The Establishment for Gentlemen

The Establishment for Gentlemen

Before Percy Weasley took his NEWTs, a reliable source informed him that the second examiner in History of Magic had a penchant for Muggle philosophers, particularly Nietzsche, Freud, and Kipling. Percy dutifully read, if not the complete works of said authors, the complete exegesis (courtesy of Mrs. Edwin Caraway-Jung), and was rewarded by the opportunity, in his oral examination, to draw a comparison between Man and Superman and the wizard's ability to remake the world around him, for which he earned a special commendation. Percy didn't actually think about these philosophers very much, except to concur with Mrs. Caraway-Jung's remarks that they made much more sense if one assumed a magic-oriented allegorical interpretation; in fact, had it not been for a fight with Penny, in which she accused him of being utterly incapable of forming an original idea, he might never have considered them again. Percy returned to Freud in a huff, concluded that he would never marry anyone like his mother, and proposed to Penny.

Penny acquiesced, and they planned an elaborate wedding. Percy set his heart and soul into making sure everything was just right, down to the wreath of ivy and apple blossoms (symbolizing fertility and the desire to be supported by her husband), about the bride's head. Penelope seemed somewhat nonplussed, but her parents were overjoyed by Percy's attention to detail. Indeed, had it not been for Lord Voldemort, it would have been the perfect wedding. No planning, however complete, can anticipate a pitch-black sky shot with thunderbolts and the best man (Charlie) lobbing balls of green fire at a Creature of Darkness; Percy thanked God that Ron and his troublesome friend Harry weren't actually part of the ceremony, and whisked Penelope to the honeymoon carriage early, whence they proceeded to Spain and, if not the fulfillment of Percy's every wish, an unimpeachable imitation of married bliss.

Alas, Percy's bliss was doomed to be short-lived. The noxious fumes of the Creature of Darkness carried a subtle curse. Penelope fought valiantly, but woman's flesh is weak, and soon after the birth of their daughter Telemachia Rose Weasley-Clearwater she succumbed. The Ministry granted Percy an indefinite leave of absence (for grief, they said; he was far too chivalrous to suspect they feared contamination). After buying the suitable yards of black crepe, Percy retreated to Claireaux House. (In point of fact, the building, which Penny had brought as a dowry, was more mansion than ordinary dwelling-place.) Percy remained there for several years, distracted by grief, since he didn't have anything better to distract himself with. The reconciliation with his family, assumed for the wedding, lapsed again; Percy couldn't bear the thought of their winks and shouts intruding on his sorrow, and besides, he couldn't shake the ignoble thought that if they hadn't spent so much time battling Voldemort, none of this would have happened. Thus, Percy sat alone, reviewing every moment spent with his lost love, and occasionally looking in on little Tellie, who grew quietly but apace.

I have written that Percy was alone, and indeed he felt alone; but the house was anything but empty. Besides the chattering portraits-- many of whom looked like Penny, some far too like for Percy's peace of mind-- there were the servants. The Clearwater elf remained with Penny's family, of course; however, the mansion was stocked with the requisite self-propelled tea-trays and obsequious feather dusters, and Tellie had her nursemaid, and then there was the butler, Mr. Mr. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle was a Squib, perhaps even a Clearwater relation, but he had held his position so long that he had come to match the oak paneling, and the fact that he was moving and not standing still like a rough-hewn statue seemed its own minor miracle. Yet move he did; indeed, Mr. Hardcastle was always there when the most peculiar spasms of grief attacked Percy. When, for instance, replaying the fight with Penny about Freud, Percy felt compelled to reread the Muggle's works, it was Hardcastle who brought a dictionary with the tea, and produced a gently moaning set of Greek tragedies from the library downstairs. Hardcastle was clearing away the after-dinner port as the words "You only want a little girl-- God forbid any woman should know more than you!" echoed in Percy's memory, and when Percy made the dreadful realization that, taking the Muggle's mad incestuous rambling at face value, he should be looking for a woman like his sister, not like his mother, Hardcastle cast the charms to restore the shattered crystal decanter.

It was only fitting, perhaps, that it was Hardcastle who chose the governess. Percy had suggested a governess himself: he knew Penny had had one, and he wanted to give Tellie every benefit her mother had possessed. Even at four Tellie seemed fascinated by his books and quills, and he wanted to encourage her precocity; but as to hiring such a person, he hadn't the least idea where to begin, whereas Hardcastle seemed to have been born with the procedures ingrained. He gave Hardcastle the authorization to offer the salary of 100 galleons per annum, and returned to the Prophet.

That night Percy dreamed that Penny had red hair, and woke shaking.

A few weeks later, Hardcastle announced that he had found a candidate. Her name was Miss Bridler, and she was a recent Hogwarts graduate; her résumé was impeccable, and Hardcastle had spoken to her via Floo and thought she was just what Mr. Weasley wanted. Percy thanked Hardcastle effusively, then lapsed into gloom again. He did not notice that Bridler was his mother's maiden name; or if he did, he thought nothing of it, since he had a plethora of second and third and fifty-second cousins, more than any man could socialize with, or even remember.

The fateful day arrived. Hunched in his study, Percy heard the squeaks and mutterings as a trunk floated too close to one portrait or another, Hardcastle cheerfully recommending tea, a mumbled answer. He had left word he would meet the governess at supper; she would be tired after her long journey, and Percy did not like to have his afternoon sulk interrupted. It did occur to him that it might be nice to have another wizard around the house, a kind, gentle, personable young woman who would smile and listen to his troubles . . . Put her milk-white arms around him, perhaps, saying something comforting and soft . . .

Penny would have shrieked in anger, had she known he would entertain any such thoughts so soon after her death. Percy shook himself, and thought of ice, and mountains, and snow on a cold gray stone; but he was still breathing rather fast as he went in to dinner.

The Claireaux dining-room table was long enough to seat thirty comfortably. Hardcastle and the feather dusters had spread the table with a cloth of ivory lace, and set two places, one at each end. The new governess's hair burned in the candlelight. "Miss--" said Percy. And then he understood.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you, Ginny?" Percy didn't want to shout, at least, he didn't entirely mean to, but he had to be loud to be heard at the other end of the table.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Young and sweet? thought Percy. Young and mad, more like! (But some terrible portion of his mind still watched slender fingers on ivory lace.) "You lied about your name. It's Mother's fault, isn't it? She sent you to check on me."

"She did not!" Ginny stalked up to Percy's end of the table, dragged out a chair, and sat astride. "I wanted a job on my own merits, if you must know. The entire world thinks I'm the girlfriend of the Boy-Who-Goes-On-Living, I didn't want to spend my whole life telling fairy tales about him."

"And Hardcastle?"

"He offered me a position tutoring the child of the reclusive Claireaux genius! I thought that was your name, not your house's! Do the potted plants have nametags too?"

Penelope had loved flowers, Percy thought. He should send Ginny away immediately. And yet . . . She was here and crackling and alive. And it might be good for Tellie to know her family.

"I don't have any plants," said Percy, and began, very methodically, to eat his marrows.

For the next few days, Percy did his level best to pretend that everything was normal. He visited Tellie's rooms daily, and listened to her recite her ABCs and beg for a unicorn to play with; he pretended to write an essay on British morality for the Daily Prophet; and every evening at seven sharp, he ate dinner with Ginny.

Ginny was lively, far too lively for her own good, as far as Percy was concerned. She built castles in her pudding, filled them up with gravy, and told Percy all about Bill's adventures in Egypt and her plans for a holiday in Iceland. Percy answered noncomitally and watched her hands.

"You're not listening," Ginny said at last.

"I have had a very difficult time since Penny died," Percy told her.

"It's been years. You haven't done anything but shut yourself up. You're not sad, you're downright morbid."

"You're too young to understand."

"I am not. You're too damn stuffed. Have you even thought about sex after Penny?"

"Have I what?"

"Sex? You know, the thing that produced this child I'm looking after? Did you think I hadn't heard of it?"

In fact, Percy preferred to imagine his younger sister as sweet and virginal. He sputtered helplessly. This was why he had avoided his family.

"That's it, isn't it? You're all twisted up inside because you haven't nailed anyone?"

Percy took a deep breath and tried to frown patriarchally. Ginny grinned wide. Her teeth were not quite straight. Percy drank rather a lot of sherry, that night.

The next evening, Ginny appeared with a slip of paper. She passed it to her brother and sat quietly while the roast carved itself. The paper was an address:

Mrs. Fyllope's Establishment for Gentlemen

27 Lantern Street

London

"What is this?"

"An exclusive establishment, guaranteed to discern and provide one's desires, entirely discreet, payment in advance."

"Discern one's . . ."

"You do need their services. It's stupid to wall yourself off like this. Hermione would call it irresponsible."

"But how do you know about discreet establishments?"

"Trade secret!"

Percy blinked.

"No, really," laughed Ginny, "Bill found it originally. Fred and George and I went through his address-book a couple of Christmases ago."

Percy folded the slip of paper, set it on the table, and suggested firmly that Ginny might like to retire.

The next day, Hardcastle presented Ginny's slip of paper on a silver tray with the morning letters. Percy blushed furiously and pretended it was not there. He did, however, begin to consider a trip to London. It would be an entirely virtuous trip. He would offer one of his articles to an editor in person, buy a new doll for Tellie, that sort of thing. A bit of fresh air would be pleasant. And Ginny had been right about one thing: he had been having some very disturbing dreams, all sweat and writhing limbs and ropelike strands of hair about his wrists. A week in London, Percy decided, would be the ideal escape. He informed Hardcastle of his intentions; Hardcastle, always helpful, promised to arrange a complete itinerary.

Hardcastle was particularly smug that evening. Percy did not connect it with the purse Ginny slipped the butler as she sat down to dinner; that would have been prying and ungentlemanly, and Percy did not pry. It was quite right for his sister to maintain herself in a position superior to the other servants.

Hardcastle's train reservations were certainly spectacular. Percy had a coach all to himself, with embroidered cushions and a crystal chandelier linked to the Floo system, in case he needed to contact anyone. Percy reveled in the luxury, and yet-- it was strange to travel without chatter, without complaints to quell, and without anywhere to travel to, exactly, no grand expectations, only an ordinary hotel and an ordinary bit of business.

Or an extraordinary hotel, perhaps; Hardcastle had impeccable taste, and Percy had left all those arrangements to him. One did not question one's inferiors' methods.

Percy rather wished he had somebody to contact in the flames of the chandelier. He thought of calling Ginny-- he might look in on the nursery, perhaps? Was Tellie well without him?-- but no, he did not wish to be a stifling parent. And besides, he was not thinking of Ginny, not lashes glinting in the candlelight, not loops of blood-red hair, none of those awful dreams.

The train slid into the station at last, and Percy took his suitcase outside, where the promised escort was waiting. The escort was an extraordinarily short man with a curly brown beard that touched the ends of his toes. He pointed wordlessly at the pavement. Percy looked down and saw a very handsome carpet in shades of brown and gold. A cushion was placed in the center. He sat upon it gingerly.

The carpet rose slowly into the air and across the rooftops of London. The bottom, Percy knew, was colored gray to match the clouds; his father had frequently fielded complaints to do with illegally bright advertisements. Percy did not know, however, how much he ought to tip. The lovely view disappeared from before his eyes as he worried at the question. One Galleon? Ten? Or should he tip at all, since Hardcastle had arranged the service?

The carpet was sinking toward the earth again, and Percy still had not decided. He grabbed his suitcase and fumbled in his pockets with his left hand. He had some change . . . It would have to be enough. Percy tried to smile benevolently, and rushed toward the door in front of him.

The doorknocker smiled cheerfully and invited him within; he was inside before he realized the door read Number 27. A coincidence, surely? Why did he even remember the number from his sister's silly jest?

The corridor was long and winding. Finally it opened into a sitting-room, furnished comfortably if darkly in paisley and leather. A portrait in the Baroque style hung above the mantel; the pictured lady was wearing an abundance of lace, though it was not quite abundant enough to restrain her ample bosom.

"If you please," Percy addressed the portrait, "I am Mr. Perceval Weasley. I thought I had reserved a place to stay? Am I in the correct location?"

"Always!" said the lady cheerfully. "What could be more correct?" Her lace fluttered dangerously.

"Could you direct me to a room, perhaps?"

"No need, no need! The director will be with you shortly. Take a chair."

Percy sat gingerly in an armchair and picked up the newspaper beside it. He was relieved to discover the Journal of Goblinite Econometrics. Dull, but conservative, always conservative.

"Mr. Weasley?" said a cool voice. It belonged to a short, thin woman with gray hair clubbed behind her head in a no-nonsense manner. Her eyes were dark, her nose was decidedly beaked, and the sleeves of her green-gray robes were banded with the lavender of extended mourning.

A widow, Percy assumed. A sensible woman. "I am Perceval Weasley, yes."

"Very good, Mr. Weasley. I am Mrs. Alexandra Fyllope. Would you like to step into my office?"

Fyllope. Percy felt horror, an unfolding certainty that someone, somewhere was laughing at him. "There must be some mistake--"

"You have a reservation for a week, Mr. Weasley. I am sure you would not choose to quibble. My office is just this way-- you may leave your things, they will be collected."

Indeed, her demeanor was near-painfully correct. Percy felt a brief pang at separation from his suitcase, but he was not capable of the sort of rudeness that would allow him to drag it along. This might still be an ordinary lodging place; and Mrs. Fyllope did not seem an undesirable social connection.

Mrs. Fyllope's office was businesslike, yet feminine. The walls were gray with a subtle lavender stripe, the furniture gently curved. "Tea, Mr. Weasley?"

"Please."

Mrs. Fyllope opened a small lacquer cabinet and produced a cup filled with steaming liquid. She did not offer cream. Percy inhaled the scent, trying to breathe deeply. Tea would improve everything. He was tired after his journey, jumping at shadows. There was no reason to suspect this upright matron, whatever Ginny might have said.

"This is the standard preliminary interview," Mrs. Fyllope explained, "designed to ascertain your individual requirements. This conversation is entirely confidential; no records will be kept; no embarrassment need be felt. Have you any questions before we begin?"

"Yes!" said Percy. "What is this place? What's going on? Why can't I simply find my room and go to sleep?"

"Drink your tea," said Mrs. Fyllope, gazing at him with steely eyes.

Her authority was overwhelming. Percy felt insignificant, gauche even. This place was clearly old, rich, filled with consequence; he sounded like a whining child. He drank his tea.

The tea smelled of cinnamon and lemon. Dark smoke rested on the back of Percy's tongue. He felt a pleasant lassitude steal over him-- his limbs were heavy, his heart suddenly light.

"You are a widower, Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your wife."

Tall, raven-haired, brilliant, rich, ambitious, nipples dark like almonds, always right-- words flashed through Percy's mind. He murmured something.

Mrs. Fyllope's eyes were like mirrors, reflecting his thoughts to him and around him. "Why did you come to us?"

Ginny. Ginny who should have been sweet and agreeable and young, yet seemed a tiger. The grown sister, the ungraspable.

"Your sister referred you?"

Not sister in his dreams, such awful dreams. She'd spoken of responsibility, and grief. He had no place to go, nowhere to strive, only a house. Wind swept through his empty corridors.

"You need a path to follow."

One right path, thought Percy. One bright flame.

"Miss Bridler will suit you perfectly. Up the stairs, first door on the left."

Percy's teacup floated gently to the carpet. He stood and walked to the door. It seemed to take all of his attention, walking: the lift, the echoed float of feet, the movement, effortless. He found the stairs, another door, a room. It was dark, mostly; the ceiling was painted with stars. He liked the twilight, had he said that just now? He felt odd, he should go to sleep, perhaps. The bed was very large and hung with curtains. Percy struggled out of shoes and robes, thought of his nightshirt, threw such caution to the winds. The bedcurtains were velvet. They were heavy as he pushed them aside.

There was a woman lying in the bed. Her eyes were half-shut, her body clothed in a white shift. Percy touched her cheek. It was soft. She was young. Her hair was shadow on the pillowcase. She seemed familiar, but her mouth curved in a gentle smile. No mocking here.

"Come to me," she whispered. "Promise me you'll stay."

"I promise." Percy slipped into the bed. The woman's arms wrapped around him, her lips brushed his cheek, gently, still gently. He held her, he had promised. He was smoke in a candleflame, rising toward the sky, toward canopy, toward painted stars . . .

He ran his hands over her breasts. They fit perfectly into his hands, were made for him. Ambrosia and elysium. This was right, she commanded, he obeyed, promised, moved upwards, oh so right . . . A strand of his hair, shadow too against his sight, same shadow and same blood. She held him in, their blood rushed together. He pushed her shift upward, upward, watched the line of her shoulder . . . There was a mole there, slight mark on skin of cream, a shape he knew . . . He had dressed his baby sister, once upon a time.

Percy breathed shudder and ecstacy and wondering fear, and heard an answering gasp, and fell asleep.

He woke groggy in full morning. Light slanted through a window and upon the bed. There was still a woman in his arms. She was like and not like; familiar and unknown; nobody he had met, and yet hair as red as his, a hint of mischief at the corner of her mouth . . .

"Do I know you?" Percy asked.

"Why, we're cousins. I'm Elaine."

Elaine . . . Not at Hogwarts in his time, perhaps. Only very recently finished, friendly, and she answered his questions seriously. Percy felt quite alive, awake, free of dread.

"And today?"

"Today we are meeting my brother-- he's an editor-- and then we are shopping."

Why not? This cousin had connections! And he owed a doll to Tellie. Plans were unfolding, all sorts of projects, a new life. Yet something nibbled at the back of his mind. "But . . . Last night . . ."

"Girls want some things too . . ." She might be blushing, might have a hint of pink. She sat up slowly.

Elaine had no mole upon her shoulder.

finis.