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In which there is a banshee, a harpy, and a proposal

(October, 1814)

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Dear Maman,

How did you know that you loved Papa? Did you love him? I have to believe that you did — he always talked of you so fondly.

I feel ridiculous. I never was used to care about this. Fred's wrong, I don't think romance is a dirty word — but it's confusing and unknowable. Fred says when you know, you know, and I think he really believes that, and maybe he does know. He's always been like that, I think.

But if I'm supposed to know, then why don't I? And if you're supposed to know when you love someone, oughtn't you know when you don't? So why don't I know that, either?

I hate talking in riddles.

But Fred is certain to propose — he wouldn't have done what he did otherwise — and I will have to have an answer.

In all my life, I've never felt uncertainty before. Not when I turned down my first proposal five years ago, not when I turned down the fifth, not even when I asked George to marry me. I always knew exactly why I was doing what I was doing.

I've spent so many years knowing what I was doing, and why, and yet here after scarcely three weeks of Fred being home I feel a curious attachment that I can't shift. Last night in the garden I felt things that

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Angelina pulled her pen abruptly from the paper, too embarrassed to put the words in a letter that no one would even see. She swallowed thickly, looking over her shoulder, around her parlour, but of course it was only she who was there.

things that I'd never felt in my life, she finished the sentence. Not like that.

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No man has ever tried to do that with me, and I'm confident I'd never have allowed it.

Is that what being in love is? Is that what's different?

It shouldn't even matter. I know Fred Weasley to be a good man, and I enjoy his company, and I know that he cares for me. I always said that would be enough. And it is.

But if he is in love with me and I am not certain whether I am —

I don't even know what my question is.

Would that be wrong of me? Am I supposed to say no when I can't be certain that I'm feeling the same way — even if I care in all the other ways I should?

I feel lonely. I rarely do, but I feel lonely now, for I have no one to guide me as to this. That should have been your responsibility, I think.

I can't talk to Col Weasley. I've told you he's a shy man — people think him cold, but really he's just shy — and I know he wishes me to be happy, but it's not the sort of thing we talk about — even without all that business in the garden, which of course I could never tell him. And anyway, he's never been married, either.

I could write to Miss Winslow — my old governess, you know — but she never believed in love matches anyway. She'd think me foolish just for asking.

I tried talking to Alicia, but she's no help at all. She says you take the best offer you get and love comes later. I was used to think something like that myself, but it's not precisely helpful given what I'm feeling now. Of course, she also said that what I felt with Fred is a good thing and said I was probably just making myself nervous and then she made that smug face that married ladies do.

I probably shouldn't have talked to Alicia.

If it were anyone other than Fred, I would ask George. Perhaps George would have no better an idea than I, but I'd have asked him just the same. Or I'd have told him the trouble, at least. Sometimes he just listens to me talk and then I reach the conclusion myself.

But talking to George about this seems wrong somehow.

Still, I know what George would ask me.

'Angelina

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Angelina paused before crossing out her name and beginning again.

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'Angie, what is this about?'

By which he means: 'What is really bothering you?'

What's bothering me is that Fred is going to ask me to marry him, and I simply can't be certain whether I should say yes. But I also don't want to say no.

Isn't that curious?

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Her pen hovered over the bottom of the page, but there was little else to say without talking in circles. So Angelina added her love — she didn't sign her name, it had always felt too oddly formal — put down her pen, and picked up the letter and read through it. Then she read through it again over tea. Then she tucked it away in her bedroom, where she would read it a third time after dinner.

And then she would burn it.

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When Harry was eighteen his father had bought him a beautiful Arabian colt — at that time very nearly a stallion — with a coat as stormy as his temper. Lily had taken one look at it and sworn she would never speak to James again if he allowed Harry to get anywhere near the saddle. In the end Lily had only made it about a day without speaking to James, though dinner that evening was probably the chilliest Harry could recall having ever sat through (though Miss Weasley had certainly done her best to top it in the past fortnight since he'd been in Devonshire).

Nimbus was probably not Harry's first real love — that distinction went to his energetic mare Morgana who'd served him for many years before that — but certainly his most passionate one. And three years later, he'd only ever really thrown Harry once (Lily had not spoken to James for a day after that, either) — and arguably that was Harry's own fault.

Arguably.

Harry liked to remind Nimbus about that from time to time, though these days it was mostly in jest, for the pair of them got on very well, just as he'd known they would.

Harry would have taken Nimbus everywhere if he could, but it wasn't a terribly practical prospect to bring him to Devonshire. Travelling by carriage as he already was, all one had to do was stop to switch out the team every so often and then be on one's way again. Nimbus would have had some opinions about the distance, no matter how often or long they might have stopped to rest overnight. He was not a travelling horse and he knew it, too.

He'd hired a horse in the village for the duration of his stay — Banshee was her name, which Harry had taken as a promising sign, and he'd not been disappointed. He was presently breezing through the countryside at a smart pace on his way to Burrough House for the afternoon when, cresting a hill, he spied a lone rider some distance ahead. A lady, her dress yellow, her horse a familiar bay roan, and her hair — uncovered — an even more familiar red.

"Come on," he whispered to Banshee with a little smile, urging her on to overtake the rider, who was travelling along at an easy pace. He drew wide of her, however, trying to get a confirmatory glimpse of her face before calling out.

"Miss Weasley!"

Ginny, noticing the rider some distance to her left, had thrown him a brief glance to take note of his presence, but when he called out her face snapped back to him, blinking back her surprise.

"How long have you been there?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes in suspicion — for until she'd noticed him she'd been in the midst of a heated conversation with Harpy, who was really the only reasonable person Ginny felt she could talk to sometimes.

"Oh, hardly a moment — I had to catch up to you." Harry had drawn up, but as Ginny had not actually stopped he prompted Banshee into a trot until he was alongside Ginny.

"You, ah… you've lost your escort, I think," he observed.

Ginny threw him a saucy look. "You thought wrongly."

"You ride alone?"

"As you see."

Harry breathed an incredulous sort of laugh, enquiring of her curiously, "What… forgive me, what happens if you are unhorsed?"

"Well, I try not to let that happen, don't you?"

"Yes…"

"And anyway, if that were to happen, any manner of thing can be used as a mounting block if necessary."

"Yes, but… what happens if you are injured?"

Ginny let out an exasperated sigh. "Do you always go around finding reasons to rescue people, or is it just me?"

"Rescue y— Ah, you're speaking of the dance yesterday. Well, excuse me, you looked about as bored and unhappy as a person can look. Lord Weasley must be, ah… tremendously… devoted," he said, choosing his words carefully.

Ginny snorted. "Devoted…"

"Why humour him?" asked Harry irresistibly, before he could really think what was coming out of his mouth. When Ginny threw him an affronted look, he explained, "Forgive me, it's… entirely a matter of academic curiosity. After all, we've already been frank with one another, and clearly neither of us is interested in charming the other, so perhaps we may be frank now. Because truthfully, I don't understand ladies at all."

"You don't say." But she threw him a little smirk. Then she sighed. "I humour him, my lord, for the same reason that I humour you: it is my social duty. I could hardly do otherwise."

"Ooh!" Harry clutched at his chest. "Lay down your sword, Miss Weasley, I've already told you I'm not going to marry you."

When Ginny rolled her eyes, he added, "And if this is how you humour me, then I despair for poor Lord Weasley."

"And yet both of you continue to speak to me," she said with the lofty air of someone about to win an argument. "How curious gentlemen are."

"Ah." Harry drew his horse a little closer to her and said confidentially, "May I tell you a secret, Miss Weasley? But you're not going to like it."

She furrowed her brow warily but did not draw away.

"That," he said in a stage whisper, "is our social duty to you."

Ginny blinked at him, her lips pressing together in contemplation.

"We could hardly do otherwise." He shrugged. "At least, not in company."

Recovering finally, Ginny retorted, "I should think I know the difference between a gentleman talking to me for politeness' sake and one who presumes I must be interested in him just because I've spoken to him for five minutes altogether."

Harry's 'Do you?' was not spoken aloud but heard by Ginny loud and clear when he pulled a sceptical face and stared until she caught his meaning and blushed, recalling their conversation the previous night.

"So you see," she continued after a moment as if nothing were wrong, "we none of us are permitted to be frank with one another, not really — putting aside whatever… your excuse for this behaviour is — "

Harry let out a delighted laugh as she gestured cynically at him.

" — and so, whatever the intentions behind your addresses, and however the manner in which we receive them, the reality is that gentlemen have the right of choice, whilst ladies have only the right of refusal, just as it is with dancing. And then once a gentleman takes it into his head that you'd like him to propose because you danced with him and allowed him to fetch you a punch, he behaves as though he's surprised when you say no."

Harry shook his head cheerfully. "I'm so glad I'm not trying to be married. It sounds terribly complicated."

"And," continued Ginny, ignoring this — for now she was simply run away with her annoyance — "whatever my brothers may try to say about it, I do care about my reputation. I can't simply go around dismissing every person I think too keen. I'm not ill-bred. What am I supposed to do when Bernard speaks to me? Cut him? A viscount?"

"My mother once gave my father the cut before they were married," Harry mused blithely. "Apothecarist's daughter cutting an earl, apparently it was the most shocking thing to happen in Herefordshire in 1789. Or was it 1790… I don't know, I wasn't there."

"And still he proposed to her. You are proving my earlier point precisely. As I've said: half a brain, all of you."

"Hmm?" Harry thought back to her comments the previous night. "Oh, yes, right. Oxford tradition, obviously. I can only assume Lord Weasley's been subjected to the same procedure, in which case you really must forgive him; he can't help it."

"Although I believe Bernard was educated at Cambridge, actually."

"Ah, then I'm mistaken: he's had the entire brain removed."

Quite in spite of herself, Ginny laughed.

"How did we get on this gruesome subject again?" asked Harry after a pause.

Ginny took a moment to reflect. "I believe you were casting aspersions on my ability to ride on my own."

"I would never. I have it on good authority that you're the best rider in Devonshire."

He looked over at her, a little teasing, and found her staring back evenly in challenge. Somehow they had both brought their horses to a stop side by side.

"Well?" he prompted, reading in her little smile exactly what she was thinking.

"Well," she returned, knowing exactly what he was devising as well.

Harry lifted his reins demonstratively, hedging, "I will have you know, this is a hired horse."

"And I am in skirts. What other excuses have you for me?"

His smile deepened, as did hers, and he opened his mouth to speak again — but she was already off, and Harry wasted no time giving chase.

And the complicating factor of riding aside in skirts notwithstanding, Ginny Weasley was indeed hard to catch.

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Harry wasn't sure what he would miss the most when he returned home in a few days' time, but these dinners at Burrough House were a distinct contender.

Dinners at Buckston weren't dull in the least — particularly when his father's friends were around — and even when it was just Harry and his parents it was never an unpleasant matter (except where disputed equine purchases were involved).

But there was just something about the spectacle that was a table full of Weasleys — and it was full, as full as it could be on this particular evening. Percy was at home; Bill and Fleur had come to dine; the only one missing was Charlie. But as Harry and Fleur both added to their numbers, there was no space to be spared as they all sat elbow to elbow in a spirit that was equal parts conviviality and annoyance.

To Mrs Weasley's consternation, the subject of a mill sponsored by Sir Zacharias was raised once again, now that the date was nigh — the very next day, in fact — and this time, it was raised by Ginny.

"When do we depart tomorrow?" she asked brightly, looking in Ron's direction.

Pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth, Ron glanced around and asked unconvincingly, "For what?"

"The mill, you sapskull."

Dr Weasley cleared his throat.

Ginny sighed, repeating, "The mill."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Ron took a bite of potato.

"Yes, you do, and I heard Sir Zacharias talking of it myself just yesterday — it's to be in the field by Mr Leonard's farm, as you well know."

Ron swallowed. "Then have Sir Zacharias come collect you."

"Nobody will be collecting you," Mrs Weasley shot at her daughter.

"He is a baronet," offered George reasonably (and unhelpfully).

"I don't care what he is — " his mother began.

Percy, who hadn't yet given an opinion on this particular subject, decided it was time to remedy this problem.

"And what exactly," he said, gesturing with his glass of wine for emphasis, "do you suppose Mr Marchbanks is going to do when he learns of all this?"

Mr Marchbanks was the local magistrate, and prizefights were, actually, a bit illegal.

Fred snorted. "I suppose he's going to wager twelve shillings on Dursley as he said he would."

Ron and George laughed appreciatively, Bill and Dr Weasley chuckled a little, and Harry took a drink to occupy himself; he hadn't actually known who would be fighting tomorrow.

Percy threw his mother a look that said very clearly: Well, I tried.

But Mrs Weasley had lost any semblance of control on this score, as Ron enquired of Fred and George, "Are you coming along, then?"

"I don't see why not — " George began, but Fred cut him off.

"No, we can't — you remember, Georgie, you wanted to do some more work on the, ah, the pedestrian curricle."

A little crinkle formed between George's brows. "No, I didn't. I said I'd speak to the cartwright next week, but we've already sorted out — "

Fred sent a kick at George's leg under the table — but he missed and caught Ron's instead.

"Ow!" exclaimed Ron, interrupting George's comment and sending a foot right back — only he missed Fred and struck Percy's shin.

Percy grimaced, glared, silently reminded himself that he was five and twenty, and did not retaliate.

But then on second thought, he watched his mother out of the corner of his eye, waiting until she'd turned her attention to Ginny, whereupon Percy sent a quick, sharp elbow into Fred's side for instigating the entire thing.

"Perhaps we move on to another subject of conversation," suggested Bill mildly, torn as he was so often these past few weeks between feeling apologetic towards Fleur for his family's behaviour, and wishing she'd be a little less judgmental of it all.

They behaved perfectly well in public, after all; you had to be permitted a little ridiculousness in the comfort of your own home.

"Well, I'm about to be very busy, I'm afraid," announced Percy. "Lord and Lady Avery are to host their annual house party soon."

At the noncommittal reactions to this, he added, "And I've been invited to stay."

"On purpose?" asked Fred.

Percy managed to control his elbow this time — but just barely.

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The following morning dawned clear and bright, a perfect day.

Percy had already gone; everyone else were preparing to go to a mill or to try to prevent someone else from going to a mill.

And Fred was in his room, thinking how very much he'd like to kill Roger Davies.

Davies with his vapid but well-humoured drivel was not who Fred was supposed to be thinking of today of all days, this moment of all moments, and yet there he was popping up in Fred's mind because now the only person on earth whom Fred associated with cravat problems was —

Fred swore as, for the second time in five minutes, he yanked off an offending neckcloth that he'd completely bungled in his distraction, and threw it atop the first on the floor before retrieving a third.

"A wise choice," remarked George, who was reclined on his bed reading the newspaper. "She detests that style."

Fred glared at George in the mirror, but George had already gone back to his paper and missed this.

Fred was not being unreasonable about this. This wasn't a matter of one crease being a quarter inch off; he'd actually done them up entirely haphazard the first two times around — embarrassing, really; what kind of soldier was he?

Fred had never been accused of being vain or fastidious in his life, but at the moment he was acutely dissatisfied with everything about his rig.

He forced himself to finish the knot and tear himself away from the mirror, and then he turned and stared in abject disappointment at his boots sitting innocently on the floor. Finally he sat and pulled them on, and soon all that was left was his coat but he couldn't bring himself to put it on because that would mean he was finished here. He set aside the coat and paced across the room, running one hand up the back of his neck and over his hair, free to think once more now that he wasn't trying to dress himself at the same time, which apparently was impossible.

Angelina, I —

"If this is how you muster for battle, I fear for England." George turned a page in his newspaper, once more ignoring the look of annoyance Fred shot him.

Fred hadn't actually told George what he was planning to do, let alone that he was planning to do it today, almost right this very minute — but George seemed to just know.

It was comforting and vexing in equal measure. Though, George was doing his best to tip the scales towards vexation — but really, even though Fred couldn't have admitted it at the time, this only made it even more comforting.

For his part, George would have found this scene vastly amusing, if not for the fact that Fred's nerves were agitating his own — at least, this seemed to be the only way to explain his unsettled stomach and the fact that he'd been reading the same line of print for the past ten minutes. The only way to keep the both of them sane was to heckle his brother mercilessly until Fred got the hell out of this room and got on with it.

How difficult was this supposed to be, anyway? It was Angie. Quite simple. You'd get her attention through the window, go for a —

No, Fred was going to walk in through the front door for a proper visit, wasn't he? How are the mighty fallen. He was going to call on Angie.

George stifled a laugh. George had never called on Angie in all his life, and could probably have counted on one hand the number of times he'd notified her of his arrival by coming in the front door.

Fine. Quite simple. You'd walk in the front door because that's what gentlemen did, and you'd say, Angie, I —

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered George, folding down one corner of his paper as he noticed Fred had set aside his coat once more and was now continuing to delay by staring out the window, both hands braced either side of it.

"Fred, go do it or I'll do it for you."

Wordless, Fred turned his head, and they exchanged a look for a long three seconds before Fred nodded resolutely.

Then he took up his coat and was gone, leaving George to read the same line of print over and over again in peace.

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Angelina was certain she'd never heard a statement quite so foreign as 'Lieutenant Weasley for you in the drawing room.'

Not only because receiving Fred in the drawing room was a rare occasion indeed, but because the words, the whole situation, were so laden that for a moment Angelina had difficulty standing under their weight as she rose from where she was sat reading in the library.

Angelina had received a not-insignificant number of callers in the drawing room for — what she suspected was — this very purpose. Never before had this walk felt so odd, so dreamlike, as if it could not possibly be happening.

Fred was wearing that little smile, the one that looked like he knew something you didn't; but it was never a sly thing, it was brazen and proud, his head held perfectly straight.

Perfectly straight until he bowed.

Angelina blinked, that surreal feeling growing more and more impossible to shift. She couldn't recall the last time Fred had bowed to her except in a dance, or when in company where it was unavoidable.

In an utter fog, Angelina returned the gesture with a curtsey.

Neither spoke for a moment, Fred just looking at her in that magnetic way, like he didn't see anything else — something devious in it, too, like he was up to no good at all. He'd always had that air about him, but for Angelina it was starting to take on quite a different meaning than when they were children.

As if the situation weren't strange enough, Angelina heard herself asking, "Shall I have some tea brought in?"

Fred's scheming half-smile deepened, and he answered with a slow shake of his head.

"Would you care to sit down?"

He bit back a silent laugh, one that shook his shoulders and reached his eyes, and it was a smug, teasing thing when he shook his head again

Finally, clearing her throat, Angelina regained a few of her wits.

"Do you intend to speak?" she taunted.

Now Fred was just funning with her, as he silently raised one finger for her to wait. Then he strolled up to her — and right past her — to the drawing room door.

And he closed it.

"Good morning, Angelina," he said finally.

Angelina could not suppress a little laugh at his cheeky tone. "Must you be so ostentatious?"

"I must."

He stood now just a couple of paces away from her, meeting her eyes fearlessly as he took one slow, deep breath.

"I said some things to you the other night."

Angelina regarded him steadily. "Yes, you did."

"They were all true."

She swallowed, nodding him on, her hands folded in front of her.

He stepped closer, halving the distance between them — not as close as he'd been the night of the ball, not nearly as close, but close enough she could have reached out and touched him.

"I make for Brighton in three days and I can't leave without knowing."

"Knowing what?" she breathed.

His voice was low like it had been the other night, and whilst without the cover of darkness it lost a certain thrilling quality, it still snuck, beguiling, around her and in her.

"I love you. I know it, and I'm given to believe that it's only meant to happen once. And so I must ask you… Do you think that you could love me?"

Angelina blinked in surprise. She had not been expecting that question, not that way.

"Wh— "

"I know that you said you don't know what it's meant to feel like. But I know that you care for me. I know that you like me. And I must believe that you have some affection for me…"

Angelina smiled fondly. "Of course, I do."

"And do you… feel other things as well?"

She nodded again, releasing a slow breath as her heart began to race.

"That's enough for me, Angelina, if it's enough for you." He took another half a step forwards. "Because I can't get enough of seeing you, and hearing you… and I don't think I could get enough of touching you."

She sucked in a sharp breath, feeling as though her heartbeat were now in every inch of her body.

Then a slow, impish smile spread across Fred's face, and he whispered conspiratorially:

"If that sounds good to you, of course."

She laughed, grateful for the distraction from her overloaded senses. She'd managed to go twenty-three years without a fainting fit and she'd have liked not to start now, but it was difficult when one's head felt fuzzy.

Fred took up her left hand in his right, raising it up between them, and for a moment it seemed as though he might kiss it, but then he drew it nearer his chest, holding it firm there.

"Angelina." With a furtive look, he crooked a finger of his other hand for her to come nearer; and when she obliged, he leant forwards and reminded her with a grin, "I'm not foxed today."

She understood his meaning perfectly, and she nodded her approval to do what she had not allowed him to do under the moonlight in the garden.

It was the briefest joining of softly parted lips, and he pulled back — just a little — searching her face for her reaction. He did this once again, a gratified look about him when she nodded for more.

Then his hand was cupping the place where her jaw met her neck, warm and solid against her skin, fingertips just making themselves known at the nape of her neck, urging her towards him as he met her again. Her mouth parted under the steadily building pressure from his jaw, his lower lip, a hum in the back of his throat.

The tip of his tongue tickled at her lip before probing forwards, and Angelina stiffened.

Fred drew back. "Stop?"

She shook her head and his lip curled in approval, and this time when he kissed her she let him in, until the only thing holding her up seemed to be his hands at her waist, the delicate muslin bunching underneath his fingers. She draped her arms around his shoulders and neck and could have sworn she'd never known anything so solid.

"Angelina," he broke away just long enough to say.

"Hmm?"

He pulled back again, his voice strong amidst shallow breaths.

"Marry me?"

Angelina had come to the inescapable conclusion that it would have been pure foolishness to refuse him. There had never been a doubt in her mind that Fred Weasley was a good man, one she trusted and liked. If one had to go and get the heart involved — and, since he'd brought it up, it definitely was — perhaps Angelina couldn't put her finger on precisely what it was that she felt yet. But it certainly wasn't nothing, and whatever it was, she knew she wanted more.

"Yes."

And her fingers crept from the red of his coat into the red of his hair.

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Notes:

Maman - French for 'mom'; French was a common language at this time in the Caribbean Islands

To 'cut' someone was to deliberately fail to acknowledge an acquaintance - huge insult, not to be taken lightly.