WEDNESDAY

“Watermelon,” she said, towering above him in the morning light, kneeling over him on his bed. “Today is watermelon,” she said, and he didn’t know what she meant.

“Wha…?”

“…termelon, yes,” she said, nodding and grinning. “So get up, sleepyhead.”

She had just awoken him, but it hadn’t really made any difference–he had been dreaming of her anyway.

“What about watermelon?”

“It’s the word of the day,” she said, and grabbed hold of his wrist, trying to pull him out of the bed–his fingers tangled in the bed sheets to spite her efforts.

“How about ‘sleep’?” he murmured, eyes closed. “That sounds like a wonderful word to me.”

“Come on,” she said. “You know you want to,” and secretly, deep down in his chest–in the place where he still felt the butterflies each time he saw the sunlight dance through her hair–he did, and so he got up.

It was early–they were the only ones downstairs. On the kitchen table there was an enormous, bright green watermelon, fat and awkward-shaped, like a mutant jellybean.

“It’s ugly,” he said.

“So’re you,” she said, but didn’t mean. “So it’s perfect.”

“How do we open it?” he said. “I’ve never opened a watermelon before.”

A glint in her eye, feral as an untamed animal–she picked up the watermelon, so gigantic in her tiny arms, and, without warning, threw it at his chest.

He caught it with an OOF-noise, staggering back a step with the weight of it.

“Hey!” he said. “What’d you–I could’ve dropped it, then we’d have watermelon all over the place–”

“Exactly,” she said, and gestured for him to throw it back. “Didn’t you ever play with your food as a kid?”

“No,” he said, simple as that, and tossed the watermelon as lightly as he could back in her direction. She caught it–more nimbly than he would have thought possible–and took a few steps backward before throwing it back to him.

She laughed as he caught it. “Your expression is priceless,” she said, catching it herself. “Every time you catch it–” Another throw. “–your face looks like the world’s about to end.”

He threw it back, a little more forceful than before. “I do not,” he said, and tried to look confident as she tossed it back to him. “See?”

“Fine then,” she said as she caught it. “If you’re so good…”

She ran with the melon, like a rugby player, across the kitchen and up the stairway leading to the bedrooms. She stopped on the first landing, and he followed, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.

“What are you–” he began to say, but she had already thrown–it crashed on the second step and he found himself covered with red, sticky watermelon.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it, at first–it had all happened so quickly–but it was all OK, really. He didn’t mind at all.

A moment of stunned silence, and then she hurried back down the stairs and began to kiss the juice from his skin.

TUESDAY

“T oboggan,” she said, as they were eating lunch, and he didn’t know what she meant.

“But it’s August,” he said, looking out the window. “And it’s raining.”

“Today is toboggan,” she said, and she shoveled down the last few bites of her sandwich and held out her hand. “Come on!”

He chewed frantically as she pulled him across the room, hoping not to choke–what an awful way to die–and she led him upstairs, up and up and up all the way until they reached the topmost landing.

“It’s up there,” she said, pointing to the hatch which led to the attic–but he knew that, from the winter. “Hang on.”

She opened it, pulled down the ladder, and darted up into the attic, giving him a moment to think about what she was planning. He would have been apprehensive if it hadn’t been her idea. He loved her ideas, no matter what he said.

She reappeared in a few moments and handed an old toboggan down to him through the hole in the ceiling. As soon as she had climbed back down, she grabbed his hand once again and led him back down the endless stairwells, more careful this time to account for the awkward newcomer, the toboggan. He didn’t want to bang it on a running turn and send them both falling down the stairs.

She barely hesitated on the ground floor before she led him right outside into the rain, the ground squelching under their feet as she began to pick up speed, going and going until they had reached the nearest hill.

The toboggan on the muddy grass, they sat down–her in the front, him behind with his arms around her, tight–their clothes sopping in the rain.

“GO!” she said, and he pushed the ground behind them, propelling them just a few inches–then again, and again, until finally they were moving, speeding down the slope as the rain and the mud splashed them and he held on tighter as she cried out in joy.

SATURDAY

“Stars ,” she said, when the day was almost over. “Today is stars.”

He smiled, but not as wide as before. “OK,” he said, and they walked together outside, away from the house and away from the trees, to a spot not far from where they had tobogganed all those days ago, on the hill. Lying down, he put an arm behind her neck, around her shoulders, and she curled her body towards his.

“So beautiful,” he murmured.

“They are,” she said.

“I wasn’t talking about the stars,” he said, and she smiled.

The minutes passed, one after another, and soon a breeze began to pick up, cool and smelling of Autumn.

He took a deep breath, feeling the new season tickling the inside of his nose, and he said: “I don’t want to leave.”

“We don’t have to,” she said. “They won’t miss us. We can stay out here as long as we want.”

Another minute in silence, looking at the stars, twinkling so innocently in the vastness above them, not a care in the universe.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“I know,” she said, and he held her closer.

THURSDAY

“Trains,” she said. “Today is trains.”

He didn’t know what she meant.

“Trains? You mean like, model trains? Does your dad have those in–”

“Of course not, sillyhead,” she said. “We’re going to London.”

And they went–borrowing some of her father’s Muggle money, they went into the city, and it all happened so fast. One moment it had been just another day, around the house, but then they were in the world, people on all sides of them–his first train since school. His first train since he was sixteen.

“I was just a kid the last time I was on one of these things,” he said.

“You were never just a kid,” she said, and he didn’t argue, he didn’t see the point.

They rode, and rode, watching the people come and go onto the platforms, always looking like they had somewhere more important to get to. Always looking like the world was about to end.

“Where do you think they’re all going?” she said.

“To work,” he said. “Or home. Or to go shopping, or something.”

“They don’t look like they’re enjoying themselves very much.”

He looked at her–the brown eyes, so curious, so alive. He wanted to kiss them, but it was impossible, just like always.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked.

“Because today is trains,” she said.

“But why?” he said. “Why are we doing all these words?”

“I already told you,” she said, and she narrowed her eyes. “Or were you not paying attention?”

“I know what you said,” he said. “But I mean… it’s not the end of the world, you know. I’m going to miss you, of course I am, but we’ll still see each other.”

“But this is our summer,” she said. A great screeching sound, the train pulling into the station, and then she added: “And I don’t want it to die with a whimper.”

MONDAY

“Masquerade,” she said, on the couch with him in the lazy afternoon–sprawled haphazardly in a pile of limbs, enjoying the comfort of the cushions and each other as the summer wind blew in through the living room window.

“What?” he said–he didn’t know what she meant.

“Let’s have a masquerade.”

“Why?” he said.

“Just because.”

He looked at her curiously. “Where on earth did that come from?”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “We’ve only got a week left, you know. The end of the summer. You’re leaving for training, you’re going to be gone and we’re not going to be able to spend our days together, like this. Let’s make the most of it.”

“Sure, I guess,” he said.

She made a sound, annoyed, frustrated.

“That’s what I mean,” she said. “I don’t want our last week together to be ‘sure, I guess.’ I want it to be memorable.”

“So do I,” he said, defensive.

She shook her head. “Not the same way,” she said. “So I am going to come up with a word, every day, something different, something we’ll remember, something we can do together. And today is masquerade.”

He saw something in her eyes, something desperate, something that made him feel funny inside, deep in his chest–in the place where he still felt the butterflies each time she kissed him.

“OK,” he said. “Let’s have a masquerade.”

And so they did.

FRIDAY

“Flowers ,” he said, early in the morning, whispering in her ear to wake her up. She awoke with a shiver, and didn’t know what he meant.

“What?” she said.

“Flowers,” he said, holding a handful of daisies out towards her nose. “Today is flowers.”

She smiled. “I thought I was the one who picked the words,” she said.

“I thought I ought to have a turn,” he said, and she kissed him.

SUNDAY

“Sum mer,” she said, and he knew what she meant. “Today is the last day of summer.”

“Our summer,” he said.

“Our summer,” she said.

“Let’s go swimming,” he said.

“Let’s climb a tree,” she said.

“Let’s bake cookies or something,” he said.

“Let’s play a trick on the twins,” she said.

“Let’s hug each other and not let go until tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Let’s run as fast as we can, as far as we can, and not stop until we’re out of breath, until we can’t move anymore, until we feel like the world’s going to end.”

He felt the butterflies, deep in his chest, stirring like they did whenever he thought about how much he would miss her, how stupid he was for leaving, how unimportant Auror training seemed when he could stay here with her, when he could kiss this girl and play with her hair all he wanted.

“Let’s do everything we can,” he said.