AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fanfiction is based off of 'My Own Mr Knightly' by non-damsel, she did give me permission to use her awesome plot. You should definitely check out her story. It is amazing. If you didn't already know the plot is based off of 'Emma' by Jane Austen and the movie 'Clueless' to a certain degree. In reference to the Harry Potter timeline, this story is set in Harry's third year a.k.a. Harry Potter & the Prisoner of Azakaban. The story's plot will revolve around some of the book's events but don't hold your breath. The liberties I take with the main characters are due to the lack of character development in J.K. Rowling's books for anyone outside the Golden Trio (they will have cameos) but I will try to remain canon. Correct me if you think that some characters would never act that way but there is very little shown about the twins or any of the other characters so speculation can be taken with a grain of salt. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story!

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the brain child of J.K. Rowling. End of story.

My Own Mr. Weasley

Prologue

(in which the exposition is given and the protagonists meet)

George has known me since before my first train ride to Hogwarts, and apparently thinks that with such a long acquaintance comes certain liberties – like letting me know when he disapproves of whatever I'm doing. Lately he's gotten into this bad habit of telling me off when he thinks I'm being ridiculous, and acting like he's doing me the favour. George Weasley, the same guy who thought Canary Creams and Extendable Ears were good ideas. And I'm thinking: this has got to stop.

I'm already near boiling point when I got out of Potions on Monday, walking dangerously fast and almost flattening two first years. But I made it to the Gryffindor Tower without killing myself or anything else, and stomped into my room, slamming the door behind me. Today was not a good day.

Usually when I'm this pissed off I do something brilliant like eat my weight in Honeydukes sweets or see if I can hit the wall with my fist hard enough to break either the wall or my arm. Today, however, I'd like to channel my aggression into a more constructive venue: Quiddich. Or flying. Which ever comes first. So I found George. He was sitting in one of the many comfy chairs the common room boasted clearly absorbed in a worn out piece of parchment.

I asked him if he'll go flying with me and he answered flatly, "No." Insufferable toe-rag.

"But how am I supposed to get in shape if I don't go flying?" I asked trying to pout. George seems unaffected.

"I suppose there is no way," he says dryly. "Anyway, it's not like I'm stopping you from flying or anything. Go to it." His eyes seemed fixed on the ratty parchment. Yeah right, I wouldn't be caught alone in the air when Dementors were patrolling school grounds, not that I would admit that to anyone. Time to pull out the big guns.

"But how am I supposed to go flying if my best mate won't come with me?"

That got his attention. Best mate. That's a new one. We're both silent, letting the crackling of the fireplace and the murmurings of some second years fill the silence, wondering where I pulled that best-mate thing from. People will say some pretty twisted things to get what they want.

"Okay," George answers, after our moment of bewildered silence. "I guess I'm in."

"Good."

We meet by the Quiddich stands. "Why are we flying again?" George grumbles clearly wishing to get back to whatever mysteries that ratty parchment held.

We're flying because Cedric walked into the dinning hall today with Cho Chang around his neck and in Potions Patricia Stimpson spilled some sort of green substance on my robes that I'm not sure will come out and my dad owled me this morning to let me know he's moving in with his bimbo girlfriend.

Instead, I say, "So I can get hot and skinny."

"Hot and skinny, huh?" he grunts. I notice a little censure in his tone, and if I were in feeling any less self-interested right now I would probably try to steer the conversation in a different direction. But today I am in no mood to be planning dialogue around George's temper.

"Sure, hot and skinny. How else am I going to attract Aidan Lynch and marry him?" I say jokingly.

"Aidan Lynch?"

"Yeah. Seeker for Ireland, sexiest man alive."

"Oh. I thought you were going in the Darren O'Hare direction." George is sounding a little condescending, but I'm trying to ignore this. I don't want a battle today. I don't even want a serious conversation. That's why I'm out here with George.

"Well, you know. Aidan Lynch, Darren O'Hare – it's a tough choice."

George snorts — not laughs, actually snorts. "So that's the life plan? Get skinny, marry a hot guy?"

"Pretty much. Oh, and write my award-winning, best-selling novel."

We are flying past the Ravenclaw stands. The sky has been overcast all morning, and it is just now starting to rain. The Dementors stationed at the school gates have had a serious effect on the weather surrounding the castle grounds. Big, heavy drops that roll down my face and soak into my clothes. Soon my hair will be soggy and clinging to my head, and my mascara will be running.

"You know, Alicia, sometimes the things you say make you seem a little shallow," George accuses.

Well, don't mince words George. See, now this is what I'm talking about when I say he's gotten into this bad habit. Who the hell does he think he is?

I come to a standstill, hovering in midair. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

George stops, startled, and loops around to face me. "What?"

"Who. The. Hell. Do. You. Think. You. Are?" I repeat, slowly this time, emphasizing every other word. The rain is pounded down on us now. George hovers closer me to be heard above the storm.

"George Weasley. Age 15. Height 6'1''."

Cocky berk. He's a little bewildered, but still so annoyingly self-assured. I'd like to have him quartered, or his eyes gouged out, or made to suffer some other form of medieval torture.

"I am so tired of having you always on my back telling me what I'm doing wrong like you're God or something. It's like I've got my own bloody Mr. Knightly."

I'm speaking very evenly and deliberately, making sure that he catches every word I say.

"I have had about the worst day of my life today, and the last thing that I need is you coming off all high and mighty and treating me like I'm utter git. So seriously, George, if you really think I'm such a horrible person, whatever, that's fine. But just leave me alone."

Thunder and lighting. Isn't there some rule about counting the time in between them and that's how far away the storm is? In that case it's pretty close. Maybe we'll both get struck by lightning floating here. Right now I'm thinking that might be cool — a very climactic close to our lives, at any rate. Better than being done in by a Death Eater. Or Sirius Black.

I don't have anything else to say, and George doesn't seem to have anything to say at all. He's just floating there with his mouth open, either in shock or absolute hatred. I think it's the first time I've seen George Weasley speechless. I turn sharply on my broom and begin descending, pulling my dripping jacket closer around me in an attempt to generate a little heat.

George catches up with me three minutes later as I am making my way to the changing rooms, jogging after me and shouting "Hey, Alicia!"

He slows to a walk when he reaches me and hands me his water-resistant charmed cloak — a peace offering. I take the cloak.

"Sorry," George says, and offers no other explanation or excuse.

I shrug. "It's okay."

We walk back to the school in silence — somehow the rain makes talking seem gratuitous anyway. When we reach the portrait of the Fat Lady, I think about giving George his cloak back, but I decide not to, for now. I climb into the portrait, and head up the stairs to bed.

George and I will be friends for a very long time.

FRIENDSHIP – A ship big enough to carry two in fair weather, but only one in foul.

To be continued…

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