The sheet music for Wellington's Victory sat on the music stand of the console piano. By this point, Schroeder could have played the whole opening in his sleep. His one regret since he had started this endeavor was that he could not assemble a grand orchestra to play with him, the way Beethoven had intended, with one side representing the British forces and the other, the French. Still, his console piano had always served him well, ever since he had first tried it out in the showroom of Baxter's Music Emporium. If Schroeder could produce quality sounds from a toy piano with painted-on black keys, he could certainly guide his instrument into being a sort of miniature Panharmonicon that would charm his audience.

Yet when he laid his hands on the keys, he played only a few notes, and the piano went silent again.

He started again from the top and got a little further, but his fingers petered off and stilled once more. His eyes swept over the black notes of the waiting music pages. He could almost hear them bidding him to experience them, to enjoy them, to revel in the genius of the original hand who had drafted their source material all those years ago.

Share us, Schroeder, they seemed to urge him, ever so invitingly. Make us sound beautiful so that all who hear you may come to love Beethoven as fiercely as you do and understand his talents.

Yet his hands slid off the keys and onto his lap.

"He really did write a potboiler, didn't he?" Schroeder said aloud — then promptly clamped his hands over his mouth, horrified at himself.

Here he was, trying to prove to the world that the Battle Symphony was better than its reputation, and he had just criticized Beethoven! His heart and stomach felt sick in equal measures, and he had to stand up and stagger to the front door for fresh air.

Warm sunlight met his pale face, and the blue sky and green grass, mingled with the murmurs of cool breeze playing with his hair and the echoes of children at play, seemed almost like a farce, like the world could not care less about his inner turmoil. Schroeder leaned against the railing of the front stoop, gulping several times.

He had to get a grip on himself. He still had Beethoven. He still had a concert to perform. He still had a mission to carry out, a duty to uphold.

…So why did his mind keep going back to the school auditorium, where Sebastian Baxter gave Lucy Van Pelt meaningful looks while she complained about being ignored?

Clenching his teeth, Schroeder pushed away the pang of guilt. He was not in the wrong here, after all. He had always tried to be clear about his lack of romantic feelings towards Lucy, whether when he asked for psychiatric advice or during the rare times when he accepted one of her gifts. He liked her as a friend, nothing more. He had freedom of choice, and that choice would never involve Lucy in the way for which she strived. She should have respected his wishes a long time ago and left him alone.

…But she had been leaving him alone lately, another part of him countered.

She had been gone for over two weeks, and today he had been ready to force his way into her meeting with her team captain because the idea of Lucy Van Pelt hanging out with Sebastian Baxter had annoyed Schroeder more than he wanted to admit. She was probably with Sebastian that very moment, enjoying the cup of cocoa which the older boy had promised to buy her. She was probably not thinking of Schroeder at all.

Involuntarily, his eyes shifted down the street toward the Van Pelts' house, and it was then he noticed a figure storming up the sidewalk.

He did a double take.

Arms swinging at her sides, Lucy barreled her way forward, her large eyes focused on some point on the horizon. She passed Schroeder's house without even giving him a glance.

And she looked crabby.

"Hurricane alert," he murmured, frowning. What could have gotten her this riled up?

Pushing himself off the stoop railing, Schroeder broke into a run.

Lucy had to pause at the crosswalk for a passing car, allowing Schroeder to gain ground on her. Nearing, he saw now that she had a torn-out yellow page from the phonebook and a booklet clenched between her hands.

"Lucy, wait!" he called as she started across the road. "What's the matter?"

"Don't slow me down, Schroeder!" she clipped without looking back. "I got important business to attend to."

He jogged ahead of her and leapt onto the opposite sidewalk, cutting off her path, and planted his feet firmly. Thankfully, Lucy did not plow him down but halted on the curb to glare at him.

"You have that 'avenger of blood' look," he told her. "The last time that happened, you slugged a kid who knocked down Rerun on the playground. What happened?"

Lucy scowled, and for a moment it looked like she might snap at him, but she suddenly brightened and grabbed his shoulders, still holding her booklet in one hand.

"Oh, Schroeder!" she cried in a sweet voice, as though spotting him for the first time. "You're just the person I need right now!"

He blinked at her. "…For what?"

"You sure do know a lot about Bach, right, Schroeder?" she asked with an eager smile. "Not just Beethoven?"

"I've dabbled—"

"And you know how to talk to a musician who's obsessed with a dead guy, right?" she hummed. "Oh, what am I saying? Of course you do. C'mon!"

Her free hand slid down his arm and clamped onto his wrist. Without stopping to explain, she continued down the street, yanking him with her. For once Schroeder did not try to tug himself free of her hold.

"Lucy, what—"

"And this works out because you know where the dumb music store is!" she chirped over shoulder, waving the yellow phone page at him. "Oh, I'm so glad you came along when you did, Schroeder. I might not have been able to do this without you."

He narrowed his eyes. "Wait, which music store?"

"I'll brief you on the way," she said. "Right now, we gotta hurry if we want to catch the Number Eight Bus downtown."

Schroeder frowned without meaning to, but he calmly said, "If you're trying to get to Baxter's Music Emporium, you need the Number Five, not Eight."

"Oh, really?" she returned with mild surprise. "Well, I never really needed to understand bus schedules before. Boy, I'm glad I ran into you!"

Schroeder studied her eager movements, a stark contrast from moments before. Briefly, he wondered if Sebastian had done something to offend her so deeply that she was now on her way to report his misconduct to his father, but Schroeder instantly shot that down. Lucy did not get revenge by tattling; she would have simply knocked Sebastian down and flounced home to sulk in her beanbag.

Something else must have upsetted her.

In minutes they were at the correct bus stop, and Lucy now seemed in a breezy mood, though her eyes still looked determined. Her hand remained glued to Schroeder's wrist as if she thought he would bolt away if she loosened her grip, but Schroeder had no intention of leaving. Lucy hummed as they waited, and although Schroeder avoided all genres of rock music on principle, he recognized the melody as a Beach Boy song. In fact, he was pretty sure it was the same song he had heard Sebastian playing for Lucy back on Tuesday in the debate team's room.

"Hey," he said, hiding his annoyance, "if you're going to visit Mr. Baxter's store, you might as well prepare yourself by singing something by Bach."

"Like what?" she asked, turning.

"Oh, anything," he said. "I'm rather partial to Sleepers Wake myself. Dah, tah, ti, tah, tah, dah, tah, ti, dah, tah…"

He conducted in the air with his free hand. Lucy nodded with approval.

"Good thinking, Schroeder. We debaters have to be prepared with hours of research normally, but today I'm winging it. I'm glad to have you in my corner, helping me argue."

"Argue what, exactly?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but she suddenly looked around him, raising herself on her tiptoes to peer down the street. "Ah-ha! Here's the bus! We should get this done in no time."

She bounced on her heels, her face glowing with a triumphant determination. Soon the No. 5 slowed to a stop and let out a hiss. Once the door folded open, Lucy yanked Schroeder up the steps, finally releasing him to pull out her coin purse. She paid the fare for both of them, and the door closed. Lucy started down the aisle, and it occurred to Schroeder that he could just tell the bus driver he had changed his mind and then hop off, but he did not. While he was not in the mood to go downtown, he certainly did not want Lucy going by herself.

I just don't want her annoying Mr. Baxter, he silently insisted, teetering after Lucy as the bus started rolling again. After all, he had been roped into Lucy's ambitious missions before. While adults said a child prodigy who organized his own neighborhood concerts was a motivated young man, Lucy was the definition of enterprising, whether it was organizing huge parties or running her own businesses or chasing any fancy that entered her head. Schroeder had been commissioned to provide music at many of her events, so he knew firsthand what she was capable of once she took the proverbial bull by the horns.

Which is why somebody has to go along to rein her in if she gets too forceful and crabby, Schroeder told himself.

Lucy slipped onto one of the bench seats facing the front and took the spot by the window. She patted the available seat beside her, as though he needed an invitation, and he sank down. As he settled himself against the back rest, Lucy poked his shoulder.

"So, what can you tell me about Bach then?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything useful," she answered. She opened her booklet and pointed to a paragraph titled DO NOT INSULT YOUR OPPONENTS. "The old Lucy would have pouted and shouted and resorted to name-calling to get her way, but Lucy the Champion Debater has to make her arguments with facts and logic, especially if she's going up against a grown-up."

"Meaning Mr. Baxter," Schroeder concluded. "Why are you planning to bother him?"

"Because he's Sebastian's father," Lucy replied, "and I need to talk to him."

Schroeder narrowed his eyes. "He's a busy man, Lucy. You can't interrupt his work just because you're friends with his son."

"Sebastian isn't going to talk to him," Lucy sniffed. "So, that leaves me to get the ball rolling."

"Talk to him about what?" he demanded. "You still haven't told me what you're doing."

"Mr. Baxter needs to come to the debate tomorrow." She lowered the booklet and leveled her gaze with Schroeder. "Do you realize that Sebastian has been on the team since the sixth grade, and his dad hasn't come to one of his debates? Even though Sebastian is the captain now? Since tomorrow's debate is going to be about Beethoven, a stuffy, classical-music snob should come out and support the child he brought into this world, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't call Mr. Baxter a snob—"

"Nor would I, once I'm in a debate," she interrupted, "which is why I'm getting out all my crabby insults now, so that I can be cool and confident when I go see the emotionally distant jerk."

"He's not a jerk," Schroeder defended. "He's pretty nice to me."

"That's because you're his customer, not his flesh and blood," she insisted. "After all, the cobbler's children go barefoot, and the doctor's wife dies young."

"That's a pretty harsh thing to say about someone you barely know, Lucy."

Lucy slammed her booklet on her lap, straightening her shoulders. "What if your dad never came to one of your piano concerts, Schroeder? Like, ever? Wouldn't you be upset?"

Schroeder made a face.

"A little, maybe," he admitted, "but I wouldn't ride downtown just to bother him at his office."

"Only because you're so polite," Lucy countered. "I have less scruples about standing up to people."

"That's certainly not untrue," Schroeder muttered, "but if a parent doesn't work, the children don't eat, Lucy."

"Would spending an hour with your kid every once in a while automatically mean your family will go hungry?" she threw back. She returned to her booklet. "Children shouldn't have to be the ones compromising for their parents all the time, Schroeder. I'm surprised at you."

Schroeder bit back a cutting retort and faced forward, watching the last houses of their neighborhood drift past.

Why was she getting all worked up about this anyway? Why did she care this much about a kid she had known for less than a month?

But even as Schroeder brooded on this, he remembered back when Snoopy's brother, Spike, first visited their neighborhood. Schroeder had been too busy practicing his piano to witness all the events in person, but Linus had come over every afternoon to complain about how Lucy had been nursing the emaciated beagle, treating a dog better than her own brother. Lucy, who usually hated dog germs, had spoiled Spike with chocolate milkshakes to fatten him up, and she had loaned him Linus's precious blanket to use as a hospital gown, all without expecting anything in return. Although Spike had gotten too overweight as a result, Lucy had done her best to help a poor animal.

Then there was the time when Charlie Brown had gone on vacation, and Snoopy had been put under Lucy's care. Although the pair had gotten off to a rough start, by the time the Brown family came home to reclaim the beagle, Snoopy had taken to lounging with his head in Lucy's lap, completely comfortable with her and vice versa.

And then there was the time when Snoopy wanted his meal delivered to him by a beautiful waitress for a change, so Lucy had dressed up in a costume and taken his supper dish out to him.

And then there was the time Charlie Brown had been in the hospital. Lucy had come over to Schroeder's house nearly every day to weep for their friend, shaken beyond what Schroeder would have expected from a girl who delighted in teasing the passive boy. Lucy had gotten herself so worked up that she declared she would no more yank the football away from Charlie Brown if he recovered — which, granted, she had tried to take back after he showed up at her house, bright eyed and bushy tailed, but she had followed through (at least until Charlie Brown kicked her hand by mistake and sent her to the hospital next).

And then there were all the times when Lucy had helped Schroeder with Beethoven's birthday — carrying a sign in their procession to spread awareness, knocking on doors, assisting Schroeder in throwing parties, and bringing gorgeous cakes to his house. She did a lot for Schroeder, even if it was usually to get his attention.

Schroeder turned to gaze quietly at her stony face as she scanned the pages in front of her.

Lucy wore her heart on her sleeve and followed her impulses whenever she thought she was in the right (and Lucy Van Pelt would claim she was always right), and she could go out of her way for someone she cared about, whether romantically or platonically.

And which is it this time? Schroeder pondered, feeling a flare of annoyance that he would rather not analyze.

When they stepped off the bus, Schroeder gestured down the street.

"It's about three blocks that way, then to the right," he explained, then glanced at her. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid while we're there. I happen to like that shop, you know."

"I'm determined to be as cool as cucumber," she declared, tilting her nose up.

As they made their way down the sidewalk, Lucy took charge once again.

"Okay, Schroeder," she said, "what can you tell me about Bach that can convince a guy to go to his son's debate? We might only get one chance at this."

Schroeder looked heavenward, but he decided it was better to humor her for the present rather than have her stomping off without him.

"Let's see… Johann Sebastian Bach actually came from a huge family of musicians and composers. Some of his children became famous composers as well."

"Family values!" Lucy shook her booklet in the air. "I can use that."

"Bach was orphaned when he was ten and went to live with his older brother for five years."

"The importance of parental figures!"

"And Bach was married twice, and with each wife he had a lot of kids, but only some survived to adulthood."

Lucy slowed and peered into his face. "Happily married?"

"I believe so," he answered. "There's not a lot of information on his first wife, but his second wife, Anna Magdalena, was a great help with his business, and she copied many of his compositions that would have been otherwise lost forever."

Schroeder touched his chin, recalling another trivia detail.

"Also, Bach famously presented Anna with two different notebooks with many of his own musical compositions. Some of his most well-known works were in them. Anna sure meant a lot to him."

Lucy narrowed her eyes, then faced forward with a jerk.

"And you couldn't model your life after Bach instead of Beethoven because…?" she demanded under her breath.

"I discovered Beethoven first," he replied simply.

Finally, they reached the emporium. Schroeder had always considered it a sanctuary of sorts. While it carried a variety of contemporary record albums and electric guitars (since Mr. Baxter had to attract a big enough customer base in order to feed his large family), there was plenty to make it a dream hang-out for anyone who adored music that dated before the twentieth century. Behind the neatly arranged records (ranging from ballet suites to Tudor-period pieces) sat several beautiful instruments for sale, including a small positive organ with polished pipes in one corner and an ornate harpsichord with a pastoral scene painted on the underside of its perpetually prop-up lid.

As Schroeder and Lucy entered, Bach's French Suite No. 1 in D Minor, BWV 812 played over the speakers, offering a peaceful atmosphere for patrons. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, and the cool breath from the air-conditioning vents felt pleasant after walking outside. Even the smell was agreeable, since Mr. Baxter took great pains to keep his shop clean and free of dust. Normally, Schroeder would have paused to breathe it all in, but Lucy grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the counter where Mr. Baxter's teenage daughter, Johanna, poured over a magazine, blowing lazy pink bubbles with her gum.

"Welcome to the store," she said in a perfect monotone as they approached. "How may I assist you?"

Lucy laid both her hands on the high counter, wearing a determined look. "Hey, remember me? I was at your house the other day with your brother."

Johanna did not look from her magazine. "We don't give discounts to friends of family members."

Schroeder stepped forward. "We're actually here to see Mr. Baxter, Johanna. Is he here today?"

"Out running errands," she drawled, turning a page.

"When will he be back?" Lucy demanded,

"Depends on how things go, don't it?"

Lucy scowled. "Can you be a little more helpful?"

"Depends. Are you guys going to buy something?"

"Depends," Lucy threw back.

Johanna finally straightened, rolling her eyes. "If you kids aren't going to buy something, then beat it. This isn't a hang out for toddlers."

"We can look at records until Mr. Baxter comes back," Schroeder jumped in quickly before Lucy could make a retort. "I've been meaning to get a copy of Frederick Delius's Florida Suite."

"Whatever," said Johanna, going back to her magazine.

Schroeder motioned for his scowling companion to follow him over to the album displays, and Lucy stomped after him.

"Night-and-day difference," she muttered. "How can a nice, chill boy have such a rude big sister?"

"Ask Linus," Schroeder said as he headed toward one of his favorite record sections.

After a little hunting, Schroeder found the disc he wanted while Lucy stalked from bin to bin, grabbing albums seemingly at random. They carried their finds to the booth in a back corner where customers could listen to their albums before purchasing. Lucy plopped into a chair, laying her stack on the counter beside the record player. She distractedly tapped her foot, watching the front door with a hawk-like look.

On a normal day, Schroeder would have just popped in his record and allowed himself to get lost in the orange groves and bustling life along the St. Johns River of nineteenth-century Florida, but this time he thought it wise to try to defuse Lucy's agitation. Sitting beside her, he peeked at the stack which she had brought into the booth — and a smile spread across his face.

"Wellington's Victory?" He looked at her, inquisitive and approving.

She shrugged. "I grabbed it because I still have to be ready for tomorrow's debate. Figured I might as well listen to some Beethoven stuff while we're stuck here. I got a whole bunch of albums we can go through."

"For once, you and I are in complete agreement, Lucy," he said, slipping the glossy black disc out from its sleeve.

After he set it up and put the needle on, he grabbed the headphones, holding it up so that they could both lean in close. (Afterwards, he realized he could have unplugged the headphones to allow them to listen freely instead, but at the time he was so excited about listening to Beethoven, and so used to using the booth by himself, that it slipped his mind.)

The soft but commanding drums began, causing Schroeder's smile to widen. Although he tried his best with his piano rendition, there was something undeniably wonderful about hearing a full orchestra playing the piece.

He closed his eyes, soaking it in. The music sounded so much sweeter to him than it had these past few days — than it had since that day in the music room when Lucy had stormed out — and he could remember why he had enjoyed the symphony so much, despite its reputation as a potboiler. Only Beethoven could write a potboiler that made him money while still capturing his audience's attention — only Beethoven could write a potboiler that exceeded all other potboilers of his time, because he had put in the artistic effort to make it as grand and as wonderful as possible.

I'd say Beethoven could even play rock music without selling out, Schroeder smiled to himself.

"Listen to those trumpets, Lucy," he sighed almost two minutes into the piece. "Aren't they just gorgeous?"

"Hmm."

Lucy leaned closer. Schroeder looked at her, half-expecting her to make some saccharine comment about how romantic and cozy this moment together was for them, but she did not, still watching the front door.

She did, however, say (with her usual bluntness), "How do you stand playing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' over and over when you practice this?"

"That's actually supposed to be the French army approaching for battle," Schroeder explained. "The melody is originally from the French folk song, 'Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre.' The part with 'Rule Britannia' is for the British side. It's very exciting when you picture the marching troops in their uniforms, holding glinting bayonets."

"Not that exciting," said Lucy. "Those parts of the piece aren't even Beethoven's own work, just old songs he plagiarized."

"The term is 'incorporated,'" he retorted.

"Oh, yeah?" she challenged. "See how well that stands up in a court of law."

Schroeder rolled his eyes. "Wellington was British; ergo, it made sense for a German composer to incorporate British music in a piece celebrating Wellington's victory at the Battle of Vitoria, hence the name 'Wellington's Victory."

Lucy did not look convinced. "And this is the one everyone calls Beethoven's worst symphony, right?"

"Some people call it his worst," he said with a strained look, "but it was a moneymaker for him. Enough people enjoyed it, and that helped him avoid financial ruin."

"But it's not so popular now," Lucy countered. "If I weren't friends with you, I probably would have never heard of it."

"Which is why it's in my concert," he affirmed. "Each time I play Beethoven for someone, that someone can say they've heard a great Beethoven work. His more obscure works won't stay obscure, because each person who listens goes away with newfound knowledge of Beethoven's creativity. No work of his will ever be forgotten as long as I'm on this earth."

Lucy leaned away from him, incredulous.

"Did you see where we are, genius?" She swept an arm toward the rows of records and displays of instruments outside the listening booth. "This whole store wouldn't exist if there weren't enough classical-music nuts like you to pour money into this place."

"That's not the point, Lucy," Schroeder said, lowering the headphone as the next set of trumpets sounded off, just before the volley of gunshots. He held up the empty sleeve of the record. "Plenty of people know Beethoven's Fifth and Ninth and Für Elise and all the popular stuff, but even casual fans of Beethoven don't know about Wellington's Victory, and those who do, sneer at it, as though they could write better than him. As though they are smart enough to call it a failure, which means they are smarter than Beethoven and can brag about it to their friends."

He exhaled, shaking his head. "And that is why I've been working so hard to make it perfect these past few weeks, Lucy. I know it sounds silly to you, but if I don't defend Beethoven, who will?"

Lucy studied him with a frown, but then — slowly — she began to nod.

"I think I sorta get it… Like when great women in history are looked down on because they're judged by today's standards, but in their time they were fighting uphill battles in a world that was trying to keep them down. Beethoven was doing the best with what he had."

"Something like that, I guess."

The battle continued to rage from the round earpieces of the headphones. Schroeder tapped the back of the album sleeve, which had a miniature portrait of Beethoven, along with a short biography.

"Beethoven had plenty of chances to give up, Lucy, but he kept going. He didn't even let deafness stop him. He kept writing music because that's what he was made to do. So, how could anyone call Wellington's Victory a disaster when they don't even have a crumb of his genius?"

Lucy knitted her brow.

"People are always wanting to see us movers and shakers fall in order to feel better about their own failings." She folded her arms, tossing her head. "We who aspire to greatness have to endure criticism at every turn, don't we, Schroeder?"

Ordinarily, he might have lobbed back a cutting comment to keep her ego in check, but he could recognize a sympathetic ear when it was offered, so he decided to nod.

"It's an occupational hazard," he agreed.

Lucy nodded again, then leaned her cheek against her hand, regarding him with amusement.

"You know," she said in a silky tone, "normally I'd say you're pretty cute when you get all worked up like this — but I won't." She swiveled in her seat, returning her gaze to the entrance. "I'll just think it instead."

"I'm eternally grateful," he deadpanned.

Lucy formed a breezy smile — and suddenly jumped to her feet, grabbing his arm.

"That's him, right?" she hissed, pointing to a blond man who just came through the door carrying boxes. "I saw the family photos at Sebastian's house."

Reaching to turn off the record player with one hand, Schroeder jabbed a warning finger at her face. "Remember, don't do anything stupid."

"I think you'll be impressed with me, Schroeder," she declared. She straightened her blue dress and smoothed back her hair before maneuvering around him, grabbing his opposite arm. "Show time!"

A/N: This week I am pleased to give an appreciative shoutout to siestaval on tumblr for sending me my very first fanart for a Peanuts fic! :D Thank you for your support and interest in this story!

then promptly clamped his hands over his mouth, horrified at himself — inspired by the comic strip for 9/4/53

Shout out to Dave Hurwitz's video, "Music Chat: Why Is Everyone Hating on Beethoven's 'Wellington's Victory'?", where he makes the case that Beethoven himself did not consider this piece his worst. His video influenced how I wrote Schroeder defending Beethoven in this fic.

Speaking of which, this is probably a good chapter to recommend Anton Achondoa's "Beethoven: Wellington's Victory, Op. 91 - Piano Solo Arrangement (Excerpt)" on YouTube if you're curious as to how this work might sound on a piano by a soloist.

Incidentally, if Apple TV ever remade or recycled the plot for Play It Again, Charlie Brown, they could reference Wellington's Victory. When Schroeder is depressed about "selling out" by playing rock for his friends, there could be a scene where Marcie brings up the Battle Symphony and asks Schroeder if he feels Beethoven sold out by composing it.