Seven Days

or, The Seven Lovers of Dolores Umbridge

i.

Monday was tall and handsome, with pale eyes that matched his hair, and he was always strumming his guitar in the common room when you were trying to read. Monday was loud when he laughed and quiet when he listened and he shouldn't have noticed you, because you were a faint little girl in the back of the room who was two years too young for him anyway. Monday wrote lyrics on the back of his hand with ballpoint pens - and you wondered how he kept the ink from smudging, but you never asked. Monday had a tattoo of a triangle on his forearm, and when you asked him about it he told you he got it years ago because it matched his girlfriend's - now his ex girlfriend, but Monday didn't sound bitter about that. Monday was never angry. Monday was never anything but happy.

His lyrics told a different story; you were never sure whether the girl in his songs was you, but you were afraid to ask because he threw around the word "love" like it meant nothing and "hate" like it meant everything and "gone" like it was inevitable.

You never kissed Monday. You never got the chance. You hear he's doing well now.

ii.

Tuesday was awards for being smart and trophies for playing Quidditch and winning smiles that you couldn't help thinking were fake. Tuesday was money and fame and adoration, and he made you feel so special because he could have had anyone and he chose you. Tuesday was whispers of affection when nobody was around. You learned to crave those whispers. You learned to need them.

Tuesday was obsession and addiction and every time you left him you ended up back in his arms because habits like Tuesday are impossible to kick. Tuesday was teary summers and desperate winters and even when it was over for good you couldn't help but hope.

Tuesday promised you'd stay friends.

Tuesday doesn't even think about you now.

iii.

Wednesday was slick and fast and dangerous, and you kissed him on the same day you met him just for the thrill. Wednesday was firewhiskey and bar smoke and motorcycles, with a light in his eyes that made you think of sex and glamour. He took you for a ride on that bike and grinned when you wrapped his arms around his waist, and when you began to shiver from the night air he draped his jacket over your shoulders and told you how good you looked in leather.

Wednesday believed you when you said you weren't a virgin. Wednesday bought you so many drinks that you believed it yourself. He circled his hands around your wrists and held them above your head while he pushed you against the wall and murmured in your ear words that lit you on fire. He snuck you into his common room and fucked you in his bed and let you stay the night.

Wednesday lasted about twelve hours. You never found out his name.

iv.

You never saw Thursday coming, but there she was: long legs, bleached hair, wicked smile. You found her in the corner of the library while you were hunting down a Charms book, which she was reading with one leg crossed over the other. Thursday was sunny and warm and honest and naive - naive, but not innocent - and you didn't even know you wanted her until she asked you to be hers. It happened slowly, with study dates that you didn't call dates and with books she let you borrow that had tiny notes scrawled in the margins to mark the parts she thought you might like. She was always right, wasn't she, because Thursday knew you better than you knew yourself.

Thursday was first apartments and long kisses and tired mornings after endless nights. Thursday was favorite memories and Christmas trees and photographs that moved and photographs that didn't. Thursday was firelight and stars. Thursday might have been love.

Thursday walked away even as you were begging her to come back, and the next time you saw her she was married with a son.

v.

Friday was the longest day of your life, and you were relieved when he was gone.

You were still getting over Thursday when you met him. He'd been working in your department for ages; you were the new girl, the intern, only a year out of school, and you were at his mercy. Friday smelled like soap and tasted like sweat. Friday was clumsiness and smirks and hands squeezing thighs under tables during meetings. Friday was whispers of gorgeous and sexy and how badly do you want that raise? Friday was married. Friday didn't appear to care.

Friday was his own undoing, because he gave you promotion after promotion until you were more important than he was.

Firing him was the first time you realized how much you liked the taste of power.

vi.

Saturday never turned into anything more than half-smiles and coffee dates, because you had promised yourself you wouldn't become involved with men you worked with ever again. Saturday was square shoulders and camera-smiles and confidence, and Saturday was memos written in smudged ink that made you think all the way back to Monday and his ballpoint pen.

Once you tried taking notes on the back of your hand using a quill, just to see what it would feel like. The ink rubbed off, but the tiny scar in your skin stayed forever: C.F. meeting at 3.

Saturday was platonic. Saturday was a whole world of what-ifs that never had the chance to come true. Saturday was the faint whisper of maybe someday, until Saturday was gone and you were stuck with a white scar on your hand that stung every time you looked at it.

Coffee always tasted like regret to you after him.

vii.

You didn't see Sunday until you did.

Because Sunday was awkward and thin and everything you had never wanted. Sunday was uptight and vengeful and unpopular, but he worshipped you, and you were so exhausted from the rest of the week that you let him.

Sunday was secrets and confessions and truths. Sunday was admissions of scars and pain and the fact that you had no idea what you were doing here. Sunday was a shy kiss that didn't feel like sparks or butterflies or anything but safety.

You fell into Sunday harder than you'd fallen since Thursday, and you let him hold you and cradle you and put you back together. Sunday listened deeply and threaded his fingers through your own, and Sunday had a laugh like bubbly wine. Sunday never told anyone you were weak.

Sunday could have made you happy for the rest of your life - which is why you ran.

Sunday's the only one you don't let yourself think about, even now.

[Disney Character Competition: The Queen - write about insecurities]

[Greek Mythology Challenge: Eris - write about Dolores Umbridge]

[New Years Resolution Challenge: write a romance involving Umbridge]

Because I know people are going to ask: none of the "days" are OCs. Each one is based on someone from the books and if you figure out who's who then that's awesome, but if not that's okay, too. Please don't ask me which was which. That's not the point.