The Weekend

III

"I gotta say I'm in the mood for a little bit more of that. I'm saying what kind of deal is two days? I need at least four of them, more of them, more of you on me, more us. Just tell me you want me and I'll be at your door ready to take his place. Ready to give you what you've been missing on weekdays, what you've been waiting for..." - The Weekend, SZA

Monday mornings are the same as always. As I wake, I'm aware that the heavy body warming the other side of my bed is that of my husband's. His snoring, like a low speed power drill only helps confirm the fact. I stretch. My muscles ache but it isn't unpleasant. I'm always sore on Mondays, the lingering effects of my weekends. The scratches on my back, though cleverly concealed, sting. Another delicious reminder that comes with flashes of images in my mind. Crimson lips and throaty moans rising higher and higher in pitch. Tight wet heat, clenching around thrusting fingers. I squeeze my thighs together, knowing that it makes no sense to get myself worked up now. There are four more days until I see her again and there is no way that Ron would be able to offer an even tolerable relief. And knowing him, he would probably take it as an invitation to add to our family. No, I need to pull myself together.

It is hard though. All throughout the day, flashbacks plague my thoughts. Then again, I should be used to it. It happens every Monday - my traitorous body seeking its true other half and throwing something like a tantrum when it can't seem to find it. It lashes out, making my grip tighten on my desk at work as a shiver runs up my spine when I remember the way her hands felt around my throat. When I remember the things her mouth had done below my waist, I have to bite down on my lower lip to suppress a groan. The day is long, drawn out. Even more so than it feels on Fridays. I try to distract myself, throwing myself into my work. But the monotony of reviewing paper work, signing docunents, sorting through inquiries, it's not nearly enough to get my mind off of her.

It is but another of our unspoken rules that we don't contact each other on the weekdays. There was a time when I saw her every day, almost religiously, when I would enter the dark and intense atmosphere of Morsmordre to watch her train. And eventually, we would spar. Well, no I couldn't quite call it sparring, could I? She would demonstrate how effortlessly she could have me pinned beneath her, wandless, incapacitated. Her strength, it is something to be marveled at. Watching her knock full grown wizards on their arses in a matter of minutes had been thrilling, exciting on its own. But being on the receiving end of her skill and prowess, it had become intoxicating, addictive. It was no surprise that it eventually became something sexual. When the affair started, the visits to the dueling hall had ceased.

And speaking of unspoken rules. I had broken one. By telling her I loved her. But she had broken it too, hadn't she? By asking. No, not asking. It had been more like a demand that held the undertones of a plea. I had surely given into that demand and hadn't taken it back either. We did not speak on the slip for the entire time we spent together. And she hadn't asked me again. But she had been rather brutal with my body. Even more so than usual. Her particular dose of pleasure is always laced with some pain. It is one of the things that draw me to her, truthfully. The mere fact that she does not hold back, that she isn't gentle. Making love with Bellatrix Lestrange is like dueling and it always has been. She wields her body like a weapon, always striking true with deadly precision, and I relish it. But this time, she was relentless. Unforgiving. I have the marks hidden beneath my magic to attest to it. Perhaps it had been her own way of returning my forbidden sentiments.

I am losing my mind. And the catalyst of my lunacy is a witch who is as savage as a cyclone and about as sweet as sin.

The day passes painfully slow, but eventually it comes to an end. While there had been something of frantic frenzy to leave my office three days ago, I am in no immediate hurry to leave. What awaits me is basically a second career. One for which I am not paid and one which I was not sure I even wanted up until I was in my early twenties. Wife and mother. It sounds incredibly selfish, doesn't it? I am only having an illicit affair, with a dangerous witch - a married, dangerous witch - having the best sex I have ever had in my life. I should be grateful for my husband, even more grateful for my children and their love for me. If only they knew what I have been doing these past few months. If only.

The emerald flames of Floo tickle my sensitive skin as I step into one of the Ministry's fireplaces. If I close my eyes, I can pretend its her fingertips, stimulating my nerve endings but the fire lacks the heat her touch leaves in its wake, and the imagery is ruined even before I am spit out into my living room.

It's half past six. There is no smell of dinner cooking in the air. Of course not. For someone who could eat more than his weight in food, Ron is so awful at cooking, he's liable to burn water when trying to make tea. Of course, growing up the youngest of seven children, he probably never had to cook. But still, he could have ordered out. Well no, he still has trouble understanding how the telephone works exactly. No matter, I am sure Rosie and Hugo will delight at having pizza for dinner. Again.

"Mummy, you're home!" I hear this happy exclamation from my son who bounds down the stairs to greet me. He is always the first to do so and I scoop him up into my arms, planting kisses all over his face while he shrieks and squirms with delight.

"Hello darling," I coo softly, my mood improving as if my son's happiness has worked its own enchantment, "Where are your father and Rosie?"

I know something isn't right when Hugo's brows furrow slightly and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. It's usually the face he makes when he's trying to decide between lying and telling the truth. But he can never lie to me, so its a rather short internal battle.

"What is it?"

"Rosie hurt her arm flying the Firebolt." The words come out in a rush, uttered in one breath. I set him down as my ire returns tenfold, coursing madly through me. The pent up energy that has been pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat only adding fuel to the flames that had been sparked. I'm up the stairs so fast I might have accidentally Apparated.

"Ronald Weasley!" I scream, barging into our daughters room, Rose is laying in her bed, eyes red and puffy from crying, her favorite stuffed animal tucked beneath her good arm, Ron crouched beside the bed, stroking her auburn curls from her forehead. If I wasn't so angry, I might consider it comical, the twin expressions of horror on both their faces as I stride toward them.

"You went behind my back and let her fly that damned broom after I expressly forbade it!" My voice is so shrill, it cracks but it does nothing to deter my tirade, "What were you thinking?"

Ron stands, his hands extended in what could be considered a placating gesture if it isn't for the somewhat condescending crooked smile on his face and the words that come next.

"Mione, you're overreacting. It was just a broken wrist and I fixed it. Good as new."

And this, this is the perfect example of why I am so unhappy. It isn't the fact that my husband has contradicted by word to our daughter. It is his devil may care attitude about it that angers me most of all. He does not respect my wishes. He never has. Not during our Hogwarts years when he would fan away my frutrations and lectures and not now when it was our responsiblity to raise productive half blood children in both the magical and Muggle world. Why must I always be the responsible one? Why must I always be the stern one? Why must I always be the parent?

I know all of them are expecting me to blow up. Rosie, cowering beneath the bed sheets. Hugo peeking around the corner of the bedroom door. And Ron, shifting his weight from one leg to the next. Preparing himself to take whatever it is I'm about to dish out. I refuse to give them the satisfaction. Willing my face to iron out into an impassive mask, I turn and leave the room.

Four more days, I remind myself. Just four more days. It feels like an eternity away, but I can't let that seep into my internal reassurance. Or I actually might go back into Rose's room and hex my husband within an inch of his life.

I can see Hugo feels bad, probably thinking its his fault that I am upset. So I pick my son up and carry him down into the kitchen. The two of us whip up a stack of pancakes, with the help of my magic. His delight at having a typical breakfast food for dinner helps to dissolve my anger. Even when Ron comes poking around, summoned by the smell of melted butter on the griddle, I hand him a plate and the maple syrup without any snide remarks. I bring Rosie her pancakes, surprising my daughter as I never allow the children to eat in their rooms. I check to make sure that her wrist has healed properly and give her a half arsed lecture about the Firebolt. Then, its bath time for Hugo before I tuck him in. I kiss the top of his head, before turning out the light and closing his door.

"Hermione?" Ron's tentative tone cuts my concentration as I sit in the living room before the fireplace, reading a book. "Do you want to talk?"

"Not really," I murmur, though I close the book anyway and reach for the cup of tea I've made to relax, "There is nothing to talk about."

"The thing with Rose, it was an accident. I know you don't like her flying the broom. But come on 'Mione, she'll be at Hogwarts in another two and a half years. She needs to practice if she's going to make the Gryffindor team."

My eyes narrow and a frustrated growl breaches my lips, "So our daughter's safety can be compromised for the sake of some stupid game? Wow, Ronald. That'll surely win you a 'Father of the Year' award."

"There's an award for that?" he asks, brows furrowing in confusion and I roll my eyes. He can be so daft. He does not understand and if I am being honest with myself, I know he will never understand. We are simply not intellectually compatible. We never were. There is love there, there always has been. But love can only go so far when the two are not only not on the same page, but reading two different books entirely.

"Just forget it Ronald," I sigh, too tired to argue. Too tired to waste my breath. Too tired to let this go on. But I can't allow my thoughts to continue on that path or else the next thing I know, I'll be serving him with divorce papers. The idea is a tempting one though as in the next moment, his lips curve into a little smile, as if he has emerged victorious in this battle of wills and the sudden urge to throw my book at his head very nearly overpowers me.

Four more days.

Uninvited, he settles beside me on the couch, undeterred by the murderous glare I send his way. Merlin, it is so hard. Why does it have to be this way? Why can't he be her? What I wouldn't give to have Bella, curled up beside me, the two of us reading from the book in my hand. Or just sitting in silence, basking in each other's proximity. I would entangle my fingers in her sea of curls while she'd drag the edges of her nails down my thigh. She would whisper naughty things to me, not bothering to hold back every dirty little detail of what she wanted to do to me. And I would smile and blush, before proceeding to allow her to make good on her promises.

A small breathy sound falls from my lips at the mere thought, while at the same time Ron gives my knee a squeeze. It's enough to dry up my desire like the desert during a drought, but he cannot tell. He actually thinks, that after all that has happened, I am going to do this. I can't. I never can immediately following the weekend. Not when her hands are so fresh on my body. Not when her mouth is so fresh on mine. It's too soon.

"Come on, love. Its been so long since we've..."

The bright rushing roar of emerald flame in the fireplace startles us both. I give a short yelp as Ron jumps to his feet. We aren't expecting company and besides, it's far too late in the evening for a social call. Unless it's an emergency. But shock and bewilderment rapidly give way to abject horror as I take in surging waves of black curls, full red lips fixed in a deadly smirk, and glinting obsidian eyes, flicking shrewdly back and forth between my husband and I.

"Lestrange?" Ron barks out, brows furrowed in confusion, "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

She does not answer the question, instead turns to face me, placing a hand on her hip as she tilts her head.

"Pack your bags, pet. I've come to take you with me."

If her sudden arrival tips the scale of my adrenaline off the meters, making my heart gallop beneath my rib cage like a racing horse, her statement makes my heart drop into my stomach and I start to hyperventilate. Cliche as it sounds, I pray to any deity that might take pity and listen that this is a dream. Perhaps I had one pancake too many, passed out on the couch, and the fantasies that have plagued my thoughts all day have whipped up a scene straight from the pages of one of those trashy romance novels I've disdained all my life.

"Go on, we haven't got all night."

"Hermione, what's going on? I-I had no idea you two were friends, let alone knew each other."

Bella's voice, that low, smoky tone that simultaneously sets me on fire and quenches my thirst, pitted against that of my husband makes my head spin in the same unpleasant fashion that one too many drinks might evoke. Never in my wildest dreams or darkest fantasies have I ever imagined hearing them spoken together, both addressing me.

A sharp cackle pierces the tense air, making my blood run cold, sending a shiver up my spine that isn't exactly unpleasant. "Friends. Do you hear that, pet?" Her dark gaze shifts to me, "We're much more than that, aren't we?

"Don't do this Bella," my voice cracks as I mutter the words. She can't. Not like this. Yes, I had broken our rules this weekend, but this, it would ruin everything we have. Even if I was slowly inching myself toward the staircase. I have not even glanced at my startled husband. It is like my body is rebelling against my mind, with all intentions of going upstairs to pack my bags as she has ordered. I want to. And that is the most terrifying part of this all. Ron would not be able to stop me if I chose to. Nothing short of a well aimed hex perhaps could stop me. I want her. I want to be with her. To go wherever it is she wants us to go. To hell with everything else. I want to always feel alive, the way I feel whenever I am with her.

"I'm in love with your wife," Bella goes on, undeterred, and now I can't breathe. I'd not noticed before, but she has her wand in her hand, twirling it absentmindedly between her fingers. Fingers that have done unspeakable things to me. "And if you try to stop us, I think I might kill you."

How has this escalated so quickly. I will myself to calm down, my body to stop trembling. But it won't. She loves me. My hand grips the wooden banister, so tightly my knuckles whiten. She loves me. My left foot lands in the first stair. She has admitted it. Before me, before my husband. Bellatrix Lestrange loves me just as I love her. It isn't a lie. She is many things, but a liar isn't one of them. She loves me. I'm going.

"Mummy?"

My son is standing at the top of the stairs. Confusion and fear fixed on his face. There is shouting from the living room now. Ron's voice. Fervent as it has always been. Heated, angry. Even though I can't see him from this angle, I know just by the sound of his voice that his ears have gone as red as his hair. His fist are clenched at his sides. I can tell.

"You need to get the hell out of my house."

I have never heard that tone of of voice from him. So hard, so sturdy and sure. Hugo's and my eyes lock. His wide, mine filled with tears.

"Go back to your room darling," I manage to say around the lump in my throat, the words choppy, mangled almost. I turn and stumble into the living room to see Bella's wand aimed at Ron. Leveled, not a shred of hesitation in her stance nor expression. Her eyes flicker to mine and I let out a breathy sob.

"Who do you love," she says. The words are tight and uttered around a growl, "Who do you chose?"

There is the same desperation in the question posed as a statement just as it was when she had asked it two days prior. Two days that feel like an eternity ago putted against this nightmarish reality. Then, I had said I loved her. I had made my choice the day I had followed her into Morsmordre. It is her. It had always been her. But then why can I only see Hugo's wide eyed stare? Why is the image of Rosie, who can sleep through almost anything, curled up in her bed playing before my mind's eye? Where there had been the thoughts of her hands touching me, her lips kissing me, I could only see my children.

"Them," I feel as if I am choking, light headed as the single syllable escapesnmy throat, "I chose them."

If there is a color darker than black, I see it now in Bella's eyes. It is as if in that moment, my lover has become a stranger. I don't have a word in my extensive vocabulary to describe the look on her face but in my heart, I know it is betrayal. It is pain. It's chilling, ice where my Bella has always beem heat and fire. And it frightens me down to the marrow of my bones.

"Oh," her voice sounds like it is coming from the farthest end of a pool, warped and distanced, yet clear, "Well then."

I see the flash of green light, bright enough to momentarily blind me before I hear her say the words. Ron's body crumples from beneath him. His eyes, just as our son's were, wide. Though his are blank, unseeing. I can't move. Without another word, Bellatrix Apparates on the spot, simply vanishing into thin air, and I am left alone, staring at the body of my dead husband.

A faint sniffling noise eventually rouses me from my stupor amd I turn to see Hugo, standing behind me. Tears roll down his reddened cheeks as he stares up at me. I have made my choice.

"Come here to me darling," I murmur, my own voice foreign to me as I sink to the floor, beckoning to him with one hand, the other reaching for the wand tucked into the pocket of my dressing gown, "Come here."

He slowly shuffles towards me, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Ron's prone form. I have made my choice.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him tighter than I have ever held him. He hugs me back and I can feel his warm breath against my neck as he sobs brokenly.

"Turn around," I whisper, pulling back to look into his eyes once more. His nose is running, his mouth turned downward as he cries. But he complies, hesitating only slightly as he leaves the warmth of my embrace and turns to face the wall.

I have made my choice.

My hand does not shake as I aim my wand at the back of my son's head of auburn waves. There are no second thoughts. There is no uncertainty, no doubt. I have made my choice.

"Obliviate."

Author's Note: And so the story comes to end. I don't think most of you were expecting that little plot twist, but c'mon, it's Bella we're talking about. Nothing comes between her and what she wants. There will be a prequel to this, told from Bellatrix's point of view about how this whole thing started so please stay tuned for that. If requested, I'll probably make a sequel to this as well. Thank you so much for the follows, favorites, and reviews. Thank you so much for enjoying my work. -bellanoire, over and out!