Author's Note: Greetings! So this is something I have been meaning to write for weeks. Once again, call it a much needed distraction from all of the angst in LODD. I swear that story is going to kill me lol. This will be a three-shot based off of the song 'The Weekend' by SZA. If you've never heard the song, that's fine, you'll still get the gist very easily. If you have heard it, and happen to like it, that's awesome too. Of course, the story is AU (Bellamione, hello!) with a few canonical references. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are most welcome and very appreciated. Happy Reading! -bellanoire, over and out!
Disclaimer: I own no parts of the Harry Potter universe, that honor belongs to the brilliant J.K. Rowling. I merely play with the wonderful characters.
This story is dedicated to the wonderful DarkSnow3.
The Weekend
I
"My girl is my girl is his girl, him that's his girl too. My girl is my girl is his girl, him that his girl. Tuesday and Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. I'll just keep her satisfied through the weekend..." - The Weekend, SZA
Friday mornings are always the same. The alarm clock goes off, my husband starts violently beside me, as if he's been stung by a Billywig, curses loudly and threatens to hex the clock. I stifle laughter and reassure him with a kiss on the cheek before we both rise to start the day. Ron showers first and I go and check on the children.
In my bathrobe and slippers, my hair in its tussled messy bun sticking out and all angles, I tiptoe into Rosie's room first. My daughter sleeps free fall like, on her stomach, her limbs splayed out like a starfish. Only her mop of wavy red hair visible from underneath the blanket. She truly is her father's daughter and the messy state of her room does nothing but affirm the fact. I shake my head with a knowing smile, taking in the toys scattered about, the dirty clothes. Chudley Cannon and Holyhead Harpies posters and banners in the Gryffindor color scheme complete with roaring lion hang crooked on the walls. The old Firebolt Harry has given her for her ninth birthday beside her bed that I have yet to let her fly, though I imagine Ron lets her sneak a ride or two whenever I'm not around. I don't bother to wake her just yet, sure that the smell of breakfast will soon have her running downstairs.
Hugo's room is a stark contrast to his older sister's. My baby boy takes after me. Everything neat and in its place. Where there had been Quidditch memorabilia and clutter in Rosie's room, a large bookcase commands total attention, shelves filled with a variety of reading material, including my favorite Muggle books from my childhood. Though he would not be attending Hogwarts for another four years, I am sure Hugo is ready and will no doubt fill the spot in Ravenclaw so many people have told me should have been mine. The creak of the floorboards underneath my slippered feet rouses my son from his sleep and he rubs his eyes, his russet hair cutely mussed.
"Good morning mum," he greets me with a soft smile, "Today is Friday, isn't it?"
Just the word 'Friday' makes the hair on my arms stand on end as goosebumps erupt all over my body. I blink slowly to clear my suddenly fogged mind, reminding myself that it's not time lose it just yet. And certainly not in front of the children. Later.
"Yes darling, it's Friday."
"Me and Rosie are going to grandma and grandpa's house for the weekend. While you and daddy go to work."
"Yes, that's right."
But only half of it is right. Ron would be going to work. The new case the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Inforcement have been working on for months would once again conveniently keep him occupied for the weekend. Those magical forty eight hours at the end of every week that I crave like an illegal substance. Those two days that manage to get me through the monotonous repetition of Monday through Friday. Those blissful moments when I am no one's wife and no one's mother. Those moments when I can be me, when I am simply alive in every sense of the word.
"Good," Hugo's voice manages to stir me from my reverie, "I like grandma and grandpa's house. Muggles are really interesting. They don't use wands for anything."
Chuckling at my precocious son's musings, I tuck an errant lock of my hair behind my ear, "Yes, darling. Come and help me fix breakfast."
Things move at a quicker pace now, and I can't help but notice the way my body seems to know this. The way my heart rate quickens at each tick of the clock that brings the day closer and closer to the moment that stays on the forefront of my mind. The way my fingers drum against the scarred wood of the table, my foot tapping restlessly against the floor. Ron and Rosie gobble their breakfasts down like ravenous dragons, conversing emphatically with full mouths about Quidditch and the upcoming Cannons match against the Tutshill Tornadoes, and Hugo picks at his toast like an owl. I hardly touch my plate, my stomach churning in a nervous fashion like it always does on Friday mornings, wondering whether something might not go the way its supposed to. But it has to. I have waited my time all week, nothing can go wrong. I cannot bear it if it does.
It won't. And I know it won't. This is simply the route my mind takes every Friday morning. I know this and I will myself to take a sip of my lukewarm coffee. It does nothing to calm the jitters. Then again, I know it won't.
Before long, Ron rises from the table, not bothering to take his dirty dishes into the kitchen. He never does. He's wearing his Ministry robes, his wand already in its holster. He kisses Rosie on the cheek and ruffles Hugo's hair, despite the fact that our son hates it, and moves towards me. I allow him to take me into his arms, just managing to not make my body go stiff. I remind myself that I love my husband, remind myself that I've loved him since I was sixteen. I have to remind myself that I'm happy we're married. Happy that we're together. I'm happy that we have our family. I try to stomp down the reminder that I'm also happy that he's leaving and won't return until Sunday night.
I let him kiss me. His lips are wet and taste like orange juice and bacon. I try not to cringe. He kisses me hard, sloppily, possessiveness in the gesture as his arms tighten around my waist. The churning in my stomach resumes but this time it has nothing to do with nerves. "Love you 'Mione," he murmurs in my ear, his breath warm in my ear, "What's say when I get back we work on baby number three?"
He always makes some sort of innuendo when he is about to leave on his trips. He has wanted another baby since Hugo turned two. To be quite honest, the thought of another pregnancy that could inevitably lead to a fourth, fifth, or more makes me sick to my stomach. Two is enough. It's all I ever wanted, a girl and a boy, the perfect set. Though to someone whose mother birthed seven children, two is only scratching the surface of what could be. Still, I nod and pretend to be receptive, already making up an excuse to use later as to why I cannot. "Love you too," I whisper back, and Ron doesn't seem to notice the dry tone of my voice or the obvious lack of passion in the statement. He is satisfied. It's enough. The children wave as he steps toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo Powder from the bag before he vanishes in a roar of emerald flame.
I barely suppress my sigh of relief. I look over at my children. It's their turn to leave now.
Hugo helps me with the breakfast dishes, giggling delightedly at my wand flicks and the charm's beams of light, while Rosie goes up to her room to start packing. Even without direct supervision, I know for a fact my daughter is merely throwing whatever she can find within reach into a bag. I can only hope what she's packing is clean and in wearable condition. I know there will be a tantrum when I have to remind her to leave the Firebolt. It always is. I'm prepared for it. Once the kitchen is put to rights, I send my son up to pack, knowing his small suitcase will be better organized but will be filled mostly with books and he will need help carrying it. I don't mind.
While I'm waiting for my children to come down into the living room, I phone my parents and let them know to expect us by Floo in another twenty minutes. I'm met with no complaint. Of course there isn't. Mum and dad are delighted to babysit their grandchildren while their super witch daughter is off saving all the Magical Creatures. It's my job, after all, Monday through Friday. They have not yet figured out that my weekends are sacrosanct. And, if I can help it, they never will.
"Mum we're ready to go," Hugo calls from the top of the stairs. His sister has already bounded down, taking them two at a time, the Firebolt tucked under her arm, clearly meant to be hidden. As I bypass her to help her brother with his suitcase, I cast a cleverly silent 'Accio', grabbing the broom by its handle as it slips from her grasp. The whining starts immediately, as does the stomping of the feet. It's easy to ignore. I've had years of practice in knowing her father for so long.
It takes longer than the promised twenty minutes to hustle them into the fireplace, but then I already knew it would. Rosie is crying angrily and Hugo is upset about a book he couldn't fit into his suitcase nearly filled to burst. I try not to let the annoyance show on my face. I try not to snap or raise my voice. I remind myself that the frustration is normal and all the tension will be rubbed away in just a few hours. She's going to take care of me. I cannot wait. But first things first.
"I love you my darlings," I say with far more sincerity than I gave my husband at his departure. I do love my children. I love them more than anything. Almost anything. I attempt to stifle that thought because it isn't right. A mother is supposed to put nothing before her children, least of all herself. But it's what I do every weekend. The guilt is there, like it always is around the time I press kisses to their foreheads and they bid me goodbye before they disappear in the flames. A tear rolls down my face, as it always does. I brush it away and turn my back to the fireplace.
My footsteps are quick though there's no need to hurry, not anymore, as I make my way to my desk and pluck up a spare bit of parchment. I dip a feathered quill into a pot of black ink, my hands trembling only slightly as I write in neat scrawl, '7:30, no later than.' My eagle owl hoots softly as I unlock the cage, her wings unfurling, already prepared for the flight she takes every other Friday. I secure the note to her leg and, with an affectionate stroke of her plumage, send her out into the mid-morning sky.
I dress hurriedly in my own Ministry robes and leave for work.
It passes in a dull blur. As it does every Friday. I love my job, and it seems as if the only time I have to remind myself of this fact is on Friday. I feel as if I am going to go insane. All of my rigorously gathered logic and knowledge fail me. The paperwork seems mountainous, the voices of my coworkers easily grate on my already frazzled nerves. I know I reach my wit's end when I snap at the poor House Elf who has come to me to complain about his abusive owners. It is my job to protect him and others like him. To ensure that his conditions are not barbaric or cruel. I cannot do that if I am snapping at him and I apologize profusely, continuing the rest of the day with no further incident. Blessedly, four in the afternoon arrives and I abandon my office, wasting not another precious second in Flooing home.
The time has come. I need to get myself ready.
I soak in the bathtub for an hour, sighing softly as the warm water relaxes my body and mind. As I work my fruit scented body wash into a lather, and work it over my skin, my thoughts drift away from my husband and my children. They unapologetically drfit to her. She who has lit this fire in me, she who makes me feel as if I had not only lost my senses, but never had any to begin with. As I wash, I imagine her hands caressing me, making something in my belly flutter, making arousal spike. I let it rise, moaning softly as I ghost over my core, deliberately not applying enough pressure to satisfy the growing ache. She will take care of it. She always does.
After drying off, I manage to wrestle my hair into a braid, leaving it back from my face. Just as she likes. My makeup is light, never dramatic, never over the top. She likes my natural beauty. I slip into a little black dress and clasp a necklace of pearls Ron has never even seen around my neck. Black is her favorite color. I have learned to forego typical Muggle attire after my favorite pair of jeans were reduced to bits of blue frayed fabric.
I think back to the first time I laid eyes on her. I knew of her, of course. She had always been something of an unhealthy obsession for me. She had been my rival at Hogwarts, despite the fact that she had graduated two decades before I did. It was her records I had strived to break, her praises I strived to earn. Back then, she was faceless, merely an academic hurdle, someone I needed to take down in order to prove that I was the best. I had almost succeeded. She had me by one NEWT.
And I shall always resent that.
Eventually I was able to put a face to the name. I had seen photgraphs of her dozens of times. But of course they did not do her justice. They could never capture her true likeness, her very essence. Yes, I knew who she was before she knew who I was. But in that one, fateful moment, I could never know that she would quite effortlessly turn my cozy little life upside down. She had been there, in Diagon Alley, wild black hair and smoldering dark eyes, commanding total attention, and in that instant nearly bringing me to my knees. She was and is incredible. Hypnotic. Brilliance personified. She does not realize this, despite the facade of confidence she has constructed, but it makes her all the more beautiful. She is fierce and unrestrained like a violent storm and it is this ferocity that continues to hold me willingly captive.
As I prepare a dinner the likes of which I have not cooked for my husband in months, I continue to reminisce on how all of this began. It had started with a duel that had almost turned into a brawl. She is the owner of Morsmordre, an underground dueling hall in Diagon Alley. It was passed on to her from the previous owner a Mister Tom Riddle. She was his protegee and she looked up to him, he was like a father figure to her. An idol. Until his death.
The hall is rather famous, witches and wizards from all over come to train with its renowned dueling masters. Most Aurors cut their teeth there, I know Ron and Harry have frequented it often. The children were at the Burrow, I had just finished my day at work and had a few errands to run in the Alley before collecting Rosie and Hugo and returning home. I was deterred by a commotion coming from outside the hall. A fight had broken out and it had attracted quite a bit of attention. Usually, I would have rolled my eyes and continued on my way, disdaining the fact that grown wizards could behave so immaturely. But something made me stop and turn. Something which, in that moment, I had no idea would ultimately be the catalyst to this forbidden affair. It was her voice.
She stood between two wizards who both towered over her, their wands drawn. Neither uttered a spell, though the tension in the air was electric and the way those who had gathered to witness the fuss where giving them a wide berth, it was evident no one believed hexes and curses wouldn't go flying at any moment. She was furious and near breathtaking in her fury. But her voice, it was deadly calm. Scarily so, edged with something lethal, something manic. Her wand was drawn too, though held almost lazily in her grasp. That was the coy, I realized, as my eyes darted back and forth between the three. The wizards knew it too and neither appeared to have the stomach to cast first. Even in their anger, they knew they were no match. She told them both to leave. Banned them from the hall. Chastised them like they were children. But the arrogance in her words, in her expression, was in no way parental. It was regal. They were peons, and she, the queen.
To watch it, was shocking. But when our eyes inadvertently met, a fraction of a second later from across the Alley, I was mesmerized. She looked me up and down, sizing me up, challenging me to do something, to say something, to contest her decision. As if she could read my thoughts. My mouth had gone dry, my heart had stalled, and no words came. This seemed to satisfy her and she turned and walked back in the dueling hall. The way her hips moved, her body language screamed, commanded that I follow her. And I eventually would.
The first time I actually saw her duel, I think I fell in love with her then. Though, honestly, I can't be sure. There are so many things about her that I love, I can't begin to trace it all back to the first.
The doorbell rings and I am startled from my thoughts. A glance to the clock affirms that it is 7:37 PM and my heart skips a beat even as a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Of course she would not take heed to my instructions. She never does. She does not like to be told what to do. My hands flutter up to my hair, my dress, straightening nonexistent wrinkles and picking away invisible pieces of lint, my nerves practically vibrating as I make my way to the foyer. I inhale deeply, willing myself to calm down, reminding myself that this is the reality of my Friday nights, my weekend. I want this. I want this so badly. And it is that want, that need that compels me to open the door.
She is there, leaning casually against the jamb, studying her nails. She is clad in form fitting dragon hide pants and a matching jacket. The lapels are parted, revealing a silver studded corset that puts her creamy cleavage on full display. I lick my lips. Her hair is unbound, a maelstrom of sable curls. Only her eyes move, flicking upward, hard as diamonds, black as onyx to regard me. There is something predatory in her gaze, something carnal in her ruby red smirk. It makes me quiver with anticipation, with desire.
"Good evening, pet," she purrs, her tone sultry, alluring, "Are you not going to invite me in?"
"Come in, Bella," I whisper as I step back to allow her room to enter my home.
Author's Note: Things REALLY heat up in the next chapter, rating will increase to M.