The Pride of Burrough House In which there is discord and harmony, a harry potter fanfic

In which there is discord and harmony

(November, 1814)

"A chaque fois, tu dis que ce sera plus facile, et ça ne l'est jamais! Je ne sais pas pourquoi je suis surprise! Et je ne sais pas pourquoi j'essaie de te parler. Tu t'en fiches! Et pourquoi le ferais-tu? Tout ce qui compte, c'est ce que tu veux! J'aurais dû m'en douter!"

Fleur swept past the butler at Knightley Park as he held open the door for her and Bill, bowing to them in greeting as if nothing were amiss. Bill was close on her heels as they crossed the hall.

"Will you please wait until we're somewhere more private? And that isn't true," he gritted out, still speaking en français, as did Fleur when she continued.

"We are in your country — " She rounded on him — "at your home — "

"All my worldly goods," he confirmed dryly.

Fleur stormed away once more, seething in a low voice.

"Everyone told me not to marry the Englishman — "

"The Englishman has a name," Bill noted, rubbing at his eyes with one hand.

" — my family, my acquaintances — "

"I seem to recall your parents liked me."

" — but did I listen? No!" She began to ascend the central staircase, Bill two steps behind. "And now, look! It has happened just as they said it would!"

"Oddly enough, it also happened just as I said it would — before you married me, which nobody forced you to do."

"No! You did not tell me that you would bring me somewhere I would have no friends — "

"You have no friends in London, either, so why did you agree to come at all?"

"But there is society in London!"

"There's society here! You've been introduced to dozens of people — "

"None of whom want to speak to me!"

"That isn't true. They've tried having conversation with you, but they believe you don't enjoy their company. You don't seem as though you do."

"So this is my fault." She shot him a look of disgust as they reached the top of the stairs.

"What I'm saying is that they may have taken some offence which you did not intend — And you, perhaps, have taken offence which they did not intend — "

"Your mother has poisoned them against me."

"Oh my God…" Bill muttered into his hand as Fleur set off towards their room.

"Your mother detests me, William!"

"No, she doesn't."

"You are blinded where she is concerned! You believe she can do no wrong."

"I am certain I've never said that about my mother in my life."

A young housemaid who'd chosen this unfortunate moment to emerge from another room bobbed a quick curtsey before retreating back inside as they passed by.

"You don't ever try to talk to her!" added Bill, who'd caught up to Fleur, trying to head her off and make her look at him. "You hardly talk to Ginny, and she does try."

"About what?" Fleur brushed past him. "I have nothing in common with them."

"Well, pretend they live in London," he shot, ironic and utterly humourless. "Maybe that will help. Hmm? Whatever you would be talking about there, you can talk about here. I assure you that my sister can hold a conversation about anything, so really, Fleur, what is it that's the problem? Because I'm beginning to arrive at some conclusions, and I don't like any of them."

Reaching their bedchamber, Fleur fixed him with a glare.

"Believe what you will." Her voice was icy. "After all, it is only your opinion that matters."

Then she shut the door in his face.

And Bill, contemplating pursuing her but thinking better of it, smacked his palm against the doorframe, counted silently to five, and took himself off.

Half an hour later, the situation had not resolved itself.

"Fleur?" Bill called through the door.

"I wish to be alone."

"It's time for dinner."

Silence.

"Fleur." He tried the doorknob, only to find it locked. "Fleur, open the door."

Silence.

"Will you really not come down to dinner?" he asked in disbelief.

She did not come down then; nor did she appear at any point during a tense dinner in which Bill barely concealed his exasperation as his uncle prattled on about something; nor did she show herself during the subsequent hour he passed in the parlour writing letters.

"Fleur?" he essayed again later that evening.

But she did not relent.

"This is a little ridiculous now," he remarked.

"You may sleep in another room."

It occurred to Bill that four months of marriage must be the fastest any husband had been evicted from the bed.

"Fleur, you are setting an inauspicious precedent," he warned.

But France, it seemed, had withdrawn from negotiations.

Fleur wasn't certain what she hoped to achieve when she crept downstairs hours later. She was ravenous by now but wasn't going to ask for a late dinner. She was not the mistress of this house, not truly, no matter how anyone encouraged her to feel at home; and what's more, the staff despised her.

So she'd suffer in silence, then (ah, le bonheur d'être triste!) — but at least she wouldn't be locked in her room which, upon reflection, seemed an odd place to be when one was already feeling isolated and trapped.

It was nearly ten o'clock, and the central hall was quiet and dim, the flickering light from lamps ensconced in the walls throwing shadows across the portraits that lined the stairway, so that one could almost imagine them moving.

The fire in the parlour was still going, she knew from the warm, dancing light that shone through the half-open door, and she followed it.

"Good evening, Mrs Weasley!" Sir Bilius was sat in one of the two comfortable wing chairs nearest the fire, a glass of wine in one hand, as content as can be.

Fleur froze in the doorway, her hand still on the door.

"Excuse me, I am intruding — "

"What? Nonsense! I'm sure I could not have prayed for a better answer to such a dull evening! Have you come down to dine?"

Fleur frowned. "Dinner was hours ago."

"Yes, but this is a much more fashionable hour for dining, after all! How clever of you to think of it! And the staff have been expecting you anyway. Billy asked them to lay some dinner aside for you. Ring the bell, won't you, and then come sit near the fire so you don't catch a chill! Will you take a glass of wine with me?"

"Thank you," she decided politely after a moment's hesitation, pulling the rope to ring for service.

Sir Bilius, meanwhile, had risen from his chair, and he poured a second glass of wine and offered it to her after she'd perched on the edge of the seat across from him.

"I am sorry for the trouble." Fleur accepted the wine and held it primly in her lap, one hand grasping the bowl and the other lightly supporting the base. "I was… unwell at dinnertime. I had a headache."

"Very fashionable of you, my dear!" he said approvingly, resuming his seat. "And that, of course, is your right! My, I never thought I'd say this, but it is rather nice to have a lady in the house once again."

Fleur tilted her head a little. "Were you married, Sir Bilius?"

"Bless you, my dear, no! Most days I can't commit to a book! Ah, Mrs Winston!" he exclaimed as the housekeeper appeared.

She was a steely-haired, steely-eyed woman of some sixty years, almost as old as Sir Bilius. By now she tended to treat him as more of a brother than an employer. And she had not spent nearly fifty years of life in service of this house, this family, and in particular her dear, late mistress, just to see it fall into the hands of some frigid French woman whom Master Arthur's oldest boy had married on an idle fancy because he'd been away from home for too long.

Or that was just her opinion, anyway.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Mrs Weasley is ready for her dinner, if you'd be so kind as to ask that the table be laid. And you know — Do you mind if I join you, my dear?" Sir Bilius enquired of Fleur. When she shook her head, he added to Mrs Winston, "Two, then!"

And when the housekeeper had taken herself off, he returned his attention to Fleur.

"No, to answer your question, I never was married. This house hasn't known a mistress since my own excellent mother, and she's been gone these nine years. Has Billy told you about her?"

Fleur shook her head.

"Excellent woman. Excellent woman! I was always the closest to her; I preferred spending my time indoors, rather than joining in my brothers' sporting endeavours. I'm possessed of a delicate constitution, you know.

"But she'd have loved you. She had fine taste! She was widely admired — and loved! Quite loved! Not a person for fifty miles who didn't know her name. You've never met a more gracious woman, nor one more proud, in the best way!"

Sir Bilius's foot bounced jauntily, the one leg crossed over the other.

"Do you know, she was meant to marry an earl. It was all arranged, the settlement drawn up and all. And then one day she woke up and said, Don't think I will, thank you, and ran off and married my father. Delicious scandal! My grandparents cut her off without a penny, and doors were closed to her all over London. Some of the beau monde still haven't got over it, even those who weren't alive when it happened."

Fleur allowed herself a little smile of encouragement. Sir Bilius seemed more than a little foolish, talked far too much without regard for whether anyone was actually interested, and apparently took no pride in his estate beyond what was visible to the eye. But he was possibly the only person here who ever behaved as though he were genuinely delighted to encounter Fleur. She considered that, in all likelihood, it was not genuine — that it was ornamental like everything else in his life — but she was also finding it difficult to make herself care about that at the moment.

"But then she gave the most magnificent parties!" said Sir Bilius, still waxing nostalgic. "Even the parties she gave for the servants, you've never seen the like. The talk of the county. She was quite adored! She was used to make all her own dresses, you know — very talented with a needle! — and each time she did, you could expect to see ten similar ones pop up all over town! You'd never have known they were homemade — you could place one next to one of your fine gowns and never known that hers hadn't come from the couturiere!"

Fleur drew herself up a little straighter. "Mine do not come from the couturiere either. Well — this one I bought in town, yes. But the gowns I arrived with, all made by my mother."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. She's very skilled. Certain things were… necessary after the emigration. After our families' lands were taken."

"Naturally! A talent she passed along to you, no doubt."

"I am not quite as good with a needle. But I enjoyed sketching the designs."

"Of course you did! From the moment I saw you, I knew that you had an eye for elegance. Do you know, I'm thinking of placing these chairs in the drawing room." He gestured to a pair of lacquered and gilded satinwood chairs next to the credenza. "What do you think? And I hardly know what to put in their place."

Fleur stared for a moment at the section of the room in question.

"I think you should put nothing in their place," she said honestly. "It will look better that way."

"Ingenious!"

Fleur took a sip of wine and then craned her neck to assess the satinwood chairs again. The chairbacks bore the gilded empire-style image of an eagle encircled by a wreath of laurels.

"Something else, my dear?" Sir Bilius's eyebrows quirked in question.

Fleur hesitated, looking from Sir Bilius, to her wine, to the chairs again, and back to Sir Bilius.

"The eagle and the laurels," she offered at last with a wry little smile. "They are… what is your word for it… icons of Napoleon Bonaparte."

"Indeed!" Sir Bilius looked at the chairs as if he were seeing them for the first time. "Well, I shall remedy that directly. You shan't have to look at them again. I prefer lions anyway, don't you?"

Fleur smiled down at the carved, gilded lions' paws which formed the legs of the chairs they were currently occupying.

There was a knock from the doorway, where Mrs Winston had appeared once more.

"Dinner, sir, and ma'am."

They rose, and Fleur accepted Sir Bilius's proffered arm.

"Now," he said as he led her to the dining room, "have I told you about the time I was mayor of Ottery St Catchpole for eighteen hours?"

It was nearly midnight by the time dinner had concluded and Fleur had dressed for bed. She poked her head into the corridor to check that all was clear before proceeding to the room directly across, where she knocked once before opening the door.

"William."

"What."

"Are you asleep?"

"Yes."

"Good." She shut the door behind her and divested herself of the dressing gown she'd slipped on over her nightgown. "I don't want to talk anyway."

By the light of the small fire she could see him, arms crossed where he lay, staring at her as she pulled back the covers on her side of the bed, which was vacant — though he said nothing.

She crawled into bed and crossed her arms where she lay, huffing a pointed sigh, which he echoed.

Then she turned onto her side with her back to him. But when he rested one hand on her hip, she did not shake it off.

Percy did not have time for this.

Really, quite literally, he did not have time for this. It was ridiculous.

And yet here he was, standing in the doorway to the music room at Moorpark. All because he'd admitted to Miss Dawlish that he played the piano, and had paid Miss Avery a (really very mild) compliment on her playing. And that had happened because he'd had to walk with Miss Dawlish. And that had happened because he'd given up his seat on the gig to Miss Avery.

It was his burden, really, to be so obliging and useful and willing to impart any of his considerable knowledge.

And unable to say no when asked to show off.

Actually, this was all Miss Dawlish's fault.

Penelope. That was what Miss Avery had called her when Miss Avery had barrelled out of the breakfast room as he'd passed by the previous day, waylaying him in some sort of impressive flank attack.

"Mr Weasley! Oh, Penelope, you said Mr Weasley can play, didn't you?"

"No — I mean yes, I did, but — I'm so sorry," Miss Dawlish remarked in an aside to Percy as she caught up with Miss Avery, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders. "Constance has forgotten herself — "

"No, I haven't!" insisted Miss Avery. "He is a gentleman, mustn't he oblige us?"

Wasn't this child supposed to be shy of him? Perhaps they could go back to that.

"You have obviously been selectively hearing what I've been teaching you," muttered Miss Dawlish.

"Yes, they will do that," Percy remarked, battling a ridiculous urge to smile at the way Miss Dawlish had flushed scarlet. "But now I'm curious."

"It's noth— "

"Penelope needs someone to partner her in a duet!" interjected Miss Avery.

Percy blinked. "Excuse me?"

"No, I don't," corrected Miss Dawlish.

"Are you giving a concert?"

"No — "

"But how am I supposed to — " Miss Avery began.

"Constance, please apologise to Mr Weasley," pleaded Miss Dawlish, looking the most rattled Percy had ever seen her.

"Will you really not tell me what that was all about?" he asked after Miss Avery had delivered a grumbled apology and disappeared into the breakfast room.

Miss Dawlish released a composing sigh. "Nothing you need concern yourself about. I don't know what's got into her."

"Alleviate my confusion, then?"

After a short hesitation, Miss Dawlish explained, "Constance finds it helpful when I play out new pieces she's learning, so she understands what it's meant to sound like."

"Seems fairly logical."

"Yes, well, we're learning duets. I believe it's beneficial, to improving a number of skills."

"Also seems logical."

"Obviously I cannot play both parts at once, so Constance has taken this idea into her head. But she should never have bothered you, and anyway it's hardly necessary."

"Ah. Well, I think you'd be rather disappointed with me anyway. I'm out of practice."

"As I've said, I hope you'll forget that any of this has happened."

Well, now this was troublesome.

They were locked in a battle of deference, and there was nothing for it but for Percy to win by being the more amenable.

"I suppose I could do my part to ensure we don't unleash one more incompetent musician upon society," he shrugged.

"You're humouring me," Miss Dawlish observed with a smile. "And her. You really don't have to."

Why did she have to be so deuced agreeable all the time?

It made him very cross.

"Well, if you're willing to bear any shortcomings on my part," he said pleasantly, "then I am entirely at your service."

A full day had passed since then — more than enough for Percy to become completely awkward about it when he showed up.

He'd never done this before — sneaking off whilst his employer was absent, to hold a musicale with the governess. How was one meant to go about it? Was he supposed to get right to business? Seemed a bit perfunctory. What sort of niceties —

"We shan't trespass on your time for too long, Mr Weasley," said Miss Dawlish gratefully when she'd spotted him at the doorway. "Constance, please thank Mr Weasley."

After she'd done so, Miss Dawlish approached Percy with sheet music in hand. "Are you familiar with this piece?"

Percy surveyed the sonata. "Yes. Not this arrangement…"

"But you can play by sight?"

"Yes."

"The first time is never a masterpiece, after all. Will you play primo?"

"Yes, of course." He hummed a few measures to himself before returning the music to her.

"Wonderful. And Constance, you'll turn the pages for us."

Miss Avery, stood to the left of the piano, nodded shyly. Clearly someone else here had spent the past day reconsidering her hubris as well.

Miss Dawlish placed the music at the ready and took her seat, smoothing her dress as she did. Percy waited until she nodded up at him, and then took his place to her right, back straight, shoulders relaxed, adjusting his spectacles on his nose.

"I hope I won't hold you back, Miss Dawlish," he warned.

"Not at all! We shall go at a nice, easy pace."

Percy watched her tapered fingers as she poised them over the keys. He inhaled, catching the faintest scent of flowers on a nearby shelf, and exhaled, the tips of his fingers skimming the ivory as they found their places.

"Ready, Mr Weasley?"

"On your command."

Just as Percy had imagined, Miss Dawlish was far more proficient than he. He managed to keep time with her, but his movements could never be as sure as hers.

Her fingers weren't long or particularly slender but they were clever and confident and flowed like a stream over the keys, swift but unhurried. It was as if she was so much a part of the instrument, and it of her, that it would stretch itself to meet her so she might never miss a note.

Even as he kept his eyes on the music he was keenly aware of her, so close to him — not in a way that thrilled him, but riveted him, an odd but not altogether unpleasant fullness — the unnerving sureness of her and the way the space between them felt all at once vast and nonexistent.

Then their hands encountered one another, just a brush of the smallest fingers, her bare arm skimming the sleeve of his coat.

"Excuse me," he breathed in automatic apology — so quietly it was rather pointless.

The floral scent he'd noted earlier had not fully left him, and as something in his mind registered it as oddly familiar and struggled to place it, he hit a wrong note, his hand bumping hers again.

But he regained his stride, and the uplifting melody slowed to something more delicate, and they played on in pleasant partnership — until Miss Avery neglected to turn a page.

It caused them to falter, and as Miss Dawlish delivered a gentle reminder, Percy too looked up and over to their left. And then, unmistakably, it hit him.

It was not a vase of flowers.

It was soft and enveloping, lemon and violets and who knew what else exactly, but if one thing was for certain, it was a scent one could only find in Jermyn Street in London.

Percy should have recognised it right away; it was one of those scents popular in fashionable society, and you could not get away from it at crowded assemblies in town. Overbearing and cloying as it was there, now it was bright and becoming worn only on the neck of Miss Dawlish.

And just what the devil was he doing thinking about Miss Dawlish's neck?

No — actually — what the devil was Miss Dawlish's neck doing wearing Floris's Lily-of-the-Valley?

A governess wearing an expensive perfume; who'd ever heard of such a thing?

"You don't mean to leave me alone in this, Mr Weasley?" Her voice jolted him out of his thoughts, alerting him to the fact that he'd stopped playing altogether, even though the page had been turned.

She slowed until he'd regained his place and joined her, picking up the gentle melody once again.

Without a doubt, Miss Dawlish was a woman of impeccable breeding — whether she came from a family of some property or well-to-do tradesmen. Perhaps this was one refinement from her previous life she couldn't bear to part with. Though, if she'd been able to afford something like this, what on earth was she doing taking a post as a governess?

A gift, perhaps. A gift from a lover —

"Oh, dolce, Mr Weasley! Dolce!" There was a hint of a laugh in her voice as Percy realised he'd been striking the keys far too forcefully whilst lost in his thoughts.

"And what does dolce mean?" Miss Dawlish then enquired of Miss Avery as Percy regained command of himself with a terse shake of his head.

"Softly!" offered Miss Avery.

"Yes, and sweetly," clarified Miss Dawlish. "With great tenderness of feeling. But I believe Mr Weasley has been used to play grandioso."

Even without looking at her, he could tell that she was teasing him.

And for just a moment, it all faded nearly to nothing — Moorpark and Miss Avery and thankless occupation; all the fretting and planning and trotting too hard; the fact that he was, quite literally, born without inherent worth.

There was only the piano and violets and lily of the valley, the satisfaction of something beautiful and rhythmic, and the presence of someone who made it easy.

Though that didn't account for why he noticed his left hand shaking when he crossed it over her right to reach a final note.

It was kind of whatever devil had decided to possess him at that moment, to have waited at least until the end of the song before inciting feelings of utter panic. Percy held the note for as long as absolutely necessary before scooting as far away as possible without falling off the bench. In reality this was only a couple of inches, but in Percy's exploding mind it was a deal more dramatic.

"Bravo!" said Miss Dawlish gratefully, smiling over at him, and his attention was drawn from her hands to the Cupid's bow of her mouth.

Like a total scatter-wit, Percy stumbled his way through the thanks and parting salutations and apologies for his hurried but very necessary departure. He strode down the corridor, to the opposite wing, round the corner, and to his room, where he shook out his arms and told himself to pull it together.

Perhaps Lord Avery was right when he liked to tell Percy occasionally that he was too tightly coiled.

Well, whatever was going on here, Percy did not have time for it.

notes:

- "Every time, you say it will be easier, and it never is! I don't know why I am surprised! And I don't know why I try to talk to you. You don't care! And why should you? All that matters is what you want! I should have known!"

"le bonheur d'être triste"

- "the happiness of being sad" (from a quote by Victor Hugo)

My sincerest apologies if I have messed up the French here!