, 1814)

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The party at Stoatley Park, Lord Weasley's ancestral home, was a perfectly modest one: a hundred or so of his closest friends and relations, in the second largest ballroom. Magnificent candelabra lining every room, in addition to the chandeliers, holding only half the wax candles to be found in the county. Fifteen different dishes planned for supper, rather than the usual twenty (not counting the desserts, of course).

In short, it was the sort of thing about which Sir Bilius would have had a number of opinions about improvements — and, in fact, he did.

And he was currently giving all of them to Bernard, with such genuine cheer and generosity of spirit as only Sir Bilius could display when making thinly veiled criticism sound like a compliment.

(Indeed, in Sir Bilius's mind, they were compliments — for Sir Bilius liked to commend a person on the very best version of themselves they might potentially achieve — whether they'd already done so or not.)

Bernard was presently enduring a jovial soliloquy about the great need for more mirrors to reflect the candlelight, when he saw an opportunity to extricate himself, glancing over Bilius's shoulder.

"Apologies, Bilius, but I believe I'm being summoned by Ginevra."

Ginny, of course, had done nothing of the sort. She was presently having a splendid conversation with Sir Zacharias Smith, Mr Michael Corner, and Mr James Weasley (another leaf along some branch or other in between Bernard and Arthur) about fox hunting and was paying Bernard no attention at all.

But she was nearby and that was enough to afford Bernard his escape from his elder cousin. And anyway, he hadn't yet spoken to Ginny this evening.

It was almost by mistake, really, that Bernard had found himself beginning to pay his attentions to Ginny some time ago. He felt no particular urgency to marry for its own sake, and after all, generally an unmarried rich man was much more popular among ladies than a married one (though, Bernard was still patiently waiting for this phenomenon to kick in as applied to him).

But what Bernard did desire, above all else, was that which all other men desired.

No, really: Whatever thing other men appeared to covet, Bernard wanted it. Whether it was a waistcoat or a woman.

(It would have been too generous to accuse Bernard of avarice. Rather, this system was much easier than having to form his own opinions about anything.)

Bernard wasn't entirely sure what it was that other men found so attractive about Miss Ginevra Weasley's insistence on behaving like an unbridled hoyden — but they did, and their good opinions, along with her obvious beauty, were enough to recommend her to him for now.

The three other gentlemen were laughing, apparently at something Ginny had just said, when Bernard approached.

"Ah," he said, making a quick bow to the group at large, "laughing without me again, I see."

"Well, it is a day that ends in Y, is it not?" replied Ginny in falsetto.

These, of course, were not their actual words — they were Fred's narration as he and Angelina watched this scene from across the room.

Fred grinned as Angelina stifled another laugh against his shoulder. She'd held herself together admirably well through the past hour of similar antics and commentaries, but once in a while she forgot herself, and then he was rewarded with a laughter that filled her entire face and would have carried right on up to the open sky if there'd been no ceiling to contain it.

"Would you like to hear another joke, Miss Weasley?" Fred imitated his cousin's voice as Bernard's lips moved.

"Oh, yes!" Fred interposed for Ginny. "Tell me the funniest thing you can think of!"

"Very well! Here it is: I hold a vote in the House of Lords!"

Angelina knocked a hand lightly against Fred's shoulder, protesting, "Funny, Fred, not frightening."

Unfortunately for Ginny, her actual conversation — or what passed for one — with Bernard wasn't nearly as diverting as Fred's take on the situation. The other three conversants had continued their discussion of Sir Zacharias's upcoming fox hunt, and unable to turn her back on Bernard to re-join this discussion, Ginny's eyes darted to and fro looking for an escape as Bernard prattled away about —

"Ginevra?"

"Hmm?" Ginny's eyes snapped back to her cousin. "Oh, yes, sorry. Fine weather for sport, yes — in fact, I believe my brother Ron and his friend — "

"I've actually been invited to join Lord Fawley at his estate in…"

Ginny listened halfheartedly as this continued, having noticed that the next set of dances was about to commence, and trying to decide whether continuing to talk to Bernard for the next fifteen minutes was better or worse than having to dance with him for the next thirty if he noticed what was going on. Bernard thankfully lost his ability to speak whilst dancing, but he was also an absolute disaster of a dance partner.

"I beg your pardon for the intrusion," said a familiar voice to Ginny's right.

Bernard stopped talking, and both he and Ginny exchanged greetings with their newcomer — the Viscount Potter.

Harry apologised again before continuing, "Miss Weasley, I believe we were meant to dance this next together."

He threw a sidelong glance at Bernard and tried to communicate something to Ginny with the slightest lift of his eyebrows.

At Ginny's blank look, he added hastily, "But do inform me if I'm mistaken; it would not be the first time."

Finally, Ginny blinked and lifted her chin. "No — no, you're not mistaken. Bernard, Lord Potter's quite right, I did agree to dance with him. Please excuse me."

"Which one of my brothers sent you?" muttered Ginny once they were out of earshot of Bernard, as Harry led her through the throng of attendees surrounding the dance floor.

"None."

"Do you make a habit of stealing dance partners from your host?"

"You looked in need of a rescue."

"Did I?" Though she still had him by the arm, she pulled away as much as possible to stare at him. "Well, tell me what exactly I was doing to give you that impression, and I shan't do it again."

Quite inexplicably, Harry beamed as though she'd just told a very funny joke.

"You didn't exactly say no," he pointed out a moment later.

"You asked me to dance and I said yes because I like dancing," she hissed, "not because I needed saving."

As they took their places for the dance, she added, "And you know very well that I could not have refused you if I wasn't otherwise engaged. Else I'd have had to sit out the rest of the night."

"I saw you very nearly plant Ron a facer not a week ago — now you're citing etiquette at me?" Harry laughed, ignoring the appalled looks from neighbouring couples.

The song began and Ginny curtseyed.

"Just dance, Potter."

.

.

The next half hour progressed without major incident or controversy, and as the dances concluded and Harry escorted Ginny off the floor he felt reasonably confident in proceeding with what he needed to say.

"Miss Weasley," he murmured covertly as they walked.

Ginny looked at him expectantly.

"I've learnt something fascinating," he continued. "Would you like to know?"

"What?"

He glanced around with a conspiratorial look. "According to Ron, your mother believes that you and I would make a lovely couple — "

Ginny yanked her arm away.

"How dare you presume to speak to me this way!" she hissed — not the soft hiss of a snake this time, but a sound like an angry cat, and it drew the eyes and ears of several guests nearby.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"The punch, you know," he explained to the closest bystanders, gesturing with a nod toward Ginny and then pantomiming a drinking motion.

Ginny's face grew steadily redder as a few of the bystanders nodded with a silent but knowing 'Ah.'

"Oh, look," said Harry brightly, having just noticed the beginnings of a mass exodus from the ballroom. "I believe it's time for supper; I hadn't realised the hour. Shall we go in?"

He offered his arm again, and she gave him a stare that would have been frigid if steam hadn't been rising from her ears and nostrils.

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Very well, have it your way. I hope there's trifle, don't you?" And then Harry blithely set off in the direction of the food.

The temperature of Ginny's brain dropped rapidly. 'Very well, have it your way — look, cake!' was not the way these flirtation attempts usually went.

She caught up with him before he'd reached the knot of guests waiting to enter the first of the three rooms laid out for supper, and she took him by the sleeve and hauled him to the corner of the room near a large fern.

"This is probably not going to disabuse your mother of her suppositions, you know," he pointed out, swatting a frond out of his face.

Ginny ignored this. "What were you saying to me, then?"

"What was I saying to you when?"

When Ginny merely stared at him, he said, "Oh, yes, that. What I was saying, which you decided to mistake for lovemaking — "

He was cut off with an intent shushing sound from Ginny as she glanced around.

"I did not!" she protested.

"Oh? Do you react that way to every man who tries to tell you he's not interested?"

Ginny looked thunderstruck, and Harry noted that she didn't seem to like being told that, either.

On the other hand, Harry supposed perhaps that might have been a little too blunt.

He sighed. "Miss Weasley, how old is Ron?"

Her brow furrowed. "One and twenty, which I'm sure you know. Why?"

He ignored the question. "And how old do you suppose that makes me?"

When she stared at him blankly, he continued, "I'm sure you have many wonderful qualities. But so does being a bachelor."

Removing his spectacles then, he smiled a little, adding, "I'm sure you'd agree?"

"That I have many wonderful qualities?" she clarified dryly.

Harry frowned up at his spectacles as he examined the state of the lenses.

"Well, that." He polished the lenses on the sleeve of his coat. "And the other thing as well."

When she did nothing but regard him blankly, he looked up at her with eyes that were a remarkably clear green, fringed with dark lashes that Ginny would have gladly sold her soul for.

Ginny was a little surprised that he even wore spectacles at all, particularly at social events. Gentlemen tended to be vain about that sort of thing, and most of them would have preferred to walk around smacking into walls, with only the assistance of a quizzing glass when they really needed it.

"Well, you're unmarried," he explained. "And — excuse me for saying so — it's fairly obvious that you could be married if you wanted to. So you understand me."

Harry ducked his head to replace his spectacles, and a scoff from Ginny drew his attention upwards again.

"You think we understand one another?" she asked.

He gave her the startled deer look and she prompted, "You really think our situations are similar?"

Harry shrugged, musing, "I'm unmarried. You're unmarried. I like it that way. You like it that way. I'm currently hungry. You, I imagine, despite all current behaviour and unnecessary delay, must also be hungry…"

He glanced demonstratively towards the dining rooms before adding with a sly look, "Oh, and don't bring up the earldom. It's not mine yet, so technically, I'm just as common as you — if you'll excuse the word; I don't much care for it myself."

For a moment, Ginny regarded him with narrowed eyes, causing him to draw back a little, his eyes darting about uncertainly.

Finally, Ginny pronounced, "You know, I used to think that this phenomenon was unique to my brothers, but now I see it really is all of you: I truly believe that the first thing that happens to you when you go off to Oxford is they open up your heads and remove half your brains. And then you're stuck that way forever."

"What an intriguing and gratuitous image," mused Harry approvingly. "Now I'm definitely hungry."

With that, he made an exaggerated bow, sweeping his hand in a gesture for her to walk ahead of him. It occurred to him that his parents would likely have murdered him in cold blood for this behaviour, but something in it was just too fun.

Ginny threw him a haughty look, but as she walked before him, her face out of his sight, she smiled.

Entirely unwillingly, she smiled.

.

.

The party resumed with renewed vigour after supper, the dining rooms steadily emptying as their occupants returned to their various entertainments. Harry saw Ginny back to the ballroom where she promptly accepted a dance with Sir Zacharias; whereupon Harry went in search of Ron, who'd resumed his important work of embarrassing every other gentleman in the card room. Bill watched warmly as Fleur accepted a dance with well-mannered Cousin James Weasley. And Dr Weasley was immersed in debate with Colonel Weasley, Dr Edgar Oberlin, and Bernard, concerning the possibility of a new law regulating the practice of apothecaries. (Naturally, Bernard, as the only one of this group who held a position in Parliament, and therefore would ultimately be called upon to vote on said law, neither knew nor cared what Dr Weasley was talking about.)

And Fred and Angelina could be found among the last to leave the supper table, lingering over a glass of wine.

"I believe the next set may have begun without us," said Fred, for he had heard the distant sounds of music and laughter from the ballroom.

"Just as well, I think," replied Angelina, who'd brought out her fan. The party wasn't an awful crush, but the rich food and a cup or two of punch plus the wine had caught up with her and she was feeling quite warm despite the lack of exertion over the past hour or so. Fred, too, had a hint of a flush about his cheeks and brow.

"Let us take some air," was his suggestion. "I believe there are meant to be fireworks in a while."

That was a fine idea, so up they got, and before Angelina turned to go her eyes caught upon George across the room, entertaining and being entertained by Lady Bixby, a pretty widow a good ten years his senior.

George accused Angelina of giving herself too little credit, but so did he. His brand of charm was more unassuming than Fred's. George had admitted to her once — after he'd snuck some brandy to their favourite spot near the stream and they'd both got half-sprung — that he sometimes felt as though he were invisible next to Fred. 'Invisible like a shadow,' he'd said.

Angie had reproached him for talking total fustian because obviously shadows weren't invisible, and then she'd told him that his personality was simply sneakier than Fred's — which had seemed to please him very well, and he'd never said another word on the subject.

George had a distinct manner about him, a little tilt and incline of his head to the left side — due, possibly, to a habit of listening intently with his good ear, or to the need to conceal laughter at inappropriate times, or to a certain calculating reserve about him. He never looked at you straight-on.

He sat now, his head ducked in that sly, thoughtful way as he listened to something Lady Bixby said. And then he made a reply that elicited a laugh from her that Angelina could hear across the room, and a broad grin spread across George's face.

He looked up then, catching Angie's eye and her smile, noticing her with Fred, and he sent her a wink before returning his attention to his companion.

Angelina allowed Fred to lead her outside, down the steps to the garden. Several others had had the same idea and were out enjoying the clear, dry night. The couple meandered a while on the edges of the gathering there, until they found themselves strolling some distance away, down a torchlit path along the side of the great house.

Fred's hands fidgeted behind his back as he tried to decide how to ask the question that had been bothering him ever since his conversation with George.

But really, how many ways were there to ask it?

"Angelina, why aren't you married?" he said at last.

"Ugh." It was a throaty, unladylike sigh, and she allowed her frame to sag dramatically.

"Heaven and earth, not you, too," she complained. "Has George put you up to this?"

Fred cocked his head as he glanced askance at her. "And why would George do that?"

"He thinks I'm being silly. For not having accepted any offers."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Being silly."

"Don't be saucy with me," she returned, resuming her proud posture once more, though she was smiling. "And no, I'm not. I haven't had an offer from anyone that could induce me to marry."

"Not even Roger 'I have more cravats than pounds' Davies?"

She laughed that rich, carrying laugh again.

And though Fred was gratified to hear it, he refocused his efforts.

"You don't want to marry," he pretended to guess, as if George hadn't told him precisely the opposite of this.

"Oh, I do, certainly, I just…"

"Have you never been in love?" he blurted out, stopping to face her. The drink had got to him a little, as well as fascination with the academic way she'd appeared to begin that thought, and his reaction was much less circumspect than he'd have liked it to be.

She paused, lips parted, a little taken aback — not from embarrassment or offence, but because, well…

"I… I don't know," she mused. "I don't think so."

That caught Fred off his guard. "How can you not know? Wouldn't you know if you'd cared for someone?"

"Oh, I care for a great many people." She resumed their slow walk again. "But there's the sort of love that you feel for a mother or father, a sort of love that I feel for Colonel Weasley, love that I feel for…"

She'd been about to say 'you or George,' but something in her pulled back and she amended, "The sort of love that you'd feel for a cousin or even a very dear friend."

"And," she continued, "I've certainly thought men handsome before, and charming — "

(Fred sincerely hoped this particular line of thought would come to a quick end.)

" — But have I loved them in the way people talk about that sort of love? I have no idea. How do you know when it's different from all the other kinds?"

"You'd know when you felt it, I believe."

"How?"

"You just do."

She gave him a fond smile. "If that argument were a horse, I would not bet on it."

Fred tilted his head, musing, "It's only a gamble if you don't trust yourself."

Whereupon he immediately cringed to himself. What the deuce was that supposed to mean?

But something in what he said caused Angelina to chuckle mysteriously. "You're not thinking about this as a woman."

"In truth, I can't say I do much of that."

She shook her head. "You're a man; you may do as you please. You go off in life, you do — heaven really knows what — and you, I suppose, learn what you like and what you don't. We're not allowed to do that. We're not allowed to do very much at all. How should I know what romantic love feels like when my entire life I've been taught that I can't even trust men's attempts at it?"

"I don't believe for a second that my uncle has put it into your head that you should make a cold match with whomever has the most money and least feeling," Fred argued in disbelief. "He dotes on you and wants you to be happy."

"You know, you're very impertinent tonight; it's tremendous fun! But you're being intentionally difficult. Colonel Weasley wants to protect me as any man does his daughter. The point of this all is to say that you have the advantage of experience; I have not."

The drink was also responsible for convincing Fred that it was imperative he clarify, "To be fair, many of those experiences have absolutely nothing to do with love."

"Oh," she chuckled, "that is not quite the boast I think you think it is. And anyway, that would seem to suggest that feelings of attraction or passion cannot be trusted." She felt curiously disappointed as she said it — like she wished she hadn't admitted it. But then she snorted in amusement and added, "Nor can most things men say, for that matter."

Fred cursed inwardly. He could have no better shot himself in the foot if he'd had his rifle with him.

A moment passed in silence, during which they strolled at a snail's pace, though by now they were far enough from the rest of the party that the music and chatter had faded to nothing.

Angelina sighed, musing, "That's why all I really ask, I think, is that I can trust whomever I marry. That his intentions are honourable and not mercenary. That he'll treat me kindly, and fairly. Those things I can judge."

Fred shook his head. "If that were the case you'd have taken Davies or Diggory. Davies has no need to be mercenary, and Diggory would apologise to a rock if he tripped over it. And any fool can see that Davies in particular is taken with you."

Angelina threw him a teasing look. "I begin to believe that you were not sent to me as an emissary of George, but of Roger Davies."

"Believe me, I am the last person who wants to see you become Mrs Davies."

There was an amused tone about him, but he looked her directly in the eye as he said it, and Angelina was struck with a feeling of fullness in her chest and a temporary inability to speak.

She looked down and collected herself, squaring her shoulders when she spoke again.

"Anyway, I don't think Mr Davies is taken with me. Not really. Not me. I think he's taken with the idea of me in a lace cap. I think that he, like so many other men, sees a wife-shaped hole in his life and is looking for a particular set of attributes to fill it. I think it has very little to do with me. The person he wants to marry is not Angelina Johnson. The person he wants to marry is a canvas that will be painted Mrs Roger Davies."

Angelina didn't think she'd ever actually put this feeling into words; she'd never had to.

Fred gave her a sly smile. "This is revealing all at once a very cynical side to you and a very romantic side, and I have to say I'm impressed by the combination."

She scoffed. "I am not romantic. Nor am I cynical; that's not very practical, either."

"There is not a single thing about what you just said that's practical."

They came to a stop, seemingly both together at the same moment, and he turned towards her a bit. His hands were still behind his back but had long since stopped fidgeting.

"It's not a dirty word, you know," he teased.

"What?"

"Romantic."

And then, for the second time tonight — for the second time in the past two minutes — she did something that Fred hadn't allowed himself to fully hope she'd do even once:

She looked down.

Angelina who always looked at you straight-on. Angelina who was not shy. Angelina who received attentions from countless men without any sign of real flirtation.

Angelina cast her eyes down and away with a little laugh.

And just as Fred had always believed: when you knew, you knew.

"Do you know what I think?" he asked, turning to face her more fully.

She looked up enquiringly. They were beyond the torches now, though there was a clear, bright moon, and a soft glow from the windows of the house, and their eyes had adjusted as they walked.

Fred looked left and right, and above them to the windows on the wall behind her, ensuring they could not be seen where they stood. Then he took a deep breath to regain control over his nerves, before he spoke, measured and thoughtful.

"I think… I think secretly, you might like it very much if someone were to say: Angelina, I will light every last one of your fifteen thousand pounds on fire because I don't care about them."

He was looking directly into her eyes; she did not tear hers away. It was almost as if she could not.

"Or," he continued, "Angelina, I don't want to see you in a lace cap because I don't like the look of them anyway."

He took a cautious step closer; she did not step away.

"And — " His voice was low — "I think you might just want someone to say to you: Angelina, I can't stop thinking about you."

For possibly the first time in her life, Angelina became painfully aware of her own heartbeat. Something in the tenor of Fred's voice — in the way he was standing closer to her than anybody had ever done — sent a jolt of something straight down the centre of her body.

Fred's eyes roved over her face, like they were searching for something.

"Did I get any of that wrong?" he murmured huskily.

Angelina looked down, releasing a shaky breath, and became aware that she was not the only one having trouble breathing evenly at that moment.

"Angelina."

It was almost alarming to Angelina how difficult it was to get the next, solitary word out. Her chest felt tight, her mind in a fog, and the way he said her name sent a chill over her skin even whilst she felt far too hot in the cool air.

"Yes?" she breathed. She raised her head and his face was right there, so close, too close but she didn't move away.

Then she became aware of his hand, feather-light, on the small of her back.

"Do you trust me?" he whispered, inches from her mouth.

"You know I do."

Her unfocused eyes caught his, and with one last little intake of breath he leant in.

Fred could almost have imagined the beginnings of a brush of their parted lips, when suddenly he felt the gentlest pressure on his chest — her hand — and the loss of something that hadn't yet begun when she pulled back.

He watched as her retreating mouth quirked into a enigmatic smile, and in her eyes were all sorts of things he couldn't read, but her voice was tender — even teasing — when she reproached him:

"You're in your cups, I think."

He grinned irresistibly.

"Well, yes," he admitted. "But what has that to say to anything?"

She didn't respond, only watched his parted lips as he watched hers — both dancing in agitation in this stalemate, closing and opening, moistened by the tips of their tongues, a lower lip caught between teeth — though neither leant in again.

Then she took him by the arm, speaking as she drew back, until they were once again side by side.

"Will you take me in?"

Fred nodded, his free hand giving hers a pat, and silently they proceeded back to the house.

They were halfway down the torchlit path, the rest of the party having come into view, when the sky above them was lit up with bursts of red and orange and blinding white, the explosions mingling with the sounds of approval and awe from the crowd.

They stood transfixed at the display of fireworks overhead, for how long Fred could not say. But at last he tore his gaze away from the sky, chancing a glance at Angelina — and saw her doing the same.

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Notes:

'hoyden' - a spirited, boisterous, saucy girl

'half-sprung' - tipsy

'in your cups' - drunk