1. Chapter 1: Misery

I Hate Fridays

So I'm sitting in the common room playing chess with Ron. It's your typical Friday night when everything seems calm and the school week has finally passed you by. I have nothing to look forward to at this particular moment but a lazy tomorrow; green grass, a softly-blown chilly wind, warmed to just the right temperature by the late autumn sun, and the best thing of all, an open Quidditch pitch. Saturday mornings are the best.

But here lately on Fridays, I've been getting this uneasy sensation that sort of seems to eat away at the lining of my stomach. You know how the anticipation of something usually seems to be the better part of the actual event? Well, my anticipation of the weekends usually starts somewhere around Thursday night when Ron and I finally climb the stairs to our dorms, (leaving Hermione, as usual reading some book), until it finally reaches its peak on Friday afternoons right at three o'clock when Divination, our last class of the day (thank Merlin) finally lets out. By that time, I'm usually so worked up that it's all Hermione can do to calm me down for the next few hours so that she can get in her last few hours of study time with Ron and I before she completely loses us to the sins of the weekend.

Usually the excitement of a few days free of tests and Snape and books and Snape and studying and did I leave anything out? Oh yeah, Snape, makes me feel almost as free as I do when I'm slicing the atmosphere bare on my Firebolt, doing my best to break the sound barrier. (One of these days I'm convinced I'll do it, and then I'll tackle that bloody speed of light thing too.)

But lately, that something that seems to make the acids in my stomach boil until I'm sure I have an ulcer is really starting to ruin every weekend I have.

I don't understand it. Not much has changed. It's not like I'm dreading a run-in with Voldemort…

I've decided for myself that if I let the fear of when he might next attack rule me then he's already won. It's not as if I'm doing badly in school. Hell, Hermione keeps Ron and I in great academic shape…well, I'm doing pretty well. Ron could do with bringing up the "P" he has in Potions. (Last time Snape handed us back our tests and saw Ron beaming at his "P", he deemed it important to let Ron know right in front of the whole class that "P" stood for "Poor" and NOT for "Perfect". Damn it, I hate that vampire.)

Moving on, I can't think of one particular reason I should be dreading my weekends. I live for my weekends. I dream for my weekends…I'm finally free on weekends, and Merlin knows I don't get enough of that. But honestly…I'm beginning to hate my weekends.

So just a moment ago, when Ron kicked my arse yet again with a particularly heinous chess move, in which his knight galloped up on his horse and kicked the crap out of my queen, Ron gave me this half-arsed knowing look he's been taking on as of late. The kind that sort of consumes his face in a false wisdom with a half-martyr sigh and I know he's going to start spouting some sort of mistaken I-know-what's-wrong-with-you-so-listen-up philosophic shit. But being his best friend, and one of only two people in a school of almost a thousand that can put up with his bosh, I sigh and hope it'll be short so I can go on wallowing in my misery in peace.

"I know what's wrong with you Harry."

My god of course you do Ron, and how could I have not come to you in the first place…"Ron, please." I swallow down the bile that has just risen to my throat and look at the clock above the mantle.

As a gift to Gryffindor house for winning the Quidditch house cup last year, Professor McGonnagol gave us a wall clock to hang above the mantle of our hearth. What's so special about a wall clock you might ask? Well in the Muggle world, probably not a whole helluva lot. But our clock is special, and has been a lifesaver for more than the odd Gryffindor since it was given. Our clock is a wizard clock, of course, and even by wizard standards, this one is particularly special. You see, each person who looks at the clock will see something different; something that at that particular time, is important to them. If they happen to have an appointment at two o'clock, the clock will read to their eyes "Appointment at two in the library! You're late!" Or say Ron and I've forgotten that we had Quidditch practice at five o'clock, like we did just last week. At fifteen till five, the clock read to me, "You've fifteen minutes until you're late for practice!" And to Ron it read "You're about to be late for Quidditch practice you ruddy slacker!" Needless to say, it's saved our lives on more than one occasion.

But now as I look at it, and read what it says by the number seven, it's all I can do not to launch up the shepherd's pie we had for dinner. I feel faint and nauseated and unhappy and angry all at the same time, and I have absobloodylutely no idea why. Well, then again, maybe I do. Seven o'clock used to be a great time for me on a Friday night. It meant chess and exploding snap and smuggled bottles of butterbeer and games of Hell or Hex, (in which you are dared to do something awful, and you either say, "what the hell," and do it, or suffer the hex of your partners choice) and loudness and laughter and the promise that tomorrow if it suited your fancy, you could wake up and do it all over again.

And what do I have to say to this? Simply…Not any more. By all accounts…I'm ruined.

Ron's still looking at me as if he's still half-expecting me to fall to my knees and beg him 'Please for the love of all that's holy and good do tell me what my problem is,' so I guess I'll humor him…God help me.

"Alright Ron, I'll bite. What's my problem?"

Ron sagely looks up to the clock that I just glanced at and I thank bloody Merlin at this particular moment that he can't see what I see. He looks at me, and then back at the ten 'til seven, and then back at me, and it's all I can do not to thump him for the all-knowing smirk he has on his face.

"Harry, I know you're anxious about the match tomorrow with Slytherin, though I've never seen you look quite so green. No worries mate! We have 'em! Just because Malfoy's dad bought them all Flametorch brooms doesn't mean he'll outdo you. You'll thrash him, as always. Now relax mate."

For once, I thank all holy deities that are listening that Ron is so bloody ignorant. "Yeah mate. That's it…You got me. I'll try to calm down."

Now you see up to this point I've alluded to the fact that I don't know what's upsetting me. Well…that's not exactly true. I know what it is, I just can't for the life of Merlin understand why it's upsetting me.

I look up at a few whistles coming from behind me and turn around, and low and behold, here comes one half of my churn-equation. And by god and Merlin and sun and moon and stars and heavenly bodies that I don't even know about…does she ever look smashing. No, more than smashing…radiant. No more than radiant, good enough to eat; rather devour…and right now all I'd like to do is see what that side of her exposed neck really does taste like while I've got her pinned to the couch in the dark in front of a raging fire…and Ireallyneedacoldshower…

Hermione comes walking down the girl's dorm stairs dressed in a white, fitted, rayon-like shirt tucked into a filmy skirt that looks so good on her that it should be illegal. Her slim waste is so obvious in that frock that all I want to do is either snog her unconscious or drag her back upstairs so that no one else knows how good she looks out of school clothes. The skirt comes about two inches above her delectable tanned knees showing just enough thigh to make me want to lick a trail to…never mind. She has on those damnable knee socks that make her seem just the right combination of girl and sexy girl-woman, and a pair of mary janes that add right to it. Her hair is the way I always love it, just wild and full and bursting with curls, and she wears nothing on her face but a touch of mascara and a hint of that blasted berry lip gloss, the smell of which drives me absolutely mental.

And gods above all, the last touch that makes my heart lodge in my throat and my stomach tighten somewhere in the lower abdomen region and the hairs on my arms raise (among other things…ahem, sorry) is the fact that she's sucking on a lolly. She's all nonchalant as she smiles around it and walks towards us, but I swear to god I've never wanted to be cherry and artificially flavored so much in my entire life.

"Hi Harry, hi Ron. What're you guys up too?"

In my mind I hear her say, "Hi Harry, climb on. I want to snog you…" but I know that was a fantasy.

"Chess as always. By Merlin you look smashing tonight 'Mione," says Ron, as I sit and stare like a retard. "So I guess Finch-Fletchley's taking you somewhere special tonight?"

Hermione continues to frown oddly at me, probably wondering when exactly I had become autistic. "No," she starts out slowly, squinting confusedly at me. "Nowhere more special than usual. I think he's set a picnic by the lake."

Hatred always seems to wake me up from my lethargic drooling bouts. "Ah the lake," I muse sarcastically, "Maybe the giant squid will come out to wave his huge tentacles at you two. Wouldn't that just be romantic?" I think I said it a little too bitterly for it to be taken as a joke, as both Hermione, and Ron, who's perpetually oblivious, give me the "slanted eyes." Inwardly, I cringe. Way to go shit for brains…

Hermione decides to let it go, but Ron, bless him, has chosen this moment to start thinking, and I can see his brain working as he stares at me. I'm sure I have the words "jealous git" written all over my face and it would have to take Ron to see it. For the love of god I hate weekends…and I loathe Friday's at seven!

There's his damnable dum-da-dee-dum-dum rap on the portrait door. Justin seems to think that this is still a clever thing to do, and doesn't realize that it went out of style right along with his high-water pants somewhere around nineteen eighty two. (Ok so I wasn't even born in nineteen eighty two but suffice it to say by now you understand that this is bitterness talking.)

Hermione starts at the sound and gives me an odd, unreadable look that I mistake as excitement, which fires me up even more.

"Hang on," I say with barely repressed rage, "I'll get it." I look at the clock and right by the seven I see the words that have perpetually ruined my weekends for the past three months. "Time for Hermione's date". It's seven o'clock on the dot. I hate seven o'clock on the dot. I hate Friday nights. And I hate Justin Finch-Fletchley.

I know I open the door a little more forcibly than was needed, as the fat lady squeals and yells at me. "Problems, Mr. Potter?"

I mumble a 'sorry' and fix Justin with my very best glare of death, which let me tell you, has earned it's title. To this day, I've been able to make more than one student move out of my way with it.

But Justin is, to put it simply, 'stupid'.

"Hey, Potter. Is my girl ready to go somewhere special?" Justin grins past me at Hermione and I growl ferally at him in the back of my throat. I'm taller, so I try my best to loom. Looming works wonders if you can do it right. I've been mastering it in my spare time. No Justin, she's not ready to go, but I'll take you somewhere special…how about dangling from my broom at about two miles high around the pitch? Don't worry, I'll only go about mock four…

Hermione smiles, but it doesn't seem to reach her eyes, and for a moment she looks at me and I see something of a spark there and the beehive swarming in my chest suddenly lodges in my stomach. I feel nauseated and excited all at the same time.

"I can' t think of a reason I'm not ready to go," says Hermione standing up and walking over to the two of us. She takes one last suck on her lolly and hands it to me, looking up at me. "Unless there's something I've forgotten. Do you know Harry? Is there something I've forgotten? Something I was supposed to do tonight?" She stresses the last two sentences and I'm dumbfounded.

I can think of a few things I'd like to do tonight, I think scandalously. "N…No. Nothing I can think of."

Hermione looks almost disappointed and Justin loops her arm around his. I suddenly have an urge to break said Finch-Fletchley's arm in several places…

They leave, and I swallow down chunks of shepherd pie, turning back around and flopping down beside Ron. I look at the lolly and then place it in sullenly in my own mouth. As close to a kiss as I'll ever get from Hermione…

Ron stares at me for quite some time until he utters the most amazing words I've yet heard him utter. Which is quite something as you could rarely say that what comes out of Ron's mouth is amazing.

"Harry…You're the biggest horses' arse I've ever seen."

This quite literally takes me by surprise, and as my mouth drops open I almost lose the lolly.

"Wh…what'd you mean?"

Ron sighs and leans forward to talk very slowly and clearly to me as if it's obvious he's trying to communicate with the mentally challenged. "Harry…take your head out of your arse and smell the cherry lolly mate. 'Mione didn't want to go with Finch-Fletchley tonight."

I take the lolly out of my mouth and stare at it for a moment before staring just as stupidly at Ron. "Wh…what do you mean…Why would I care…She didn't? How d'you know?"

From ignorance to denial to obvious care, and Ron doesn't bat an eyelash. He still smiles indulgently at me though. "You didn't see the way she was looking at you? The way she ALWAYS looks at you? Like she's had dinner and you're the dessert? You didn't see the way she was trying to give you the opportunity to ask her to stay and not go with him?"

"I thought she meant that she might have forgotten to study something…" I say.

"Yeah mate. She wants to study your body…and not for anatomy. Silly git."

My mouth drops open and for once in my life, I can think of nothing clever to say. "W…we don't even have that subject," I finish lamely.

Ron stands and stretches, grabbing up his chess set. "Good one mate…I'm off to challenge Thomas to a game. Think I'll beat his arse off since I've already beat yours."

Ron leaves me slumped on the couch, half-eaten lolly hanging from my mouth, and the feeling that I'd like to hang myself from the Astronomy Tower.

So here I am, half lying on the couch in the common room, and can't decide whether it would be better for me to head up to bed and lie in misery there, or stay in the dark quiet common room, and wait for Hermione to come back from her date with a smile on her face so that I can wallow in even more misery here.

Cleverly, I opt for the latter. Ten o'clock passes, then eleven o'clock, and just when I think I can't go any madder, the common room door creaks open, and Hermione comes in, looking slightly disheveled.

Of course the first thing that comes to my mind is that she's been going at it with Justin, and I can’t help but want to go to Ravenclaws house, drag Justin out, and screw off his head like a top. But then my good sense reinserts itself, and I remind myself that I know Hermione, and she isn't like that. Still…what is with her appearance?

"Hermione?" I barely whisper, but the sound startles her all the same and she jumps.

"OH! Harry, I didn't see you there…" She walks over to me and sits down beside me, so close that I can smell the scent of strawberries from her shampoo. I start to feel lightheaded but somehow contain myself.

" 'Mione, you look a little…ruffled." I pick some leaves out of her hair, and miraculously, she leans closer and forward a bit to give me better access.

"Oh that…Justin tried to get a little…well you know with me and…"

Suddenly I feel myself stiffen and I go as if to grab for my wand, which luckily I always have shoved in the back of my jeans. I've never been so angry in all of my life. "He tried to WHAT!?"

I stand up and suddenly, I feel almost murderous. Of course I wouldn't kill him, but I intend to hurt him really… really bad.

Hermione grabs my arm though and stops me. "Harry, no way! You are absolutely not going to go after him do you hear me? Besides, I already took care of it."

I stop, trying to calm my breathing, but I still haven't put away my wand. "You took care of it…"

"Well don't look so surprised…" she says.

I sigh, thinking whatever she did wasn't near enough. "So you hexed him, I suppose. Does he have a huge nose now? Or large boils? Or maybe he's just coughing up slugs…"

Hermione looks sheepishly at me and holds out her hand. Her knuckles are red, and her hand looks like it might soon have the beginnings of a bruise. "Noooo…I…I punched him."

I'm sure I look like she just said to me that Neville had just won the "Sexiest Wizard Alive" award because she half-laughs at the look on my face.

I grab her hand gingerly and conjure up a cool cloth and a gauze bandage to begin treating the small cut there, and to keep the swelling down. I swear she's staring at me. I can't bring myself to look back, because I'm afraid if I see into those dark, rich pools I might fall in, and if I fall in, I'll most certainly drown. And a drowning man is never responsible for his actions…he just does what he can to stay afloat, right?

But somehow I feel calmer knowing that she hadn't wanted Justin's attentions. It didn't mean she wanted mine, but at least I didn't have to hurt him now. "So you punched him…My own little Hermione Ali."

Hermione swats me with her good hand and I grin. We can share Muggle jokes with each other like we can't share with Ron. He thought Mohammed Ali was an Indian curry dish. Always food with Ron.

"Really Harry, don't look so surprised. It was you who taught me to punch."

"Yeah, but I never thought you'd actually get to use it!" I laugh. I look up finally and see her still staring at me, and I feel unnerved and exhilarated at the same time.

I feel it at the same time she does. Both of our breathing seems to be quickening, and by Merlin is she leaning close to me at the same time I'm leaning into her? Our breath is mingling, and I'm hyper-aware that she smells like strawberries and grass and autumn breeze. She's so close to me now that if I just reached out, just a bit, I could run a finger over her face just to see how soft her skin really is, and I could trace the outline of her lips, and I can count the flames that are reflected in her eyes…

"Harry…do something for me…" She whispers, and I can't deny her anything. I'd pluck every star from the sky for her if she asked.

I finally do get the courage to trail one finger down the curve of her cheek, and I swear she just shuddered as she closed her eyes.

I whisper, my breath mingling with hers. "Anything."

"Take me out to fly with you."

I draw back, only a bit. To say I'm a little shocked is an understatement. Hermione has always been terrified of watching me fly. I never dreamed she'd want to join me.

"Are you sure?" I ask. After all, I don't want to terrify her. Terrifying her is the very last thing on my mind at this point.

"Of course. I want to know how you feel when you're up there."

So it's only ten minutes later when we finally sneak outside under my dad's old invisibility cloak. I had to stoop of course, since I've grown almost six inches since we last used it. It's hard to say who won the race to the Quidditch lockers. Even as she whoops and lords it over me, half out of breath, I can't help but grin at her. Truth be told, I let her have the victory. Hell, if I had the power, I'd let her have every victory over every battle that life will ever throw at her. Fortunately for me, at least I can give her the small ones.

I finally manage to get my broom out of the closet, and Hermione and I walk wordlessly out to the field. It's a perfect night. The moon is burning a great golden hole in the black sky, and the stars, twinkling so merrily by their own rights have nothing on the ones in Hermione's eyes. It's corny, I know.

I straddle the broom, as comfortable on it as if it were a second skin, but Hermione looks at it and me as if she's having second thoughts.

I smirk at her and give her a half-challenging look; the kind that always spurs her into action. "Are you coming? You're not scared of an ickle wittwe bwoom are you?"

Hermione scowls at me in that cute way and I have to fight throwing my Firebolt aside to throw her to the ground and snog her breathless.

"No, Harry. I…I'm just thinking of the best way to do this. You know in 'All About the Broom' it says that the best way to initiate the flight experience is to…"

"Hermione, just get on. I won't let anything happen to you. You know that." I smile, giving her my best girl-grabbing grin, as Ron calls it, and I see her beginning to melt.

"Alright." Her voice has just turned into a mousy squeak, and damn it, I find that sexy too. I've really got to calm down.

She climbs on behind me and I tell her to hold on, which she does very tightly, bless her.

We begin our flight. At first I decide to climb to just treetop level, and even this is scaring Hermione so I decide I'll give her a little time to get used to it.

I can feel her burying her head into my back while she practically cuts me in two with her death grip, and I hate that she's missing this! Not that I mind her pressed so close to me that I can feel every contour of her body…

"Hermione…" I almost whisper. The night is so quiet that I know she can hear me. "Look up. Take a look around. You're missing it."

It takes her a few seconds to get up the courage, and when she does, I hear her gasp with appreciation. "Harry…I…No wonder you love flying."

I nod, feeling happier than I have in a long time. I've always wanted to be able to share this experience with her. The world looks so different from on a broom. Of course, everything is much smaller, I think as I soar higher. (Hermione is now so enthralled that I don't think she's noticing.) But it's not just the physical things that seem smaller to me. It's the mental. The heavy, all-consuming dangerous, anxiety filled day to day living that encompasses Harry Potter's life, all fall away with one simple rush vertical of my broom. When I fly, I can leave it all behind and just dream. What would it be like to be the moon, sitting up there, so closely without anything to do but gaze unconcerned on the burdens of others? And how would it be to be so whimsical and free as a star, with nothing to do but preen all day to get ready to beautify the night? What if I could just keep flying, higher and higher, to where the air began to get thin, and just keep going until everything passed away? And sometimes, when I go fast enough, I think that surely this time, the rushing wind is going to blow away my cares and bury them in some distant field.

I feel light, and carefree, like I can take all of life's worries in one bundle, and let them go behind me, watching them disappear in a tail wind as I travel faster and faster away from it, and I want to scream that for the moment, I'm truly free.

I just realized that I've gone higher than I meant to, and I sort of glance behind me to make sure that Hermione isn't turning green, but instead, she's gazing at me with tears in her eyes. We're so near the moon that I can see it reflected in her eyes, and her hair is whipping lightly around her face.

"Hermione," I ask. "What is it?"

She begins to cry, and I fight to turn just a bit to put a hand to her face.

"Harry," her voice is shaking, and I can tell she's struggling with her words. "Now I know how you feel when you're up here. You must feel like finally, you're really alive…because I feel it too."

She is so beautiful, and I realize, not for the first time, that she radiates beauty from the inside out, and not the other way around.

" 'Mione, I think that maybe you're the only one that truly gets me…and you get me so well."

I can see by the look on her face that she understands my double meaning and she merely points downward to ask me to land us.

After I land it happens so fast that I'm not sure my head isn't about to explode. As soon as I touch the ground and we hop off of my broom, Hermione grabs my hand and leads me behind and under one of the large sets of Quidditch bleachers.

"Hermione…what're you…"

It's very hard to talk when one's mouth is currently being smashed against another. I have to tell you though that I can't bring myself to mind, and I find my hands wandering of their own accord. Heaven and earth and sun and moon and stars are all about to pass away because I can't imagine that they could try to compare with what is happening here. The beehive that had taken residence in my stomach has now traveled to my central nervous system and has taken over my veins. I feel a buzzing all over my body, and from the small whimpering noises Hermione is making, I can only imagine she's feeling the same. Now, not only are our mouths trying to fuse, but our bodies as well, and I can no longer take it. I finally do what I've been wanting to do for the past two years, and snog her down to the ground. I roll on top of her, and her hands and my hands seem to forget where they are, and I can't tell where she starts and I stop. Her mouth tastes so good and I can't get enough, and what does that Muggle song say? One pair of candy lips and her bubble gum tongue? Not eloquent enough, but I'll take it. I just about feel like I've got to be trapped in that state between asleep and awake, and any minute now I'm going to wake up and curse myself for only needing eight hours of sleep…but oh Merlin is that her hand? And her skin is so soft and warm, and I'm definitely not dreaming…

"Oh, Harry, I love you…" She murmurs against my lips

Sweet Merlin am I hallucinating? Am I dreaming? I could've sworn she just said…

"I know what you're thinking. You're not dreaming Harry. I do love you…"

I have to physically keep myself from whooping for joy, because that certainly wouldn't be very romantic. But finally, mercifully, I'm not alone anymore. " 'Mione, you have to know I love you too. I have for so long."

She smiles then. "I do now."

Of course we have to stop ourselves before we go too far. After all, this is brand new. After much panting and failed efforts to control ourselves, we finally do, and we stand up. As I rise from the ground, I quite literally feel like a new man. After all, Hermione Granger loves me, and who wouldn't be?

I stow my broom, and we walk back to the common room under my cloak, stopping too many times to snog in the corridors. It's just too exciting when you feel like you might be caught at any second…

It quite literally takes us thirty minutes to finally get back. When we enter the common room, the clock over the mantle says. One o'clock a.m. "Enough snogging. Time for bed."

I literally tell it to go to hell.

Hermione and I end up making out on the couch for another hour and a half, at which time, we finally stop, only out of pure exhaustion. When she leaves me at the foot of her stairs, the warm, loving look she gives me sends a thrill of longing shooting straight through me.

She smiles then, and I feel the floor melting from beneath me. "I guess you know by now that I won't be going out with Justin anymore."

I grin back. "I should hope not."

I watch her climb the stairs to her dorms, and I know she's swinging her hips more than she needs to. She turns to me and winks before she enters her room and shuts the door. She knows I watch her, damn her.

I guess before I go to bed, I've got to go back and sit in the same place on the couch that I was feeling just miserable at only hours before. I stare into the orange flames, and all I can see is her face. I smile then, and I laugh. One thought enters my mind at this point. I love weekends…and I especially love Fridays.

The End. =0)

I Hate Fridays

1. Chapter 1: Misery

2. THANK YOU!!!!