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In which there are farewells and introductions

(October, 1814)

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Terry Boot had been employed at Burrough House as a groom for the better part of three years, and as soon as he saw Miss Weasley making her way towards the stables on this particular morning he considered that this may very well be the day that tenure came to an end.

Terry looked up from where he'd just finished readying her horse, to see Ginny strolling up, wearing a cheerful look, a pert smile… and breeches.

Breeches and a shirt and top boots (where on earth did she get any that fit her? They must have been held over from when her brothers were thirteen years old) and a coat and a hat and oh, God, he was going to lose this disagreement and consequently his job, he just knew it.

"Miss…" he protested half-heartedly.

"Terry!" Ginny gave him a bright smile, in no way acknowledging that anything was amiss as she pulled on her gloves. "Good morning!"

Then she glanced at Harpy, fitted with Ginny's usual sidesaddle, and feigned surprise with a chipper, "Oh, no, but Chudleigh's misinformed you! I'll be needing the other saddle today."

Terry shook his head. "I'm sorry, miss, but the mistress said I ain't to give you that saddle anymore."

It wasn't very often anyway that Ginny rode astride — usually only for hunts, and even then she'd requested it far less as she'd grown older.

Ginny didn't look the least bit put out at Terry's news, and that seemed to bode worse than if she'd been cross.

Not that Ginny had ever been cross with Terry. She'd never had to be.

"Oh." She blinked innocently. "Has the master of the house said so himself?"

Terry thought this quite a dirty tactic, all things considered.

"No," he allowed with a sceptical look.

"Well, my father's in his study — I know he'll say it's all right, but perhaps I'd better fetch him. I'm sure it'll hardly be any interruption at all." She turned back towards the house in earnest.

Terry closed his eyes as if to block out his own awareness of what he was doing. "Wait, miss."

Ginny glanced back at him. He gave her one further beseeching look, but the determination did not budge from her face.

"Just… just wait a minute, I'll… I'll switch it out for you." He sighed reproachfully, but this only made her flash that brilliant smile again.

Terence Boot, you are a right fool.

Ginny strolled in a little circle, humming to herself, toeing at the dirt every now and again as Terry went about his work, until after a few moments of this she looked up.

"Have you seen any of my brothers yet today?" she enquired.

Terry glanced over Harpy's back. "Lieutenant Weasley set out not ten minutes before you arrived. Was you meant to be with him?"

"Oh, no, not at all. But you haven't seen Ronald? He hasn't called for Cannon?"

"No, I ain't seen Mr Ronald. Cannon's just right in here." He jerked his thumb towards the interior of the stable.

"And his friend the viscount?" she asked lightly. "He hasn't arrived?"

"Not that I know of, miss."

A thought occurred to Ginny suddenly, and she glanced all around, up to the house and down to the road before leaning towards Terry conspiratorially.

"Percy's already taken Hermes out, hasn't he?"

Terry allowed himself an indulgent smile. "Yes, he left early."

"Good," she breathed.

It was much earlier than she knew Ron meant to set out for the boxing match, and Ginny had given her mother the slip, sneaking out thusly attired after having planted in Chudleigh's and Verity's minds her intention to go see Luna, giving the appearance that she wasn't to go anywhere with Ron at all.

Some minutes later, Harpy was ready, and with a gracious and very pretty look Ginny allowed Terry to assist her into the saddle.

"Are you needing an escort, miss?" he asked in the most futile tone imaginable.

"No, thank you, Terry!"

Then she was off, leaving Terry to heave a sigh of resignation as he returned to the stable door and tapped his forehead against the doorframe.

.

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"Have you, ah… have you seen my sister, by chance?"

Terry fought the urge to roll his eyes as Ron paused abruptly just before mounting his horse to pose this question. Terry didn't know what was going on today. Miss Weasley was obviously behaving badly, but now Mr Ronald was hardly acting less suspicious.

"Yes, sir, Miss Weasley's out riding."

"Oh." Ron looked faintly surprised, but then he grinned and hoisted himself into the saddle. "Perfect. Thank you, Terry!"

Then he was off, joining Harry who was waiting for him beside the stables, and together they set out for Mr Leonard's farm.

They'd not got far from the house, however, when they spied a rider coming straight for them — having, apparently, popped out from a small grove of trees.

"Oh, seven hells," muttered Ron once he'd noticed who it was and how she was comporting herself today. "What is she up to?"

Harry looked at him, bemused at first, for under these circumstances he had not immediately recognised the rider — and Ron's use of "she" notwithstanding, it took him a second to catch on. But his eyes widened once he realised who it was, and he glanced about aimlessly, trying to decide where to look to stifle a mixture of shock and amusement, finally becoming very interested in the pommel of his saddle.

Ron, however, was unfazed seeing Ginny ride a horse in this manner.

"Riding to hounds, are we?" he asked dryly.

Harry choked back a burst of nervous laughter.

"No," she replied brightly, "just to a prizefight."

"You're not going," Ron insisted.

"I am."

"You're not going with us, Mama will kill me."

"Then you're not going anywhere, because if you don't want me to follow you, you'll have to stay put."

Ron and Ginny locked eyes in a battle of wills for a long few seconds, until finally Ron gestured to Harry, gibing, "Look, see what you've done? You've embarrassed Harry."

"I'm not embarrassed," assured Harry with a grin, though his cheeks were a little warm.

"You should be glad that I'm in disguise," she challenged her brother, who regarded her with a sceptical look.

Finally, Ron sighed through his nose and tilted his head dramatically to look to Harry, silently seeking his opinion. Harry could only shrug.

"Fine," shot Ron, looking to Ginny once more and raising a lecturing finger. "But don't talk to anyone."

Then they set out once more, but not before Ginny noticed Harry's shoulders shaking as he brought his eyes up to chance a look at her. He looked away again, clearing his throat into his fist.

"You have opinions?" she surmised.

Lips rolled inwards, Harry shook his head emphatically.

"Good."

Then she rode a little ways ahead of them, jumping Harpy over any little thing she could find on the wide fields ahead, just to show that she could.

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The match was held in a field just beyond a grove of trees which obscured its view from the road. Ropes had been tied between stakes driven into the ground to form the ring, and when the three arrived there was already a horde of gentlemen milling around, many clamouring to place bets.

They gave their horses into the care of a couple of grooms Sir Zacharias had thoughtfully retained to take charge of the horses for anyone who'd not been driven there by a coachman, and then they found a spot a little ways back from the ring, on the outskirt of the crowd.

For the most part, no one paid Ginny any attention as she stood between Ron and Harry. But inevitably there were a few acquaintances who spied Ron and made their way over to exchange greetings, and when they did there was really no hiding it. Not for the first time in her life, Ginny felt the consequences of a course of action that had once seemed so trivial she had dismissed them out of hand before acting. It was, in truth, a little embarrassing, even when it was just a look of polite surprise on their faces (for it wasn't a secret, exactly, that Ginny had gone out in breeches before — she'd once done so when invited to participate in hunts, for example — but she hadn't done so openly in quite some time, let alone at a boxing match).

Then Ginny had to remind herself that she wasn't sure she wanted to marry any of these men anyway. And if anyone were to argue that this harmed her reputation, well, that sort of problem would be remedied when she did get married someday.

Really the worst was Sir Zacharias himself, who, when he realised with a quick second look who she was, chuckled in such open, condescending disbelief that he drew glares from both Ron and Harry as he walked away.

"Never did like him, really," remarked Ron. Then he turned to Ginny. "You see? I'm going to have to hit someone, and then we'll have to duel."

"Do it later, Weez." Harry gestured towards the ring where two fighters were finally taking their places.

It was difficult to say whether Ginny was less prepared for the fact that the two men were shirtless, or the fact that one of them was one of her admirers from town, Seamus Finnegan. The combination of the two was something else entirely.

Ron — who had caught Ginny's little recoil of surprise out of the corner of his eye, and glanced over to see her blinking, wide-eyed, at the spectacle — was presently imagining what his funeral would be like once someone at home had found out about this.

Really the least jarring aspect of the whole thing for Ginny was the violence — though, as this first match-up was just a bit of sparring between two locals for fun, there was relatively little carnage. At first it seemed hardly more than she'd seen her brothers do behind the house on a few occasions (though they'd been at least covered up). She did cringe when Mr Finnegan took a blow to the face that started his nose bleeding and caused even Ron and Harry to groan.

The real draw, however, was the bout between two pugilists who'd gained recognition over the past year, who'd been invited by Sir Zacharias from Cornwall and Herefordshire.

The man from Cornwall, Maurice Bulstrode, looked to be as tall as Ron, though sturdier, with a jaw too large for the rest of his face, and an impatient energy about him even whilst standing still.

His opponent from Herefordshire was broader of shoulder and chest, though shorter, with deep-set eyes and an almost bored affect about him as he stepped inside the ropes.

His name was Dudley Dursley, and he was the favourite to win.

Not that Bulstrode intended to make it easy for him. Bulstrode was quicker, though Dursley was shockingly agile for someone so large and who had moved into the ring with so unhurried an air. They didn't dance around the matter, either, as the first two had, but got rather quickly to the business of exchanging blows.

"This'll be over before it's begun," commented Ron with a mixture of annoyance and admiration, raising his voice above the mingled jeers, groans, and shouts of encouragement from the crowd.

"Much too keen, much too keen," agreed Harry as Bulstrode appeared to be in danger of expending all of his energy in the very beginning.

"I can't see anything," complained Ginny as the fight moved to the far side of the ring.

Ron glanced down at her, then back to the match, his arms crossed, and he did this a couple more times, deciding.

"All right," he said finally, leaning towards her whilst keeping his eyes on the match. "They're coming up to the mark again. Bulstrode's swinging away, he's not very precise, nothing Dursley regards. He's fast, though. Dursley's not landing — oh, good click! Did you see it?... If Bulstrode can get in — one-two! He got a good one on Dursley… He's tiring out already, shame, if he isn't careful Dursley will get in and — that. Dursley will do that, landed a good one right in the belly. Bellows to mend with!"

Harry craned his neck. "Looks like he's about to cast up his accounts."

Sometime during the fifth round a mild drizzle began to fall, which came and went throughout the rest of the fight, mingling with the blood and sweat already smeared across the boxers' faces and bare hands. In the end Bulstrode, who'd gone down more often than Dursley, finally found himself unable to make it back up to the mark, and with a great cheer the match was called for Dursley.

"Let's get home before this — Ginny!" exclaimed Ron with as much restraint as possible to avoid drawing attention, as Ginny ducked through the crowd and ran towards where the pugilists had congregated. "What the devil — "

He and Harry exchanged a look before pursuing her through the crowd, squeezing their way through and begging pardons left and right.

They caught her just as she'd caught up to Seamus Finnegan in an apparent bid to commend him on his efforts and also ask him why he'd do something so appallingly stupid.

"It's nothing, Miss Weasley," he said of a lovely bruise beginning to blossom over one eye. "Just a bit of fun."

He was still a little taken aback to see her thusly attired, and he looked down at her breeches and boots before looking up at her face again.

Ron caught this and cleared his throat pointedly.

Finnegan had just begun to exchange an abashed greeting with Ron when their attention was drawn by a loud "Potter!"

It was Dudley Dursley coming their way, now clad in a loosely fitted shirt and still bleeding from a few cuts on his face.

Ron and Ginny looked to Harry in utter confusion. But rather than looking remotely surprised, Harry drew a little breath to compose himself before turning to Dursley. As he did so, he removed his hat, tucking it under his arm and flattening his unruly hair with his hand.

"Dursley," he said mildly.

Ron and Ginny excused themselves from conversation with Finnegan and drew closer to their friend.

Harry seemed a thousand miles away as he said, "Miss Weasley, Mr Weasley, allow me to present my cousin, Mr Dursley."

Ginny's brow furrowed as she stared up at Harry, who met her eyes briefly without expression.

Ron paused a beat before replying, "Delighted!"

"Dursley," continued Harry, "Mr Weasley is a friend from Oxford. Miss Weasley is his sister. I've been visiting them here in Devonshire."

Dursley simply looked at them a moment as if they were something very amusing.

"Are my aunt and uncle in good health?" enquired Harry, his eyes fixed on a spot over Dursley's shoulder.

"They get on," drawled Dursley at last. "No need to ask how your parents do."

Harry's expression remained blank. "My parents are very well."

Ron cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed. "Well fought today, Mr Dursley!"

"Thank you." Dursley's eyes darted back to Harry, and Dursley smirked. "Did I make you any coin today?"

Harry blinked, momentarily frozen, finally recovering, "I would certainly never bet against you, Dursley."

It had started drizzling again and Harry added, "If you'll excuse us, I think we ought to get the lady home. Good day, Dursley."

"Is there any purpose to asking whether we can find a carriage for you?" Harry asked Ginny as they made their way to collect their horses.

"None," she replied. "Why did you never mention that Mr Dursley was your cousin?"

"I could have been certain I'd mentioned it to Ron before."

Ron gave him an odd look, which Harry met with a guilty one, as they both knew very well that had not happened. But Ron said nothing.

"You seemed a little… unfriendly with one another," pressed Ginny.

"Ginny," muttered Ron. But she ignored him.

Harry turned his hat over in his hands.

"We simply don't see much of one another," he said, not precisely answering the question that she had not exactly asked.

"Well, glad to have met him," said Ron. "Never knew you were related to such an excellent pugilist."

"He certainly shows to advantage," agreed Harry. "Miss Weasley, have you enjoyed yourself?"

Conversation lapsed once they'd mounted their horses and started home hoping to beat the rain before it began in earnest. They arrived at Burrough House damp but in good spirits — until they spotted Mrs Weasley waiting for them in the doorway, having seen them all riding in together, and not from the direction of the village.

"Go to your room at once and change your clothes," she glowered at Ginny before Ginny had even crossed the threshold.

"I'll go to my room as well," said Ron. "Come on, Harr— "

"In the parlour, Ronald," said his mother. "Now."

"I'm all wet."

"In the parlour."

"I might catch cold and die," he pointed out.

"In the parlour."

"Harry might catch cold and die."

"Lord Potter may be excused."

Harry may have been one and twenty, but some things he didn't need to be told twice.

"Take it on the chin, Weezy!" he called bracingly, hastening up the stairs to Ron's room before Ron could seize him by the sleeve and use him as a shield.

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Fred could not decide whether proposing to Angelina three days before leaving to rejoin his regiment in Brighton was brilliance or pure idiocy.

They couldn't have married before he left even if they'd wanted to — no time for the reading of banns, and even if there were, you still didn't marry that quickly unless you had to. Else people would assume things (such as, that you married quickly because you had to).

It was settled that he would return in the spring and they would marry then — a perfectly normal length for an engagement, but six months was feeling far too long on this side of things.

It was all the worse for the fact that he'd be in Brighton for those six months and, therefore, unable to do what he was presently doing with Angelina behind closed doors in the drawing room of Holden House.

On the other hand, if he were to spend the next six months doing what he was presently doing with Angelina in the drawing room, the situation would get wildly out of hand.

Currently, it was fairly well under control: They'd spent just enough time together over the past three days of their engagement to get Fred worked up and on his way home each time not entirely sure what his own name was.

You were given a certain latitude once engaged — people were, unofficially, content to turn a blind eye a few minutes here and there — but there were still lines to be drawn. Fred had been kissing Angelina senseless for the past half hour — any longer and even his own uncle would have no choice but to come in here with a pistol.

Angelina sighed against his mouth and shifted a little on his lap.

Five more minutes, then.

His grip on her waist tightened, her fingers had slipped inside his open collar, and she moved against him again and he almost could have thought she was doing this on purpose.

She was definitely doing this on purpose. Angelina had grown fond of the sounds she could draw from him, the way he held her tighter and pushed up against her, his eyes unfocused and his cheeks flushed.

He stifled a ragged laugh against her neck when she did it this time, and refocused his attentions there whilst one hand slid up her side.

"I am going to make you so happy," he promised mischievously, just before his teeth scraped gently over her collarbone.

He kissed a trail over the exposed skin there, down to the neckline of her dress where the swell of her breasts was just visible...

"Ask McMurtry to post this for me tomorrow…" they heard from somewhere out in the hall — just up the stairs by the sound of it.

Fred might have practically shoved Angelina off him if she hadn't jumped up so fast herself. The voice was Colonel Weasley's, and as he was a soft-spoken man, clearly he'd had the goodness to raise his voice a little to make it known that he'd come out from his study.

Angelina flew to the door to crack it a few inches before seating herself on a sofa opposite Fred, whilst he pulled on his coat and forced himself to think unpleasant, unattractive thoughts.

There came a soft tap at the door before Colonel Weasley pushed it open and stepped into the room.

"At ease," he remarked, raising a hand to stop Fred standing up to bow a greeting.

Fred had, tragically, been born without any real sense of shame, but even he was grateful as he sank back onto the sofa cushions.

Colonel Weasley was as tall as Arthur but not as slight. He'd been blessed with thicker hair that had withstood the test of time better than that of either his brothers, and like Bilius's it was fairer than the audacious ginger hues of Arthur and his children.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, at Angelina, at Fred, and at the clock again, where it read six in the evening.

"I've invited Fred to stay to dinner," said Angelina.

"Oh, wonderful," Colonel Weasley replied mildly. "Then I shall see you in half an hour."

Then he left, but not before pushing the door open all the way. Fred and Angelina exchanged a giddy chuckle.

A pleasant dinner and a few more stolen kisses later, Fred and Angelina exchanged a smiling farewell and Fred set off to spend his last night at home before returning to Brighton.

He woke before dawn the following morning in order to catch the mail coach.

"Georgie," he whispered, giving his slumbering brother a shake after he'd dressed and collected his things. "Georgie."

"Time is it?" George groaned into his pillow.

"Early."

"How early?"

"Go-back-to-sleep early."

"Devil take it." Or anyway it sounded something like that.

"See you in the spring, Georgie."

One arm made its way out from under George's covers, groped around for Fred's shoulder, and gave him a companionable pat.

"'Bye, Freddie."

Three days later, Harry took his leave of the occupants of Burrough House as well, promising to see Ron in London in the spring, and charging him be ready to kick up a lark.