**
Saturday
Saturday came and we didn't know. I could have spent years surpassing lack of food, lack of water, lack of human company, other than yours. We wrote together and your penmanship flew like birds escaping hail, across the parchment. It crackled as you folded it into a cave for your words. The envelope was firm. As I placed our letter to Elphias inside, I pulled back. I had cut myself on the stiff edge. It was a shallow cut, but you expressed concern, so I bandaged it anyway.
I told you about you; about your beauty and wisdom beyond the years of any who walked the earth. I flattered you to an extent where one might find it overdone, but your ego was beautiful too. As we didn't have any nourishment up there in that room, I fed that ego so you wouldn't notice the pangs of hunger. I would never diminish myself to such a beggar for anyone else; just you, your ideas, and your written words, flying.
When Saturday came, we were laid out upon that bed together as lovers, companions, friends. No words could capture and tame the passion of our connectedness. Words were said almost excessively between us, though. Perfectly. Letters and books and plans were our staircases. At the top, was a subtle kiss, and if you climbed upon that, you would reach the hour when Friday changed it's face. I lost my innocence to you, Gellert, and I love that.
We would parade upon the face of my brother in loathsome mocking and my sister was long forgotten. But triangles, circles, and lines would never make up for soft moans and soft skin and softness that enveloped me when I was blissfully unaware.
I didn't hear you at first, your words muffled into my neck. I didn't question until you raised your tone.
"Albus...liebe...it's Saturday."
"So?" I asked in a whisper, so wanting to just lie there with you, endlessly, satisfied.
"Albus..." your eyes opened wider and you sat up straight, "Bagshot is coming home today. You should get out of here, now. She is going to come up here and check on me."
Only the thought of being caught, motivated me to rise from my position. I suddenly heard a creak.
"Go through the window!" you whispered loudly.
I made my way to the broad slab of glass. In a rush, I grabbed my trousers and put them on over my naked body. A tree grew by my exit and as I climbed clumsily down, I scraped my arm on a branch. There were no more bandages.
Saturday comes now and I sit by myself. I've made it a ritual to sit alone for an hour or so on Saturdays, when I can. Your honey hair is as beautiful as your honey words, but both have crystallized from age and were long ago taken from me. You took them from me. If only I could sit upon a broomstick and fly like your penmanship across the timeline of my life. I would stop, lazily, at the word "lovers" and, in my neatest handwriting, create a world where such things exist, endlessly, satisfied.