Chapter 5
The morning sun streamed in through the tall windows of the Auburndale dining room, casting a warm glow on the polished mahogany table where the Weasley family sat. Soft clinks and clanks filled the air as fine china met silver cutlery, though the tranquil atmosphere was soon interrupted by the heavy tread of Ron entering the room.
Clutched in his freckled fingers was a letter, the crisp parchment crinkling slightly as he strode toward the table.
"A letter has arrived," declared Ron, a mischievous glimmer in his blue eyes as he took his seat.
Mrs. Weasley glanced up at him sharply, vexed by the rude disruption.
"Well then, place it in your father's study," she scolded.
"It is from Mr. Potter," continued Ron eagerly, relishing the words.
At this, Mrs. Weasley nearly choked on her tea, an expression of delight lighting up her plump, kindly face.
Young Ginny flushed a brilliant scarlet and studied her plate intently, though her embarrassment could not conceal the eager hope in her soft brown eyes.
"Not so disinterested now, are you Mother?" Ron joked, waving the envelope playfully.
Mrs. Weasley clasped her hands in breathless anticipation, while Ginny's blush deepened becomingly. Ron let the moment stretch on, smiling to himself, before finally breaking the seal and unfolding the letter with agonizing leisure.
As Ron unfurled the letter, all eyes were fixed upon him in silent anticipation. The crackling of the parchment echoed in the hushed room.
Clearing his throat officiously, Ron began to read in a carrying voice that resonated off the polished walls.
"My Dearest Ginny," Ron began, his voice piercing the warm, yeasty aroma of the breakfast table.
Ginny inhaled sharply as color rose unbidden to her cheeks.
Her mother’s shrill cry rent the air as she brought her palm down firmly on her husband’s arm, the crack reverberating off the walls. Mr. Weasley flinched, the wooden legs of his chair scraping jarringly against the stone floor.
"The days drag endlessly without you by my side..." continued Ron, his singsong tone grating and discordant.
Mrs. Weasley fluttered a hand to her throat, pulse racing beneath her fingertips as sentiment overcame her.
Ron’s mocking laughter then burst forth, each guffaw stabbing at Ginny’s ears.
Gasping, he staggered back, the rich aroma of sausage and toasted bread momentarily overwhelmed by the earthier scent of his clothing as he collapsed to the ground.
Fred craned forward, the savory slick of grease on the chicken leg in his fingers glistening in the morning light.
“What’s so funny then?” he quipped, eyebrows raised.
Finding his words within his wheezing, Ron croaked his confession.
Ron wheezed, his chest heaving like a bellows as he fought to form words between peals of laughter. Wiping tears of mirth from his ruddy, freckled cheeks, he finally exclaimed, “I was bloody joking!”
The twins’ raucous laughter mingled with his.
Mrs. Weasley's complexion flushed crimson, her silent outrage apparent as she pursed her lips tightly. The delicate china rattled upon the table as she surged to her feet.
“Ronald Weasley!” she thundered, eyes flashing. “You give your brother the letter this instant!”
Chastened, Ron relinquished the letter.
Ginny sank low in her chair, the carved wood creaking softly beneath her.
A shadow of disappointment flitted across her countenance as she picked sullenly at the rich scones piled before her, their toasted edges crumbling forgotten onto her plate.
The sweet aroma of clotted cream and strawberry jam still perfumed the air, yet went unheeded as all attention remained raptly upon the controversial letter. Now tasked with revealing its true contents, George cleared his throat quietly as to not enrage their mother further.
The crisp parchment crackled as George leaned back in his seat, the wooden chair groaning under his shifted weight.
With a rustle, he unfolded the letter and began to read in a carrying voice:
"To the Esteemed Weasley Family,
I do hope this letter finds you all in good health. Please accept my sincere thanks for such a delightful evening at the ball nights prior. Owing to our newly-developed acquaintance, I hope you will receive favorably the following invitation. I would be honored if the gentlemen of the Weasley household would join me for a friendly fencing match.
Naturally, the ladies are most welcome to attend as spectators, should they wish to do so.
I await your reply.
Kindest regards,
Mr. Harry Potter"
George looked up from the letter, excitedly raising his brow. Mr. Weasley hummed approvingly, while Ron's eyes glinted with competitive zeal at the prospect of a sporting match.
Ginny's countenance was a tableau of maidenly disappointment and relief, her hopes for a more romantic missive dashed yet heartened that Mr. Potter had not forgotten her.
Mrs. Weasley tutted anxiously about the perils of fencing, deeming it a pursuit unfit for gentlemen. But despite her misgivings, a social call from the estimable Mr. Potter could not be ignored, for the ladies were also invited.
This would be an excellent opportunity to further her daughter's acquaintance with the eligible young man.
With matchmaking designs taking form in her mind, Mrs. Weasley arched an eyebrow at her husband.
"Well then," declared Mr. Weasley brightly, "I shall write back posthaste to accept!"
Nods of excitement rippled around the table at this pronouncement.
"Boys, go put on your best sporting clothes this instant," Mrs. Weasley urged, shooing her sons from their seats. Turning to her daughters with an eager smile, she added, "You two must ready yourselves immediately as well. Oh Ginny, you must wear the yellow muslin gown!"
Ginny flushed becomingly at the thought of making a favorable impression on Mr. Potter, quickly finishing the last sips of her now tepid tea.
The boys jostled each other good-naturedly as they made for the doors, already discussing tactics for the upcoming match.
Mrs. Weasley clasped her hands together, glancing around the disorder that had been made of the breakfast table. But propriety must be sacrificed for the urgency of preparation!
She would send the housemaid in later to tidy up.
For now, there was much to be done - hair to style, cravats to tie, and carriage rides to arrange. The day was suddenly bursting with activity and promise.
"Chop chop!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed merrily, briskly shooing her daughters from the dining room to finish their preparations.
In due time, the Weasley clan emerged dressed in their finest, presenting a vision of familiar beauty.
Their trademark fiery locks, burnished to a radiant coppery sheen, stood out strikingly amidst the finery of their attire. While perhaps lacking in fortune, the comely Weasley brood had long relied on their admirable looks to win favor.
Even Miss Hermione Granger, though adopted into the family, had become known for her striking beauty around town.
Her chestnut curls and fine eyes complimented the vivid Weasley coloring.
Mrs. Weasley surveyed her progeny with satisfaction, their vivid handsomeness and vigorous countenances compensating for what they lacked in fiscal means.
The fine cut of the gentlemen's coats emphasized their upright figures and easy athleticism. Her girls were resplendent visions - Ginny in gentle yellow muslin, her eyes sparkling brightly, while Hermione exuded an elegant poise in a gown of forest green.
This potent combination of natural charm and lack of dowry had long allowed the family to thrive in society.
And Mrs. Weasley had no doubt it would soon win them the ultimate prize - an advantageous match with one Mr. Harry Potter.
As the Weasley clan climbed into the waiting carriage, clouds of dust swirled in their wake.
The footman secured the door with a creak and a thud, closing them into the dark, velvet-lined space.
The boys jostled for position on the narrow seats, their elbows knocking companionably as the carriage jounced down the drive.
The smell of soap and wool, leather and youth.
They debated tactics for the upcoming fencing match in eager tones as Mr. Weasley adjusted his spectacles, the wire frames glinting in the thin light.
He reminded them kindly not to thrash Mr. Potter too soundly, for that would be unsporting.
As they crested the hill, Stagfield Park came into view, its marble grandeur gleaming in the morning sun.
The sound of gravel crunching under iron-rimmed wheels filled the air as they curved down the tree-lined lane flanked by meticulous gardens. Roses perfumed the breeze wafting through the open windows.
They rolled past towering Greek columns and elaborate topiaries before stopping at the foot of a spectacular curved staircase. Liveried footmen hustled down the steps and opened the carriage doors with a flourish.
As the Weasleys stepped down, the crunch of fine gravel filled their ears, the tiny stones shifting under their leather boots.
Craning their necks, they gaped upwards at the imposing edifice, the early morning sun gleaming off the vast marble façade.
"This way please," a gentle voice sounded.
They turned to see an elderly woman of miniscule height gazing kindly at them through spectacles perched upon her nose.
Her grey hair was neatly tucked under a lace cap.
With hushed murmurs, they followed in her wake, the scent of roses enveloping them as they entered the gardened walks.
Brilliant blossoms in every hue lined the paths, bees lazily buzzing, as the boys admired the fortune required to maintain such grandeur.
Ginny and her mother glanced at the soaring manor, the sunlight glinting off its endless windows, imagining its inner opulence.
Ginny pictured herself mistress of the house, gowned in silk with servants at her beck and call as their children grew tall and athletic.
Hermione rubbed a rose between her gloved fingers, feeling the soft velvet, her thoughts unvoiced.
She simply observed.
Clearly in this reality Mr. Potter had put much better use to his fortune. The extensive grounds and splendid manor bespoke a life of privilege and luxury.
Yet no matter his evident wealth, Hermione sensed the same Harry resided in this altered version - the kind, unassuming boy who had become her dear friend.
While the opulence surrounding her was impressive, it was Harry's goodness that reminded her of home.
The same spirit that had led him to face unimaginable peril to fight evil dwelled within this Mr. Potter.
Hermione found comfort in that continuity of character.
Though much was different in this iteration of events, Harry's courageous heart remained unchanged.
It heartened Hermione to know her friend's intrinsic merits outshone any outward finery.
No matter his standing or status, he was still simply Harry.
They reached the garden and as they did, they were met with a gloriously content Mr. Potter.
His dark hair was endearingly disheveled and his eyes shone bright as limes as he removed his fencing mask and strode toward them. He appeared obviously excited as he took a polite bow, eager to make Mr. Weasley's acquaintance and perhaps become better known to Miss Weasley as well.
"Welcome, my esteemed guests, to Stagfield Park!" Mr. Potter exclaimed, his voice warm and congenial.
"I hope the journey here was a pleasant one?"
Mr. Weasley stepped forward first to greet their host.
They exchanged bows as Mr. Weasley expressed their delight at the invitation and anticipation for a rousing fencing match.
Mr. Potter's gaze flickered briefly toward Ginny, a glint of interest sparking at her radiant beauty.
But he remained focused on his guests, the consummate gentleman.
He led them toward the fencing strip set up on the lawn where attendants waited with polished blades and protective jackets.
There were two men currently sparring on the fencing strip, their blades flashing under the morning sun.
The competition was fierce as a man donning an all-black fencing suit seemed to dominate his contender with ease. His motions were swift and precise as he pressed his advantage, light on his feet.
His opponent, dressed in white, struggled to mount an effective defense while leaving no openings for attack.
But the man in black was ruthless, his polished boots gliding swiftly across the lawn as he advanced on his opponent.
The blunted blade whipped through the air with a series of sharp cracks, scoring touch after touch against his overmatched foe.
"Deadly, he is," chuckled Mr. Potter, a note of grudging admiration coloring his warm tenor.
Admiring the mysterious fencer's skill, the Weasley boys stood with mouths agape, the scent of trodden grass filling their nostrils. First to speak, Ron turned to Mr. Potter, trepidation furrowing his ruddy brow.
"I would not want to be on the receiving end of that man's fury."
Laughing brightly in agreement, the breeze catching his unruly dark locks, Mr. Potter passed Ron his fencing mask.
The mesh clinked softly as their hands brushed in the exchange.
After the concluding bout, a mustachioed man lifted the arm of the victor, the tall figure clad all in black.
"Winner, Malfoy," he proclaimed, his voice carrying crisply through the morning air.
The dark figure removed his mask as applause erupted around him, the enthusiastic sounds washing over the lawn.
Sweat glistened on platinum strands, pasted against his chiseled features - an aristocratic nose, sharp jawline, piercing grey eyes that glinted like steel.
Of course, because an evening without his commanding presence would be too much to ask.
Yet, there he stood.
His athletic form was encased snugly in black fencing garb, powerful muscles evident with each motion.
From her vantage, Hermione spied a small, proud grin etched onto his face.
However, it was only fleeting.
As their eyes met across the strip, his smile faded into an inscrutable mask of stone.
"Malfoy, these are our guests...the Weasleys," introduced Mr. Potter, his warm tone a contrast to the other man's chill.
With a perfunctory bow, Mr. Malfoy muttered a terse greeting before turning to his friend.
"Longbottom requires a fencing partner. Perhaps Mr. Ron Weasley would like to duel him?" he proposed, his bored drawl betraying his arrogance.
Scarcely waiting for him to finish, Ron jammed the mesh mask over his head of fiery hair and began trotting toward the strip, shoes scuffing the dirt.
His brothers followed quickly behind.
Now seated before the strip, the ladies gently fanned their flushed faces, the air sweet with the scent of roses.
In front of them, the gentlemen began their duel in earnest.
The blunted blades rang out as they clashed, accompanying the combatants' grunts of effort. Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Ron Weasley appeared well-matched, neither gaining the upper hand for long.
Mr. Potter attempted his utmost to be subtle as he sat amongst the ladies, yet Miss Ginny's cheeks bloomed ever pinker, betraying her shyness at his nearness.
She stole sideways glances at his windswept raven hair and fine profile, though careful to not meet his eyes.
At the conclusion of the bout, Mr. Weasley was declared victor, much to the delight of his clan. As he removed his mask, grin split wide, Mr. Potter turned to Ginny. "Your brother is a credit to your family's honor, Miss Weasley."
"We are indeed an honorable family, Mr. Potter," Ginny replied, holding his gaze steadily despite the blush blooming on her cheeks.
"I have understood that since our first meeting," he said warmly, admiration glinting in his eyes.
"You are too kind," she demurred, lashes fluttering downward.
"And yourself too radiant, Miss Weasley,"
Mr. Potter added softly, ensuring his flattering comment was out of Mrs. Weasley's earshot.
Seated beside them, Hermione struggled to stifle a smile at their artful flirtation. The pair orbiting ever closer like celestial bodies drawn by irresistible forces.
She furtively watched their interaction, Mr. Potter's hand inching nearer to Ginny's on the bench between stolen glances heavy with longing.
Although close, their pinkies hovered just shy of touching.
He dared not fully breach propriety, though his body swayed unconsciously toward the object of his fascination.
Truly, he seemed enchanted by the flame-haired girl, his attention captured wholly.
Hermione wondered if she were witnessing the first tender blossoming of true love between them.
The very air felt charged with possibility, as if anything could happen in the heady rush of new romance. Hermione found herself holding her breath, willing the space between their hands to close at last.
This Mr. Potter was still Harry at heart - noble but led by his passions. And it was clear his passion was ignited by the lovely Ginny Weasley.
Hermione tore her gaze from the adorable scene, allowing the pair some privacy.
The breeze in the air.
The smell of the grass.
Her fan provided further comfort as she waved it gently before her face.
It was all a scene of bucolic perfection.
However, her peace was disrupted as she observed a familiar dark frame walking toward them.
Mr. Malfoy strode with an authority that demanded admiration, his aura as unyielding as steel. His piercing grey eyes remained fixed on his destination as he approached Mr. Potter.
As Hermione watched him, her fan dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
The delicate lace tip made contact with the gleaming edge of his boot, both of them frozen by the sudden intrusion.
The fan rested there, an intimate imprint upon his polished leather.
Mr. Malfoy loomed over her, preternaturally still. She did not raise her eyes, keeping them trained on the fan's intricate stitching. But she could feel the weight of his gaze, simmering and inscrutable, pressing down on hers.
"Do take care, Miss Granger," he uttered tonelessly.
Daring to look up, she saw his jaw was taut, pupils darkened. Assuming his irritation and submitting to social propriety, Hermione murmured an apology.
“My apologies, Mr. Malfoy.”
As she made an effort to retrieve the accessory, he knelt swiftly to one knee, long legs bending gracefully as the crisp linen of his breeches pulled taut over muscular thighs. With just his fingertips, he handled the delicate fan as if fearful of contamination.
To some, it may have appeared gentlemanly.
But to Hermione, she hypothesized his meaning was clear - she was beneath him, unworthy of his full touch.
Rising fluidly to his feet, the scent of sandalwood and tobacco wafting from his tailored coat, he presented her with the fan. Taking it slowly, she was surprised by this uncharacteristic act of gentlemanly behavior.
"Please refrain from such clumsiness in future," uttered Mr. Malfoy sharply, before shifting his piercing gaze and striding away, boots crunching on the sand.
Hermione sat frozen, fan dangling limply as she watched his retreating form.
Rigid, pulse racing, she struggled to calm her jangled nerves.
His arrogance sparked her ire, though she knew not why she craved his good opinion at all. After all, he himself was merely tolerable and not worth her thought in the slightest.
She didn't, she scolded herself.
He was arrogant and irritating, so very like the Draco Malfoy she knew from her own time. Much like Harry Potter, Malfoy was all the same underneath the gloss of this lavish era.
What an utter prick, she fumed.
Still, some traitorous part of her thrilled at having garnered even his disdainful attention. It was that dangerous piece of her that had admired the way his breeches pulled taut over muscular thighs as he knelt before her.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, banishing the memory.
Let Mr. Malfoy think her clumsy and foolish - she did not require his approval.