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Chapter Text

. . . I shall bury myself alive. 

—

     Lorelei Yates is the apotheosis of misfortune.

     There can be no other who challenges the odds of nature, stares in the face of Bad Luck themself. Black cats adhere to her like magnets; she'd broken two mirrors when she was ten; and crows sing their epitaphs on her windowsill. She is a testament to the endurance of human will, and it is her bright, unyielding smile that transcends adversity. If there is ever a time Lorelei Yates sports a frown, you will surely know for it will be your wrongdoing. Those are terrible times, indeed.

     There is morbid irony in Lorelei's existence. How could one's mum be colloquially known as Lady Luck while she herself struggles under the crushing weight of misery? Natalie Yates was luck personified. A woman with dice up her sleeves and whispers of fortunes. And yet, besides two specks of dimples, a sickening sweet tooth, and a small gap between her front teeth (Truly, you'd have to squint), Lorelei inherited not an ounce of fortune. With her first breath, Bad Luck was claiming their next victim.

LADY LUCK: Sing my song.

LORELEI: I have no voice.

     Lorelei often wonders why everyone is always so sad. Why did her Nana become lost in reminiscence after she chose a lemon cake for her fifth birthday? Is there a reason Barry looks away when she smiles—is there something in her teeth? Is there a reason her mother is a taboo? She likes the fuzzy cats that dance in-between her ankles and the black birds that sing on her windowsill. And why is Uncle Lonnie so paranoid?

     A letter answers.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

     And it is almost as if the world as she sees it, shifts.

     The very first day of Hogwarts siphons the excitement from her soul. Broomstick training lands her in the Hospital Wing, and her dinner is interrupted by spilling mashed potatoes on Harry Potter (Who she just learned is supposedly the Chosen One). Uncle Lonnie's watchful eye misses the hemlock in her pumpkin juice. A year passes and a wide-eyed Lorelei finds herself dueling Gilderoy Lockheart in the Chamber of Secrets. But through that shockingly easy duel, she learns there might be cause for her strain of misery. The Griswaldes. Who could they be? There is no answer.

     Lorelei begins to wonder if she's alone.

     But . . .

     . . . There's someone else who suffers under the figurative boulder of fate. He has singularly dragged himself through the muddiest of puddles and survived. If he's anything, Harry Potter's a survivor.

     Lorelei Yates stands beside Harry Potter as survivors of Bad Luck (Potato incident be damned!).

     Surely, third time's the charm? And so, shouting from the uneven roof of her uncle's house, Lorelei proclaims: Third year is the year of Lorelei Yates!

     And yet, Bad Luck is a forever companion.

     It's year three, Lorelei discovers she's the spawn of escaped convict Sirius Black. The very one who murdered her mother.

     There's naught a time for good fortune. Lorelei now knows this.

Chapter Text

December 24th, 1979

      The night Natalie Yates died was different for everyone. 

      For ordinary muggles it was fairly normal, aside from the pure white backdrop of evening snow dusting every windowsill and rooftop. Christmas Eve it was. Lights dotting every building and bush, trees decorated to the nines, stockings hanging on every fireplace mantle, and presents neatly wrapped or messily taped together under trees. Families were gathered inside chatting over cider, children laughing with hot chocolate mustaches and bright, giddy smiles. 

      Anticipation clawed at every bone in their bodies. Eagerly awaiting the rise of the morning sun so they could ravish their presents and dress in their warmest winter ware to play in the freshly fallen snow, still soft to the touch. Frost flushed, eyes blinded. The neighborhood was quiet, as quiet as one would expect on Christmas Eve. Quiet enough to hear the rings from Santa's sleigh, at least the children mused.

      For the Yates, it was much the same if not a tad bit chaotic. Six stockings sporting spots on the mantle above a roaring fireplace each one with glittery lettering, and two trees towering over the mounds of presents wrapped in eye-watering paper. Each member could be seen through their frozen windows running to and fro in matching ugly jumpers. Everything had to be perfect for the little one's unexpected arrival that very evening. It was their first Christmas after all. 

      Bartholomew Yates frantically rubbed white hair dye on his greying beard, not forgetting his freshly twirled mustache. His prized Santa costume laid on the tub by his feet. It was tradition in his household to dress as the jolly fat man for his children. He'd never break it. He'd rather be damned. Bernelle Yates sat in her office at her sewing machine, wiping sweat off her brow as she stitched together the accompanying Santa hat. Torn and chewed. God forbid her brother keep the darned thing away from the dogs. 

      The twins Tom and Tim chased little Lonnie and Lorette Yates around with bright red noses and antlers on their heads, while Joelle and Lucien hid under the dining table sneaking sweets. As they ran through the hallway, Martha was not far behind with the morning's newspaper rolled up in her fist ready to whack them for the ruckus. There was only one member who was not running around like a headless chicken. And that was Nessie. 

     He was never a problematic child yet one would assume with him being the youngest and all, aside from his cousins, nieces, and nephews. He didn't suffer from 'youngest child syndrome,' rather he felt dangled in the middle. Who could blame him? It's a big family. Regardless, he proved those rumors wrong. With his lack of problem causing, he found quiet, placid ways to keep himself occupied and those hobbies included cooking.

      Oh yes, Nessie was the cook of the family. Christ knows old Barry Yates couldn't cook a can of soup over an open flame. And forget Auntie Elle! Who knows how her kids managed to survive that atrocious meatloaf. 

      If anyone needed anything, Nessie was the obvious choice. From the freshest baked breads to the finest hors d'oeuvres and mouth watering entrees, he knew it all. He slaved away all Christmas Eve, slapping his baby cousins' hands with wooden spoons when they dared to knick a sugar cookie, and even shooed his own dad for trying to have a taste of the batter to his famous Christmas cake (One of his personal bests, he'd never tell anyone the secret). Honestly, the lot of them!

      Truthfully, everything had to be absolutely perfect for the arrival of his baby niece or nephew. He couldn't say he was exactly thrilled when he heard the news but as time passed, the love grew. His usual Christmas diner became tripled with the news Natalie was expecting that very night. Nessie's collected demeanor wavered only once, and it was when his buttered yams showed the slightest bit of being burned. He nearly fainted on the spot. Safe to say, the Yates were entirely alike.

      And yet, for Natalie Yates, things were different. 

      Of course, she still had the stockings sporting spots and sashes stuffed with precious presents. There was still a tree draped over the messily wrapped gifts though it was much smaller. Barry would think it was a bush at any rate. Christmas carols played faintly from an antique gramophone and the piano Natalie's grandmother used to own was now enchanted, thanks to Sirius, and softly playing soothing classical symphonies all on its own. 

      A difference was the big wooden clock sat facing the front door. It was menacing, that thing. A gift from Barry who inherited it from his great-grandfather. Apparently, it had been passed down for generations. Natalie couldn't deny it was breathtaking at first glance and no doubt worth a fortune. Antique, no scraps or scratches, and in near perfect condition. The clock had two pendulums swinging from side to side and when it struck midnight, they would move rapidly and a compartment would unlock at the top to showcase a kingly chimera poised to strike. 

      Natalie couldn't wait to show her baby. Heirlooms were supposed to be shared. Sure, it's a bit intense for a newborn, especially with the gilded claws and tipped teeth, but her family was void of memorabilia. The old clock chimed with the spirit of her great relatives. Wizened and out of tune. Plus, Sirius said he'd enchant the chimera to jive! That still amazed her. Magic. She never would've thought it possible.

      However, one thing which remains on point is the chaos that encircled the Yates-Black home. 

      When Natalie discovered her baby was due in December, she felt absolutely full of joy. And it only grew until she was bursting at the seams, both by her baby and her joy. It was something special to have them in the month of her favorite holiday. She already loved it, but she'd adore it even more if she got to celebrate her first child's birthday. As the days grew closer, Natalie's strength dwindled. Oh, they don't tell you how hard pregnancy can be. Gentle pleas from her doting husband to just sit down became mandated. 

     Yet, even from her bedside, Natalie instructed poor Sirius all over, dealing with decorations, food preparation, invitations, finishing up the last touches on the baby's room, and making sure she was all set to finally give birth. Ten months was too long.

     However, Natalie received her Christmas gift a day early when her water suddenly broke as she admired the antiqued clock. Goodness, Sirius nearly had a heart attack! Hazardous sheets of ice covered the unplowed roads from one of the worst snowstorms in decades. Apparently, apparating while pregnant has the possibility of splicing the fetus and mother together, so that was an easy no. That meant their bundle of joy would take their first breath of air in the safety of the Yates-Black home on Christmas day. 

     God bless Justine Franklin, Natalie's longtime friend, for barreling through two meters of snow to deliver the baby. With a semi-finished residency and knowledge of natural births, everything should flow smoothly for their predicament. This is why you bully your friends into pursuing their passions! 

     It was chaotic for sure, but it was a good chaotic. 

      And that chaos continued when Natalie's screams of pain drowned the faint tunes of symphonies. She writhed on her bed with her legs hunched as her best friend encouraged her to give one last push. Sirius knelt by his wife's side having his hand squeezed to death, all the while brushing hair off her sweaty forehead and telling her it was almost over—also ignoring the glare he received immediately after saying it. 

      Tears and exhaustion pooled from her eyes as Natalie gave the final push, and as the big wooden clock struck midnight and the chimera roared, soft little cries rattled the room. Trinkets clinked, paintings creaked, and Natalie was drained. 

      Justine Franklin held the tiniest babe she'd seen in her arms. At the sight of her, Sirius gently dropped his wife's hand and stumbled to his baby. Even though she was covered in fluids and crying her heart out, she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Sirius cut the umbilical cord and wrapped her in one of the blankets Lily Potter handmade. He was entranced, as if his daughter had shown her magical genes early. He was smiling so wide, a grin shaped from ear to ear. But he knew it wasn't true; he didn't need a spell to love his daughter. 

      One minute passed for Sirius Black. He memorized everything about his daughter in a single minute. Her head was fluffy, wisps of dark hair scarcely decorating her scalp, and her newborn scent was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He dreaded fatherhood, always worried his children would inherit his flawed genes. Orion Black wasn't capable of love, so was he? His daughter's tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb, and all Sirius feared was how much he loved her. 

     The minute passed. Sirius started moving to Natalie who had her arms extended and ready, face pliant with relief and exhaustion. He carefully lowered their baby towards his wife gently and said the words Natalie dreamed to hear for ten months, "It's a girl, Lee. And she's beautiful."

      But Natalie Yates-Black never got to hold her baby. 

      As the clock scraped passed midnight, the front cracked open with a shuddering rumble. Debris pummeled the delicate venetian walls. Masked figures charged with their wands raised and aching, thunderous footsteps duetting the baby's confused cries. Sirius retracted his daughter from Natalie and handed her to Justine. Oh, his wife wailed. He stared at his baby's rosy cheeks, but he didn't have a minute. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he ushered Justine through the back door and gave her instructions to call for aid. He promised to meet them at the Yates. 

      Justine Franklin took her best friend's baby and ran. 

      Natalie was begging Sirius, screaming at him to leave, to go with their daughter. He didn't. Instead, he barricaded the bedroom door, casting a protection spell with trembling hands. It wouldn't hold, the inevitability crushed him. He kneeled by his wife's bed and took her hand in his. He hushed her panicked concerns; their baby was safe. He tried to pick Natalie up but she kept brushing his hands away. She's too weak, she said. There's no hope, she cried. Just leave, she yelled. But he didn't.

      He's there when Death Eaters slice through the protection spell. He's there when he managed to incapacitate a handful, but he's easily outnumbered. He's there when his wand was snatched from his hand. He's there when Nectarios Griswalde fired the killing curse that hit his wife square in the chest. At the heart, to the very soul. He's there when the light he adored left her eyes, when her heartbeat stopped, when her hand dropped limp. 

      Sirius Black was there when his wife was murdered.

      Nectarios Griswalde didn't gloat; he ran. Perhaps he knew of the rage sweltering within Sirius. If he stayed longer, he'd surely face the wrath of a freshly widowed man. Hell hath no fury than a man with nothing to lose. 

     Shivering, bloodied and on the verge of implosion, Sirius crawled to Natalie's bedside. His wand laid discarded on her chest, carelessly used and tossed. He didn't suffer the implications; he grabbed her body and sobbed. Lifeless brown stared unseeing, a brown previously filled with warmth. Sirius heaved rasping sobs that tore his throat raw. 

      This wasn't supposed to happen. After a successful, painless, smooth birth, they'd take their surprise baby to the Yates where all their friends and family were waiting to welcome them. The Potters, Longbottoms, Remus—Marlene and Dorcas even traveled from America. Barry splurged on an expensive roll of film because he told Sirius his grandchild deserved nothing but the best. They'd celebrate a rare bout of joy in trying wartime. Natalie was supposed to hold her baby in her arms as she walked through the door. 

      She wasn't supposed to die.

      Why her? Why not him? 

      Sirius couldn't stop crying. His lungs throbbed and his ribs stretched against his skin, yet he couldn't stop. He incoherently mumbled any and every healing spell Lily taught him, hoping above all else that Natalie was simply asleep. She'd flutter her eyes and bat him away, telling him she needed more sleep. It never happened. Sirius only managed to stop when raucous cries sounded from the back. Familiar, tiny wails. Sirius stumbled outside to find his baby lying in a pit of snow, little face red with terror and a small cut on her cheek. 

      Justine Franklin didn't make it more than three steps before she was hit with the killing curse. 

      Sirius gathered his baby into the crook of his arm, softly shushing her panicked cries. His thumb brushed over the bloody cut on her cheek and wiped away the trails of tears. Rage surged in a bountiful symphony, then it was quelled with an overflowing of guilt. She was threatened minutes after being born. Minutes. He tucked her small body against his chest, angling her away from the lifeless body of her godmother. He didn't care if she understood or not. No one should see such a thing. 

      He took his baby and he left that house. The house he signed with Natalie, the one he renovated with James as a final wedding gift, the one believed to be his forever home where he'd grow old with Natalie. He couldn't stomach the sight of it. Sirius Black would never return. 

     Instead, he'd disapparated to the Yates and knocked. Roars of laughter, shrill shrieks of children, clashing of utensils, all the sounds he'd imagined experiencing as a new family. Lily Potter opened the door, Martha Yates behind her. Sirius Black's tearful face and the lack of his wife's presence went above words. He kissed his daughter on the forehead, admired her drowsy little face, and handed her to Martha who stood frozen in the doorway. That was the last time he held her. 

     Sirius turned and left. 

     And for little Lorelei Yates, aptly named after Natalie's treasured grandmother, she doesn't remember her mother. She never felt her touch. There is no bond to sever. But she remembers the phantom thread of her father's touch and the green flash that welcomed her to a nominal milieu. Death escaped her, but it hasn't left. 

      The night Natalie Yates-Black died was different for everyone.

Chapter Text

     Oh, Lonnie's gonna kill her. 

     Incredibly reckless. Stupid. No, more like insanely stupid. Lorelei Yates knows her uncle'd say those very words. He might have good reason too. For once. 

     Leaves crinkle, twigs snap, foreign midnight creatures hiss deadly hymns, and Lorelei sucks in her breath with each tip-toed step taken. One rickety leather suitcase clamped in one hand with her wand shakily illuminating darkness in the other. The moonlight could only brighten so much through the thick, towering reeds protecting her uncle's property. Lonnie's usual strings of lights were shut off along with the various lanterns and crackling garden lights littered throughout his jungle of overgrown plants. 

     On top of it all, Lorelei couldn't remember the amplifier for Lumos. Of course when she needed it, she couldn't remember. She's stuck facing the dry darkness full of swarming insects and crawling reptiles. Each rustle in the reeds felt like the drop of a bomb, a Lonnie bomb. And why did no one tell her sneaking out is so hard? 

     Lorelei could see the faint outline of the bus stop hidden in dense shrubbery as she grows closer. The thing had to be covered in webs and insects considering how little it was used—Lonnie is much too paranoid nowadays. Come to think of it, only recently had he upped the protectiveness, still annoying. However, Lorelei isn't planning on taking non-wizard transportation. If her research is correct (Asking Hermione is, for once, out of the question), she wouldn't need a simple bus. 

     Huffing, Lorelei drags her baggage over to the side of the rickety bench and plops down, dangling her legs in front. Ignoring the looming abyss of darkened trees and midnight eyes, Lorelei glances behind her at Lonnie's house in the distance. It stands only a couple miles away atop a hillock. She's really quite surprised she made it this far without turning around. Clambering down Lonnie's death trap of a staircase was almost enough, and the shrill growls sounding from his attic didn't help. The second floor with its oddly designed roofing and misshapen windows peaked over the reeds. No light. No Lonnie. 

     With a sigh of relief, Lorelei turns her back on the house, shifting her wand to her other hand. It crackles for a moment as she momentarily loses focus. Despite knowing Lonnie is tucked away in his house, she feels like he'd spring out the darkness anyway. Anything is possible. Last year when the chamber of . . . What was it? She couldn't remember the name—opened, Lonnie nearly pulled her from Hogwarts. Immediately afterwards he was petrified which made his threat pretty useless, but the point still stands!

     After further silence besides the ringing bugs lurking around her continues, Lorelei groans. "C'mon you stupid bus!" She mumbles, tapping her leg up and down. 

     Harry said, to roughly quote, 'a magical bus appears to wizards in need.'

     Well, Lorelei feels she is in terrible need. 

     If it doesn't show up anytime soon, she knows she'll drag herself back to bed much to her chagrin. That might've happened before, but it's really not important. Harry didn't need to know; he'd tease her forever. The humiliation! 

     And just as she was about to turn around to make sure Lonnie hadn't woken up and turned on all the lights, a sudden hurricane of wind nearly toppled her over. Lorelei sputters as she knocks backwards into the bench, hair falling in front her face. Through the tresses, a big blue bus with two stories rattles and puffs black smoke. She could only blink. 

     The door shoves open to reveal a man with a crooked smile. He extends a hand towards her, beckoning her on. "Well c'mon, girl! 'eve ain't got all day!" 

     Lorelei stumbles to her feet. Hair blown every which way, leaves stuck in the tresses, dirt caked on her pants from the muddy, unused bench. Still, she brushes down her clothes, grabs her suitcase, and also makes sure to turn off the magical flashlight. The bus hums impatiently in front of her. 

     Her feet feel glued to the floor as she chews on her bottom lip, glancing back one more time at Lonnie's house. It feels like a stranger in the dark. The outside is almost unwelcoming. Yet if she quits now, she'd forever resign herself to embarrassment. Sucking in a breath, Lorelei faces the bus, smiles, and steps on. 

     "There we go!" The man smiles, and Lorelei sees yellow teeth. "Take a seat, love. And make sure to hold on!"

     Frowning, Lorelei is about to question his peculiar words when the bus jerks forwards, and she's thrown backwards into a seat. Her suitcase crashes into the window, and her wand almost flings out her hands. Oh, Lonnie would've been so upset if she lost her wand again. Her skin feels like it was being tightened around her bones, breath unable to escape at the sheer force of speed. To her left sat an older woman reading a newspaper with her legs crossed completely unbothered.  

     Facing forwards, Lorelei's face twists into a grimace. 

     Lonnie is so going to murder her. 

—

     Scratch that, her godparents are going to kill her first. 

     It is truly just her luck, if she has any, that Harry's parents are also staying at the Leaky Cauldron, which Harry neglected to disclose. She had no idea. So, blissfully unaware, Lorelei had opened the front door of the inn, hair unkempt and clothes askew, to find James and Lily chatting by a fireplace. Of course, Lorelei had slammed the door and jumped into an abandoned alleyway to hide. Thankfully, they hadn't seen her. 

     All Harry said was he ran away from home and wound up at the Leaky Cauldron via 'magical wizard bus.' It would've been helpful if he said his parents followed him there! 

     Lorelei huffs partially from anger and from the weight of her baggage hanging from her shoulder as she climbs the gutters to the second story. Yes, this is her plan. It is the only plan. Climb the gutters, not die, overcome her fear of heights, and knock Harry over the head. The gutter rocks to the left sharply and Lorelei stops for a second, closing her eyes. If she makes it out alive, Harry's in for it. 

     She digs the tip of her shoe into a crevice between the bricks and hoists herself the remaining way to the top. Her palms press into the ledge of Harry's window, bits of loose brick sticking to her skin. There is a small platform, only about a foot wide but just enough for her to crouch on. It's becoming abundantly clear wizards don't have the same safety regulations as non-wizards. Perhaps Lonnie has the right idea being so paranoid. 

     The inn isn't tall, but it's unusually built. Some windows have ledges protruding from the wall, others have bars covering the glass. The alleyway between the inn and its neighboring building, Lorelei's sure, is too close to pass regulations. Goodness, do wizards have any care for safety? During the first couple feet of the climb, she had to stealthily maneuver herself into a random pocket of dented bricks when she accidentally shrieked and James peaked his head out the window. 

     He has a short attention span. 

     With one last grunt, Lorelei moves so her right leg hangs off the ledge and her torso is pivoted towards the window. She makes binoculars with her hands to peer through frosty glass into nothing but darkness. Hopefully, this is Harry's room. She isn't entirely sure. It's more of an educated guess. He said second story. The ledge she's on is somewhere in the middle and tilted sideways. See what she means?

     Lorelei brings her fist to the window and knocks quietly, lightly tapping the glass. "Psst, Harry!" She whispers as a puff of breath freezes in the cold. 

     No response. 

     She knocks again this time a little louder. 

     "Harry! Hello? It's me, Lori? Harry!" 

     Still, nothing. 

     Lorelei rolls her eyes. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her wand. Holding it up to the window, she chants, "Lumos!"

     Bright light floods half the room, illuminating the edge of a bed pressed against the wall of the window. To her immense relief, Harry shoots up with a start, frantically moving his arms in the air. She bites the inside of her cheek to hide a laugh. The boy struggles to find his glasses and when he does, he finally realizes she's out there. He practically falls out of bed as he stumbles towards the window in confusion. 

     Lorelei frowns as Harry's lips move but the glass muffles it. 

     She gestures to open the window. 

     Harry pushes it open and sticks out his hand for her to take. When she does, he helps her inside. Lorelei bends at her knees, letting the warmth of the inn brighten her skin. She can feel his eyes on her. 

     "What're you doing here? It's the middle of the night!" Harry's voice is high but hushed. 

     In a second, Lorelei rounds on Harry and lightly smacks him on the shoulder. He winces as she narrows her eyes. "Did you not get my letter? I said I was coming!"

     "I didn't think you were serious!" 

     "Of course I'm serious!" She whisper-yells. "I didn't take a, might I add, terrifying magical bus just to not show up!"

     "You took the bus?" His astonishment is kind of offensive. 

     "No, Harry. I walked," Lorelei deadpans, placing her hands on her hips. "Of course, I took the bus! I can't very well walk can I? Lonnie lives in the middle of nowhere—that doesn't even matter. You said you wanted me here!"

     "I meant with Lonnie!" He groans, rubbing a hand across his face. "My parents are gonna kill me."

     Ah yes, the parents Harry neglected to mention. 

     "Speaking of your parents," Lorelei begins, walking towards his bed, "why didn't you tell me they're here?!"

     "Because I didn't think you'd actually come!"

     She rubs a hand down her face and flops backwards onto his bed. Instead of sinking into a delightfully comfortable mattress, her back hits metal springs and material that feels like concrete. Is this a prison? Lorelei hears Harry stepping closer where she presumes is in front of her. His leg faintly brushes her thigh. 

     "Look," he starts and Lorelei dreads his words, "is there any way you could get back? Maybe Lonnie doesn't know yet!"

     Propping herself onto her elbows, Lorelei stares blankly at Harry. 

     He nods. "Right. Already called the police I take it."

     "He's got super senses, Harry!" 

     With a sigh, Harry sits down next to her, looking straight ahead. The subtle beams of moonlight brushes his face with a soft glow. The green of his eyes soften, like velvet. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly, and she can see the age written in his expression. "I'm glad you're here." It's a breathless whisper, almost nonexistent. If not for the complete silence and her senses attuned to him, she would've missed it. 

     She's reminded of his letters. His vagueness that tried to hide the clear, underlying truth, the hurt. He was drawn out of the protection of his parents and into the chilling embrace of a wild animal. These were troubling times indeed. 

     Still, Lorelei grins and playfully knocks into him. "I told you I'd come," she assures. "You know I never lie."

     The boy next to her scoffs. "Yeah? My quidditch uniform not count?"

     "No, that doesn’t count," she laughs quietly. "Fred made me swear!" 

     "I had to play with a pink uniform!"

     "It washed out!"

     It did, in fact, not wash out. 

     Dancing through the memories, Harry flops down onto the bed beside her. His left arm falls across her stomach and she pushes it off with a small giggle. The tips of her ears blaze from the icy air rolling through the opening Harry forgot to close. 

     "And what're you gonna tell my mum when she sees you?" 

     Well, let's just say she never got that far. 

     "I wouldn't have to say anything if you'd told me they were here," she hisses, facing him with a steely glare. But it doesn't reach her eyes, they're flooded with playfulness. 

     The horrifically uncomfortable bed rattles, hinges squeaking unnervingly. Through the beams of moonlight Harry rolls his eyes. "Oh my god—how many times? I told you not to come!" 

     "No, you didn't."

     "It was implied!"

     A laugh escapes Lorelei despite her efforts to conceal it. She covers her mouth, cheeks flooding with pink. All at once, the two partake in silence, waiting for approaching footsteps or the creaking of doors opening in caution. There's nothing. 

     Lorelei removes her hands as she breaths a sigh of relief. "Whew! Wouldn't wanna get us caught."

     "Us?!" Harry's whisper-shout is in disbelief. "This is all you!"

     "I'm telling James you forced me. Who's he gonna believe?" Lorelei's lips rise into a cheeky smile at Harry's abrupt silence. "That's what I thought."

     "Not fair. He only likes you more because you don't live with us," Harry says as he turns to face the ceiling. They both do. They lay with their legs touching and shoulders together, hands pressed onto their stomachs. She tries to ignore the stiff mattress, instead focusing on Harry's relaxed breathing. A familiar rhythm.

     The ceiling she stares at might not have been arched with two wooden beams stabilizing the roof, streamers, wind chimes, and paper butterflies hanging from them. Nor did it have glowing plastic stars covering every inch with the empty space left for paper mache planets—Lonnie said he'd bring the stars to her. She'd have her own galaxy. It doesn't have any of those things, maybe some cobwebs, yet Lorelei Yates feels at home. 

Chapter Text

     Morning sun flows dimly through glass panes, illuminating the side of Lorelei's head as she sits on Harry's bed. He'd gone downstairs as soon as the sun crested over the horizon. Whatever was left of the night, Lorelei had spent tossing and turning next to him. She'd hogged the comforter too (Sorry, Harry!). At some point, he decided he'd had enough of her indecisiveness and sat in the unsanitary armchair in the corner the rest of the night. Still, she slept pleasantly and undisturbed. 

     Of the many things Lorelei would call herself, sneaky is not one of them. Softly latched doors on the eve of midnight, curtains knotted into makeshift rope thrown out windows, tiptoes and tense inhales. Not her thing. It isn't that Lorelei's incapable, it's that she's easily distracted. One night, she ventured off Lonnie's property to view the nearby creek. She tossed stones and crafted a ring of flowers for a friendly toad. She had her fun, returned, then made herself a snack with all the leisure in the world. 

    Made lots and lots of noise, even carelessly ripped open a package of crisps. Lorelei'd simply forgotten she was supposed to be sneaky. Her uncle caught her red handed (Literally. She had jelly on her fingers), but he was utterly dumbfounded how she'd gotten through his magical barriers. Lorelei didn't know either; she just strolled through. Some protection, right? Also, Lorelei's least favorite outcome is being grounded. She's a free spirit! 

     So, once Lorelei awoke and remembered where she spent the night, she practically shoved Harry downstairs to discover if his parents, or her uncle, had plotted her murder. What she'd do if they did . . . well, she didn't get that far nor did she know what she'd say if they didn't. She's workshopping it.

     "It's over for you." 

     Lorelei startles out of her planning as Harry bursts through the door. Her stomach drops at the words. "What?" Her voice is still hushed as a hopeless precaution. "What d'you mean? Do they know? No! Don't say anything, obviously they know. How mad are they? Scale, one to ten. Quickly, Harry, quickly!"

     Harry closes the door and moves slowly towards his bed, and she notices how he can't meet her eyes. It does not settle her nerves. Not in the slightest. He scratches the back of his neck. "Well, in order from least to greatest. My mum, my dad, then Lonnie." 

     "Numbers, Harry!"

     "Seriously? Fine. Six, nine, a hundred." 

     "Nuts!"

    Lorelei ignores Harry's snicker at her 'curse,' rubbing her hands along her thighs and applying pressure. Naturally, her eyes gravitate towards the window as the thought of running away a second time crosses her mind. Wouldn't matter—Lonnie'd hunt her down like a bloodhound. 

     She can feel Harry's gaze as she stares down at the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. Tired witches and wizards dressed in their finest robes, dragging themselves to their respected careers. She imagines Lonnie carrying his briefcase walking amongst them, fitting right in as if he always belonged. He always did more than her. The wires on her braces bury into her gums as she rubs her mouth. 

     "They're really not that mad," Harry reassures, shrugging. The bedsheets ruffle as he sets his leg up to face her. "More at me, which is actually ridiculous. Always happens, too. They love you more than their own son!" 

     Lorelei rolls her eyes, not turning around. A man in a tweed suit stops in the street and pulls a rather large pocket watch from his coat. "You're exaggerating." 

     "My dad blamed me for 'tarnishing your innocence.'!" 

     "Well, you did!" 

     "Like you ever were!" He scoffs. "If only they knew how evil you really are." 

     Rigid, Lorelei pivots on her heel and takes measured steps towards Harry. "I'll show you evil—"

     Luckily, before Harry embraces eternal youth, the sound of footsteps echoes in the corridor. At once, they both freeze. Their eyes are similarly blown wide, tongues heavy with readying pleas. Two sets, different gaits. Oh no. This'll be her doom. Hushed voices land outside their room. 

    Lorelei begins flapping her arms around in a panic, mouthing words to Harry he doesn't understand. He gestures to the door as if to say she should open it—is he serious? What a terrible idea! Without thinking, Lorelei rushes to the windowsill and leverages her fingers under the mechanism to push it upward. Chilly air floods the small room with each inch revealed. 

     "What're you doing?!" Harry whisper-shouts, bolting upright at her display. 

     Lorelei hears him come behind her, but she's more focused on putting one leg through the aperture. Goosebumps pimple on her skin from the glacial weather. She is not going to be lectured by her godparents. Unfortunately, Harry doesn't seem to follow her wavelength (He rarely does). He grabs her arm tightly, panicked, and tries pulling her back inside. 

     Misfortune returns to spite her as James and Lily Potter choose this exact time to enter their son's room. Upon entrance, they're stunned to see what appears to be Harry shoving Lorelei out of a two story window. 

     "Harry?!" James's shrill shout of alarm startles them both. 

     Harry immediately drops Lorelei's arm and places his arms at his sides, smiling innocently with askew glasses. "Dad!" He chuckles. "Uh, hi! Good-good morning . . . again."

     Sharp, icy winds squeeze Lorelei's head with pressure, yet her body remains frozen halfway out the window. Perhaps if she stands very still she'll become invisible. 

     "Lorelei?"

     It appears she isn't. 

     Groaning, Lorelei ducks through the opened glass and dons her infamously angelic smile as she turns to face her godparents. They are not impressed. Lily's arms are crossed and while she's clearly worried, there's more frustration than anything. But her husband? Distressed. James's eyes are bugged, filled with a mixture of confusion and concern. His pallor is deep, cheeks void of rosiness. In two strides, he crosses the room and places his hands atop her shoulders. Lorelei's head bobs back and forth as he shakes her. 

     "You're too young, Lorelei!" James wails, continuing his absurd motions. She cannot tell if he's experimenting with a new act or if he's entirely serious. "Life is precious. You're precious!" 

     "Um, Mr. Potter—"

     "Live! Live, I say!" 

     "James," Lily sighs. 

     Giving one last shake for good measure, James pats her cheek (squishing it too because he can) then releases her. "Yeah, alright. I'm done," he smiles, but it is tight lipped. 

     Lorelei's left motionless and disastrously flummoxed. He didn't really think she intended to fall face-first onto pavement . . . right? Her gaze flits to Harry's, yet he offers the simplest shrug in response. Maybe Mr. Potter aimed to apply a distraction technique. Catch enemies off guard, then enact a full-force strike. She angles her torso backwards, like she's trying to avoid the man. Lonnie's not this weird. 

     Sparing no niceties and unfazed by her husband's odd behavior, Lily clears her throat. "We need to speak to you, Lorelei," she says firmly, tilting her head towards the door. 

     Lorelei sighs. "Right." 

     She doesn't spare Harry another glance as she follows the elder Potters into the hallway. Lots of help, he was! James latches the door behind him and proceeds to place his hands inside his pockets, standing stiffly. Lorelei doesn't like their stares. They're unnerving . . . unusual. She really doesn't like being scolded. Her godfather is a man of a thousand smiles. By presence alone, he lights up a room. Even when he was manhandling her, it was an act of playfulness. A tension breaker, perhaps. 

     Now, well, he's frowning. It's not correct. 

     "Lonnie owled us last night," Lily begins, and Lorelei flutters her eyelids closed. "Many times, in fact. Imagine our surprise to learn you'd gone missing. No note, no information. We'd almost contacted the Ministry, Lorelei! Do you know the trouble this has caused us?"

     Lorelei's innate desire to defend herself flares. "He's overreacting. I had plenty of reasons to do what I did!"  

     James rolls his eyes. "Oh, yeah? And what're they?"

     "Well . . ." She stumbles—he's not supposed to ask for clarification! "Well, um, Lonnie's dreadfully boring! It's like giving the ability to speak to a rock!"

     Lily glares at her husband when he nods in agreement. 

     "You know perfectly well that's not a reason. You're smarter than this, Lorelei." Lily frowns. Lorelei has to look away; she hates making her upset. Her smile is so beautiful. "You can't keep putting Lonnie through this."

     "The giant snake wasn't my fault!" 

     "Nah. But sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest was," James adds, and she huffs. Technically, that wasn't her doing either. A nasty bout of somnambulism will have anyone traversing cursed forests at midnight. 

     Silence descends upon them like the thickest of clouds. Lily never once breaks her attentive stare, yet there's an impurity hidden within her emerald irises. Gloominess that's scuffed naturally beautiful jewels. Lorelei can't decipher it, but it's familiar. It's an inclusion often found in her relatives. She'll catch them staring, words lost in translation. Sometimes Lorelei wonders if they're seeing her at all. 

     Sound returns. Clinking utensils and glassware echo in the inn's atrium, bellyfuls of laughter spilling over the balcony. Lorelei hears the slow whistling of today's breeze careen from under Harry's door; he must've forgotten to close the window. 

     After a moment, Lily sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I know you're young and you think Lonnie's ruining your life, but you're just a child, Lorelei." Her voice is somehow gentle and chastising at the same time. "It's not safe to go off on your own. I don't know what Harry told you, but it isn’t safe. Neither of you should've been outside alone. This cannot and will not happen again. Understood?"

     Despite having no familial relation to Lily, Lorelei finds herself instantly nodding in confirmation. 

     James gives another light smile and claps his hands together. "Great! Glad we're on the same page here!" He scratches the back of his head. "Uh, I guess I should also state that I agree with Lily. Running away is never the answer!"

     "Thanks, honey," Lily scoffs.

     "Oh! And you gotta go back with Lonnie."

     Lorelei's eyes widen. "No, no, no! He's the reason I left in the first place! He's acting more insane than usual!"

     "Lorelei, love—"

     "—I haven't ever ridden the train! Please, I have to go at least once!"

     James sputters. "I'm sorry what? You've never taken the train?! Not once?!"

     "No!" She cries. "I spent so much time convincing Lonnie not to go back two weeks early, but he never listens. It's horrible there! No one's ever around and all the teachers grow bored of me so quickly, especially Snape. He ignores me the whole time!" Not that she minds it. "Lonnie refuses to let me ride the train. He thinks it'll explode or something. Everyone says I'm not missing much, but I beg to differ!"

     "James," Lily warns, already sensing her husband's trail of thought.

     "Lily. Light of my life, my eternal love, my flower," he begins, taking her hands in his. 

     "This doesn't involve us. We can't speak for him," she counters immediately and shakes off his hands. 

     "He's not gonna mind! As long as she makes it to Hogwarts in one piece, he'll be fine," James assures, yet his voice is not convincing. 

     Lorelei stifles a laugh. Her uncle would almost certainly not be fine with her taking the train. He'd implode. Truly, it isn't funny. Lonnie's filled with so much anger he doesn't know where to place it. Heat rushes to his face like a rising thermometer, and his knuckles always crack from the sheer force of clenching them. It's like he gains more mass when he's emboldened by rage. He takes up space, and it's frightening. Recently, his temper's been flaring. Lonnie's on edge all the time, and she's desperate for an escape. 

     Lorelei meets Lily's quick gaze before the woman moves her firm stare to her husband. She jabs a finger into his chest. "I don't want any part in this." James lights up and his mouth opens to say something, but she silences him. "You will tell Lonnie this was another one of your outrageous ideas, and I had zero part in it. I am sick of receiving howlers because of you!"

     Lorelei winces at the mention of the screaming messages (Who invented those?!). Personally, she's not been on the receiving end, but she's aware how grating they can be. Again, a glimpse into her uncle's poor anger management. He's not fond of unappealing, piercing noises—dislikes when she's got the television too loud, annoyed at his radio's imperfect volume control, picky about enclosed crowds. Maybe his hearing's fading? The Yates aren't renowned for their auditory escalades. Either way, Lonnie is undoubtedly, wholeheartedly furious. 

     The man has a short fuse, and Lorelei always lights the match. 

     "Lily, c'mon! He's never sent you any!"

     "You know they open regardless if you're present or not right? Just because you 'happen' to be gone when they arrive doesn't mean they don't shout." 

     Laughing somewhat guiltily, James rubs his hands up and down her arms. "Yes, well, Lonnie happens to adore you way more than me!" He bares his teeth in an awkward smile. "Trust me, the only one he'll scream at is me!" 

     "You know that isn't reassuring right?" Lily deadpans. 

     "It's her first time on the train! This is a quintessential staple for witches and wizards and I'll be damned if she misses another year!" 

     Turning away from James with a sigh, Lily looks down at Lorelei with furrowed brows. Her stare is once again burdened by an unseen weight; it lacks her gentle gleam, the delight of having another girl around. "Lorelei, I need you to promise us—me—that you won't ever, no matter how boring, run away. Your uncle's just trying to keep you safe, and I know you don't understand that right now. Promise me?"

     There it is again, this time present in her tone. An underlying plea seeps into the cadences of each word. What does Mrs. Potter shoulder? Lorelei frowns. "I promise."

     Lily attempts a smile but it doesn't touch her eyes, then she turns away. She pats James on the shoulder, whispers something in his ear to cause him to nod and drop his shit-eating grin, before walking down the hall. She disappears into a room presumed her own. Lorelei feels cold without Lily's usual embrace. 

     Now, James stands in his wife's place and dons an uncharacteristically serious expression. Without Lily by his side, he shoves his hands into his trouser's pockets and rocks backwards onto his heels. Without realizing, Lorelei mirrors his movements. 

     "Er, Lorelei?"

     "Mm?"

     James takes one hand and runs it through his mound of curls. "As godfather, which you know I take very seriously, it is my sacred duty to guide you spiritually." A long pause. "And I can also override Lonnie's stupid rules occasionally, but . . ." He pauses again. "But it is extremely—"

     Like clockwork, Lorelei finishes his words. "Dangerous to run away, and I shouldn't do it?"

     "Okay, yes. Obviously." He rolls his eyes at her attitude. "What I was going to say is if you ever need a moment away from Lonnie, which we all understand, just ask us. There's . . . things out there that aren't safe for you and Harry." 

     It isn't that Lorelei's bravery surpasses her fear, she's afraid of a lot of things (Heights, mirrors, neutral colors), it's the choice of words. Lonnie's go to phrase: 'There's things out there that aren't safe.' Yet, he always refuses to explain. Does he mean the foxes that hide in his gardens, or the pot hole by the bus stop that can fit a small child (Exactly what you think happened, happened), or perhaps the followers of Who-Shan't-Be-Named? 

     He never elaborates, so she's always left with confusion at his quandary and a lack of preparedness. How can she be safe if she doesn't know what's supposedly so dangerous?

     "Like what?"

     "Things . . ." 

     James doesn't explain either. Is there anyone who will?

     "Things? Seriously?" Lorelei asks, then she shakes her head. "Lonnie must get it from you . . ." 

     "Hey! That's offensive!" James's voice is shrill. Though as Lorelei looks at him, she spots the edge of a smile. "We are entirely un-alike!" 

     "I think the resemblance is uncanny," she concludes smugly. There's a slight creaking behind Harry's door, so slight it's barely noticeable. Clearly, he got bored by the absence of bavardage. He's no doubt strewing together a juicy letter to Ron. "Ask Mrs. Potter. She'll agree."

     "Lily always agrees with you," her godfather huffs, crossing his arms. 

     "Not about the train," Lorelei mumbles, picking at the fuzz on her sleeves. 

     James laughs. "True. But she's responsible. Don't take notes from me, Lorelei." He says it with the cadence of a joke, yet she thinks he's serious. "I just happen to be one of the only ones able to handle Lonnie."

     (Herself, Nana, Auntie Elle, James, and occasionally Remus Lupin. Very short list). 

     "He won't be . . . um, too angry right?" Her voice trails off in the middle as she clears her throat. She expects James to pepper her with reassurances, give her a response to alleviate her anxiety. Instead, he smiles widely, showing his teeth. Unnerving, amused and faraway, slightly nostalgic. 

     "You should've thought of that earlier, Lemony."

—

     After being told off, Lorelei was instructed by Lily to write a letter to her uncle confirming her safety and detailing her plan to take the train when the time comes. In all honesty, each scribbled word feels like signing her will. Lonnie's already going to be irritated by seeing James's owl, so he'll be doubly annoyed just by seeing hers. She considered calling him, then she remembered she was in a wizard establishment. Last time she dare suggest such a horror, everyone thought she'd wiggled a screw loose. And Lorelei can't say she wants to hear Lonnie's voice. 

     Not when it'll be all sorts of yelling. 

    Lorelei hasn't mastered the use of a quill despite using it almost daily during school. It's just so difficult to use. The thing's awkward to hold, runs out of ink far too fast, and isn't optimal for her 'chicken-scratch' handwriting, in her Nana's words. Lonnie had her practicing over the summer, yet it proved futile. He couldn't read any of it. Unfortunately, her stash of mechanical pens was swiftly confiscated after her professors assumed she was cheating. 

     Truly, Lorelei wants to know what her godparents said to Lonnie, what magical incantation or soothing elixir was enclosed within their letters, to calm him down. Several hours have passed since she ran off and he hasn't shown his face. It only makes her more nervous about returning to Hogwarts. That confrontation will be messy. 

     Suddenly, the door swings open, hinges squeaking as it crashes against the wall surely leaving a dent. When Lorelei startles, her hand slips sideways along with the quill. Several words are blotted and scratched by rouge ink. Unreadable meets unreadable. She spins in her seat with a deadly glare. "Harry! Ugh! Now I'm gonna have to start over!" 

     "Hermione's asking for you—wait, you're still writing?" Harry laughs. He's not feeling guilty at all. "How long does it take to write Lonnie?"

     Lorelei glowers at him as she wipes the ink on her trousers. Hopefully, Nana won't be too mad she stained her pants. "I would've been done if you'd just have knocked!" She snaps. 

     Laughing again, Harry walks towards the desk and peers over her shoulder at the unfinished letter. He squints at it, angling his head side to side. "Wow! How can you even read this?" He swipes the parchment before she can react. "It's practically impossible."

     "Hey! Give it back!" Lorelei shouts, trying to snatch the letter back but Harry dodges her attempts. "Harry!"

     "'Dear Lonnie.' Well, at least that's legible," Harry reads. He holds the letter close to his face as he ducks over to avoid her grabbing hands. "I am . . . uh, very? Is that even a v? It looks like an o. I am very sorry I . . left . . . with-without telling you. It was . . not . . . my . . . I'm not even gonna try that word—ouch!"

     Lorelei pinches under his arm which finally causes him to drop the letter. Before its fluttery wings can touch the floor, she dives for it and holds it close to her chest as she pants. She throws another glare his way, nostrils flaring. "That's what you get!"

     "You pinch hard!" Harry complains. 

     "Deserved! 

     Of course, this is the moment Arthur Weasley chooses to enter. Seriously, how does this keep happening? Hoping to talk with Lorelei, Arthur had seen Harry's door ajar accompanied by loud screaming. He'd looked down the hall at the staircase to see if the Potters would come running. They didn't. Perhaps it was a common occurrence. He had peaked through and was astonished to see Harry doubled over in what appeared to be pain, and Lorelei red faced and out of breath holding crumpled parchment. 

     Just like his own. 

     "Is this a bad time?"

     The new voice startles Lorelei. She shrieks and turns to the door, and her eyes widen at the visitor. "Mr. Weasley!" Her voice cracks from the hoarseness. "Oh my, how do you do?"

     The older man smiles slightly but just like Lily earlier, it doesn't reach his eyes. He looks tense. "I'm well, Lorelei. Thank you." Mr. Weasley tips his head, hands in his pockets. "If it's not a . . . bad time, I was wondering if I might have a word?" 

     "No, no—s'all good here, Mr. Weasley!" Lorelei assures, dropping the letter to her side. Out of the corner of her eye, Harry shifts on his feet. He'd righted himself, but his sweater is twisted to the side. "Is something the matter?"

     Before he responds, she catches Mr. Weasley stealing a glance at Harry. Through that gaze they seem to share some kind of subtle understanding. It doesn't ease her suspicions. First Lonnie, then James and Lily, and now Harry and Mr. Weasley. 

     "Everything's . . . fine!" Mr. Weasley assures quickly, too quickly to mean anything. "I'd just like a word. That's all."

     Lorelei frowns. Judging by his reluctance to look her in the eyes and his fidgeting fingers, she knows he's hiding something. Nevertheless, Lorelei tucks her letter in her back pocket (Harry will never see it again) and walks out followed by Mr. Weasley. 

     She stops outside Harry's room, but the patriarch of the Weasleys shakes his head and gestures down the hallway of the inn. Lorelei furrows her brows as he leads her to an empty room. Entering, she notices it is identical to Harry's except for the double beds. They could do with more decorations, she thinks. The door shuts behind her, and it only increases her nerves. Whatever he has to say has to be spoken in secrecy. 

     "Now, Lorelei," He begins, wringing his hands. "I'm not sure the Ministry will take kindly my divulging of certain details, but I feel as though it's important you know." 

     He's beginning to scare her. 

     "What's the matter, sir?" 

     "What has your uncle told you about Sirius Black?"

     Lorelei freezes at the name. The floor squeaks as she shifts. She hasn't heard the name in years, not a mention nor a peep. With what he did, what grief he's caused her family, she understands. But Lonnie? Never in her life had he uttered that name. It's like poison on their tongues. She clears her throat. "Nothing, sir. He won't talk about anything like that around me."

     Mr. Weasley nods though he seems more concerned than he was before. "I see. So he hasn't told you anything in the past months?" 

     "Not a thing."

     He scratches at his head with a puzzled expression. Finally, he looks her in the eyes. "Lorelei, I know your uncle won't like me telling you this, but I fear you're in great danger." 

     Those words punch her in the gut. 

     "Danger?" She chokes out, fear lacing her voice. Memories of the Hospital Wing, off-tasting pumpkin juice, and rings of fire crash through her eyes. 

     "Extreme." He confirms. "Two months ago, Sirius Black escaped Azkaban." 

     Lorelei begins to feel faint. Escaped? How can that be? Lonnie swore Azkaban was impenetrable, yet he's free? Has this been the reason why he's on edge? Accompanying her to all locations, barring her from visiting her friends, hours spent reinforcing every precaution protecting his property. Lorelei brings a hand to her mouth. Harry.

     "Have you told the Potters?" Her voice is urgent. Every witch and wizard is familiar with the night of October 31st, 1981. Lorelei remembers being briefed by her uncle the summer before first year. The Boy Who Lived, also the boy she spilled mashed potatoes all over. "They know, don't they?" 

     Mr. Weasley smiles sadly. "Yes. They know. They've known since it occurred though Harry's only recently found out." He smooths the surface of his overcoat. "I'm sure you know the reasons why Black escaping is critical."

      Oh, Lorelei is aware alright. The Christmas day rendered taboo in her household. He's the reason her birthday's familiar is a funeral. 

     "There are some in the Ministry who think Mr. Black is going to attempt finishing what he started," Mr. Weasley continues, and her heartbeat drops with each word. Finish what he started. The older man notices the terror on her face and sighs. "I find it strange Lonnie hasn't said anything, but after your . . . nighttime escapade—yes, Mr. Potter told me—the danger is insurmountable." 

     Lorelei meets his eyes. "Mr. Potter told me there were things out there. Is this that thing?"

    For a brief moment, Mr. Weasley hesitates. The muscles around his mouth twitch and pull, yet not a word escapes, "Yes. This is one of those things." 

     If she's only just found out, then her family must not know. It's not fair to keep this hidden; it's not safe. She needs them safe. Yet imagining their terror stricken faces—Barry's sorrowful eyes and Nana's beautiful smile downturned in sadness—keeps her determination at bay. Because what if she couldn't protect them? She barely scrapes by in Defense, how can she expect herself to protect anyone?

     "You needn't be worried, Lorelei," Mr. Weasley assures, breaking her out of her thoughts. "You will be thoroughly protected. There is no place safer than Hogwarts!"

     Lorelei thinks there are many places safer. 

Chapter Text

     Crowds. 

     Big, bustling groups of people, running, shoving, and shouting. All walks of life. Mothers with children, chiding them for being too noisy or horsing around; greying elders ambling with gold-tipped canes and flouncy rimmed hats; bureaucrats with suspicious briefcases and billowing trench coats. Of course, a crowd speciality, the runners. Those who've missed their rows of alarms, waking late and speedily dressing. Now, they shove through passersby to board the train, an apology merely an afterthought. 

     Lorelei has witnessed her fair share of crowds. Back before her uncle's protective nature grew tenfold, she would go with her Nana to local farmer's markets. Oh, they were beautiful. Each stand was filled to the brim with bouquets of spring flowers, jars of unique flavors of jams, and fresh, crusty loaves of bread. People'd go shop by shop, woven baskets full of handcrafted goods. Nana's favorite stand was the one with hand-spun, naturally dyed wool; she claims it's the best in the world. Of course, the Yates' diner was a hectic place in its prime. The thing could be busy on the weekends. 

     While Nana adored skeins of fuzzy yarn, she's never been fond of crowds. Also, Lorelei was a bit small as a child (Late bloomer, unfortunately). It wasn't irrational to assume she'd wind up lost amidst the chaos. And Lonnie's suggestion of a leash was promptly ignored. Thankfully. 

     Stuffy throngs of people aren't scary to Lorelei. They're familiar. When she was little, her family traveled to Scotland's Highlands. Acres of grassy fields encompassed the lands, littered with homely villages and livestock. She loved the cows. Not matter how much begging, Barry wouldn't let her smuggle one home. In droves, they roam boundless hillocks. Lorelei doesn't mean this in a bad way, but it's how she views people. They're like herds of cattle shepherded by the call of the train. Makes it nicer that way. 

     People make her smile. They make her laugh. Happy. If Lorelei had her way, she'd befriend the entire world. Stranger is unfounded in her vocabulary, much to her uncle's dismay. She wants to make people feel how she does. Life is so extraordinary! She'll share her whimsically tinted glasses if she must. And yet, there's something off about this station. It's an off taste she can't quite shake. 

     Lorelei's been inside King's Cross before, and it wasn't so nerve racking. She doesn't know what it is, why she feels so . . . odd. Her first time, she breezed through the magical platform. That's not the issue, nor has it ever been. As she walked through the mob of witches and wizards, she felt as if they were all sneering, angry, glaring. Every grunt, every bump, it felt intentional. Mr. Weasley's words meant as a precaution delved into paranoia. Behind every cart full of baggage, Lorelei expected Sirius Black to claim his vengeance. 

     A man, a wizard, had looked down upon her as she stumbled by with Hermione Granger. He leered at her. Lorelei can't recall Sirius Black's features. For all she knows, it could've been him. Luckily, James entered with them, and he told him off. If that man really was a known criminal, she doesn't think James would let him off scot free. 

     Here, Lorelei stands in front of a towering metal machine huffing black smoke. Its crimson exterior is aflame. The more she stares, the more the colors and various contraptions start to swirl together in blackness. A blackhole expunging all forms of matter, descending the world in inky nothingness. The locomotive feels angry, and she doesn't like it. 

     "Are you okay?

     Lorelei startles, eyes wide as she turns to Hermione who frowns at her in concern. 

     "You've been staring at the train for five minutes," she states matter-of-factly. 

     Lorelei blinks. Oh. That would be weird. She smiles softly and nods, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I'm peachy, 'Mione. Thank you."

     Her friend looks unconvinced. Hermione has the unique ability to read her like a picture book. It's more than a parlor trick or a supernatural sixth sense. Though less fun, Hermione claims it's all behavioral science. Body language is a tell-all, whatever that means. Lorelei just believes girls are more perceptive. Gosh, Ron certainly never picked up on anything. 

     "If you're worried about the train, don't be." Hermione assures, gently brushing shoulders. "It's really not as bad as it looks, and train travel is one of the safest forms of travel."

     Lorelei furrows her eyebrows. She tries to ignore the sneering locomotive. "Is that true?"

     Ahead, a distant voice calls, "Lorelei! Hermione! Let's go!" 

     Hermione holds out her arm for her to take, and she does so without hesitation. "Of course!" Her friend replies. They walk in sync, and she thinks it's similar to marching tin soldiers. "Train derailments are quite common, but rarely fatal. Comparatively, vehicles and airplanes equate for the highest number of accidents per annum." 

     Lorelei's never been on a plane, but she's always wanted to. While she has a slight fear of heights, there's something enamoring about soaring through the sky. Touch the clouds. She wants to watch the sunrise on its level. Although, Nana experienced a problematic bout of turbulence on her last flight, so she's more inclined to other forms of travel. 

     A man dressed in a velvet overcoat and newsboy hat bumps Lorelei's shoulder. Her heartbeat spikes, yet she doesn't turn as he continues walking. Hermione's arm tightens around hers as she begins whispering under her breath. People are so rude. He didn't even apologize! 

     As they approach the train, Mrs. Weasley ushers her long line of ginger children aboard. She wraps each one in a tight embrace and kisses their foreheads despite raucous protests. Off to the side, Harry was squished in his mother's arms, attempting to squirm out of her death-grip. His father stood behind him, eyes scanning the crowd. James smiles when she approaches, visibly relieved she hadn't accidentally wandered onto the train tracks. 

     He frowns at her winded expression, looking down at her through his twinkling spectacles. "You alright there, Lorelei?"

     "She's just afraid of the train." Hermione responds for her. It's not meant in a cruel way, only a statement of pure fact. Because it is true, she is afraid of the giant metal monster apparently more capable of derailing than she originally thought. How fun. 

     Lorelei flushes in embarrassment and ducks her head down. Witches aren't afraid of trains. 

     Though James doesn't laugh. His head tilts sideways in a look of understanding, yet there's that indecipherable emotion present. Yearning, perhaps? A vacant look of nostalgia, like the kind her uncle experiences every now and then. What troubles them? 

     "Yeah, I remember my first time. I almost cried." James laughs (Someone he knows would've caught the double entendre), scratching his nape. "Begged my parents to take me home. My dad carried me on board, which did haunt me all year. It's funny I ran right into—" He cuts himself off. "Ah, never mind. Changed my life, that train." 

     "I've just never done it without Lonnie," Lorelei shyly admits. Every year, she makes the journey hand-in-hand with her uncle. She almost misses him. Almost. 

     "Understandable. Has Lonnie told you about his first time?" 

     Her muscles twitch into a smile. "No? What'd he do?" She prompts eagerly. 

     "Uh, well, he might've thrown a total fit." Lorelei's eyes widen as she hungrily devours this precious ammo. He refuses to acknowledge his time at Hogwarts, no matter her relentless pressing. "Remus and I had to sit with him so he'd quit crying. We hid under the seat when the cart rolled by. Made Lonnie laugh." He smirks at the memories. "We went all the way to Hogsmeade. Godric, Minnie gave us the mother of all scoldings."

     Lorelei opens her mouth to demand more embarrassing memories, but a roaring whistle echos bounces off the arched ceiling. It echoes a warning. The nostalgia swimming in James's eyes dissolves as he resurfaces. 

     "Er, Hermione? Mind giving us a moment?" James asks, messing with his hair. "She'll be there soon."

     Hermione glances at Lorelei to make sure she's alright, before she nods, unlinking their arms. "See you on the train!" She chirps with a bright grin. 

     Once she bounded over to Ron and presumably got into a feisty argument, James gestures to a quieter location off to the side. And it happens to be right near the bins, which are stinking of unfinished pastries and aromas of bitter coffee. She wrinkles her nose. Did it have to be around trash? 

     "What's wrong?" Lorelei questions. She assumes whatever he has to say is on the bad side given how many weird conversations she's had recently. If she had a nickel . . . 

     "Nothing. Absolutely nothing's wrong—well, there is something wrong, but you don't need to worry about it!" James rambles, then abruptly closes his mouth. He mulls over his thoughts as he absentmindedly smooths his eyebrow. "I just wanted to ask, and this'll probably sound odd so bear with me, if you'd keep an open mind. There are some things you might hear regarding . . . things that aren't totally truthful. They aren't what they seem."

     Things. Things. Things. Too many things!

     "I'm confused."

     There's a moment of silence, as silent as things can be in a train station, where James stares into the distance. A ghost passes through his eyes. Slowly, she inches closer. She's wary of the passing witches and wizards, afraid of tight-lipped unpleasantries. Her anxieties aren't as potent with James nearby. Harry's a brilliant wizard, so his father must be extraordinary. Oftentimes she wishes she could be as good as them both. The train whistles its warning again. 

     "Open mind. That's it," James finally breathes. 

     Lorelei wants to ask more questions because he is being exceedingly difficult to understand, but he places his hands on her shoulders and pushes her towards the Express. "Time to go! Don't wanna miss it and end up like Harry last year!" At first it's a rushed joke, then it turns monotone. "Seriously, Lonnie will kill me."

     "But I—"

     Once more Lorelei is cut off, this time by Lily who rushes forward to envelop her in a crushing embrace. She's frozen, arms locked at her sides. Oddly, her heart clenches as she instinctively melts into the soothing warmth. Seconds later Lily pulls away and cups Lorelei's face in her palms. "Lorelei, love. Please be cautious this year. Oh, and listen to Lonnie!" 

     "Thank you! I—"

     The tips of her ears tinge red as her frustration steadily grows. The train gives one last call, and Lily ushers her towards the entrance which begins to move slowly. Loud clanks rattle as the mechanisms move the wheels. A rather tall boy with a Gryffindor scarf extends his arm for her to take, and he easily pulls her aboard. She thanks him and settles herself in the hallway to watch her godparents. The Weasleys were waving proudly along with Lily, but James wasn't. She frowns deeply. 

     There's a red thread tied around their necks, winding and knotted, and it leads to the iron fist of Sirius Black. 

—

     "I don't get it." 

     "Oh come on, Ron! She's gone over it twice already! Honestly, do you even listen?" Hermione's voice is full of exasperation. With a huff, she crosses her arms and leans back against the booth. 

     "Yes, I listen!" Ron snaps as he takes a bite out of a chocolate tart, which Lorelei kindly brought. Expertly crafted, sweet as can be. She loves bringing a bag to share as a welcome gift. Professors included (Yes, Snape). Mouth full of chocolate, Ron says, "I don't get how she knows everyone!"

     "Well, I wouldn't say everyone," disagrees Lorelei after she deciphered Ron's chocolate mumbles. "There's still lots of people I don't know."

     Harry snickers. 

     "He's just some random bloke! Then you spend thirty minutes talking as if you're related!" 

     Ron is, of course, mentioning how upon entering the compartment her friends had called her into, she'd seen the strange man lying lengthwise on the bench. Before they could explain, Lorelei excitedly announced she knew exactly who he was without reading his suitcase. Remus Lupin is a family friend. And then she'd gone into a long-winded, tangential, confusing explanation about Remus's relation to her family. Somehow she managed to end on the topic of flour milling. It's become her newest hobby. 

     "Oh, we're not related. Did I mention that? 'Cause I'm not too sure. He just pops by now and then. Well, not recently. Although," Lorelei pauses, tapping a finger to her chin. "I think he was definitely closer with my family before I was born. Oh yeah!" She jabs her finger into Harry's shoulder. "Your dad took Lonnie to Diagon Alley! I totally forgot about that. Silly me."

     Ron slumps in his seat, giving up. 

     The mention of his father interests Harry. "Did he really take Lonnie?" He asks curiously. 

     "Yes!" She answers, smiling big. "They bought him all his supplies, and I think Mr. Potter even bought him a broomstick. That thing got returned—Lonnie's not one for sports." Beside Hermione, Remus slightly shifts. "Oh! And they'd take him out to celebrate when he got perfect scores on his exams! I found all these old pictures by his attic, which I'm not allowed into. I have no idea what's in there."

     "Perfect scores?!" Hermione shouts at the same time Harry says, "I never knew that." 

     It's not the most shocking revelation, yet Harry seems thoroughly stumped. 

     "Well, Lonnie doesn't bring it up either. In fact, he never even mentioned your dad until, well . . . until he said he was my godfather," Lorelei trails off as a frown develops. The realization of how she came to know James is rather traumatic. Her uncle's petrification is a time she'd wish to forget. 

     "Wonder if Lonnie's always had a stick shoved up his arse," Ron mumbles, taking another bite of his chocolate tart. 

     "Ronald!" Hermione admonishes and whacks his shoulder. 

     Lorelei shrugs. "Wish I knew."

     "Speaking of Lonnie," begins Harry, smirking. He playfully nudges her side, and she shoos him off. "He's gonna be so mad at you." 

     Immediately, Lorelei dips her head into her hands and musters an impossibly loud, anguished groan. 

     "I can't wait to see his face," laughs Ron. "Fred and George were making bets about how red he'll be!"  

     "He's got reason to be worried with Black running around," Hermione mentions. 

     And then a thick cloud of tension suffocates the air. All semblance of a normal, lighthearted conversation vanishes. The name is a black omen. She's afraid if it's said, he'll appear. Lorelei raises her head to glance at Harry; he wears a glacial facade. His teasing smile delves into a thin line. Her thoughts gravitate towards the locomotive. It didn't occur to her then—is it safe?Is she protected? 

     A body bumps slightly into hers, shoulder presses against shoulder. Their knees touch in a whisper. Harry doesn't look at her, but he's there and it's enough. 

     "But they'll catch him . . . eventually, I'm sure!" Hermione tries to reassure when she notices the pale faces of her friends. 

     "Right—of course! No one's ever broken out of Azkaban before and he's a raving, murderous lunatic!"

     Suddenly, as if brought on by the topic of conversation, the train slams to a halt. Everyone jolts forward as their compartment rattles. Lorelei grasps onto the edge of the bench, trying to steady her hammering heartbeat. Overhead, the lights begin to flicker. Lorelei's stomach twists, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Maybe if she blinks it'll reveal itself to be a dream. Apparating with Lonnie doesn't have stress.

     Lorelei presses her back as far as she can into the seat, hoping to disappear into the material. Numbly, she watches Hermione slide to the window carefully avoiding the sleeping man (How could Remus sleep through this?). She thinks back to Hermione's statistics: trail derailments are rarely fatal. Gosh, she clings to it as if it's her lifeline. 

     "Why're we stopping?" Hermione's voice is featherlight. "We can't be there yet . . ." 

     Lorelei's heart lurches as she feels Harry move beside her. The sudden brush of movement sent jolts of fear directly to her circulatory system. Coldness envelops her body when Harry stands and walks towards the door. She keeps her locked onto him, refusing to blink. If she blinks, he might disappear. She yearns to scream at him to sit down, walk away, but her tongue is weighted by fear. What if he's out there?

     The gentle sway of flickering candlelight nauseates her. Suddenly, the Express jerks again, causing Lorelei to shriek. She silences it with her hand. 

     "What's going on?" Ron calls out to Harry. 

     "Dunno. Maybe we've broken down," He replies, shutting the door and returning to his seat. Without thinking, she grabs his hand, and he doesn't pull away. 

     Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a silhouette glide past the window. She shuts her eyes tightly, squeezing the death out of Harry's circulation. Please let it be fake. 

     "There's something moving out there." Ron's words bring her immense displeasure. "I think . . . people are coming aboard." 

     Again, the train rattles, this time violently. Lorelei can't help the shrill shriek of terror flying from her mouth. Releasing Harry, she covers her ears and squeezes her eyelids as tightly as she can muster. Not even the hand on her shoulder eases her fear. She's never been good with scary things. Nana let her catch a few minutes of Jaws, biggest mistake she could've made. Poor Lorelei spent all night huddled in her bed too afraid to step off in case a shark bit her ankle. Hopefully, there's no carnivorous creature this time. 

     A soft light shines through her eyelids and a familiar voice is heard. "Don't move."

     When the hand is vacated and coldness prickles along her skin, Lorelei brings her head up and opens her eyes to find a shadowy figure hovering over a collapsed Harry. Its gnarly claws extend downwards, tattered robes billowing from gelid drafts. Then, a mistake. The moment her wide, terrified eyes lock upon the apparition, it ceases its devouring of Harry and focuses on her. Its face is shrouded within its drawn hood, face blacker than night. There is no expression, but she knows it's deadly.

     Now, it extends its hand to her. Goosebumps travel up and down her body; the hair on her arms stands tall; and her wobbling lips expels a trail of visible breath. In the recesses of her mind, images flash. Within her eyes, they dance in a rhythm she cannot follow. Their footwork is so intense she can hardly see. And then she hears it—a scream. A scream born of horror, anguish, and rage. It could tear the throat raw. 

     It's a man's scream. 

     Lorelei catches movement behind the menacing figure. "Remus!" She cries in desperation, shutting her eyes. A white light passes over her eyelids, then the tightening coldness vanishes. Those images retreat behind locked doors. Forgotten, yet always present. 

     "Oh my god, Lorelei! Are you alright?" 

     Hands land upon her kneecaps and warmth returns to her. Slowly, Lorelei opens one eye to see Harry and Hermione crouching in front of her as Ron ogles behind. She notices Harry's missing glasses, which reveals an undercurrent of repressed agony swimming in his irises. Had he heard screams as well? 

     Next to her, Remus clears his throat. He prompts a response. 

     Lorelei's throat feels dry as she responds. "I-I'm fine . . . I'm okay." Her words aren't alleviating. 

     "Are you sure? You look a little . . . pale," Hermione asks with worry creased brows. Her hand doesn't move from her leg, and Lorelei is grateful. 

     Wordlessly, Remus hands her a small piece of chocolate. She takes it without hesitation, insatiable sweet tooth drooling at the sight. He's always known for carrying the most exquisite chocolates. At once, the rich fats dissolve along her tastebuds as she savors the slightly bitter taste. Lingering fear melts along with it. Harry declines his piece. Whatever he'd experienced was much too great to be fixed by chocolate. 

     Harry's blanched face twitches in confusion. He mumbles his thanks when Ron passes him his glasses. "What was that—that thing?" 

     Lorelei isn't sure she wishes to know. She can see the haunting outline has stained her vision. 

     "A Dementor," answers Remus. "One of the guards of Azkaban. It's gone now." 

     "It was searching the train," Hermione adds, then she glances at Lorelei. "For Sirius Black." 

     There it is. Forget the creature's cold breaths, his name is nitrogen crackling her flesh. He doesn't need to be present in order to terrorize her. She takes in a deep breath—one, two, three. In. Out. There's no place safer than Hogwarts! They're nearly there. Once she's in the security of the castle, she'll be protected. She'll be alright. 

     "I need to have a word with the driver. Excuse me," Remus announces. He grabs his suitcase and steps around Harry who neglected to move from his spot on the floor. Though he pauses on the threshold, hand on the door. He turns and looks down at her, then tilts his head to indicate a private conversation. "Lorelei?"

     Still shaken, Lorelei numbly nods. Hermione stands with her to assist in case she's too weak to move on her own. They share an understanding in their gaze. Lorelei places a hand on Harry's shoulder as she steps around him. It's a small gesture that she hopes provides a modicum of comfort. 

     The hallway is vacant and usually rowdy compartments are doused in hushed whispers. This will be the talk of the town. Once the door is slid closed, Remus wastes no time. 

     "Is Lonnie aware you took the Express?" 

     Lorelei blinks, still disoriented. "I-I think so? 

     Remus raises an eyebrow. 

     She shakes her head. "Harry's parents told him I was at the Leaky Cauldron. He knows, I swear!" 

     Remus nods. He's silent as he looks down at her. "You've probably already heard this, but it was very dangerous what you did." She closes her eyes in a long, slow blink. "Now, I understand you were unaware of certain . . . aspects but that is no excuse for running away. Not in a time like this. Promise me you won't do such a thing again?" 

     Lorelei feels as though she entered a time loop. Nevertheless, her head tips up and down in succession. "I promise," she confirms for the third time. 

     "Talk to Lonnie first thing," Remus says, more like orders. He rummages through his pockets, pulling out a wrapped candy. A strawberry red wrapper with golden spots that glittered like melted gold. He hands it to her, and she takes it gladly. "I'm sure after he hears about the Dementor incident, he'll go mad."

     Oh, wonderful, she thinks. Now he'll be furious about two things. Two very serious things. He'll probably find more reasons too. 

     "If it's not too forward, may I ask what you're doing here?" Lorelei asks, cringing at her phrasing. Ever since she recognized him, she's been wondering what he could possibly be doing on the Express or at Hogwarts for that matter. 

     Her second godfather chuckles. "Can't say, I'm afraid. It'd spoil the surprise." 

     "Surprise? I hate surprises." Lorelei's face scrunches. Not necessarily true, she's just scared of being surprised. She's a bit nosy. "You can tell me cause I won't tell—I'm, like, really good at keeping secrets."

     "Seems so," Remus smiles, and she frowns in disappointment. She really hopes his 'surprise' isn't jumping out of a cake during the feast because she will scream. "It's best you get back inside now."

     He gestures to her compartment. 

     For a brief moment, Lorelei has the urge to inquire about Black. Perhaps he'll have some wise assessment of the situation, some new perspective and information. And then she remembers everyone's curious reactions towards the escape. No answers. What's to say he'll be different? 

     So Lorelei keeps silent and beams a charade of innocence. She grabs the door as she watches Remus take his leave and navigate through the cramped hallway. A chill still settles upon her, the gnarled talons of the creature ghosting her flesh. She can hear phantom echoes of an anguished man. That terrible, awful sound. A scream that feels strangely familiar and faraway. 

     She knows answers are not forthcoming. Her loved ones are intent on keeping secrets for reasons she's not yet discovered. Now, with legitimate threats, it's becoming her mission—her responsibility—to uncover every mystery with or without assistance. 

     Though, for now, Lorelei only hopes Hogwarts is much safer.

Chapter Text

     Gossip travels fast. Rumors pass through whispered lips and faux smiles. By the time Lorelei returned to her seat, Neville Longbottom was already peeking inside their compartment to unearth the truth for himself. Did he find a convulsing Harry spurting milky foam like a rabid animal? No, thankfully not. Were Lorelei's eyes blood red and burning with the fires of damnation? Also no. 

     Instead, Harry and Lorelei remained motionless. Picture perfect postures, vise-like grips clutching fabric. Within their eyes lay not eternal hellfire but a haunting pass of reminiscence. Each one trapped in flashes of memories too quick to decipher. Her ears might never forget the chilling melody the dementor cast upon her. 

     Rumors spread. They twist and turn through the grapevine of brazen students. The truth molds into fiction, and it bends by the will of the next troubadour. Lorelei's fire ridden snarl and Harry's convulsion would change by the time they reached Hogwarts. 

     By the carriages, standing board straight beside Harry, a brave Dean Thomas waved his hand in Lorelei's face and got no reaction. "She's been possessed!" He had exclaimed. Now the belief is that a dementor possessed Lorelei Yates. Beware! And poor Harry. His bavardage melded into a pitiful fainting, which is technically the truth however uncool. At least she has the misfortune of being avoided by everyone. 

     The train incident ignited a deep grievance within Lorelei. The first time she took the Hogwarts' Express, the first time she made the journey without her uncle, and it'd ended in disaster. She couldn't enjoy the simple pleasures of the sweet trolley or the quirky antics of her friends, nor marvel at the gorgeous creatures heading the carriages. All she heard were screams. 

     She's caused herself trouble for nothing. 

     Fortunately, her summer proclamation isn't wholly a lie ("Third year is the year of Lorelei Yates!"). Third year marks the first year she hasn't embarrassed herself in the Great Hall on the first night. Mashed potatoes on the Chosen One; the Disastrous Domino (Harry's involved both times). She'll see if 'third time's the charm!' actually means something later. 

     Lorelei cowered behind the tall Gryffindor boy who helped her on the train with the expectation of catastrophe. He covered her from the potential of being hit in the face with holy water and crucifixes—possession rumors going strong! The boy's height had the added benefit of shielding Lonnie's death glare upon entrance to the Hall. Still, she felt the heat. Intense, far above a kryptonian's. Harry laughed obnoxiously when Lorelei politely asked the boy to act as her human blockade for the duration of the feast, yet the boy didn't bat an eye.  

     True to Remus's word and her presumptions, Lonnie's furious. Accidentally, she caught his eye and it nearly singed a hole in her chest. Even from several feet away, she could see his signature twitchy eye, lips pressed in a low scowl, and a vein close to bursting on his forehead. Thankfully, her uncle has too much propriety to make a spectacle in the middle of the feast. His etiquette does not stop him from angrily glaring at her the whole time. It really does nothing to satiate the rumors. 

     "There he goes again!" 

     Lorelei slightly peaks over the Gryffindor boy to glimpse Lonnie's flagrant glower whilst engaged in conversation with Remus (Professor Lupin she should say. Now that is a surprise). Her uncle is quite the multitasker. With wide eyes, she quickly ducks behind the boy again, who makes sure she's completely blocked from view. Her ears burn. 

     "Blimey!" Fred laughs, knocking into his twin's shoulder. They're sitting on the opposite side of the table. "He'll get wrinkles if he keeps it up." 

     "Nah. His face'll freeze up," George disagrees. "He'll be stuck that way forever."

     The Weasley twins' favorite prey, (victim, more like), is Lonnie. Since the beginnings of their time at Hogwarts, they knew he'd be the primary target. Slipped sneezing powders in Lonnie's flasks, magically adhering the contents of his office to the ceiling, spelling his loafers to croak with each step—Lorelei could go on and on and on. Despite being exceptionally smart, her uncle continuously falls for their tricks. She sometimes wonders if he does it on purpose to keep them entertained. Or from bothering students. 

     Hermione, however, does not find it amusing. 

     "It's not funny!" She snaps. From her place beside Lorelei, she scowls at the twins. "He's got a perfectly good reason to be upset!"

     "No harm, no foul," Fred says, holding up his hands. 

     "We're just concerned for his well-being," adds George. 

     "What good's a Potion Master if he can't move his face?" 

     Future Potion Master, Lorelei wants to add. His career outline is quite expansive, but he's aiming to handle Snape's job for the 'experience.' She hopes Lonnie winds up as Minister of Magic to appease the years of torture he's endured. At any rate, he'd be a far better professor. 

     Hermione rolls her eyes. She turns back to Lorelei. "Honestly, Lorelei. I don't see why you ignored him off the train. It's just making it worse."

     "I didn't!" She cries. "He wasn't there. I looked!" 

     Fresh off the Express, Lorelei did not look for her uncle. Why would she? He'd manhandle her all the way to the Dungeons with far less lightheartedness than James. And, in all fairness, Lorelei was in a state of shock. Her stature was rigid, stone-like and cold to the touch, and the pallor of her face put Peeves to shame. She was distracted to say the least. 

     "He wasn't at the carriages? That's odd," Hermione trails off, brows furrowed. 

     "We missed him," Fred says sadly, wiping a nonexistent tear under his eye. 

     Snickering, George reaches into his robes and pulls out a dark bag messily closed with a green string. He waves it through the air, once, twice, neighboring classmates eyeing it wearily (They certainly had a reputation). "Saved this just for him. Newest batch of Worly Worriers." 

     Lorelei's eyes widen. "You did it without me?!" She exclaims, accidentally leaning forwards to emphasize her hurt. Thankfully, the Gryffindor boy leans with her. "What about my recipe? You didn't change anything did you?" 

     "I'm sorry?" Hermione sputters, looking at Lorelei like she'd grown a second head. "You're still helping them?"

     Lorelei angles her body slightly away from her friend, attempting to hide her obvious wince. 

     "We considered it," Fred reveals. 

     "Then we decided Little Lemon knows best," George finishes as he tucks the bag of dangerous sweets back into his robes. She can almost feel the unanimous sighs of relief from their peers. 

     She grins. Still leaning forward, Lorelei rests her elbows on the table. Plates and utensils rattle with the force. Mischief passes through her eyes like a shooting star. "So," she prompts, "did they work?" 

     Hermione refrains from making a comment. Instead, she faces Ron and Harry, mumbling under her breath. She doesn't think it's very, well, smart to get involved with the Weasley twins' pranks. Sure, aiding in the development of certain names for sweets or providing fresh ideas is harmless (Not to their victims, of course), but Lorelei practically has a stake in their rising business. 

     Lorelei Yates, the 'secret' supplier of the twins. Bearer of perfected potion recipes and surprisingly knowledgeable about candy making. 

      "They're untested, Little Lemon," George says, shrugging. 

     "We're going to test it on Professor Lonnie." Fred's emphasis on Lonnie's title made them both laugh. It makes her feel guilty for laughing, but Lonnie himself hates being called professor. He preferred the simple alternatives 'Mr. Yates,' though it's rare anyone uses it. Herself included. He's her uncle, she gets a free pass! 

     "You were going to give untested Worly Worriers to my uncle?" Lorelei questions with a raised eyebrow. 

     "Precisely." 

     Hermione makes a disgruntled noise, and the Gryffindor boy shielding Lorelei snickers. 

     "Well," she starts as she leans back, the boy following her. "I suppose he'd be fine. The most it could do is make him anxious, but he's already anxious—so maybe it cancels out?" She wonders if that could work and stores it away for future consideration. "I guess that means you don't have a test subject anymore." 

     The twins share a look. 

     "We have a few ideas," they say in unison. 

     "Can I make a suggestion?" 

     "Lorelei!" Finally, Hermione breaks her silence. "You cannot seriously be helping them terrorize students!" 

     "Terrorize?" Hurt is laced in Fred's voice. 

     "We prefer empirical observation."

     "Observation?" Hermione scoffs in disbelief. "You mean experiments?"

     "Not really. No." 

     "I think Percy is a good option."

     Four pairs of eyes land on Lorelei (Gryffindor boy wonders if he made a mistake). She smiles innocently. 

     Then the twins break into wide grins. 

      "We like your thinking, Little Lemon." Identically, they look at each other then at Percy who sat a ways down the Gryffindor table, blissfully unaware his brothers now plotted his downfall. As if sensing their stare, Percy turns to them. He raises an eyebrow in question, but the twins only grin and wave. All at once, the color drains from his face. 

     Lorelei shields her face with one hand. She feels slightly bad for what she just did, but she knows if the twins pursue her uncle, they'll wind up in detention on the first day. Plus, Lonnie needs a break. The roof of his mouth still has polka dots on it. She told him not to eat the unmarked candy in the envelope. 

     Her eyes catch the Gryffindor boy looking at her. "Can I use you as a human shield later?" She asks nonchalantly, as if her question isn't absolutely ridiculous. 

     He nods. 

     The twins grin at her. "We're gonna need to borrow your camera." 

     Lorelei's smile fades. That couldn't be good. 

—

     "Lorelei Yates, do not take another step!" 

     Cringing, Lorelei bares her teeth and freezes on the threshold of the Great Hall, letting her peers brush past (No touching. Possession might spread through contact). Her uncle's tone was loud, so loud. It seems the Gryffindor boy she's using as a human shield is finally not enough, or perhaps Lonnie knows her better than anyone and hiding behind random students is right up her alley. She gently pats the boy on the arm, smiling up at him gratefully. 

     "Thank you very much, Carmine. Your efforts are much appreciated." 

     After the twins moved down the table to consult with their second in command Lee Jordan, the Gryffindor boy kindly asked if he'd be kept off their list of potential victims. She liked his forwardness. He then introduced himself with a sort of affable smile—Carmine Weatherby, transfer from America. That made her confused, until he revealed he'd been faking a British accent to keep the gossip down. And she liked his spirit. 

     Wordlessly, Carmine salutes her. 

     He disappears into the sea of students as Lorelei stands motionless by the door. Her usual trio of friends had abandoned her. Hermione was frustrated by her refusal to face the music and confront Lonnie herself and also her duplicitous planning with the twins; Ron was half asleep from all the food he consumed; and Harry knew a train wreck was bound to happen at any second and did not wish to be a part of it because he knew somehow he'd be blamed. He would be, of course. Lonnie believes in equality. 

     Lorelei turns to see Lonnie a few feet away, shoving through students (Apologizing as he does so). She tries to ignore the wiggling of eyebrows and the soft 'ohs' from her peers. Tomorrow is going to be abysmal. She'll need to expel the possession rumors only to immediately deal with the meddling eyes of her peers aching for any morsel of gossip. Can she catch a break?

     Then, Lonnie appears in front of her as bright a red as her Gryffindor tie. She wonders which Weasley twin is right. He glowers down at her with his hands digging into his hips. Dark lines decorate his under eyes, while his skin is unusually pale. There's noticeable scruff threatening his polished reputation, and his hair is a mess of tousled curls. She's the cause of his roguishness.  

     "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?" His voice is low and slightly gravelly, and she can almost feel the waves of anger radiating off him. 

     Lorelei neglects to respond. It's rhetorical, she thinks. 

     Lonnie pinches the bridge of his nose like he always does when he's stressed. There are four stages to his anger: worry, rage, regret, and overprotectiveness. She's dubbed it 'The Four Signs of Demise.' All are heightened by his fierce love. Each tine is a log thrown into his welcoming bonfire, and she is always the kindling. Lorelei stokes the fire, adding freshly dried leaves and pine needles. It cannot be quelled; it must burn. He must burn and burn, until cinder and ash manifest penitence. Collected in its remnants is his beating heart. 

     "What in Godric's name were you thinking?!" He demands, raising his voice. It causes her to wince. Her uncle rarely yells. A few passing students give her pitiful glances. "Do you know what kind of stress you caused? How I worried?" 

     Lorelei can't meet his admonishing gaze.

     "You disappeared in the middle of the night, Lorelei. I thought you'd been kidnapped!" He stops to take a breath, hands finding purchase on his hips. "And not even a letter to let me know you're okay."

     Oh, nuts! Lorelei curses. She forgot to send her letter. Harry's in trouble. 

     "You told no one where you went. And on top of that I found out from James you were staying at the Leaky Cauldron! A bar! For adults!" He enunciates, and she might've found it funny if she wasn't the one being scolded. "What's gotten into you, Lorelei? This behavior is completely unacceptable." 

     The Great Hall is now empty, save for a couple lingering students. They're alone in the threshold. Her uncle's voice echos into the vacant space, bouncing high above the stone rafters. His anger burns so deep, drops of rain burst from the Hall's ceiling. Oh, how futile. There is nothing that can extinguish Lonnie. More than anything, Lorelei wishes to leave, to move into his dingy little office, but he is planted firmly, roots of steadfastness buried in the crevices of limestone. She remains.  

     Her silence only fuels Lonnie further. "Why couldn't you have asked?" He sighs. "We could've gone together. Safely."

     Lorelei sharply narrows her eyes. Is he serious? Ask? It's almost laughable. No, it is laughable. "I did ask," she states. "And you said no." 

     "Lorelei—"

     "I asked all summer and you said no!" Now her voice is beginning to rise. Her frustration is reaching a climax. "'Lonnie, can I go with Cadence to the movies?' 'No, it's too dangerous. Go make some frozen lasagna and watch paint dry.'" Her imitation of her uncle is quite terrible. "'Can I please visit Harry?' 'No.' No all summer!"

     "It's because it's—"

     "Dangerous?" Lorelei finishes with a roll of her eyes. Frankly, she's beyond tired of being told the same thing with no explanation. "Pray tell, Lonnie. What's dangerous? Things?"

     "Lorelei," Lonnie warns. 

     "How am I supposed to be cautious if you won't tell me what's happening?" The last words crack at the end. She doesn't break eye contact. "I need to know. Lonnie, please." 

     "Enough." He demands a little harsher than she expects. Flames lash once a new log is added. "I'm in charge of you. I'm your guardian. You listen to me. Not James or anyone else. I don't care what he says. And if I've told you it's not safe, it's not safe. You're a child, Lorelei."

     "But I'm not little like Dorian!"

     "You're thirteen!" 

     "I can handle myself!" 

     But her words lack conviction. Confidence. Truth. Does she believe that? She couldn't defend herself against the creature on the train nor the troll in the dungeons two years ago. Lorelei was useless; she got in the way. Operating her wand is equivalent to a child attempting silverware for the first time. Gilderoy Lockheart is the only one she's ever successfully dueled. Does that say anything? 

     "No. You can't." Lonnie doesn't laugh, doesn't chuckle at her absurdity. It's not funny to him; it's serious. It's fact, plain and simple fact. 

     Lorelei Yates cannot defend herself. 

     Along her waterline, tears pool. She tries to keep them at bay, yet it's futile. They cascade in a flurry of embarrassment.

     "I'm not letting this behavior continue," Lonnie starts in his infamously stern tone, one she knows firsthand. Whatever follows is something that continually gets worse. She dreads every possibility. "You're banned from Hogsmeade."

     "What?!" Her yell of shock startles the remaining students who quickly look away from their eavesdropping. "Y-You can't do that!" 

     "Yes I can, and I have," Lonnie affirms as he crosses his arms, tips of ink peeking through his rolled sleeves. "You're not going to Hogsmeade. End of story." 

     "Lonnie—"

     "No, Lorelei. I'm passed negotiations. No Hogsmeade." Almost sensing her next thoughts, Lonnie adds, "And don't involve Nana. It's best if she doesn't know." 

     "Please! Hogsmeade is a rite of passage!" She begs, clasping her hands together and shaking them. 

     Her uncle does pause at her words but not in the way she desires. "'Rite of passage'? Did James say that?" He laughs shortly, but it's tinged with bitterness. "I didn't go third year, Lorelei. You'll be fine."

     She falters. That couldn't have been true. When Lonnie was petrified, James brought in a scrapbook full of moving pictures of him and her uncle to lighten her spirits. She distinctly remembers one in which the two of them were standing outside Honeydukes. Lonnie's casual attire and candy speckled grin stuck out to her. He must've been her age. Why is he lying? 

     Before she can voice her confused thoughts, Lonnie's speaking again. 

     "On top of that, you're not to leave the castle unless you explicitly ask me—not McGonagall, Lupin, or James—for permission." He uncrosses his arms and begins counting off her new limitations with his fingers. "No Hogsmeade. No visiting Hagrid. No quidditch. No Black Lake."

     Her jaw drops further and further with each word, yet she doesn't any anything. She keeps silent. If she speaks, she's in trouble. 

     "I expect you in my office tomorrow," Lonnie says as he looks at the gold watch on his wrist. The straight line of his eyebrows dips ever so slightly at the puffy cheeks of his niece. For a moment, she thinks he might go back on his words, but he remains firm. "Oh, and if you're not in your dormitory tonight, it's detentions for a month."

     Then he spins on his heel and walks away, not a single glance spared. He walks away like he didn't just thwart her entire year, like he didn't take away the one thing she's excited to experience. Casually, Lonnie continues with his hands in his front trouser pockets, and she watches him leave with new frustrations brimming in her eyes. 

     Third year's her year? Yeah, right. 

Chapter Text

     In the morning, Lorelei's in a terrible mood. 

     Face flushed crimson, Lorelei ran to the dormitories immediately after her uncle disappeared from her vision. Then she discovered she didn't have the password. Thankfully, her Gryffindor hero was outside with two friends; he let her in with a smile. Carmine Weatherby, you saint! She tearfully thanked him as she rushed inside.

     Ron and Harry were slumped by the fireplace engaged in idle conversation. The Weasley boy laid face-first lengthwise on the couch, while Harry sprawled over an armchair, head leaning off the edge. They turned to her when she ran in sniffling, yet they couldn't get a word out as she rushed into the girl's dormitory. She heard their confused voices from upstairs. 

     The Gryffindor girls instantly jumped into action at the sight and sound of trouble. Not gossip galore but genuine concern and curiosity. Lorelei would've appreciated the gesture if she could think. All she could hear at the time were Lonnie's words. She ignored everyone's prying questions including Hermione who put her book aside. 

     All throughout the night, Lorelei tossed and turned. Either her pillow was too warm or the blankets too suffocating. She heard every sound, every squeak in the old castle; she heard Margaery Callum's barely noticeable puffs of air and Pavarti Patil's tap, tap, tap from a restless finger. Shadows loomed like ghostly silhouettes. Each time her eyes shut, screams replayed, a gnarly chill crawled down her spine, stinging sensations on her cheek, and an aching heart. 

     Time passed so slowly she never thought she'd see the daylight. In the end, Lorelei managed to close her eyes right as the morning birds sang. 

     She woke up to Hermione shaking her awake saying she had missed breakfast. "You'll be late if you don't get up now!" Her friend had said. There was nothing more atrocious than being late to class in Hermione's eyes. 

     Yet, her first day continued going horribly. As Lorelei was hurriedly shoving on her uniform, which she normally tidily organizes, she couldn't find her favorite shirt. Forget the mismatched shoes, loose fitting trousers missing a belt, she needed her shirt! It's an orange striped, simple cotton shirt her Nana bought for first year; she wore it under her gray sweater without fail on the first day. With a frustrated groan, she realized she probably left it at Lonnie's house. 

     She grabbed an entirely red shirt instead. And it felt scratchy and wrong all day. 

     Lorelei feels her lungs gasping for air, robes flowing behind her, as she runs up the stairs of the North Tower. One thing after another. Her hands shove open the door before anyone can mark her late. All eyes land on her. Cadence Bluewin waves and excitedly points to an empty seat beside her. 

     Huffing and blushing, Lorelei holds her head high and walks to her friend. She tries to ignore the hushed whispers of her peers. Unfortunately, waking up a mess, disheveled clothes, and sleepy eyes does not aid in the expulsion of the rumors. She may as well join the ghosts of Hogwarts. The seats are on raised platforms in varying heights. Ron and Harry sat up front, which is objectively the worst place to sit, and Cadence's is on the second. 

     Right when she plops into the seat, regular conversation continues like it never stopped. Lorelei groans and tips her head back, brown tresses flow down the back of the chair. 

     "You've got a little something . . ." Cadence says, bringing up a hand to pull a piece of fuzz from a strand of hair. "There! Got it." 

     Lorelei tilts her head up. "More?" She asks, grimacing. 

     Cadence squints as she diligently scans her head. "Nope."

     "You look ridiculous!" 

     "How polite, Ron," Lorelei mumbles, but she couldn't necessarily blame him (He could've worded it better!). Some would say she's acquired an interesting fashion sense. Mismatched, colorfully patterned socks peeking underneath robes; puffy wool jumpers inflating her silhouette; rattling, clinking bracelets and necklaces. Really, it's a test of how far she can stretch the dress code. She's a classy rule breaker. Is she to blame? The uniform is so drab! 

     "You alright?" Harry asks as he pushes up his glasses. Both him and Ron swiveled in their seats to peer upwards; it makes her feel spotlighted. 

     "'M fine," she smiles. 

     "Your hair's all . . . up." Ron makes a circling gesture around his head. 

     Lorelei mimics the movement and to her chagrin, he's right. She feels gnarly knots sticking upright, friction prickling her fingers. Great, she groans. 

     "Don't listen to pinky, Lori. Your hair's fine!" Cadence lamely reassures. There's an unmistakable snort somewhere behind them. 

     "Pinky?!"

     "D'you think so?" Lorelei doesn't want to set a precedent on the first day, especially after last night. "I didn't have time to brush it. Or style it. Or get dressed." Sheepishly, she scratches the back of her neck. "Or do anything really."

     Her stomach rumbles rather loudly. Part of her, the non hungry section, isn't too upset she missed breakfast. That meant she'd have to face Lonnie. The man who's meticulously devoted to putting a stain on her clean slate. What does he not understand about turning a new leaf? And yet, she gets horribly crabby when she's famished. Akin to a ravenous dog, some would say. 

     "I'll come by later and we'll get it sorted together," Cadence offers, placing her elbows onto the desk. "I brought the ribbons—the orange ones." 

     Lorelei beams with relief. Perks of having a friend adept in cosmetology, and she means it wholeheartedly. Cadence's hair is always a topic of awe. A spectacle, a grand display of raw talent. Rivers of braids cascading down her head, strands adorned with eye-catching beads and gold bands; rows of tight knots spiking her scalp. Her hair is an extension of her soul and each design is handcrafted with grace. Lorelei's got no clue how it was feasible but last year, Cadence sculpted her braids to form a rose centerfold on her head. Leaves and all. 

     Cadence uses no magic, merely her hands (lots and lots of pins, of course). Lorelei's capable enough with her own hair, but it's incomparable to her friend's ability. She can't wait to show off her fabulous hairdo. 

     "Here."

     She looks down at Harry who's holding a bundle wrapped in a cloth napkin. Hopefully, it's not an unwound 'glitter bomb'— yes, he attempted it; yes, it backfired. She raises an eyebrow. The boy presents it in his cupped hands. "It's breakfast," he reveals. "I saved some for you."

     Without hesitation, Lorelei leans forward and snatches the bundle. The thing's quite heavy, which can only mean it's packed full of deliciousness. Breakfast isn't the most important meal (Dessert is, obviously), but she adores a homely spread in the morning. Orange marmalade slathered on lightly toasted bread, runny eggs, and crispy pieces of bacon. And, if it was a special day, there'd be a fruit danish. A ginormous grin bursts onto her face. "Harry, seriously, you're a lifesaver."

     "I know."

     "Oi, don't lie," Ron cuts in, and he throws a vicious point at Harry. "It was Hermione's idea."

     "Well, we don't know for sure—"

     "It's mine."

     All of them startle at the voice. Out of nowhere, Hermione's sat in the previously vacant beside Ron, legs crossed and smiling innocently. Lorelei might've been a tad sleep deprived, but she is almost certain she wasn't there before. Like a ghost of Hogwarts, Hermione appeared at a mention. 

     "Where'd you come from?!" 

     "I've been here the whole time, Ron." Hermione rolls her eyes, and Lorelei raises a finger to interrupt. Ultimately, she decides against it. Her friend's business is her own. Hermione furrows her eyebrows in concern. "Did you get any sleep, Lori?" 

     Tucking the bundle into her satchel, Lorelei shakes her head. "Not really. First day jitters."

     "You know, I had a dream last night I was attacked by the Black Lake," Cadence mentions uncaringly, picking at pills gathered on the sleeve of her robe. "Super weird honestly. It's probably a manifestation of my anxieties. I hate water."

     Ron blinks, mutters, "Sounds more like a nightmare."

     "What'd Lonnie say last night?" 

     Lorelei stills and her amusement fades. It isn't unusual for Cadence to recount 'odd'—if that's the word—dreams. Her imagination is limitless, and no one ever bats an eye. They've seen stranger. Avoiding Harry's prying gaze, Lorelei clears her throat and sits upright. "Uh, I'll tell you later." 

     Of course, it's futile to back burner that conversation. She's barred from Hogsmeade! If she waits too long, the fallout will be immense. She'll suffocate under ash and dust. Admittance is tough to swallow. Lorelei'll be the only one missing; she'll view the carriages leave through the windows, melancholic and envious. Call her naive, but a part of her thinks she's capable of changing Lonnie's mind. Fix his heart or . . . something. She just wants to be included. 

     Harry quirks a brow at her tone, yet he nods all the same. A few nosy students were less subtle in their annoyance. 

     Then, a disembodied voice interrupts.

     "Welcome, my children. In this room, you shall explore the mysterious art of Divination." It echoes above, rattling against stone rafters and carrying to the tip of the witch's hat. Lorelei cranes her neck this way and that, unable to glimpse the voice's owner. Velvet curtains ruffle on the left side of the classroom, dust mites springing into the air. She thinks she can see the edges of shoes peeking from underneath, and she smiles. She wishes all her professors had a flare for theatrics. "In this room, you will discover if you possess . . ." 

     Correct in her assumption, their Divination professor waltzes from the behind the curtains, arms to the heavens. Lorelei and Cadence share an amused glance. Their professor's hair is puffed like a bloomed dandelion, similar in color too, and it's loosely held in place with a garishly vibrant bandana. It reminds Lorelei of Aunt Elle's collection from her 'nomadic' days. Hogwarts robes are never unique, yet hers is a rich, deep green lavished with a pattern that resembles constellations in a darker hue. Oh, but her eyes! Beady, prescient eyes staring through thickly framed square spectacles. Kind of like a bug, in a nice way. 

     ". . . the Sight." Their professor concludes before bringing her hands together and clapping. A handful of students flinch. "Hello. I am Professor Trelawney. Together we shall cast ourselves into the future. But know this," She pauses, gemmed eyes twinkling. "One either has the Gift or not. It cannot be divined from the pages of a book. Book's only cloud one's inner eye." 

     Instinctively, Lorelei's gaze drops to Hermione. There is no badmouthing literature in her presence. Everyone's got boundaries (Lonnie's list is quite excessive), and it's never wise to toe the line. She remembers reeling Hermione in from verbally accosting Miranda Pinkerton when she'd ridiculed Wuthering Heights. A tirade is a breath away. Lorelei nudges Cadence and they share a small snicker at their friend's muttered curses. 

     Before Hermione ignites, Professor Trelawney rounds on Neville. "You, boy! Is your grandmother well?"

     Neville pales more than usual, "I . . . I think so," he stutters unsurely, eyeing his peers for help. Of course, they're no help. 

     Lorelei's amusement vanishes. Not again. If professor is anything like Snape, or Lockheart, or even Bins . . . she'll need to be held back by Hermione. 

     "I wouldn't be so sure of that," Professor Trelawney says gravely. Her lips downturn in a thin purse, then a second passes and it's replaced with a grin. "The first term will be devoted to the reading of tea leaves. If all goes well, we will proceed to palmistry, fire omens, and finally . . . the crystal ball." 

     Maybe it's ironic, but Lorelei, attending a magical school, was hoping this class wouldn't be so, well, magical. The day they chose classes, Hermione was adamant Divination was a load of nonsense. Pseudo science relying on coincidence and a fraudulent business taking advantage of grieving families. Lorelei then asked why she was taking the class, to which Hermione replied: "Credits." So far, a bit of this is true. 

     "Well then. Shall we?"

—

     "Um . . . well, it looks kinda like a giant blob but also a . . ." Lorelei tilts the teacup a little to the left and turns it. "Oh, well now it looks like a butterfly! Which means . . ." She looks down at her book and flips through a page, "transformation and good fortune? So you'll experience a change I guess."

     Cadence stares blankly before erupting into a fit of laughter. 

     Lorelei's cheeks flush. She sets the cup down and covers her face. "I know I'm not that good! I'm sorry!"

     "No, no! Not you. This class!" Cadence wipes under her eyes, careful not to smudge her eyeliner. "It's so stupid! I've seen about twenty things in your cup, and they're all ridiculous!" She points down at her parchment. "So far, you're gonna 'procure a great fortune,' 'venture into enlightenment,' and 'undergo metamorphosis'! And that's if I got all the symbols right, which I doubt it." 

     Lorelei leans forward to glimpse her own cup and, if she's being honest, all she sees are undignified blobs of soggy tea leaves. Mint, by the way. Smells lovely. Glancing at her peers, she's hit with a bout of insecurity. Are they struggling too? She knows Harry is, at least. 

     Shadow swallows Lorelei's attention as Professor Trelawney looms by their table. "What have you seen in Miss Yates' cup, Miss Bluewin?" By above, it's the eyes! It's like peering into crystal balls. 

     Cadence shrugs. "I've seen, like, twenty things, Professor," she says, totally uncaring. "Guess I'm not very good."

     Professor Trelawney purses her lips at the indifference yet doesn't scold. Sighing, she tilts forward to analyze Lorelei's blobs of tea herself. She studies it for only a few seconds. "Ah! My dear, you've got a crow. Soon you will find yourself on the path of emotional discovery." Then, the psychic generalization fades into an eerie sort of perceptiveness, like she is viewing strains of time. "But heed this: secrets are closer than your eyes can see." 

     Secrets. Always secrets. Lorelei swallows, throat beginning to dry. A crow? She doesn't think it resembles a bird in the slightest, more a horribly misshapen cow than anything. But what does she know? Lonnie is withholding secrets, so there must be merit. 

     "Aren't crows death omens, Professor?" Cadence asks, entirely unperturbed. 

     Lorelei chokes, eyes bulging. Death omen? The 'd' word? No, that is not what she signed up for. "Wha—?"

     "Those are ravens, my dear," Professor Trelawney corrects, tipping her chin upwards. With a graceless smile, she departs to the table over where Seamus is arguing with Pavarti. 

     When she's a ways away, Cadence crosses her arms and scowls. "It's definitely crows too," she whispers with contempt. "Hermione's right about this class . . ." 

     "Well, I dunno," Lorelei disagrees, a bit unsure. She turns her teacup so the handle faces left, then she tilts her head to the right and squints. A cow, still a cow. She shakes her head. "She's the expert after all. And, you know, I'd rather have secrets than death. If I'm honest."

     Cadence hums but doesn't argue. Her eyes follow Professor Trelawney as she glides through the rows, velvet swaying like seaweed. "Your uncle's gotta hate this class."

     "More like despises," scoffs Lorelei. "He took it in his third year too. Gosh, he never stops complaining." She trails off in remembrance. The day she came to him with her desired classes, he'd groaned over-dramatically and went off on a tangential tirade on the fallacies of Divination (He never disparages any professors. That's rude). "Apparently, Professor Trelawney predicted Lonnie was gonna 'not be with us' in his fourth year." 

     "She predicted his death?" Cadence voice tinges upwards. 

     "I guess?" Lorelei slides a silver ring off her index. "He's still alive, obviously. Mrs. McGonagall said she does that every year—which she did do today . . . but she's only been semi-right once." She twirls the band along her knuckles. "It's just crazy! Now, Lonnie's sure this class is useless. 'Cause it never happened. He says it's a 'stain in anyone's academic career.'"

     Cadence snorts at Lorelei's purposefully inept imitation of Mr. Yates. "Wow," she breathes. "I wish she predicted my death, then I'd have a cool story." 

     "Well, you did dream you were attacked."

     "That's true."

     "Ah!" 

     The two girls startle, both looking down at Professor Trelawney who similarly looms over Harry's table with a pitiful, terrified expression. All at once, Lorelei's heart rate increases. A normal year is all she begs. If Harry's involved, something's amuck. 

     "What is it, Professor?" Asks Pavarti. 

     But Professor Trelawney only continues staring at Harry, staring as if he'd transgress from this mortal plane. Eyes so wide they threaten to breech her square frames. "My dear boy . . . you have the Grim." 

     And it's as if snow begins falling inside the room. Goose-flesh envelopes her arms, spindly shivers climbing the vertebrae of her spine. Grim. It's the deliverance of the word, the way it's said like there's nothing to be done. Nothing can be done. No savior, no spell. This is the future. Destiny. Fate. Lorelei's eyesight blurs out of focus as she hears Cadence furiously flipping through their textbook assumedly for a definition. 

     "But what does it mean, Professor?" Dean's voice carries down from her left, fear deep in his tone. 

     "The Grim," Cadence reads and all eyes are drawn to her. "'Taking the form of a giant spectral dog, it is among the darkest of omens in our world. It is an omen' . . ." She briefly glances at Lorelei, ". . . 'of death.'"

     Hearing the mention of a dog, Lorelei snaps to attention with the force of a taut rubber band. She and Harry lock eyes. He was already there; she found him. They, and only them, are able to decipher Fate's hand. Somehow, someway the Grim is connected to the Dementors, to Sirius Black. Harry's marked, and she'll mark herself if she must. Slowly, he nods, but she's not sure if she's assured. 

     What's left is to hope Lonnie's right about Divination. 

—

     Lorelei has to admit she's not partial to animals. There's something about them that never agrees with her, and they share that sentiment. Exceptions exist, of course. The Yates' family dogs are a prime example of her extreme bias. Humphrey and Lorre can do no wrong! She's fond of the stray cats mewing and begging around trashcans outside the diner, cooing at their delicate purrs as she secretly tosses them scraps. But then there's the Raccoon Incident of '89 and its subsequent recurrence in '91; Squirrel Swarm; the Invasion of Mice and the Battle for Red Leicester . . . oh, she'd rather not go into all that. 

     Point is, chaos follows Lorelei in all forms. 

     While going over her list of courses in the summer, Lorelei knew right away which ones were 'no-goes.' She's a girl of decisions, the Yates' way. First, they couldn't be too boring or difficult; second, and she thinks it's not asking much, the magical stuff needs to be limited. How is it that Physics is easier than Charms? And lastly, most importantly, her friends needed to agree. Under no circumstances would Lorelei take a class without Hermione. 

     So, the only options fitting her criteria were Divination, Muggle Studies, and Care of Magical Creatures. Thankfully, she didn't need to breakout her manipulation desserts. Harry, Ron, and a begrudged Hermione chose Divination, but that's only the first elective. 

     Muggle Studies? Well, why'd Lorelei take it if she's a 'muggle' herself? That's so redundant, and she'd consider herself an expert. 

     Unfortunately, that left Care of Magical Creatures. Lonnie asked several times if she was sure, absolutely sure. "Surely Ancient Runes is safer!" He had said, eyes reflecting all the potential risks his niece was certain to encounter. Lorelei has no interest in listening to lectures about mystical letters, and Arithmancy is far too much math. With a promise of caution (No horsing around of any sorts!), Lorelei settled on Care of Magical Creatures. She wishes there was a culinary course with the house-elves. 

     Weeks ago, in the safety of Nana's home, she picked her classes. Now, standing outside at the edge of the Forbidden Forest near a rickety paddock that looks as if it could collapse by a single breath, Lorelei isn't too confident in her choice. Muggle Studies would've been an easy Exceeds Expectations. 

     "Gather 'round. Find yerself a spot. That's it." Hagrid booms by the paddock, tall frame creating a shadow over Lorelei. It's just her luck she ended up in the front. "Now, firs thing yeh'll want ter do is open yer books—" 

     "And exactly how do we do that?" Draco interrupts, nudging his followers for approval. Honestly, Lorelei didn't realize how short he is compared to, well, everyone. She can see the top of his head. 

     Anyway, Lorelei doesn't like the way Draco phrased it, but she has the same question. Her uncle had to physically fight the book the day they bought it. Literally. By the time it was tied, he was a disbelieved, flushed mess with bite marks riddled all over his precious outfit (Yes, she took pictures). Ever since then, Lonnie's kept it under lock and key, which means Lorelei's the only one without a copy. If she needs it, she's gonna have some serious words with him. 

     Hagrid shifts confusedly at the question, a bit blushed. "Crikey. Didn' yeh know? All yeh've got to do is stroke em. Look—" 

     Stiller than stone, every student watches as Hagrid takes Hermione's copy and winces when he carelessly rips off the many layers of Spellotape. Lorelei takes a step to the left, shoulder brushing Harry's. Instantly, the textbook's maw snaps, chiseled teeth gnashing and lashing in the air. She can see Micah Dunne pale in her peripheral. Just as it attempts to clamp down on Hagrid's thumb, he runs a careful finger down its leathery spine. It's the slowest, gentlest motion, and it works. Complacent, it stills and flops open, now a normal book. 

     Lorelei frowns. Was it really that easy?

     Excitement overrules her fear. If she's right . . . she's going to rub it in Lonnie's face. Wordlessly, Lorelei snatches Harry's textbook right from his hands. 

     He looks at her, completely startled. "What're—" 

     Lorelei ignores him and rips the tape off the growler. Like Hagrid, it made for her thumb, pointed canines dripping with fervor. In any other case, she would've hid, bolted. It's dangerous; she could lose a limb. But she doesn't run, and she's not entirely sure why. Pushing aside her pounding heart, she runs a shaking finger down the spine like Hagrid displayed. Instead of losing said appendage, she's pleasantly surprised to see it melt like putty. The book flips open in her hands. 

     Ha! And Lonnie claims to know everything. 

     "There yeh go, Lorelei! Nicely done," Hagrid praises, grin stretched ear to ear. He takes one big step and ruffles the top of her head, akin to Uncle Tommy. 

     The apple's of Lorelei's cheeks flame, and she's thankful for the flyaway bits of hair fluffed from Hagrid's affection. Like a spotlight, all eyes are fixed upon her. It's a talent the way she always draws attention (Some would call it an affliction). Clearing her throat, Lorelei hands the docile textbook to Harry, but he's still awestricken. At what point is his disbelief offensive? 

     However, this is not sating the rumors. Several Slytherins fled her vicinity as if she'd transformed into a grotesquerie. As they will say, by the end of the day—Evil bends to evil! Lorelei'll never beat them at this rate. 

     "Righ then," Hagrid begins with a clap so intense a flock of birds scatters from the trees. "So . . . so . . . yeh've got yer books, an' now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Right. So . . . I'll . . . I'll go an' get 'em." 

     Abruptly, he ungracefully spins on his heel and lumbers into the Forbidden Forest. His footsteps echo within the abyssal woods, almost like cracks of distant thunder. Lorelei locks eyes with Harry, and he responds with a sigh. A resigned, tense breath that holds more words than he could utter. Hagrid's trying. She doesn't like how nervous the half-giant is; it rubs off. In her opinion, he's doing wonderfully. 

     Not everyone agrees. Right after their professor leaves, Draco scoffs. "God, this place has gone to the dogs." His nasally voice manages to frighten the already startled birds. "Wait until my father hears Dumbledore's got this oaf teaching classes."

     Crabbe and Goyle snicker. Her ears alight. 

     Against her shoulder, Lorelei feels Harry's muscles tense as he turns to glare at Draco. She locks her fingers around his bicep to keep him from doing something terribly irrational. He's a bit hotheaded. Hermione mimics her actions with Ron. 

     "Shut up, Malfoy," bites Harry. 

     Suddenly, Draco's pupils consume the whites and he stumbles backwards into his towering friends. Lorelei doesn't react, only tightens her grip. He raises a trembling finger to point at something behind Harry. "Potter, there's a dementor behind you!" 

     Harry falls right into Draco's untimely prank. He vaults to the right but with Lorelei's death-grip, they both stumble into Ron. The ginger's arms stabilize her before it can cause a chain reaction. Not another Disastrous Domino. Lorelei feels anger toiling around her neck. How dare they? It's a joke, a cheap one at that. If Draco Malfoy had seen a Dementor, he would've run for the hills, a smattering of dust in his wake. 

     Instead, he's laughing. The Slytherins laugh at Harry's panic. It's traumatic. She watched a Dementor siphon his essence right in front of her—the emptying of his once lively eyes, his haggard pleas, his skin hollowing, melting. He would've been a husk if not for Remus. Soulless, undying. She doesn't wish it on anyone, so why are they? Is empathy so rare? 

     Thankfully, or not so thankfully, Hagrid steps out of the forest with a creature in tow. At first, it's not visible from her off-kilter vantage point, all she sees is Hagrid's hulking frame; then he sidesteps to reveal a beautiful beast. And she means beautiful. Lorelei gasps in time with her peers. In fear, in awe. She's never seen anything like it. 

     "Beau'iful isn' he?" Hagrid grins, one hand grasping onto the leash dangling from the beast. 

     Her eyes track the creature as Hagrid leads it into the middle of the paddock. Its great big beak gleams in the spotted sunlight peeking through the canopy of trees. The deep blue in its mixture of feathers and fur shimmers like a pond mirroring dusk. It's like it absorbs luster. She wonders then if it's been blessed by stardust. Lorelei's seen pictures of magical beasts, yet nothing can compare to the regality gracing her eyesight. Hooves, claws, feathers—when it moves, she tracks an outline of wings. With its size, she can hardly imagine the wingspan. 

     Lorelei steps closer to the paddock. 

     Not as fond, Ron trails behind with an unsure look. "Hagrid. What exactly is . . . that?" 

     "A hippogriff, o' course!" Hagrid booms, almost like he forgot he was supposed to be teaching. "Now, firs' thing yeh gotta know is they're proud. Easily offended, Hippogriffs are. Don't never insult one, 'cause it migh' be the las' thing yeh do." 

     And Lorelei takes one step back. 

     "Right then—who wants ter come an' say hello?" 

     Instantaneously, everyone except Lorelei and Harry step backwards. Hearing the collective movement, she looks behind her at the footsteps and joins them. Perhaps it's safer if someone else has a go?

     Unfortunately, that someone is Harry. Of course. 

     "Good man, Harry!" 

     Harry sends Lorelei a glare as he steps forward, but she only offers a guilty shrug in response. It wouldn't be . . . wise to volunteer. The hippogriff may be a kingly beast, but she's a magnet for trouble. Somehow she'd wind up in the Infirmary, then Lonnie'd embark on a warpath. Hagrid doesn't deserve that. At any rate, Harry's brave! 

     "That's it. Easy now . . . Stop!" Lorelei covers her eyes. He may be spirited, but she's doesn't wish to see him squashed. "This here's Buckbeak, Harry. Yeh want ter let 'im make the firs' move. It's polite, see? Jus' take a step forward, give 'im a bow, and if Buckbeak bows back, yeh're allowed ter touch him. Ready?" 

     Lorelei feels her lungs constrict. 

     "Oh, Hermione, I can't watch!" She exclaims, crouching low behind her friend. "Tell me when it's over."

     "He'll be alright, Lori," she assures (In reality, she shares an uneasy glance with Ron). "I hope."

     "Well done, Harry! Go on. Give 'im a pat!" 

     A tense breath whistles from Lorelei as she peaks over Hermione's shoulder in time to see Harry place his hand atop Buckbeak's beak. She shuts one eye, tensing her forehead. Is this it? Only hours ago, his tea leaves read his will. No snapping, biting, tearing. Not a single injury, but Harry's far too close for any relief from tension. Slightly, the hippogriff bends its neck downwards in a respectful bow. Proudly, Lorelei beams at Harry. 

     "Look at that!" Hagrid's grin is infectious. She notices the half-giant stands taller now with his shoulders lax. It's all going so well, and then, "I reckon he migh' let yeh ride 'im!"

     Oh, Hagrid. Everyone's smile vanishes, and Lorelei's mouth drops open. 

     "Excuse me?" Harry's adam's apple visibly bobs as he gulps. From across the paddock, Lorelei catches the grief in his eyes, the plea—"Save me!" 

     And yet Hagrid remains dutifully oblivious. He moves to Buckbeak's side. "We'll jus' set yeh behind the wing joint. Mind yeh don' pull any feathers out. He won' like that." 

     That's enough. Lorelei slams her palms over her eyes (Same with several classmates; they will not be witnesses). She resumes crouching behind Hermione despite snickers at her actions. Laugh it up, she says. They wouldn't be so amused if they were in Harry's shoes. There's muffled words, harshly whistled consonants, then a slap! and booming gallops. Lorelei winces. A shadow passes just above her head, carrying gusts of wind and hopefully Harry. The takeoff silences his desperate wail of her name. 

     Ron tilts his head to follow Harry's trajectory. "Do you reckon he'll fall off?" 

     Hermione slaps him on the arm. "Not funny!" She hisses. 

     "I'm serious!"

     Rolling her eyes, Hermione turns to Lorelei still cowering behind her. In a much gentler voice she says, "You can look now, Lori." 

     She shakes her head. "Nuh uh. Can't look ‘til he's on the ground." 

     Somewhere behind her, Dean Thomas laughs. "You thinkin' of goin' next? Eh, Lorelei?" 

     She hopes her glare was felt through her hands. 

     "I'd like to see Lonnie try Buckbeak out," Ron mumbles. He'd given up on following Harry, now wearily eyeing the Forbidden Forest. "Probably do him some good." 

     Everyone nods, including Lorelei. 

     Hagrid whistles. Almost at once, whooshing and galloping collide together in a raucous melody. The ground shudders to give way to presumably Buckbeak, and she wobbles slightly. Lorelei doesn't know, all she sees is darkness. There's a tense breath of silence. Anyone who'd usually gab is stagnant. She inhales, squeezing her eyelids tighter than a spring-trap—cheers erupt throughout the canopied enclosure. 

     It would be horrifically morbid if everyone were applauding Harry's demise, so Lorelei allows herself an extension of breath. She slowly raises herself to stand above Hermione and pries her hands from her eyes. He's alive! Lorelei almost collapses, if not for her hands finding purchase on her friend. Harry's still stop Buckbeak, winded and frazzled but otherwise intact. Lorelei places her thumb and index in her mouth and whistles obnoxiously loud. 

     Face red, hair ruffled, and glasses askew, Harry beams a lopsided smile at her. She returns it tenfold. 

     "Good work, Harry!" Hagrid pats Harry on the back with a little more force than required. 

     That suffocating anxiety of not knowing whether or not he'd survive (Is this how Lonnie feels?) evaporates, and Lorelei feels infinitely lighter. Harry's bravery astounds her. He can't stop smiling, which means he must've enjoyed it. Freedom. Perhaps it is freeing to be so high, soar above the castle and touch clouds. Atop a mythical creature, he must've felt untouchable. For someone like Harry, it is rare. 

     Lorelei doesn't wish to uncover the answer. Animals, unfamiliar animals at that, threat of death, and her crippling phobia of heights—a recipe for low survival rates, nightmares, and nights in the Hospital Wing. Disaster. And possibly a lawsuit by the hands of her uncle (Briefly, she wonders if wizards can sue). 

     Hagrid shatters her relief. 

     "Yeh wan' ter go next, Lorelei?" 

     Lorelei's smile fades. 

Chapter Text

     “Can I send Tommy candy?"

     "No."

     "It's untampered."

     "No."

     "What about—"

     "Lorelei. Please," Lonnie interrupts with an exhausted tone, taking off his glasses to pinch his nose. Mountains of papers lie across his desk along with three poorly crafted mugs (courtesy of primary school art class) all emptied of caffeinated beverages, perhaps with an added adult bonus. "Finish your homework. Read a book. Something. I already have a headache."

     "Oh, do you want some peppermint oil? I actually have some on me. You know I always carry the basics," Lorelei says as she reaches into her satchel. The old thing's resting over the wooden backing of her chair, the one sat the farthest from her uncle in the leftward corner. By giant, messy stacks of books, boxes, papers, anything he could shove in the cramped small space. He certainly made do of every inch. 

     "No, Lorelei. Thank you, but peppermint oil wouldn't help," he sighs and tips backwards, chair squeaking at the weight shift. 

     Frowning, Lorelei drops the vial of peppermint oil back into her bag. "Peppermint's strong. What about lavender?" She pulls out a small pocket stuffed full of organized vials. "Nice smell. Great for headaches . . . at least Nana said so." 

     "Lori—"

     "Oh! Eucalyptus too!" She beams. "I haven't tried that one, but it does smell good." 

     "Lorelei!" Her uncle interrupts again; his voice is firm but he's fighting back a smile. Sheepishly, Lorelei seals her lips. "Really, I'll be alright. It's only a headache." 

     But it isn't, and Lorelei knows this. Lonnie knows she knows. Half graded parchments, bins to the brim of rubbish, multiple downed mugs of caffeine, even the traces of stringent nicotine clinging to fabric. He's falling back on vices instead of leaning on her. On family. Lonnie'd climb the tallest mountain solo, not realizing she's right behind. It's worrying, he's worrying. 

     "What if I said that?" Lorelei counters, narrowing her eyes. Maybe he'll respond if his own logic is reversed? Auntie Elle loves this technique. "You'd be all over me."

     Lonnie tips his chin upwards. "That's different," he waves. 

     "Oh, sure. Different." 

     There's a lot of factors contributing to whatever's stressing her uncle to pieces. Sneaking out, for one. He's of age—why all the secrecy? Black's escape, glaringly obvious. Today being the first day, and he always suffers from a case of the jitters. Except, and Lorelei will reiterate, she knows Lonnie. Sometimes it's annoying that he thinks he can hide. Doesn't he realize they're cut from the same cloth? What's his is hers. Throughout the horrors of her first year, Lonnie remained unshaken. Now . . . now he's frazzled. 

     He's off. Wrong. There are visible lines of exhaustion under his eyes, and his cheeks are hollowed. Has he lost weight? Lorelei flies that information; she'll bake his favorite over the weekend. He's slipping, but she doesn't know why. That's what hurts. 

     Lorelei picks at the frayed leather around the brass buckles of her satchel. "You know," she starts carefully, as she does when Lorre is frightened, "you should get some sleep." 

     Rolling his head left and right—she winces at the cracks—Lonnie chuckles. "Seriously?" His voice is strained from the stretching. "Are you my mother now?" 

     Stubborn, Lorelei scoffs inwardly. He'd only comment on her attitude. She forgets obstinance runs in the family (Lonnie's always been Natalie's rival, some would say). 

     Even so, she rolls her eyes to the heavens. "What? Am I not allowed to be worried for my favorite uncle?" 

     "Favorite?" Lonnie smirks, placing his elbows on the desk. Well, on the stacks of papers. Her eyebrows furrow when he fights off a yawn. "Tommy won't like that." 

     "He'll get over it. Nessie did."

     Lorelei knows he's attempting to shift the conversation and it nearly works, but she knows him. All his tricks, his loopholes and key phrases, the differences in the way he utters her name (Graveled and hoarse is 'uh oh;' pitched and adenoidal is 'surprise!'). He'll micromanage every aspect of her life, but refuses the same treatment. He's selfless. In her eyes, Lonnie's a nut. Hard-shelled, bitter unearthed, difficult to crack. Lorelei will get to his center; she's relentless that way. 

     "Have you finished your homework?" Another dodge. Moreover, a total change of subject. 

     "Hours ago," she responds with a sigh, leaning forwards onto her knees. There wasn't much anyway. Most of her professors are generous on the first day, all except Snape. He went an assigned a five page paper on some random ingredient she can't pronounce. Halfway is complete enough—her motto for the year. 

     Lonnie rolls his eyes, fingers twitching. "It's been forty-five minutes." 

     One seemingly insignificant thing in Lonnie's office is it's always slightly cold. Not so hot the breath chokes in her throat or so cold the stone feels unwelcoming. It's more of an unpleasant chill that can never be shaken. Even with her uniform layered with sweaters and robes, she still feels the chill. Yet, if she puts on a coat, it's too much. Lorelei's wondered if he set it this way on purpose. 

     She feels that chill now, and she doesn't like it. The Common Room's much nicer, like a soothing cup of hot cocoa. 

     "Lonnie," she drags the vowels of his name. "Can I go now? Please?"

     Her uncle places one arm on his chair and the other fiddles aimlessly with a pen. Don't you dare click it, she warns with her eyes. "I said an hour." He drops the pen to tap his watch. "Not been an hour."

     An annoyingly loud, rattling clock ticks. If it continues any more, Lorelei's sure she'll knock it off the wall. She owes Draco Malfoy her sincerest gratitude for being the reason why she's confined to this soul-sucking stone prison (Perhaps a touch dramatic). His intentional injury, absolutely self-inflicted, ignited the overprotective, paranoid side of Lonnie. Many "I told you to take Ancient Runes!" later, he demanded she stay with him—in case the hippogriff attacks her? Randomly? Another tally to add to her growing list of suspicions. 

     However, she really does owe Draco thanks because with his self-inflicted wounds, he's been the talk of the castle. Harry's fainting spell and her supposed possession have finally been knocked from the running. At least, she hopes. Frankly, it's a miracle Lonnie's avoided the rumors this long. Though he's never been one to indulge in gossip, so ludicrous rumors about possession? He'd probably think his reputation would plummet if he believed them. 

     "But your headache," Lorelei presses again. "I don't wanna make it worse."

     "You won't." 

     "You couldn't tolerate Tommy breathing the last time you had one!"

     His face twists into a guilty grimace, and he rubs the nape of his neck. Tick, tick, the clock chimes as they're immersed in silence. Lorelei watches her uncle look left and right, down at the stockpiles of work and to the empty mugs. His palm slides over his breast pocket, like he's reaching for something. She frowns; she knows what's in there. Lonnie stops then sighs. It's loud and dragged out, almost like a slow whistle. 

     "Alright," he begins and he raises a finger to stop her excited interruptions. "You may leave . . . but—no complaints—you will go straight to the Common Room. No shortcuts." 

     Lorelei eagerly nods, too eagerly. 

     "Do I make myself clear?" 

     She withholds her sigh. He won't like that. She nods again. 

     Lonnie puts his glasses back on—the ones he's always despised wearing. Chunky black, square frames with scratches and chalk white tape holding one side together. With his polished style, the spectacles are out of place, stark. Many a time has she questioned why he won't repair them or simply buy a new pair, specifically one that compliments him, but he doesn't answer. He never does. 

     "You've got your wand on you?"

     Standing from her chair, Lorelei opens the left side of her robes to reveal a pocket with a coiled wand tucked inside. 

     "I want you to start keeping that on you at all times, okay?" A breathy sigh. "No, it's not going to explode randomly."

     She closes her mouth. It did, in fact, explode one time. In all fairness, it was tampered with. 

     "It's just a stick really," Lorelei mumbles with a shrug. "I can't do anything with it."

     "You'll get the hang of it," Lonnie assures, and she wants to believe him. She'd like nothing more than to wake up one morning and suddenly be able to produce spells perfectly. Third years aren't supposed to struggle like this. 

     "Hope so. But I've got my hands if I need them." She proceeds to throw punches in the air, glaring down at a fake opponent. 

     Lonnie snorts. "You've been hanging around Tommy too much." 

     "Not enough," she grins. 

     He leans back in his swivel chair with a chuckle. He's laughed more in this short conversation than he has in a matter of hours. It's all she wants. Seeing him cooped up in this spooky room with odd sounds coming from Snape's neighboring office, fills her with loneliness, more secondhand loneliness. It's damaging to one's psyche. Of course, there's the added knowledge that Lorelei knows precisely what he'll do the minute the door's closed. She wants to plead, but he won't listen. Quitting isn't easy, but it's even harder to watch. 

     "Go on already," Lonnie waves her to the door, still smiling. "You're such a slow walker, you'll miss curfew if you don't leave." 

     "I am not slow," Lorelei huffs, offended. She snatches her bag and moves backwards towards the door. 

     He gives her a blank expression. 

     "I like to take in the scenery!" 

     "My poor head!" Lonnie feigns hurt as he dramatically slams his palms against his temples. "Ow! Oh, it hurts!" 

     Stuck in the threshold, Lorelei sticks her tongue out, then she shuts it and speed walks away (Not a slow walker!). Her smile vanishes, unease settling in her stomach. Tomorrow, she'll check on him, and she'll continue to do so until he reveals his hand. And, if it becomes necessary, she'll even dare to take away his hidden coffee maker. Maybe being forced to drink the 'insipid liquid' Lonnie calls the Hogwarts coffee will instill sense in him. 

     For now, Lorelei leaves her uncle alone in his safe haven with a vial of peppermint oil and bubblegum just in eyesight. 

—

     Did Lorelei make it to the Gryffindor Tower? Yes. Though did she recall the password? Also yes, thankfully. She might lie to her uncle more than she should, or likes for that matter, but testing him this early in the year would be a grave mistake. What Lonnie will never know is she did converse with the Fat Lady for a long while. So long, in fact, the stairs began moving. Seems even the castle grows tired of her. She likes to think it's fond exasperation. 

     With it almost nearing curfew, only a few students idle in the Common Room. By the looks of it, all the younger years retreated to their dormitories. Lorelei can't blame them; the first night is always worse. The bed's too firm, sheets' a scratchy wool that doesn't reach the foot of the bed, and the air's dense and tastes wrong. You come down with a case of homesickness. She slept in her uncle's quarters after she begged and begged (He can't refuse his teary-eyed, baby niece; he's not a monster). 

     There's a handful of students mingling by the windows, some've got their broomsticks perched across their laps. Lorelei wrinkles her nose at the acrid scent of broom polish. They could at least open the window. Sprawled on the main couch is a boy blissfully traipsing dreamland whilst a girl draws obscene images all over his face. There's a rather large one on his forehead; it makes her blush. 

     What catches Lorelei's eye, like a thief to a diamond, is Carmine Weatherby laughing with a group of boys over a . . . card game? No, it's far more than that. She doesn't inch closer, but she recognizes the clink! of plastic chips (Also the obvious pouch of spilt galleons). Gryffindor has such a bad reputation. 

     However, Lorelei doesn't spot Harry nor Ron anywhere, which is very irritating. At this time, Hermione's turned in with a book, but the boys, obviously, do not share that same desire. Before she was dragged into Lonnie's prison, she asked Harry to wait for her so they could talk before bed. This is their ritual, one they've had for years. Seems he forgot, again. 

     Lorelei could retreat to bed and 'forget' too, but that's awfully low and with everything that's happened? A debrief is essential. There's also the small snag of her ban from Hogsmeade she's been avoiding . . . 

     She thinks it'll ruin the surprise if she asks the sleeping boy, and she doesn't want to sizzle her nostrils with polish, so Lorelei walks over to Carmine's group. He's ditched his uniform to favor a grey crewneck with unknown insignia. Something from America, she guesses. He's mid laugh when Lorelei carefully taps him on the shoulder. 

     "Excuse me?" Her voice is soft so as not to startle him. While Carmine doesn't flinch, his friends jolt as they scramble to cover the table with their arms. She rolls her eyes. They're so obvious—boys. 

     Carmine turns and grins when he sees her. She's drawn to his winking dimples and the sunstroke of freckles along his nose. "Hey," he greets. "You needa hide behind me again?"

     His lack of English accent shouldn't have startled her considering he told her his master plan, but it is very contrasting. 

     Lorelei clears her throat, rocking back on her heels. "I, uh, need to talk to Harry—Harry Potter." She groans inside, like there's anyone else. "But he's, um, not down here. I think he's in his dorm, but, ya know, I'm a girl. Can't go." She feels worse than Couch Boy will. "I was wondering if you could . . . well, if you could fetch him for me? Please? It's important."

     If Carmine finds her request odd, he doesn't express it. His grin only grows at her embarrassment. Oh, bother, is it infectious. "As you wish." He bows his head as he stands. 

     Lorelei blinks. That easy? 

     Once Carmine disappears up the stairs, all three of his friends fix her with narrowed stares. 

     Michael Covington, a curly topped brunette wearing a brightly colored quidditch jersey (She can't be bothered to know the team), removes his arms from the table. Everyone follows his lead, and Lorelei's guess is confirmed: Poker (Gosh, if Percy heard word of this . . . if Lonnie). She inhales, running a finger along one of Carmine's chips. He's in second by the looks of it, Michael heading by a huge margin of stacks. There's four colors of chips all with small designs of magical creatures. This one's green with a bowtruckle. 

     "Wanna join?" Michael asks. 

     Now, Lorelei's quite familiar with the game. Uncle Tim's got his own league. The times he babysat often converged on his game nights, so how'd he navigate this issue? By sitting Little Lorelei on his knee and teaching her the rhythm of poker. Naturally. That's when Uncle Tim realized his niece was oddly adept at detecting bluffs and swiftly utilized her presence (His babysitting privileges were soon revoked). She loved it, unfortunately. Lorelei bites at her bottom lip. "I shouldn't," she declines, shaking her head. 

     Michael's brother Emil clicks his tongue. "C'mon, Lemon," he mocks her most frequent nickname. "We got space!"

     They do not know who they tempt. 

     Fortunately for the boys, Carmine returns with a begrudged Harry in tow. "Delivery for Lorelei Yates!" 

     Pink blooms on Lorelei's cheeks, which seems to grab Harry's full attention. He takes in the scene. Mischief in the eyes of four boys, a half finished card game that doesn't look allowed, and Lorelei's hungry, tempted eyes. Not again. No hesitation, Harry clamps down on her arm and starts pulling her in the opposite direction. He throws a simple, "She'll obliterate you," over his shoulder. 

     Mistake. Michael Covington is more intrigued. He mouths to Lorelei, gesturing to the cards, "Later?" 

     She nods her confirmation. Harry's none the wiser. 

     "Thank you, Carmy!" Lorelei makes sure to signify her gratitude as she lets herself be manhandled. She waves at the boy, and he returns it with one of his own. 

     "'Carmy'?" Harry scoffs once they're safely away from temptation. 

     "What? It's a nickname!"

     His response is deadpan. Brisk, steely. His shoulders are tied with tension, and he's chiseling down on his clenched teeth. Lorelei frowns. What'd she do? She's innocent! He must still be upset from Potions (Snape had it out for him; not pretty). Harry releases her arm once they're tucked by the fireplace. Firelight catches in his lenses as he perches on the arm of a chair. He goes to speak, then his gaze travels to the girl ruining Couch Boy's face. The girl holds a finger to her lips. 

     "Why didn't you wait?" Lorelei asks, aligning her palm perpendicular against her face to block the obscenity. So crude! 

     Harry tears his attention from the girl and shrugs. "Michael Covington won't shut up."

     Lorelei wants to say it's a lame excuse, until she tilts her head to Carmine's game wherein the aforementioned boy gives a discordant, narking shriek. Referential to the kinds of birds that consistently flock Aunt Etty's bird-feeder. Michael doesn't laugh, he squawks. Her housemates by the window all glare at the incessant noise. Alright, not wholly unrepentant. Still, she has a right to be somewhat irritated. 

     "Makes sense. He's quite eccentric."

     "That's one way to put it." Harry's mutter is riddled with disdain. 

     Swirling nonstop through her mind as Lorelei procrastinated Snape's essay was how to tell Harry about her banishments. With difficult conversations, she prefers to have a script. Makes things easier. However, each planned scenario did not end in her favor, more with her being totally embarrassed. And she's talking 'wear a bag over her head' humiliation. But there's no use beating around the bushes, and she isn't one to shy from honesty. If only some could say the same . . . 

     "Well," Lorelei starts, uncrossing her arms to fiddle with her hands. Orange envelopes her left cheek and all specks of freckles wink like embers. "I guess I'll come out and say it."

     "Uh oh."

     "Pardon?"

     "Nothing." Harry holds up his arms in surrender. "What happened?" 

     Lorelei deeply inhales and on her breathy exhale, "I'm banned from Hogsmeade." 

     It's more of a mumbled whistling of words, but Harry'll understand. Now, Lorelei accounted for a multitude of reactions; preparedness is in her genes!There's thousands of possibilities. Harry could slap his cheeks and scream like that funny painting she saw in a museum once or he might put the back of his hand to his forehead and dramatically faint. Whatever the outcome, laughter was at the bottom of her list. 

     Suddenly, Michael Covington isn't the loudest in the room. Harry's laugh is obnoxiously loud and it ricocheted around the Common Room like a runaway seeker. The broom-polishers are incapable of catching it, much to her dismay. 

     Lorelei's face burns not by the proximity of the fire but by sheer embarrassment. "Harry," she hisses, slapping him on the shoulder. She gives a tense smile and awkward wave to her housemates that shake their fists at the disruption. 

     "Sorry! Sorry!" Harry rasps between small chuckles. By above, it is not that funny. He then looks up at Lorelei and upon seeing her firm brows, confused gaze, and statuesque demeanor, the smiles wipes from his face. "You're serious?"

     "Yes," she deadpans with a roll of her eyes. 

     "Oh."

     Bringing up two fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose, Lorelei sighs. "Lonnie decreed it yesterday. I just didn't wanna tell anyone, you know? I wanna change his mind." 

     Harry raises a brow. "Change his mind? Is that possible?"

     "I'm pretty convincing." 

     Among the lies she's told recently, this is her least promising. Though he doesn't negate her claim; instead, he shakes his head. "So no Hogsmeade? At all?" 

     "Nope," Lorelei confirms. "No outside either. Like, not even Hagrid's."

      Harry's mouth drops into an 'o' shape. "That's why you didn't come with us."

     A couple hours earlier, her trio of friends decided they were going to console Hagrid after Draco's self-inflicted accident. She politely declined and pretended the reason correlated with having a meeting with Lonnie. Of course, she didn't want to say the real reason is because she's too scared to venture outside after dark. But as Lonnie likes to say, too frequently: "Caution keeps the heart beating!"

     Lorelei bares her teeth. ". . . Yes."

     He nods. "Wow. What else?"

     "Black Lake is off limits. Um, maybe something else," She pauses and taps a finger to her chin, glancing upwards. "Oh! No quidditch. Sorry, Harry. I can't watch you practice anymore."

     Internally, this is the least annoying punishment. Lorelei will not express this. 

     "No quidditch?!" 

     This is why.

     Harry's exclamation garners the attention of everyone in the Common Room. Again. In exasperation, the broom-polishers throw their hands up and pack their things. Covington's group is unperturbed for the most part—Carmine keeps wiggling his eyebrows cartoonishly at her. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Couch Boy does not wake. Gosh, Lorelei hopes that marker isn't permanent. 

     "Keep your voice down for goodness sake!" Lorelei scolds in a low voice. 

     And it's as if whatever was said before means nothing. The most important thing, integral to Harry's survival apparently, is quidditch. Typical, she thinks. All his letters are riddled with phrases and people she doesn't know; Lorelei finds his rants amusing nonetheless. He's so passionate. Funny thing, his eyes tend to glisten, kind of like lava. Passion burns; it's an all-consuming fire that tears through the body. Harry's bright with it, and Lorelei doesn't fear the flames. 

     Harry stands upright with wild eyes and a frazzled expression. "Can you go to games?" His question is rushed, words blending together. 

     "No," she says, clicking her tongue. "That's kinda the point of 'no quidditch.'"

     "I-I'll talk to him," Harry starts as he runs a hand through his hair in an anxious habit. The action nearly makes her smile. And yes, Lorelei doesn't particularly enjoy like the magical sport, but she'll show up for him regardless (And the twins!). The matches are lively when Lee Jordan commentates. Seeing him so worked up about her banishment is somehow endearing. "No. I-I'll tell my dad and he'll knock sense into Lonnie. Godric! No quidditch?!"

     "Harry, there's no point," Lorelei says gently. "Lonnie'd never listen to your dad. Like, ever. Not in a million years type of ever." During the summer, Mr. Potter brought a carton of mint ice cream to the diner. That's Lonnie's all time favorite flavor, yet he refused to indulge simply because Mr. Potter bought it. Ridiculous. "Pretty sure he told your dad to stay outta it. Nana, too. He is not happy about the train."

     With a flare of dramatics, Harry collapses over the arms of the leather bound chair. He's thinking; she knows that look. Lorelei watches as he scans the contents of the room, eyes flicking to Carmine's intriguing game, the roaring fire, the now empty window laden with frost. His jaw clenches, and she notices how pronounced it is. Was it always like that? 

     "I'll let you borrow my cloak!" 

     Trying not to let her annoyance show, Lorelei fixes the collar of her sweater. "You don't have to do that, Harry," she assures. 

     "If you want it, you know to sneak into Hogsmeade, it's yours. Swear," he promises, and she gives a halfhearted smile. "Me and Ron'll help."

     "Thank you. Don't know if I'll risk it though."

     Harry understands her insinuation. Lonnie can sniff trouble like a bloodhound. Enough trouble has been caused by the action of sneaking out. She can't understand how some do it regularly. 

     Fire crackling in the background, Lorelei twists the golden ring around her index finger. She thinks back to Lonnie's office and the near hour they spent in silence, not a peep uttered. Breathy, frustrated sighs either at her stupid essay or his own work. Besides what he asked at the beginning concerning Care of Magical Creatures, he never mentioned her rumors.

     "Harry?"

     "Hm?" He takes his attention away from Covington. Said boy is howling in a fit of glee, brandishing his flush like it's a fan of bills. 

     "Do your parents know about the . . . train?" She whispers the last words despite being sequestered in a corner. 

     Harry scrunches his nose. "Nah," he says. "You know I'd be banned too if they did." 

     "You don't find that odd? That they don't know?"

     "Why would it be?"

     Lorelei throws her hands up. "I dunno!" She can't seem to express her true feelings. "It's just, Lonnie didn't bring it up, which I totally thought he would. Maybe he thinks the whole 'possession' thing is so unbelievable—which it is, of course. Don't know how anyone believes it."

     "Well, you did kinda look . . . sick." 

     "So did you!"

     "No I didn't!"

     Lorelei scoffs but doesn't refute him, fearing an everlasting circle of childishness. The image of Harry's deathly pale, melting face—she'll never forget the way his flesh seemed to dissolve like candle wax—as the moonlit creature ravaged his soul, she'd take with her to the grave. 

     Over at Carmine's table, someone slams their fist into wood, creating a loud echo in the emptying room. It's followed by raucous laughter and the clanking of plastic chips. Lorelei disregards her temptation to join the game and sits on the edge of the couch perpendicular to Harry. She swings her legs back and forth mindlessly. 

     "You tell them about the Grim?" 

     Harry whips his head at her, narrowing his eyes. "Why're you asking so many questions?" 

     Lorelei leans back at his abrupt hostility. "I'm sorry," she mutters. "I'm just worried."

     He sighs. "Lori, if I tell them anything, I wouldn't go here anymore. You remember last year."

     How could she forget? Lonnie's petrification, a giant snake terrorizing the castle and dragging Harry's reputation through the mud. He-Who-Shan't-Be-Named's past presence bogging down Ginny Weasley's first year (That might rival her own). She remembers the suffocating fear at the thought of Lonnie never waking up. She was so lost in her own head for much of that year, but she knows Harry's parents must've been totally freaked out. 

     "Alright, point taken," Lorelei nods, getting out of the trap of unpleasant memories. She swings her foot to knock into his own in an act of comfort; he looks at her. "But if you see it again, tell me, and I swear I'll handle it."

     They both laugh. It cuts through the growing tension. 

     "Maybe I'll use you as a human shield," Harry jokes. 

     The reference has her lips pulling upwards in a mischievous grin, while her corneas mimic the roaring fire. "Speaking of Carmy . . ." 

     Harry rolls his eyes at the nickname. 

     "Wanna join the game?"

Chapter Text

     Indeed, Michael Covington experienced true, unadulterated annihilation. Because who expects Lorelei Yates to deliver such perfect hands in quick succession, to don a perfected charade of indifference at every second? The self-proclaimed king of poker was swiftly dethroned in one game. Carmine had never seen an ego deflate so quickly, and he sat and applauded as Lorelei popped it—Michael really needed to be brought down a peg. 

     Harry, not caring about the game nor most of the players, sat beside Lorelei, smirking the whole time. He declined a hand after Michael's enthusiastic explanation of the rules confused him further, opting to watch Lorelei in her element, which seemed to be card games (He hopes it isn't actually gambling). 

     Though Lorelei Yates, little angel-faced Lori, engrossed in such a game proved to be a sight for sore eyes. Lingering students found themselves unable to look away, in fact a small crowd formed around the table when things picked up. It awoke the slumbering boy with obscene drawings on his face, which everyone had a good laugh about. Despite playing the game every week and getting away with it, Carmine made the newcomer's swear to secrecy. Everyone did. They knew if rumors spread, they'd find Professor Yates and if then, they'd be busted. 

     By the time the game ended and Lorelei claimed her victory, it was well past curfew. Percy Weasley, Head Boy (He won't let anyone forget), burst in like a badge wearing officer busting the mob. Thankfully, Carmine and his boys were familiar with their routine. With one spell, the evidence of unsavory activity vanished. Percy had grumbled, disappointed he couldn't prove himself, and ordered everyone to bed.  

     Riding the high of her victory, Lorelei forgot all about her recent fear of the dark shadows in the girl's dormitory. All the girls, besides the ones who watched her downstairs, were sound asleep and far away in their respective dreamlands. Lorelei fell into a nice sleep, one finally not riddled with anxiety. She dreamed of a grassy valley filled with multicolored wildflowers and the bluest sky she's ever seen. Bees pollinated, butterflies danced and kissed her skin, and the sunlight provided a welcoming warmth. 

     She twirled through the valley in a linen skirt and a simple cotton shirt that flowed in the breeze. And she was barefoot; she could feel the blades of grass between her toes and the cool, slightly damp dirt. Lorelei danced all night through fields of flowers with graceful butterflies and buzzing bees. 

     And when the morning sun beamed down through the cracks in the curtains, kissing her cheeks in a gentle glow, Lorelei awoke with a peaceful mind. She's determined to have a normal, completely non-stressful day. Under her robes, she wore her favorite vermillion sweater with a faint rose design in the stitching, a memento to her dream. 

     When she had walked downstairs with Hermione that morning, Lorelei locked eyes with Carmine on the opposite staircase. He nodded with a subtlety that said he's done it hundreds of times before. And at breakfast, as she happily grabs anything her path, not a word is uttered. 

     "What's got you in such a good mood?" 

     Lorelei glances up at Ron who slouches in his seat, tired eyes blinking slowly. "Can't I be happy?" She smiles. 

     "No. It's all . . ." He waves his hands in the air but doesn't finish his thought. 

     "And why're you in such a bad mood?" Hermione cuts in from next to Lorelei. 

     "Micah Dunne forgot his sleeping draught," Ron grumbles as he sends a pointed glare to the mentioned boy at the other end of the table. "Snored all bloody night."

     Lorelei almost laughs but covers it with a cough, and she hides her smile in her orange juice. She catches Harry's gaze. Amusement twinkles in his eyes. She assumes he missed the snoring due to their midnight game. 

     "If he 'forgets' again, I swear I'll—"

     "Ron!" Hermione interrupts. 

     And then, loud screeches sound through the Great Hall as owls soar through the opening in the ceiling. Lorelei sets her goblet down as she ogles at birds flying to their owners with rolled letters in their beaks. A flash of orange pilots through the air as Lorelei's owl Zippy expertly and quickly glides down to her (Not hard to tell how Zippy got her name). Hedwig follows suit. Harry's owl hoots as it drops the letter in his hands, but Zippy remains silent. 

     Scratching Zippy's head in the spot she loves the most, the owl releases her letter. Judging by the messily tied ribbons, stained notebook paper and chunky handwriting, Lorelei knows exactly the author. 

     "Who's it from, Harry?" Ron asks with a mouthful of food, causing Hermione to roll her eyes. 

     "My dad," Harry answers as he opens the letter. 

     She follows with her own. It's not sealed well at all, though she can't expect much considering her family's all non-wizards. Her Nana is the only one who ever seals things properly, sometimes a little too well. Loads of tape is always the answer! She slides her finger through the singular piece of tape and unfolds the letter. 

Dear Lulu, 

Where'd you hide those chocolate things? I promise I won't eat them all this time! I told Dad about the frogs but he doesn't believe me. Maybe you can tell me where they are so I can prove it to him? Thanks. 

Also, Humphrey ate Mr. Midnight. 

Okay. Bye. 

Dorian. 

     Lorelei's mouth drops open at the ending. Angrily, she folds the letter and shoves it into her satchel, mumbling under her breath. She told Dorian to stop allowing the dogs in her room as they've always had a fondness for ripping apart her stuffed animals. Mr. Midnight is, or was, her childhood best friend, a fluffy black cat who's eyes are popping out from age. She'll have to ask Nana to sew him together again. 

     "Your cousin?"

     Lorelei faces Hermione with furrowed brows. "Yeah," she nods. "How'd you know?" 

     "You look upset, and your cousin's the only one who sends you letters."

     Her friend's astute observation garners a small chuckle from Lorelei. "Well, Dorian's the only one who isn't scared of Zippy. It's rather unfortunate Uncle Tim's got a phobia of owls." 

     Hermione nods her head. "My parents are the same," she says, taking ahold of her goblet of juice. "My mum's superstitious. She chased mine out the house with a bible."

     Sometimes Lorelei takes for granted how lucky she is to have someone who understands her on a fundamental level. As a human, a muggle. Ron, Harry, even Cadence, they all grew up in wizarding households. They're familiar with magic and can navigate their way through any magical obstacle. But her and Hermione? They have to work to understand. The Granger girl is lucky in the way magic comes naturally to her, for Lorelei it is wickedly confusing and a winding maze with no end in sights. One day, she'll meet the end. 

     Ahead of her, Ron slinks down in his seat, resting his head on the table and laughing at something Harry said. Lorelei pushes her plate away to lay her elbows down. "What'd he say, Harry?" She prompts with another smile. Today's a good day. 

     "Er, an assignment. Had a question." Harry barely looks at her, focusing on rapidly shoving the letter into his pocket. There's a reluctance in the way he says it, like he's fighting to get out the words. 

     "Was it the astronomy project? Because I didn't get it either."

     "All you have to do is chart the constellation positions, Ron," Hermione explains. "It's very easy."

     The Weasley responds by grumbling under his breath. 

     While she didn't understand the project either (Cadence is her cheatsheet), Lorelei keeps her attention on Harry and his peculiar behavior. Usually, he's very talkative about his troubles—he loves complaining, especially when his father is involved. Many a time has she sat through his colorful rants. This time, however, he's resigned himself to silence. Well, if he thinks he can become another secret, he's never been more wrong. Detective Lori is on the case!

     Lorelei tilts her head. "Assignment? You could always ask me, Harry," she says. "Maybe not about astronomy or charms . . . or defense. But guesswork is half the fun!"

     A huff of laughter escapes him. "It's nothing guys." Harry looks around at the unconvinced eyes of his friends. "Really. It's nothing." 

     "Yeah alright, Harry." Ron rolls his eyes as he grabs another pastry to tuck inside his robes. "And I'm Viktor Krum." 

     "Who's that?"

     Harry and Ron's eyes explode in their sockets. 

     "'Who's that'?" 

     "You don't know Viktor Krum?!"

     Leaning backwards with her hands raised, Lorelei glances at Hermione. "Is it quidditch related?" She whispers. 

     "Yep."

     Lorelei grimaces. She won't hear the end of this. 

—

     Bang! An unknown force rattles Defense's wardrobe. Lorelei flinches, pressing her palms flat over her face. The thing's been clamoring uneasily since the moment she entered the classroom. It's an antique, more than likely cherry from its deep color, and its brassware clearly needs an updo. There's intricate patterns adorning the trim, and she wonders if they're sigils of some kind. Protectors against evil. Truthfully, she almost turned around and left had Harry not been the one behind her. He didn't even look at her when he flipped her around and ushered her inside. 

     Anyway, this ramshackle harborer of unseen horrors reminds Lorelei of Lonnie's attic. She always hears the strangest sounds from there. Strange creaks like footsteps, heavy, dragging footsteps—the kind that keep her awake as she peers at the ceiling. A soft hiss or mewl, a faint trail of cinnamon. She's forbidden from going anywhere near it, and it's locked with a magical gordian knot. Only her uncle would safeguard his belongings with puzzles. Perhaps the attic is infested with whatever Remus has in his wardrobe. In which case, hoping it's not true, maybe she could get rid of it for him. 

     Get rid of it for herself, too. She needs sleep. 

     "Intriguing, yes?" Remus stands in front of the students who don't dare move closer. The wardrobe lunges on its hinges, tilting and careening forwards, then steadies backwards. Lorelei places herself behind Harry. "Would anyone like to venture a guess as to what's inside?" 

     Silence. Lorelei peaks through her fingers at her classmates. They're all sharing concerned gazes, perhaps wondering if they should've gone to secondary instead. From behind, Seamus Finnigan channels all his bravery. "That's a boggart, that is."

     Yogurt? No, that can't be it. Lorelei brings her hands to her sides, fingers lightly brushing Harry's. Has her hearing gone down? She'll have to talk to Uncle Nessie if that's the case. 

     "Very good, Mr. Finnigan," Remus praises. "Can anyone tell us what a boggart looks like?" 

     Oh, Lorelei has an image alright, and it's very similar to Lonnie's attic. Like a branch shrouded in midnight, it's a gnarled figure with bent arms and long talons for fingers. Two yellow eyes glow like twin suns. Its habitat is blackened corners, those avoided alleyways, side-eyed forests, peripheral glances. It blends but never fully, just enough to see its outline. Is it there? Blink, if you dare. To never know is to experience fear in its entirety . . . 

     . . . Lorelei supposes that'd ruin everyone's day. 

     "No one knows." 

     Lost in her own nightmare, Lorelei startles at the familiar voice. Right next to her stands Hermione Granger who, she's almost certain, was not there a second ago. In all fairness, she did have her eyes covered. There was a time when she and Hermione would attend class together locked at the hip. Looped arms, bright giggles, skipped steps. Now, she's not sure where her friend disappears, but Lorelei'd very much like to follow. 

     A figure bumps into her shoulder. She turns to Ron. "You see that too?" He questions her in a whisper, and she nods. He audibly breathes in relief. At least, they're crazy together. 

     "Boggarts are shapeshifters," an oblivious Hermione continues. "They take the shape of whatever a particular person fears most. That's what makes it so—"

     "Terrifying, yes," Remus interrupts, hands placed behind his back. "Luckily, a very simple charm exists to repel a boggart. Let's practice it now, shall we? Without wands, please . . . Rididikulus!"

     "Riddikulus!"

     Unlike her peers, Lorelei does not repeat the charm. She lightly taps her ears—is she hearing okay? Gosh, she really might have to letter Uncle Nessie. Was Remus making a terrible joke or is that literally the name of the charm? She glances in all directions, even peeking over Harry's shoulder, yet no one's lost like her. They've all done it dutifully, and she hasn't even gotten her wand out. 

     "It's this class that's ridiculous," Draco mutters from behind her. From the close proximity, she feels Harry tense and she gently lays her hand on his arm. He stills. 

     Whether Remus heard the comment or not, he pays it no mind as he continues his lesson. "Good. So much for the easy part. You see, the incantation alone is not enough. What really finishes a boggart off is . . . laughter." Everyone blinks. Slowly. "You need to force it to assume a shape you find truly amusing. Neville, come up here, will you?" 

     He steps forwards wearily, and Lorelei instinctively clenches a fist. She knows Remus would never submit Neville to the gross humiliations of Snape, but she can't quench her worry. Harry envelops her balled hand, and she relaxes. 

     "What would you say is the thing that frightens you the most?" 

     "Professor Snape." 

     Everyone laughs in understanding (aside from the Slytherins though some of them nod) except for Lorelei. She doesn't find it funny. Not in the slightest. He's genuinely terrified of the man and it makes her upset. There was a teacher she had in primary who never liked her. A simple drawing of her family smiling all in a line was tossed in the garbage; her time tables were always wrong, just wrong; and her recesses were revoked for the slightest missteps. Picked on by the people charged with the care and wellness of the next generation. 

     Of course, once Nana and Barry discovered the mistreatment, Lorelei never saw that teacher again (She moved classrooms. There was no hit, unfortunately). Neville didn't have a Barry or Auntie Elle, people who fought tooth and nail for her. Lorelei knows she has it good due to Lonnie being Snape's assistant. Therein lies the issue: Snape targets the defenseless. That makes him a coward. 

     "Right then. Wand at the ready. One. Two. Three!" 

     There's a loud boom as the wardrobe doors burst open, doors slamming on the hinges. Immediately, Lorelei steps backwards further into the crowd of students. From her position, she can barely see Neville shakily standing in front of . . . Snape? 

     "R-r-riddikulus!" 

     One loud crack and everyone erupts into hollows of laughter. A smile finds its way onto her lips at the sight of a red hat on Snape's head. Auntie Elle owned something like it, except hers was ginormous and had a frilly line of lace along the edges. Dated, some would call it.

     Suddenly, music chimes from a shockingly pristine record player and Remus calls, "Ron! Forward!"

     The rhythmic pounding of her heart increases. Lorelei takes another step back, slinking further into the crowd. Her trio of friends haven't noticed she's moved. They must've been in awe at the sights before them, and she would've been too if not for the anxiety clawing at her throat. 

     What is she afraid of? 

     Lorelei's fearful of many things. The creature potentially lurking in Lonnie's attic; bee stings (She's deathly allergic), being stuck at the point of ferris wheels. Spiders, she doesn't like, and she's weary around wooden barrels. But, despite them all, she knows the boggart clings to the deepest fear. Alas, her boggart won't be arachnids or a swarm of bees poised to strike . . . so what will it be? The uncertainty of it all frustrates Lorelei. Could it be existential? Intangible. Is it the overarching ploy of fate? Isolation. Death. Loss. 

     She fears so much she's scared the boggart will be induced into a food coma. When it is her turn, how will The Unknown be represented? 

     One by one, her peers step forward to take on the . . . thing. Cracks sound each time it changes to something new and each time Lorelei finds herself creeping backwards. Tick, tick, the clock ebbs closer. She doesn't want to go. To conquer your fear is to soar on fleece clouds in the bluest of skies. You're on top of the world. Defense is usually drab, colorless, but all she sees is vibrant joy. Neville smiles, even Draco's void of complaints. And yet, Lorelei is the only one sporting a frown. 

     Once Dean Thomas tackles his fear of snakes with a grotesquely large basilisk (Bad, bad memories), the next in line is Harry. Time halts, only for a moment, but it's enough. Lorelei places a palm over her heart, lashes poised so high they brush her brows. Forget herself—what does Harry fear? Oh, is that thought chilling. He has it worse than most, than anyone; the boggart could feast for a lifetime. He-Who-Shan't-Be-Named . . . The Grim . . . Sirius Black. Even the concept of Death Eaters, Dark Arts, death. 

     Harry raises his wand. 

     Lorelei smiles, but it reads as a grimace. He's brave, always has been. Harry won't roll over; he'll stand, and he'll fight 'til he's victorious. He's stubborn like that. His fears could send the strongest man into a psychiatric crisis, but he merely rolls his shoulders, tilts his head high, and faces his enemy. 

     As Harry aligns himself with the serpent, the class collectively holds its breath. Nothing seems to happen at first. Lorelei's pressed against the stonewall of Defense and she's lightly crouching behind an oblivious Slytherin, but she sees Harry's fear clear as day. Moreover, she feels it. A Dementor's touch is a feeling she will never forget. Phantom prickles slither along her arms, her lungs constrict. Slowly, the befouled silhouette unfurls to its fullest form; its abyssal maw towers over the tallest boy's head. This imitation bleeds reality; Lorelei's rigid. 

     "Here!" 

     There's an intense flash of luminance, so blinding it envelops the classroom like a supernova, then the Dementor vanishes. Lorelei squints, seeing Remus now in front of Harry with his wand arm raised. For a defying second, a new fear takes hold of the boggart. A small gasp leaves her lips: Remus's fear. Fog toils above the man's head, thick plumes that roll with nonexistent zephyrs. Lorelei looks away. Seeing an adult's innermost anxiety is a violation. It's wrong. Adults can't cry; they can't cower. They're impenetrable sentinels capable of battling the toughest foes without err. She knows, she knows that's naive. 

     True to her views, Remus hollers the incantation and the boggart flies backwards into the wardrobe where it will hopefully remain all year. Her classmates all cheer excitedly, but Lorelei finds herself relieved. She presses her palms flat against limestone, allowing the coolness of the stone to shallow her breathing. She won't have to face her fear . . . this time. 

     Smiling wryly, Remus claps his hands. "I think that's enough excitement for today." 

     The class collectively groans, save for a few, and begin filing to exit the room. As Harry makes his way back to his friends, he seems to notice her lack of presence. Lorelei watches him scan the exiting students until their eyes lock. He raises a questioning eyebrow, but she only shakes her head. Gosh, this is embarrassing. As she waits by the threshold, she keeps her eyes downcast. She refuses to let anyone see her noticeable weakness. This fault. 

     "Lorelei?" 

     Nuts. Robotically, she grinds on her heel to face Remus. He's stood beside the rackety wardrobe, wholly unperturbed at the consistent growling. He didn't get the position for nothing. 

     "A word please?" 

     Double nuts. Remus beckons her with his index finger in the way all adults do. A couple students give her wide eyed stares as they rustle past, and a handful of Slytherins snicker loosely. Lorelei's stomach plummets. He'll ask her why she cowered, why she hid herself. Will he relay to Lonnie? If he does, her uncle'll try and play therapist again. Ron places his hand atop her shoulder, solemnly shaking his head as if she's going to be fed to the boggart. 

     "We'll be waiting outside," Hermione promises, then lightly smacks Ron and drags him into the hallway. Harry wiggles his eyebrows before he shuts the door. 

     Now, it's just Lorelei and her second godfather . . . and the boggart. 

     He appears unsure about what he's going to say, almost uncomfortable. Shoulders rolled, gaze downcast, hesitation. Lorelei can't help her nerves; she sincerely dislikes being scolded. She's a good girl, totally innocent! Just afraid. Fearful of what he might have her do—a one-on-one with the boggart? Quirrell would've done that, maybe Lockheart if he wasn't terrified of every creature. Lorelei hasn't had a proper conversation with Remus, the more she thinks on it. 

     Moons ago, he stopped coming 'round Auntie Elle's. Little Lorelei stayed with her great aunt on occasion, mostly whenever Lonnie returned from Hogwarts (He needed to confirm her alive status). Remus accompanied him, never James. Her fuzzy memory recalls Remus gifting her a watch; it's the last time he stopped by. It was too big then, and it still is now. The thing's worn on the leather straps, and the watch-face is fogged by humidity and the dial's cracked. Basically, it's broken. Unusually, big and small hands are halted at a particular time. 

     Two minutes past midnight. Whatever the sentiment, Lorelei keeps it at the bottom of her luggage buried under various unorganized pieces of jewelry. Sometimes she wears it, sometimes she favors a bangle. It was a gift, and she forever treasures gifts. But it makes her sad. Lorelei doesn't know Remus, not truly. She didn't know his connected title to her until Lonnie was petrified and James Potter announced his own godfather-ship. Yes, they did it at the same time and yes, there was a small feud about it. 

     There was a time, if certain events hadn't taken place, that she might've come to know the man. Maybe Remus would've taken her out for ice cream on Thursdays and let her perch atop his mountainous stature. So high, Lorelei knows she would've attempted to touch the sky. He would've been at the Yates' barbecues and annual celebrations and there'd certainly be photographs of candid moments splattered throughout her household. But none of that happened, and none of it ever will. 

     However, Lorelei has an inkling as to what Remus plans to inquire. It's a question she's heard so much that it dares to mean anything at all. Are you okay? There are few who can answer. Way back when, if toddler Lorelei had the cognizance required, would he have an answer? 

     "Lorelei—"

     Remus stops himself. He pauses, bringing a hand to his chin. Defense would be dowsed in silence if not for the growling wardrobe. She notices, too, that he didn't refer to her as 'Miss Yates' like all other professors. She might not know him, but he knows her. 

     Third year is shaping to be one of the worst. It's third time's the charm until it's Lorelei. Worst of all, she's a week in. At the end of the day, she'll dutifully report to her uncle's office to finish her homework lest he add anymore banishments (There'll be lots and lots of doodles on parchment rather than words). Tomorrow, it'll be much the same. Lorelei can't chat with Hagrid at a whim, can't visit Cadence, can't partake at Hogsmeade when the time comes, can't, can't. While Remus rehearses his intrinsic script, an idea bursts over her head like a lightbulb. 

     Remus is her godfather; he knows Lonnie . . . is there a chance? 

     "Sir, if I may interrupt." Lorelei folds her hands in front and stands straight, emulating a business-like manner. "But, you know, as my beloved godfather you must have a meaningful amount of say, right?" She flashes toothy smile, braces glinting like false jewels. "Mr. Potter, no offense to Harry, is a terrible example! I mean, what kind of adult assists a minor in running away?" 

     Remus lowers his hand to his side, eerily silent. 

     She tsks, "Personally, I wouldn't want my goddaughter to be around such lackluster personalities . . ." Lorelei takes a breath as she analyses her professor's body language. He's not tense like he was before; his head is ducked, but she sees the faintest outline of a smile. A highly amused one. "Some'd say his greatest flaw is honesty. Not me. It's quite funny, actually. He told Mr. Snape once—oh, anyways." That is a long tale. "Mr. Potter tells Lonnie off all the time. As my preferred godfather, you can't let second class upsell you!" 

     Silence. 

    Then, Remus inhales through his nose, probably in exasperation. "Are you finished?" 

     ". . . No." 

     "Let me rephrase. You are finished." 

     "Quite so." 

     Remus's exhale is weathered. He's not old, just hardened. Kind of like a chocolate bar. Sometimes the sweet is unwrapped to reveal waxy strings of white on the exterior. Little strands, almost like cobwebs. Nothing's wrong with it, and it hasn't gone bad. It's just bloomed. Environments shape people, like it shapes chocolate. Simply, Remus bloomed. One day she will too. 

     Yates are obstinate beyond repair; Lorelei refuses to give up. "Could I at least state my case?" She pleads. 

    Remus sighs but nods all the same. "Very well." 

     "Lonnie banned me from Hogsmeade, sir! Surely this is disruptive to my spiritual development?" Lorelei unintentionally parrots James's wording. "Like, is that even allowed? It must be illegal! And you know what he said? 'I didn't go my first year, Lorelei. Just because I didn't means you should suffer with me too!'"

     Her impression of her uncle hasn't improved. 

     "What would you have me do, Lorelei?" 

     She blinks. "He's lying, Mr. Lupin!"

     "Lying about what?"

     "I saw a picture of Harry's dad and Lonnie at Honeydukes—he was my age!"

     Remus frowns, amused exasperation vanished. For some reason, he sports a deer in headlights look, and it's strange to Lorelei. Of all the tangential, slightly offensive things she's said, this is what he refuses to entertain? Does he not believe her? This is the end of Lorelei's Plight. Candlelight flickers, sconces never dwindling. They deepen Remus's stern reproach. 

     "It's none of my concern how Lonnie handles discipline," he levels a hand flat through the air, swiping any of her responses. "If he feels you're unfit for Hogsmeade, then that's how it is." 

     "Wha—no!" Lorelei cries helplessly. Hope, deflated. 

     He waves his hand again, silencing her. "I don't want to hear anymore, Lorelei," Remus states firmly. 

     Lorelei hangs her head in dejection. She knows when to wave the white flag. It might've been a foolish endeavor and her means of speaking might've been unhelpful, but she'll try anything. Try and try again. However, there's added tension to the disquiet in Defense. Guilt floods her. Did she push too far? In all fairness, she tried to butter him up. 

     Remus ambles behind his desk and rummages through the drawers. Paper rustles and gadgets clatter. His back is to her, and his shadow cascades down in a pool of ink. "I'm curious to know . . ." He crouches to reach the lowest drawer. ". . . How your uncle's been faring. Is he aware of your 'possession'?" 

     The wardrobe rattles, wood against wood. Lorelei flinches and tries to cover it with a tentative rub at the back of her neck. Her eyes stare at Remus's back, confusion swirling in the gray. No, 'Are you okay?'s, no 'How are you?'s. Nothing on the recent Azkaban escapee, no Dementors. Lorelei should feel eased that she isn't forced to answer an unanswerable question, but she feels oddly slighted. Instead, Lonnie; he asks about Lonnie. 

     "You haven't spoken to him?" 

     Even crouched, she can see Remus's head. He shakes it once. "No," he sighs. 

     "Oh." 

     Pieces begin clicking into place, pieces she didn't know were missing. The more Lorelei dwells on it, the more she comes to the realization that she hasn't seen Lonnie speak a word to Remus. The start of term feast was the only interaction she's seen between them, and it appeared nothing more than coworker professionalism. No mentions in conversation, no passing smiles of acknowledgment. Nothing. 

     Finally, Remus rises and faces her again. Fading sunlight outlines his back from the aperture behind him. He's pinching a small envelope betwixt his fingers. It's a strange way to hold it, Lorelei notes. Almost like it's soiled. In large strides, he reaches her with the epistle. She has to crane her neck backwards to meet his troubled gaze. 

     "My intention is not to use you as a middle man, Lorelei," Remus begins. Unlike most of the adults recently, he doesn't look away. He stands taller, to her neck's dismay. "However, your uncle and I . . . you could say we're on the 'outs' right now." 

     Lorelei's face scrunches in confusion. 

     He pauses to find the correct wording, fiddling with his envelope. "We're having differences." 

     Her mouth forms an 'o' shape. 

     "Lonnie can be very sensitive at times, stubborn too." Remus extends the letter towards her, and she takes it. On the front, in some of the neatest penmanship she's seen (Definitely a far cry from Dorian), is her uncle's name. There's even a fancy swirl under the first letter. "I think it would be best if you gave him this. He'd be more inclined to read it as opposed to tossing it in the fireplace." 

     "But, sir? Why . . . ?" 

     Remus lets out a loose laugh despite the icy tension snaking around their throats. He clears his throat. "Sometimes, Lorelei, people are clouded by their feelings. They say things they don't mean."

     Lorelei frowns. She doesn't like the implication. Lonnie's been on edge recently, this is true, but he's not rude. He's honest that's all, maybe a little crude at times. Her uncle's similar to cold climates. You need a puffer to withstand the zealous wind, thick boots to traverse the patches of hidden ice. More importantly, you need thick skin. Eventually, the body will acclimate to the temperatures. It takes time! 

     "I am sorry, for involving you in this way." Remus's apology is heartfelt and considerate. 

     "Don't be sorry, sir," Lorelei offers a tepid smile. She tucks the letter carefully into her satchel to show him her acceptance of the mission and to cease her temptation to open it. However, that is illegal. She focuses her gaze upon Remus once more. "Lonnie's not mean, you know? He's just . . . scared. I think he's scared." 

     Her godfather shakes his head and smiles. Why, Lorelei hasn't the faintest idea. 

     "I think you're right, Lorelei. I think you're right." 

     Perhaps this whole time the question she should've been asking is: What is Lonnie's greatest fear?

Chapter Text

     “Did you know Remus and Lonnie are on the outs?"

     Very gracefully, Harry chokes on his pumpkin juice and erupts into a fit of hacking coughs. Lorelei sighs and reaches forward to roughly pat him on his clavicle (Short arms). Drops of sticky juice sprayed onto the table, so she lays her napkin over it to soak the mess. Noticing a few weary stares from the Ravenclaws, she flashes a grin and jerks her thumb upwards. Everything's fine! Harry's just choking! Although, the Great Hall can really echo.

     "That means fight, by the way. They're in a fight," Lorelei says, deeming Harry in perfect health. His cheeks are a touch rosy, and he's got the smallest dribble of juice on the corner of his lips. She shrugs and tosses him her spare napkin. Yates leave no trace!

     Dinner ended a short while ago and most students retreated to their dormitories for the night. Hermione was one of them, overly enthusiastic to crack open her fresh copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude. The majority of the Weasleys are at the table engaged in conversations with their respective friends: Ron vehemently argues with Seamus and Dean over a subject more than likely quidditch related, and the twins are conniving with Lee Jordan. Percy's the exception. Off stalking the halls for stragglers, no doubt.

     On Wednesdays, the house-elves make divine citrus desserts. A particular day in Lorelei's first year had her fraught with homesickness. It was such a gloomy, dreary, no good day. She was missing Nana. Those crushing, fretting hugs, the nose-burning fragrances of jasmine and patchouli. At the end of the feast, Lorelei was greeted with an array of citrus sweets from the house-elves. Oh, did she cry. Lemon curd trifles; delicate pavlovas with fresh slices of orange; fluffy mouses, pies. They tasted like home.

     Afterwards, Lorelei had an intense stomachache, and she's learned nothing in the years following. Watching Harry rub the pumpkin juice from his lips whilst muttering incoherently, she snatches a third lemon cookie from its gilded plate. She breaks off a piece and relishes the feel of peel and confectioners sugar on her fingertips. They aren't as good as her mum's, nothing ever is, but they satisfy her sweet tooth. Carmine Weatherby shares her sentiments. He sits three feet away and shoves his pockets full of dessert.

     Lorelei can hear her uncle's voice in her head: "You'll make yourself sick!" Her response? Grabbing a fourth cookie.

     However, speaking of Lonnie, something odd occurred during tonight's feast. He's the most punctual person Lorelei's ever known. Always a half hour early, yet never too early. He's found the optimal balance. Tardiness is egregious to him, perhaps one of the greatest offenses. And yet, he was late to dinner. Halfway, Lonnie'd rushed through the doors, scaring half the students and proceeded to the staff table in quick strides. He whispered something to Professor Snape that broke the man's scowl, then he rushed out.

     He didn't return.

     Lorelei's always been attuned to her family. She knows from a glance if Aunt Etty's upset by the way she does her hair (Two braids is stress, a high ponytail means business), and she can tell Uncle Tommy's been overworking when he watches reruns of Bounty Law. The Yates are very good at personas. This time, Lorelei isn't the only one who notices. Everyone in the Great Hall could tell Lonnie's a breath from death, that's what the Slytherins say. It makes sense, students like to catch professors' double standards. "Mr. Yates can't deduct points for tardiness if he's late too!"

     Lonnie's second greatest offense is unkemptness. It shows laziness, a devaluation of character. So again, why is he breaking his rules? Neatly styled hair was gnarly and disheveled, and his robes were hastily thrown on, barely covering the casual attire under it. In his rush, Lorelei caught stains of dirt and bits of leaves underneath. Lonnie's cheeks are always red from the stress she causes him and his genetic condition, but they were deepened. Flushed. The most important detail, however, were his shoes that were covered in mud. His newest dress shoes, to be precise.

     It worries Lorelei. He was in and out in a frenzy and spared her a single glance in his exit that she knew said 'Do not follow me.' Her uncle can sometimes be . . . closed off, a point proven by his negligence in Black's escape, but he's not uncoordinated. She thinks it's related to the letter she dropped by his office earlier. Lonnie wore a frown the entire time she chatted his ear off, mood soured.

     Her theory might be probable. Once Lonnie came barreling in to whisper secrets to Snape, Lorelei's eyes naturally drifted to Remus. He watched them, stared down intently. Throughout the feast, Lorelei tried getting Remus's attention through various conspicuous hand gestures and glances, but he didn't take the bait.

     "I know what it means. But why?" Harry's hoarse question stirs her from her thoughts. He pushed his goblet aside, fearful of whatever she might say next.

     "Well, I dunno," Lorelei frowns. "I was hoping you'd have an idea."

     From across the table, he sends her a blank look.

     Groaning overly loud, Lorelei's elbows rest on the table as she rubs at her temples. "You don't have anything to offer? Not a clue?" She squints hopefully at him, but he only shrugs in response. "C'mon, Harry! Your dad's, like, always squabbling with Lonnie."

     "'Squabbling'?"

     She ignores him. A chunk of her braid flops into a tart frosted with whipped cream. "What about that letter you got? Did your dad say anything? Mention Remus? You gotta give me something!"

     Alarm rings in Harry's eyes at these questions, and it has her befuddled, then it abruptly fades into uneasiness. He scratches the top of his head. "I asked about an assignment, Lori," he breathes. "That's all it was."

     "Yeah, alright," she waves, looking leftward at Ron's red face, probably as red as his hair. He's very articulate, she notices. Must be about Viktor Krum. Lorelei faces Harry, and he's already looking at her. "I'm just worried. Everyone's so cagey. You know that letter Remus told me to deliver?"

     He nods slowly, hesitantly. He frees himself of all choking hazards.

     "Well, I think whatever was inside, and this is just my theory but I'm usually right," Lorelei pauses to lean onto her elbows slightly over the table, "has to do with Black."

     Even uttered as a mere whisper, the name feels like it echoes within the Great Hall.

     Harry's pupils expand, and the uneasiness is as clear as day. "What're you saying?" He dares to ask.

     "I'm positing a theory s'all." Lorelei tries to play up her indifference, yet it falls flat. Anyone could see the fear present on her face like the diner's neon signs. "I mean, you saw him—Lonnie. He was all . . . you know, terrible looking! That's not him. He hates outdoors, at least 'round here. So why's he dirty? All I'm saying is it's suspicious."

     In the two hours between the middle of the feast and her depositing of the letter, Lonnie made a discovery. While her uncle is overprotective, he's composed. To see him so frazzled . . . it adds to the mystery and to her worry. He found something in this very castle and Lorelei'd really like to know.

     "Maybe he's just tired?" Harry offers as he pushes his glasses further up his nose. "And, like you said, Lonnie's always squabbling with people. He and Snape fought last year."

     Lorelei supposes that's true. Still, regardless of his inclination to argue with his colleagues, Lonnie's off. She was there when he opened Remus's letter, there when he crumpled it and tossed it into his bin. What was said, she'll never know, but it rattled him. Except, Harry doesn't seem to share her concerns. No one does. She supposes it's fair. If you close yourself off, no one will come to your aid. Her uncle, her problem.

     "Stop worrying so much," Harry says, dismissive. He carelessly grabs an ornate puffed pastry in the shape of a bobcat and proceeds to go straight for the head. Funnily enough, it's filled with red jam—truly a ghastly image. "Everything's fine."

     Harry's red stained smile is not reassuring.

—

     Lorelei can't sleep. It's ironic, really. Here she is lying on her back, sheets halfway across her torso because she couldn't decide if she was hot or cold, unable to traipse dreamland, while last year she was struggling with sleepwalking. Somnambulism, a word she's come to detest. Under the influence of He-Who-Shan't-Be-Named, Ginny Weasley placed Lorelei under the curse. Each night she'd awake in the lavatory above the Chamber of Secrets or on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.

     None of those as bad as the time Percy Weasley found her torso halfway through a window on the seventh floor. That may have been the worst night of Lonnie's life. He began vigorously brewing sleeping draughts in hopes to crush whatever ailed her. None of them worked. Nothing helped and then he was petrified. Bad, horrible, year. But that's in the past. Lorelei's slothful nights faded until they vanished altogether, and Lonnie's free of paralysis. Past is past!

     What keeps her from sleep is the present. Lorelei can't stop thinking about Lonnie. Why was he late? His muddy shoes meant he was outside—he didn't go outside unless absolutely necessary. And to wear his nicest, newest pair of loafers? That's a grave sin. By above, she's making herself sick from worry. All she wants is for him to be alright, but he won't talk to her. Why, why, why! Lorelei wants to don her detective alter ego and interrogate Lonnie 'til he spills his secrets, but he's crafty. He'd answer with half truths and play semantics.

     "What were you doing outside?"

     "Walking."

     "Walking where?!"

     "Outside."

     "Ugh!"

     Then there's Mr. Weasley's warnings, Harry's cyphers, Remus's letter, Trelawney's prediction, Sirius Black, The Grim—too much!

     As moonlight streams through the wispy curtains, Lorelei thinks of the one place that's always brought her comfort in times of stress. It's hidden deep within the castle, shrouded in dark shadows and faraway from anything and everyone. Totally, utterly quiet. If there'd be any place for Black to reap his vengeance, it'd be in her alcove. But there's no feasible way he'd ever get inside Hogwarts, so she's not feverish with concern. Lonnie, on the other hand. Oh, he'd lose it if he caught her . . .

     . . . So he won't.

     With a sigh, Lorelei slips her feet into her slippers and grabs Nana's handmade shawl, flinging it onto her shoulders. Before she leaves, she grabs her wand. Even if she can't produce magical defense, it's still pointy and thusly a suitable weapon. She doesn't bother to walk on the balls of her feet to conceal the floorboards' creaks. Most of her housemates are heavy sleepers and the one's still awake reading or chatting give her little waves. Girls protect girls' secrets!

     Downstairs the fireplace is teeming with eternal fire, carrying warmth into the otherwise empty Common Room. Not a soul nor a whisper. Lorelei pushes open the door and peeks her head out into the foyer. She looks left and right, up and down, sideways and diagonally. No sign of Mr. Filch, Percy, or Lonnie. When the coast is clear, she cradles the silk shawl close to her body and carefully eases the door closed, holding the knob to silence the latch. The staircase isn't in the direction she needs, so Lorelei stands as still as stone and waits. As it moves, she waves to the portraits still awake.

     Not too far from Gryffindor Tower, down one floor and through a winding hallway, there's a small area housing multiple portraits. Some grand, others humble. Lorelei stumbled upon it her first day at Hogwarts after she'd gotten lost. Kindly, they'd given her directions to her classes. Ever since, she's been returning to the abandoned nook for respectable chats. Ron thinks she's lost a couple marbles 'cause she talks to paintings, but she can't deny good company. Friend of all, Lorelei Yates!

     A grin pulls her lips upward when she finally sees the small area home to her painted friends. Moonlight funnels through an aperture at the end of hallway, igniting the minerals in the limestone. They sparkle, like stars. Below the window is a small, rickety bench that squeals if sat upon and it's home to a crop of peaceful spiders. Lorelei does not encroach their territory. Paintings line either side of the walls, all illuminated by a singular sconce projecting low candlelight. Four portraits, two per wall. It's dark, but she finds it cozy.

     "Good evening," Lorelei greets, dipping her head. She stops at the base of the bench and finds her preferred spot on the floor. She crosses her legs and cradles the shawl, wand clutched tightly in one hand. The stone's coldness seeps through her clothes. With limited light and no tapestries, the hallway is awfully chilly.

     "Ah! Good morrow, lambkin!" The portrait of Sir Siward Pekham waves. Siward's face is a little haunting: caved in eyes with drooping eyelids, deeply chiseled lines of age, an overly long beard by which multiple tiny braids were woven. Most notably, to Lorelei at least, he has a magnificently styled mustache, curled at the tips. Atop his head is a chain mail covering and in his gloved hands he carries a spear.

     Lorelei knows he'd done something important for him to be placed in Hogwarts, though, so far, she's been unable to uncover any information. Logic says he must've been a knight, and her intuitiveness says he's a blabbermouth. If he wasn't interrupting with tangential, irritably drunken-sounding rambles, he was singing offensive ballads from his era. He's very humorous, but he's definitely a product of his time. Typically, there's a plaque at the bottom of the frame describing their accomplishments. Siward lacks such an identifier. In fact, all four do.

     "Why in Merlin's name are you abed at this hour?!" Catherine Letterford's portrait cries shrilly, nose scrunched and skeletal. Now, Catherine is the opposite of Siward. She adored talking about her successes, perhaps too much. Unfortunately, Lorelei doesn't like to hear about her invention of self-tightening corsets; she doesn't find it very interesting. Apparently, according to Hermione, they were very popular amongst witches in the nineteenth century.

     "Can't sleep," Lorelei shrugs, meeting Catherine's wide eyes.

     "Dear lady, I lend my hand," Ambrose Wythinghall's portrait mutters, natural grimace presenting his decayed teeth (Scientist. Blew himself up. Doesn't like to talk about it). Stark white hair puffed by static electricity and oblong goggles secured tightly to the top of his head. Weird articles of cloth and linen stitched into uneven patchwork garments, and it's riddled with stains and burned bits. He resembles a mad scientist more than a wizard.

     Lorelei sends him an appreciative yet anxious smile. "Thank you, Ambrose, but I'm quite alright," she assures.

     "One pottle of chameleon blood—"

     Her eyes bulge. "Hold on—!"

     "God's bones, Ambrose!" Siward shouts, lashing his spear. "Leave the lady alone!"

     Ambrose slinks backwards into the background of his portrait, pulling at his maroon balaclava to further cover his face. In the foreground lies a table covered in various flasks, tubes, and strange machines. A cauldron bubbles over an open flame. Again, everything is so messy. Oddly, he reminds her of Lonnie. His house is lethal. Maybe all the fumes from his alchemy finally did him in. Lorelei feels slightly guilty for shutting Ambrose down, but she can't stomach another explanation of his medieval medicines.

     To Siward's left, Lorelei notices the lack of a portrait. The elaborately carved wooden frame is vacant, save for the richly colored red backdrop. Rather, the person is missing.

     Noticing her stare, the man nods. "Aye," Siward says gravely. "Elyas returned homeward."

     "We urged him not to. But, oh, he never listens!" Catherine shrieks, causing Lorelei to wince. It bounces against the arched stone, but the castle's awake with portraits every night.

     Tapping her ringing ears, Lorelei softly laughs. "I hope he doesn't scare the dog again. She's a sweetie."

     By laws of magic, induced paintings have the ability to travel between canvases. Lorelei thinks of it like jumping through television channels. In theory, a portrait can move anywhere they desire. Isn't it magical? She recognizes the limitations of the 'moving portraits,' they have a set consciousness. They're not truly alive, but they carry the same memories and appearances. Don't they deserve conversation? Company?

     "Should that family possess any sense of understanding, they'll endeavor to conceal it!" Catherine snaps, sticking her chin up high. Atop her purposefully off-kilter hat is a bundle of long, supremely fuzzy feathers. One dangles over the edge and tickles the tip of Catherine's nose.

     "By my trouthe, woman. They did already!" Siward leans back in his creaky wooden stool and scoffs. It's the type of sound Barry makes when his favorite football team fumbles a pass. "The bastard clattered all night 'til they uncovered him. Vindictive, I say!"

     "I wish they'd move him!" Catherine's shriveled face looks down at Lorelei expectantly. Her background is void of any furnishings. Merely a blue, likely silk, curtain. "Have you made progress?"

     Lorelei shakes her head. "I already told you I'm not allowed to move paintings."

     Catherine begins mumbling various choice words.

     "Bollocks!" Siward curses. "I should've liked to see him gone. He doth nothing but sing. Night and day! Mine ears plead for respite!"

     Elyas Worsley, the famous opera singer known for secretly enchanting his vocal cords to hold long-lasting notes. Unfortunately, he never quite got a grasp on it and sometimes was sustained perpetually singing. In reality, he's more famous in death due to the legend surrounding him. Rumor has it, he sang his own epitaph.

     "I have seldom seen a break in weeks! Either listening to that—that dolt or watching for Sirius Black!" Catherine cries. She feigns tiredness like the women in old movies, placing the back of her hand to her forehead. "Always on the prowl! So cumbersome!"

     Suddenly, Nana's shawl provides no warmth. Frost glazes across every surface, icicles of tension hanging over her head. Goosebumps pepper along her skin and her wand weighs heavily in her frozen grip. Watching for Black? Why? It's not possible. He can't get within the castle grounds, let alone inside. They said she'd be safe. Lonnie promised; he wouldn't lie to her.

     Lorelei attempts to school her unease into curiosity. It doesn't work. "You're watching for Black? Sirius Black?" Her words are rushed, voice high pitched.

     "Indeed. The ward is ours to keep!" Siward chimes in excitement. Ever the steadfast knight, he's proud of his service. That's his job, isn't it? Thwarting enemies. "Dumbledore's recognized my vigilance. I may not be as doughty as I was in my salad days, but I have all the expedience as a steed!" He lances his spear, and Lorelei instinctively flinches. "There's naught a foe I haven't slain!"

     Relying on Hogwarts' overflowing stash of portraits as a form of security is an incredible idea. There'd be eyes everywhere. At any rate, they're glorified security cameras. Fred and George have been narked by Magnus Moitissier more times than she can count (She keeps telling them to move their stash). If anyone were to spot Sirius Black, it'd be a portrait. Lorelei wants this to satiate her anxiety, but it doesn't.

     "Have you seen anything?" Lorelei presses as she cradles her knees to her chest. Please, say no.

     "Nay! Not a peep. Disappointing!" Siward grumbles, bringing up his free hand to twirl his mustache. She exhales. "It's as I say—a coward's heart is faint!"

      Catherine is entirely the opposite. Her voice slices over her wall-mate's. "No thank you!" She puffs her chest out. "I shan't like to see that ruffish, vile man!"

     "I was witness to him."

     Lorelei's eyes fly to Ambrose. He's returned from his flushed state, balaclava no longer covering his face. It reveals the marred, grafted skin around his mouth. Some acidic potion gone awry. His left jowl is a mess of translucent ligaments and unhealed epidermis. He stares at her, pupils blown wide and impossibly black. The cauldron billows wisps of smoke that toils around his silhouette as if he returned from the depths of the underworld with fiery tales of the Devil. She doesn't doubt it.

     "Spare us of your idiocy!" Siward scoffs. He leans forward to shake a balled fist at the scientist's portrait. "Thine eyes scorn you, Ambrose!"

     Ambrose's nostrils flare. "I speak truth! I see wholly. Mark, your eyes bear those of the Deceiver!"

     Lorelei has no idea what was said (Translating ancient forms of english is above her), but it must've been abhorrent. All falls to silence. It's got to be a swear. She remembers repeating a cuss as a child, and Lonnie had an absolute cow. Really, it wasn't her fault. The word's something he frequents, so he was reaping the consequences. Her eyes flit to all the portraits. Ambrose is a shy fellow, hardly speaking out of turn or even at all. Clearly, what he's seen has scarred him.

     "Even a worm will turn!" Siward wails.

     Ambrose focuses on Lorelei. He places his palms flat against his invisible barrier, crouching low to meet her eyes. She cranes her neck to see him fully. "Prithee, my tongue doth bathed in the river of verity. Two days hence I beheld that which I claim." Lorelei wishes she carried a dictionary. Her gaze follows Ambrose's gnarled finger as he points down at the rickety bench. "Hark! He was there!"

     At once, Lorelei shoots upright and stumbles backwards further into the hallway. Staring into darkness changes perception. It's always the question: is something there? Behind the bench is a small gap and it's swallowed by pitfalls. She frantically scans the abyss, scouring for a silhouette, an outline, anything. Her mind conjures illusions. A hunched figure rising from the shadows, sharpened canines bared, talons stretched. Sirius Black. Lorelei tries to raise her wand, but she finds herself immovable.

     To her right, Siward shakes his spear in a dismissive manner. "Give no credence unto his folly, my lady. A fool's dance is a sullen one!"

     "No! Thou art a ripe natural!" Ambrose snaps. He bangs his palm against his barrier; it makes no sound. Still, Lorelei jumps. "'Twas a man. By my faith, I hold him for a man that was richly corpulent and eke bedraggled! He scarcely uttered a word, yet I knew him to be mad with sin!"

     His plague riddled finger continues to point at the bench. Ambrose speaks in a mixture of languages Lorelei's yet to understand, but the phrase 'mad with sin' is a lexicon of its own. Who else is commonly branded as mad? Her chest heaves, palms perspiring. She fears what's behind her in the peripheral blackness clouding the hallway. Hogwarts is supposed to be safe. The safest place on earth—that's what they say! He can't get in. He can't.

     And yet, Azkaban was supposed to be unbreakable. If Sirius Black can conquer the unconquerable, then what stands in his way?

     "Oh, Freya bless me! Look what you've done now, Wythinghall. You've frightened the poor girl!" Catherine admonishes. She looks down at her with a soft smile. "Never you worry, dear. Ambrose forgets he suffers mental infirmities." Her glare is as heated as her words. "Perhaps it's time for you to retire."

     There's no universe in which Lorelei finds sleep this night. How can she? A murderer has been spotted in the one place deemed a sanctuary. She should've known; devils always find a way. Her gaze doesn't leave the caliginous corner, and she clutches her wand in a bruising grip. Moonlight beams on one side of her face and candlelight the other. She pales. Harry. By above, he's in grave danger. Far more danger than she'll ever see. Mr. Potter will need to be informed; he'll know what to do.

     "But he's seen him!" Lorelei cries.

     "Codswallop!"

     Lorelei faces Siward.

     "The lad's scared of his very shade!" The knight spits. "Whatsoever he's seen be of much worth as a horse's backside!"

     "He's right, darling." Confused by Siward, Lorelei turns to Catherine. "You needn't worry with that Dumbledore running around. This'll pass by quicker than you'd imagine."

     Let it be, please. Externally, Lorelei nods. She loosens her grip on her wand.

     In times of turmoil, her default is Lonnie. She knows he'll try his damndest to fix whatever problem she faces, for the most part, and he's a comforting presence. A hug from her uncle is like a cup of hot chocolate—warm, comfy, and smells like cinnamon. Not this time. It's out of the question. He can't know she's been sneaking off again. Say goodbye to Hogwarts!

     "Fare thee well, lambkin!" Siward Pekham salutes. She doesn't like that; it makes her feel like she's going to her doom. "May Merlin be thy ward!"

     "Thank you, Sir Siward," Lorelei does her best to smile as she does an awkward, wobbly courtesy. From the corner of her eye is a stygian atmosphere found in gothic horrors. Ignoring it, she applies the same gesture to Catherine. "'Night, Lady Catherine. I'm sorry I can't move Elyas. I'll file another complaint, but I think Mr. Filch is throwing them away."

     The portrait seems to flush at the use of her title and waves off her last comment. "Nonsense, dear. I have become quite exceptional at tuning him out."

     Lorelei inhales, then turns to Ambrose's lonely space on the left wall. Elyas's lack of presence is felt; he's far nicer to the scientist. Speaking of, he's slumped against his disorganized table with his head dangerously close to the flame heating the cauldron. The tips are singed. Safety, clearly, is not his forte.

     "'Night, Dr. Ambrose." Lorelei wants to express her belief. His forced companions talk down to him, yet he's too timid to offer corrections. He's vastly intelligent, far more than most she knows. He's a quiet painting, always tending to the potion cursed to forever boil. She wonders what he was like before his accident. Instead, Lorelei keeps silent because she'd rather live in blissful ignorance. She trusts Lonnie, and she trusts Dumbledore's ability to keep Hogwarts safe. There's nothing to worry about.

     As Lorelei turns to leave, Ambrose offers one last remark.

     "Dear lady, beware," he implores, begs even. He doesn't move from his chair, even when his hair really does ignite. "Those who shut their eyes to sight, shall evermore in darkness dwell."

     Lorelei blinks. Did he just utter a spell? "Um—"

     "That devil shifts his form withal. Trust in no mortal soul."

     "Shift? Ambrose, I—"

     "Make haste!"

     His shout reverberates throughout the nook, far louder than Catherine Letterford's nasally tones. Lorelei reels backwards at the volume, heart pumping erratically. He yelled, not in anger, in worry. Quickly, she peddles away with her shawl clutched to her chest like it was a string of pearls. When she turns her back, the portraits erupt in verbal altercation. Her breath puffs in miniature clouds as she hurriedly walks through the corridors. Vehement bickering fades, then it remains the faintest echo.

     Flames dance to her right, soft light soaking the stonework. When Lorelei makes it to the staircase, she finds it's moved to a position far up high. She groans, mentally urging the hunk of limestone to move faster. In twilight, she'll be forced to stand. And then, she hears it. Scuttling. Instantly, her body is washed in snow. Hesitantly, Lorelei pivots on her heel and scans the floor, the walls, and ceiling. She raises her wand high in mock confidence, hand trembling. All she sees is darkness.

     Still, the sound continues. With the rumbles of the staircase, Lorelei can hear it. That means it's nearby. At this point, her heart is on the verge of exploding and her eyes have begun watering. The sound's small, like a pitter-patter. Anything; it could be anything. Then her squinted gaze latched onto a scampering animal not lost in shadows.

     "Scabbers?" Lorelei questions in disbelief, dropping her wand to her side. By above, relief slams into her like a tidal wave. This is no evil. The rat stops at the call of its name. It must've escaped the boy's dormitory. She kneels on one knee and opens her hand. Ron'd throw a fit if he awoke without his pet.

     Scabbbers slowly, cautiously approaches her. It's beady eyes bore into her own. Lorelei finds it uncomfortable to have a staring contest with a rat. She can feel its whiskers ticking the tips of her fingers, little claws nearly on her palms—Blam! The staircase slams into her hallway, pebbles raining from the force. The ringing causes startles Lorelei, but it frightens the rat more. Scabbers sinks its teeth into her index finger before running into the welcoming pit of darkness.

     "Ouch!" Lorelei cries, bringing her hand to her chest. Two trickles of blood flow from the bite, red glowing with candlelight. Blasted rat! Scabbers sleazed its way back into infested corridors. Doesn't matter, she is not retrieving it. And if she catches a disease, Ron will have more than Lonnie to worry about.

     Like she said, Lorelei's not partial to animals.

Chapter Text

     Lorelei wouldn't call herself a control freak . . . then again, who does? Her uncle certainly doesn't—Uncle Tim, Hermione, Percy Weasley. She does not group herself with them. And yet, when it concerns the All Hallows Eve Costume Committee, Lorelei Yates becomes what she dislikes, what everyone avoids: a total nut. Obsessive, a bit insecure, a little hotheaded. Basically, whenever Lonnie lesson plans for Potions. Of course, Lorelei only realizes how alike she's become to her uncle after the holiday ("Oh, no. I've become a monster!").

     Though, like Lonnie with his precious itineraries, the All Hallows Eve Costume Committee is Lorelei's child of obsession. The moment she realized the wizarding world severely lacked Hallowe'en spirit thus making for one drab, dreadful holiday, she petitioned Dumbledore with the idea of a group that'd assist students with costumes. To everyone's surprise, the Headmaster approved it instantaneously. She wasn't. By the way he dressed, she always knew he loved a good getup.

     And thus, the All Hallows Eve Costume Committee was born (also referred to as 'Achoo!' because when abbreviated and said quickly, it sounds like a sneeze). 

     Preparations for the holiday begin precisely on the first day of October. Not a day later. Lorelei gathers her members in their makeshift home-base (Lonnie's old office, coincidentally near his current one) where they'd spend the evening brainstorming. Hermione creates the informational pamphlets for unsuspecting first years; Ginny heads the member initiations with her naturally scary and intimidating nature; Fred and George gather measurements, ideas, and reservations from students; and the others man battle stations. 

      As for Lorelei, she consults with Dumbledore on the subject of the costume contest. Yes, contest. How could anyone have a Hallowe'en celebration without one? Last year's was a big hit. In order to boost school spirits, Lorelei connected the contest to the houses. First place receives twenty-five house points and a handmade trophy; second and third are awarded five house points and a satchel of spookily decorated sugar cookies. Genius, she knows. The announcement is made at the end of the feast, headed by Lorelei and her committee. Everyone's in costume, obviously. 

     Well, except for someone. Someone who promised last year he'd dress up if she attended his quidditch practice . . . someone who is not living up to his promise. 

     "You promised you'd be Mr. Fantastic! It's next year, Harry! Live it up!"

     To upend Lorelei's year further, Hallowe'en day happened to land on the first departure to Hogsmeade. It's like Lonnie had changed the dates to drive his point home. Safe to say, the conversation wherein she announced her banishment was humiliating, especially coupled with Harry's unhelpful snickers. Hermione was very displeased yet satisfied with repercussions for her dangerous escapade (Lorelei's offended, truly); Ron just laughed. 

     Down in the Gryffindor Common Room, everyone's applying finishing touches to their ensembles. There's a group arguing over the placement of blood on their matching zombie costumes; a young boy adjusting a dagger lodged in his skull; and Carmine Weatherby's vigorously slathering white face paint all over his body (She has yet to figure out what he'll be), while his friends confusedly stare at the makeup palette borrowed from the girls. 

     And yes, Lorelei is furiously upset with herself, and Lonnie, for not being able to attend Hogsmeade, but excitement still flows through her veins. Yet, when she went downstairs halfway dressed in her costume, looking for her accessory bag held by Hermione, she noticed, with panic, that her supposed group was not wearing her designated outfits. 

     In times of stress, Lorelei tries never to panic. One, two, three—deep breaths in and out. Months before Hallowe'en, her costume is already completed. Each accessory is placed carefully inside organizers, garments hang from hangers and zipped in protective plastic. Days into October, the castle is nearly all the way decorated, including every hidden nook and crowded Common Room. Everything is in its proper place, students who need last minute assistance ask her other members so as not to stress her further—it all runs smoothly. 

     Now . . . she's panicking. 

     From his slumped position on the couch next to a stuffed plush of Frankenstein, Harry groans. Overly loud, she thinks. "That wasn't a promise! I never agreed to anything!"

     Lorelei's eyes narrow. She stares him down as she stands in front of the fireplace emitting purple and orange flames. "'Oh, Lori! Please, please, please come to my quidditch games! I swear I'll do anything. I'll even dress up next near!'" She mocks in a higher pitched version of his voice. 

     Ron snickers in the armchair beside the couch. 

     "I didn't say that!"

     "You kind of did, Harry," Hermione cuts in. She says it with apprehension as she really doesn't want to be placed in the middle of an argument. "Last year, before your game, Lori didn't want to go, so you said you'd participate in Hallowe'en. I drew up a contract, which you signed. I had it notarized too." 

     Lorelei creates a heart with her hands, holding it up to Hermione who mirrors the gesture.

     Harry's not convinced. He shakes his head. 

     "But it didn't specify dress up. Participate. That's different," he says, then he shrugs. "I did the bobbing for apples thing and the twins' haunted house." 

     "And you survived?" Ron questions. "I heard Ernie Macmillan had a heart attack."

     "He just slipped on a candy wrapper. You guys seriously need to stop believing things—gah!" Lorelei shakes herself from the distraction. "Harry, your stupid loophole is stupid. We can't be the Fantastic Four without Mr. Fantastic!" 

     "Should've picked someone else then."

     The two glare at each other. Hers is fierce, demanding, and his is typically stubborn and slightly afraid. Lorelei cannot believe his audacity. To her, a promise is unbreakable. Sacred. Breaking one should invoke divine wrath, a bolt of holy lightning smiting thine dishonor . . . or something. But for some, a promise is a string of words on a loose, untied thread. They crumble far too easily. Of course, she has a backup costume (even a third one), but it was in case Harry was sick, not because he didn't want to! 

     Lorelei turns her attention to Ron, snapping her blazing glare onto him. "And you?" The boy's adam's apple visibly bobs. "You're not gonna be Johnny Storm are you?"

     Unlike Harry, Ron struggles to reply. He flicks his uneasy gaze onto his friends who don't offer him anything, and he fixes his posture. "Er, well—it's not that I don't—"

     "Great." She doesn't let him finish. 

     "C'mon! The costume is so weird! You look ridiculous!"

     Lorelei scoffs, offended, but she doesn't argue. A bright, almost neon blue bodysuit with a stitched Fantastic Four sigil is perfectly fine . . . but paired with a messily thrown on bald cap, strands of brown peeking through, and skin painted orange? Alright, that can be a little off-putting. But it's unfinished! 

     "I agree," Harry chimes. 

     Lorelei rubs her temples. "You wear robes. Everyday," she breathes. 

     "At least, they're not so revealing!" 

     And here's the day Ron Weasley defends his robes. Who would've guessed? 

     Things are slowly starting to unravel and her frustration is beginning to overflow. Lorelei expected Ron to refuse Johnny Storm, even though she picked one of the coolest characters; she knew he'd rather wear his ugliest dress robes than a blue suit matching with three others. But Harry's is particularly irritating. Hermione's right, there's a copy of his documented agreement stated on a contract, and it's even been laminated. He'd rather argue loopholes that'd make the slyest lawyer proud than indulge her favorite holiday. It hurts; it really hurts. 

     And it hurts so much because Lorelei knows when his quidditch games arrive, she'll sneak her way to the stands with her handmade glitter signs in perfect view. She'll cheer louder than everyone, hollering to make sure Harry can hear her praise through raucous, racing winds. Lorelei is always there for him, so why can't he do one thing for her? She doesn't think it's unreasonable. Honestly, she's half a mind to ask Carmine to match with her instead. 

     "Hermione's not dressed up either! Why're you not tearing into her?" 

     Blinking one at a time and taking a measured breath, Lorelei settles a baleful look on Ron. He's leaning forward with his elbows atop his knees and his eyebrows knitted in confusion. 

     "I'm in costume, Ronald."

     Ron does a once over then frowns. "Where?"

     "I'm Ruth Bernito," Hermione says like it's obvious. 

     While Lorelei initially wanted Hermione to join in on the group costume of the Fantastic Four, she wasn't upset when the girl came to her with her own costume. See, Hermione's role in the Committee is devoted to education. Her gift to the world is education. Loves to learn, loves more to share. Hermione decided she'd imitate a notorious muggle 'woman of science' to educate the wizarding world on muggle relations and induce female empowerment.

     Her attire is very simple and obscure, yet it's not hard to tell she's mirroring a woman from the forties (Ron is terribly oblivious). Navy shirtwaist dress outlined by a v-neck and black buttons down the center paired with scuffed oxfords. Hermione's usual, unruly puff of hair is slicked into a ponytail with the ends smoothed by promenade. Beside her, neatly folded, lays a stark white lab coat. And Lorelei only assumes her friend carries a handcrafted, authentic name-tag for the scientist. 

     "Every time someone asks who I am, I get to educate them on Ruth Bernito and her incredible work relating to the cotton industry," Hermione explains, smiling brightly. She appears very proud. "I thought it'd be fitting considering all the costumes."

     However, Ron seems even more confused. He shakes his head. "Shouldn't have asked." 

     Lorelei's eyes follow the students beginning to exit the Common Room, her heartbeat spikes. "Harry!" She drags out his name. "You can't be nothing!"

     For a moment, all Harry does is stare. He blinks, once, twice, thoughts churning through his mind in real time. Like an un-oiled machine sputtering plumes of stuffy smoke. Lorelei frowns as he leans forward to reach one of the many makeup palettes on the coffee table. Face paint and puffs of spilt eyeshadow decorate the surface. He grabs a brush and dips it into a peachy pink, moves a tuft of his hair, and begins dabbing it over his scar. 

     "Here," Harry starts, continuing his rigorous process. With no mirror, he's missing the scar and the color doesn't match his skin tone in the slightest. Such an amateur. "I'll cover my scar and then I'll be the Normal One." 

     Lorelei is less than amused. 

     "Har, har. Can't you be serious?"

     "That's actually kinda funny," Ron mutters as he stands up. 

     She glares. "No it isn't!"

     From her left, Hermione stands as well, grabbing Lorelei's accessory bag and placing it on the table. She unfolds her perfectly ironed lab coat, already with a plastic name-tag on it, and pulls glasses from the front pocket. Her costumes are always very neat, which Lorelei greatly appreciates. 

     "There's plenty of extra material in the office, Lori," she says. "I wouldn't worry too much. And if Harry doesn't dress up, you're not obligated to attend his game. It's only fair."

     There's a noise as Harry drops his brush. "What?!" He cries. "You're not going because of this?"

     Lorelei pauses, then places her hands on her hips. "You know, I'm considering it."

     Harry squints, still holding his hair up so as not to get any makeup on it. "You can't go anyway," he refutes. "Lonnie banned you."

     "No!" She shouts quickly. "No. Actually I convinced him to go with me . . . so yes, I can go."

     They delve into silence. Her left eye is doing that twitchy thing again, the thing that reveals her dishonesty. She brushes her eyelashes to hide her signature tell. This time, it's more of a prediction. Lorelei hasn't asked her uncle yet; sometime in the future, she will. There's a certainty Lonnie'll accompany her to quidditch games, and it's a guarantee because she will be hounding him relentlessly. Persistence is key! 

     Harry examines her with furrowed brows, but he looks silly with the blemish on his forehead. 

     "Just throw on a mask, mate," Ron tells him. He stands by Hermione as they await for their friends to cease their petty argument so they can leave without feeling too guilty. "That's what I'll do."

     "You're dressing up? After all that?"

     Ron shrugs. "If I don't, Fred said he'll throw me to the Whomping Willow."

     Bless him, Lorelei thinks. 

     She tosses the firmest glare she can muster down at Harry, tightly crossing her orange painted arms. Gosh, she hopes it doesn't stain. "If you don't participate and go to Hogsmeade, I'm not going to your games," Lorelei announces her ultimatum. 

     Harry throws his head back in exasperation. "Alright, fine!" He gives up, grumbling. "I won't go."

     "Take him to the office, Lori," Hermione suggests as she places her genuine replica of Ruth Bernito's glasses on her nose. 

     "Certainly."

     With the fire blazing behind her, puffing purple and orange smoke, and Lorelei's mischievous grin (also the bald cap over her head), Harry knows he's truly in for it. 

—

     Lorelei's familiar with having the castle to herself. For two weeks every year, the lonesome school is hers to traverse, albeit with Mr. Filch's heavy restrictions. The first time, it was fun yet also daunting. The castle's ginormous. Hidden passageways accidentally stumbled upon, doors literally appearing out of thin air, a room stocked full of mouthwatering sweets, and too many portraits to count (and she did try counting). She chatted with armored statues, taking their arms to mimic fancy waltzes, and nearly fainted when they responded. 

     Now, venturing the quiet castle whilst everyone she knows is partaking in the wonderment of Hogsmeade, she can't say it's fun. Plus, Harry's a total drag. 

     "Alright. How 'bout this?" 

     Lorelei holds up a tattered lab coat, sleeves singed and dirtied with soot other parts sporting gaping holes. One of her members might've intentionally ruined it for a prop or Fred could've donated a wrecked coat caused by a potion gone wrong. She has a feeling it's the latter. 

     "You could be a mad scientist or something," she suggests, eyeing the coat for more ideas. "Or Frankenstein!"

     "Isn't that a monster?" Harry's question is mumbled due to his face being smushed against the office table. For the last half hour, he's been moping and wistfully grumbling about attractions in Hogsmeade whilst she made herself useful by rummaging through leftover scraps. 

     Furiously, Lorelei shakes her head. "No, Harry. Frankenstein's the doctor. I should've said Dr. Frankenstein—that's his title. Everyone always gets that wrong, so don't feel bad!" She drops the coat to her side. "Point is, you could do so much with this!"

     Harry mutters something into the table.

     Anyone'd think Lorelei would have thrown in the towel by now, especially after Harry's tenth muffled response, but she is not a quitter. Never, ever. Quitting is the surest way to abandoning all hope. Lorelei's got a surplus of it. So, Harry can complain and heighten his attitude all he wants, refuse her plethora of ideas for the sake of being difficult, but he won't win. At this point, Hallowe'en's all she's got. The least he can do is toss on a costume and indulge in candy galore. 

     Sighing, Lorelei tosses the coat to the growing pile of rejections and leans back on her haunches. Ahead is a wooden, antique chest containing scraps of random costumes. Sailor hats, a vampiric cape, one Victorian dress complete with all the accessories, two brightly colored wigs in green and red, and Batman's utility belt (No Batarangs, unfortunately). Her mind flows with ideas as she stares at the items. What would Harry agree to? She'd like, if at all possible, to match with him. Group costumes are her favorite kind. 

     Lorelei's partial to the dress, but she doesn't think Harry'll oblige her by wearing a messily tailored viscount suit to fit the theme. Oh, but it'd be so darling. Viscount and viscountess . . . she shakes the thought. Harry's far too boring for such a match. 

     Not facing Harry, Lorelei rummages through scrap fabrics. "What d'you like?" Her question is slightly muddled as she ducks her head further inside the trunk. 

     Harry responds with a groan. 

     She rolls her eyes. "Favorite movie, Harry. C'mon."

     "Er . . ." There's a pause, and Lorelei thinks he might actually give her a conclusive answer, then he says, "I dunno."

     Deep breaths, she reminds herself. Lorelei notches two orange stained fingers together (Yes, the paint left her skin stained. Lonnie'll throttle her) and brings them down the front of her face in one smooth motion, easing her frustration. Patience is her virtue. When she shoves aside the vampiric cape, an idea presents itself. Her mind fastens together a bracelet of possibilities, each bead pearling into something cohesive. She fingers the edge of a broken hilt, a smile growing. 

     "What about Star Wars?" Lorelei can't contain her excitement. "You like that right?"

     Harry doesn't respond. She turns around to see him deep in thought, brows furrowed and head tilted. 

     "Is that the one with the green thing?" 

     Lorelei giggles. "You mean Yoda?"

     "Maybe?" Harry scratches his nose unsurely. 

     He didn't say no. 

     Feeling like she's touched the clouds, Lorelei faces the chest again and reaches her arms in to grab a huge load of scraps. "So how 'bout it?" She grunts as she struggles to hold everything. "You be Luke because he's the Chosen One, and I can be . . ." She thinks, standing up with a ball of various items. Her face is slightly covered and her voice muffled. ". . . Chewbacca! No, wait. I'll be Obi-Wan. Gah, this is hard."

     Lorelei drops the items atop the table to reveal her excited beam. Thankfully, she's ditched the bald cap, so she no longer looks like Uncle Fester as Carmine commented. However, Harry appears befuddled, even more so. 

     He wipes a hand down his face. "Is anything you said real?" 

     "Luke is really simple, Harry. It's perfect for you!"

     "Hey!" 

     To uncaring eyes (Harry's), the pile is menacing. The whole world laid within it, literally. Everything under the rainbow and then the rainbow itself. Lorelei's not disturbed by the concerning lack of organization, unlike her uncle who's tried many times to label the AHECC's disfunction. There's no point, really. Excited teenagers ransack the office all throughout October. Clothes, shoes, and loose feathers cover every surface and hard to reach corners, and makeup's splattered here and there—Lorelei doesn't mind. She cleans with a smile. 

     Community is thriving because she founded it, and that fills her with joy. 

     Lorelei sorts through the mismatched pile with ease, placing potential garments to the right, accessories in front of Harry, and unusable items to the left. Her hands are coated in cheap glitter fallen from a pink cowboy hat. She examines it and spots an unfortunate hole tearing the crown from the hatband. To the left it goes. Pity, Harry could've rocked it. 

     "You just need a blonde wig—yes, I need authenticity, Harry—a white shirt, which you have." Her fingers trace the material of a piece of white fabric. No, too tan and too scratchy. She tosses it to the left. "Hm, brown pants and . . . boots! Can't be Luke without his iconic boots, but I have some spares here so don't worry. Oh! And the lightsaber! I'll have to whip somethin' up." 

     "The huh?" Harry drops the pirate hat he'd picked up.

     "The lightsaber? The glowy sword?" 

     Lorelei frowns at the boy. He should know Star Wars. The first year she made a reference to the popular flick that sparked no familiarity in her new wizard friend, Lorelei brought her copies to his house last year for a movie night. Seeing his son sitting in close proximity to a girl and watching the film, James gasped (More at the movie, to Harry's gratefulness) and invited himself to the rest of the marathon. He was a huge fan, but he talked way too much. 

     Seems Harry forgot . . . typical. 

     "Your dad took you to the theater," Lorelei deadpans. Still nothing. She throws her arms up. "We had a movie night at your house!"

     Harry shrugs with nonchalance that makes her eye twitch. "You both make me watch too much stuff."

     "Not enough, clearly."

     Ignoring her mumbled jab, Harry inclines his head towards the decreasing pile. "So what're you gonna be?" He asks. "Does Luke have a sidekick?"

     All at once, Lorelei stops. She crosses her arms. "Okay. If you're insinuating I'm your sidekick, you are so mistaken. It's actually the opposite."

     If anything, they were partners. Two strangers meeting through happenstance unknown that they share intertwined fates. She'd trudged through fire, literally, for him. Sidekicks are unequal, partners are two sides of the same coin. 

     "I'm the Chosen One." 

     "Are we sure?"

     "Too sure."

     If that isn't the truth. 

     Lorelei resumes her process. She'd narrowed down the pile and now identifies which fabrics are suitable for the costume. She really wants it to be authentic. Ripped straight from Mark Hamil's wardrobe authentic. She holds up a long piece of cloth to Harry, closing one eye to imagine the vision. "But no, Luke doesn't have a sidekick. He has friends." Too see-through. She thinks Harry won't appreciate that. "I always liked Chewbacca, but I don't have a lot of spare hair. I suppose I could ask Lonnie for a spell, but I don't think he'd be too keen on me being all hairy again." 

     Lorelei places a plain black mask to her face and imitates asthmatic breathing. "I could be a villain," she laughs. "Like Darth Vader!"

     Harry automatically snorts, not even bothering to hide it. "A villain?" He shakes his head. "No way."

     Ears burning, she tosses the mask aside. "I'll have you know, I could be a really good Darth Vader. You're just lucky I don't have the materials." 

     "You can't even kill spiders." 

     "It's called rehousing, Harry! It's humane!" 

     While Harry openly guffaws, Lorelei ponders the state she's found herself. Her pile of potential garments is much less than the unusable items and there's no spare lightsaber. That'll have to be crafted entirely from scratch, somehow. In short, Lorelei has nothing. But she's not a quitter. The day's locked in the afternoon. There's plenty of time to scrounge something together; she's done it in less. 

    "Gosh, I wish you told me you'd be fine with Star Wars," Lorelei sighs as she opens a box of pins. They're multicolored, some red with yellow flecks to look like tiny strawberries others chromatic. "We could've had a really awesome group. Hermione would've been totally down to be Leia, and Ron'd love Han Solo. Well, I'd make him be Chewbacca as payment for Scabbers attacking me. I'd be Han." 

     Quickly glancing at Harry, she notices how he ducks his head slightly at her words. Hung low in regret. He might've dug himself the hole, but she doesn't have to keep throwing dirt on him.

     "What's Lonnie gonna be?" 

     Lorelei lays a wide piece of fabric across the table, smoothing out all the creases. She holds the shape together and takes a pin from between her teeth to secure it. 

     "Oh, he's some Star Trek character again." 

     She feels Harry's curious gaze on her as she works fluidly. Her fingers intwined the pins, dodging the points expertly. No thimbles, no magic. Only technique passed through generations. Her ancestors planted the seeds she'd later sow. Really, Lorelei reaps the benefits of having a grandmother adept at sewing. 

     "Isn't that what we are?"

     "Star Trek, Harry," Lorelei corrects, the pins muffling her words slightly. She swallows her excitement at his unintentional confirmation. "We're Star Wars." 

     He makes a face that says he really doesn't care about the distinction. Neither does she if she's being honest. Her uncle loves the show to death. He's a purist, knows episodes line by line, can recite trivia like he's been programmed. Lorelei isn't complaining, not right now. Lonnie, stoic and protective Lonnie, took her to see The Voyage Home in theaters. She was six, and he'd selfishly dressed her as a Vulcan while he went in a yellow uniform made by Nana. While they waited in line for tickets, he held her on his hip and made her imitate the iconic Vulcan hand sign. 

     Everyone in attendance cooed at her, and she relished the attention. Thinking about it ignites a flurry of sprightly happiness in her, dandelion petals pillowing in a flourishing breeze. Lorelei treasures that day, cozies up to it when she's upset. It's one of the rare times he'd taken her in public. Lonnie, for a moment, was sixteen. Weightless, giddy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he explained lore to his baby niece. That version of her uncle is so, so far away. 

     "Ya know, it's kinda similar. Space and all that," Lorelei says as she takes the final pin from her mouth. Lonnie would consider her words blasphemy. "Star Trek's the only costume he ever does. He's totally obsessed. Last year, it was some doctor guy and this year he's got pointy ears. He looks like an elf." 

     Lorelei takes two steps backwards to see her creation from afar. With her tall stature, she can easily see the image. 

     "Here. Stand up." She beckons to her side with a wave, and Harry follows without a word. No complaint, no conflict. It's a little odd considering how vocal he was on the way to her office. "I wanna see if this is your size." 

     When he was sitting across from her at the table, it was hard to see the subtle intricacies in his movements. Her mind was focused on servicing last minute ideas. Yet, with Harry standing in front of her and her attention now solely on him, she notices his refusal to meet her eyes. He tosses it to the floor, the singular window showcasing deep within the Black Lake, or the mess of the office. Is he nervous? Maybe guilty? She hopes she wasn't too nagging. 

     Lorelei supplies Harry with a reassuring smile then, without warning, she grabs his wrist and pulls him closer. He stumbles, caught off guard, but she stabilizes him. She guides him 'til he's so close his chest nearly presses into her own, which is precisely where she needs him. Lorelei brushes down his sleeves so nothing obstructs the fabric, but she feels him tense under her touch. Intense rigidity. A gasp escapes his lips, so slight it could've been a draft. He's acting so strangely. It's not like she hasn't stood in front of him before. 

     Harry's pupils blow wide when Lorelei reaches her arms around his torso in an awkward half-hug to grab the pinned fabric. She thinks she feels the barest touch on her back, but it was more than likely her hair. Pulling back, Lorelei holds the linen to his chest. 

     "Put your arms out so I can drape this over you." 

     Harry complies. She frowns as she realizes his arms are shaking. Perhaps it's cold? She's quite hot herself. Nevertheless, she places the fabric over his shoulders and begins pinning the loose pieces together. Each time she lightly, as light and nimble as she always is regarding sewing, touches him, Harry flinches. It's not a rigorous jump, one that threatens her creative process. They're small, barely visible intakes. She makes sure she's being extra careful with the pins—some people don't like needles. Dorian doesn't. 

     "Turn, please," she instructs softly, guiding him so his back is facing her. Clearing her throat and hoping to distract him with a conversation topic, Lorelei starts, "You know Luke's my favorite character."

     Harry hums, but his voice cracks. "Really?"

     "Yeah," she replies, gathering up the extra cloth in the back and marking where to cut with a pen. "He's really brave. Like, he was just a farmer, then he became this super cool hero. He saved the universe! He's also super talented with the force and all the lightsaber moves. I get sad when I watch New Hope 'cause Luke lost so much, but he made the most of it." She places her last strawberry pin on the cuff. "I can't imagine finding out an evil space murderer is my father."

     Harry goes rigid.

     Lorelei spins him around as she finishes, and her brows furrow. "Are you okay?" She tilts her head curiously. 

     Harry averts his gaze and clears his throat. "I'm fine. Are you done? This is kinda tight."

     "It's supposed to be tight. I need the measurements to be precise," Lorelei explains as she picks up a pair of scissors. Noticing Harry's wide eyes, she laughs. "Relax, Harry. I'm just gonna snip off a loose thread."

     An awkward silence ensues. Typically, the two always found solace in quiet moments. Restful nights in the Common Room after long days, a contemplative moment in tranquility by the Black Lake, leisure strolls on the grounds. However, this time, it's restless. He's all . . . fidgety. That's her thing. She's the one prone to bouncing knees and shaking hands. 

     Lorelei brushes Harry's shoulders as she takes the pinned fabric off and sets it onto the table. Smoothing down the surface, she points to a wardrobe off in the corner next to stacks of tidily organized file boxes. A pillar standing tall in the aftermath of war (What teenager raids file boxes?). "See if there're any boots your size," she instructs. "They should be in there. If the twins didn't take them all."

     Harry makes a face. "Why would they take boots?" 

     "One of their weird scares."

     The only time Fred and George Weasley are given free range for their deplorable pranks is Hallowe'en, courtesy of Lorelei. With this freedom, they take full advantage. All throughout the castle lay unexpected scares, some would call them traps (Everybody). Not even Lorelei knows what some entail, and she'd like to keep it that way. 

     "Oh. Right," Harry nods, proceeding to walk to the wardrobe. He'd braved their scares, although he did only do it to get out of fulfilling his promise. 

     Lorelei stares down at the small needle and thread in her hands and then the enormous piece of fabric awaiting to be stitched. The sunlight streaming through the window changed positions, dousing them in orange light. Time's running out. Unfortunately, the committee's only sewing machine experienced a malfunction yesterday. It's now out of commission—farewell Barnaby! Lorelei knows spells exist to speed the process, but there's no reward in it. However, there's a curse to doing things the old fashioned way. 

     What was once loud rustling, drawers snapping shut and cardboard creaking, is now quiet. Lorelei threads the needle easily and pokes it through the cotton, beginning a steady, natural rhythm. 

     "Lorelei?" 

     She keeps her gaze on her project. "Hm?"

     "Are you scared?" 

     A breathy chuckle escapes her, blowing bits of stray hair to the side. "Scared?" Lorelei iterates. "Scared of what?"

     "Black."

     Lorelei flinches. He doesn't need to ask. She inhales and continues her flow, letting the needle soothe her nerves. "Yes. I am." 

     She hears Harry shuffling around and then the clicking of heels on stone. 

     "Are you scared he's going to kill you?"

     The needle slips. Lorelei hisses in pain, dropping her work and yanking her hand upwards. A trickle of blood leaks from the wound. She snaps her head to Harry who's looking at her through the reflection of a mirror. Fear pools in her eyes, raw and real. 

     There's something so sinister about the 'k word.' Besides the denotion, its personification, she imagines, is that of absolute, pure darkness. A room isolated by the absence of light with no tangible means of escape. It's a place no one can follow, no one can see. It's infinite. Boundless. Cold. 

     "Wha—why are you asking this?" Lorelei flits her gaze to meet his own, feeling blood roll down her finger. 

     Through the mirror, she watches as Harry keeps his mouth closed, not even attempting to respond. Rapidly, he shakes his head. "Sorry," he utters quietly. "Forget I asked."

     Her eyes trail down to the tips of his fingers where they nervously twitch. "No, wait a second. Why'd you bring up Bl—him?" Lorelei demands, voice tight. Out of the blue, no prompt, no thought. "Did something happen? Are you okay?" 

     "No! No, just forget it," Harry brushes it away as if the topic can be treated like dust. 

     Lorelei bites her lip, quelling her frustration. She can't nag; she's done enough of that. The fabric sits untouched, marked by a red splotch. Again, blood is spilled because of Sirius Black. She seeks Harry's eyes in the mirror. "Are you scared?"

     "Of Black?"

     She nods. 

     Harry hesitates. He hesitates. Lorelei's gasp catches in her throat, heart skipping. 

     "Yes." Harry's delayed response is riddled with uncertainty, and she can't tell if it's because he's grappling with his own fear or he's foolishly disregarding it. 

     "He can't hurt us here," Lorelei breathes in an ill fated attempt at reassurance. Her hands are trembling. 

     "No. He won't."

     There's a distinction in the way he delivers his affirmation. His agreement hangs in the air, lacking conviction. Won't . . . what sense does that make? Lorelei stares into the mirror at her reflection and the terror creating a cavity in her eyes, the dark lines resting under them. She glances at Harry. For someone marked by the talons of Death, he's indifferent. He's not infallible; he's just a boy. Why is he pretending he isn't? 

     As the blue sky fades into pale hues of purple and orange, perhaps celebrating the holiday with them, Lorelei begins to wonder if she's more alone than she realized. 

Chapter Text

1975

     He didn't know where he was going, he just had to leave. Sirius had to get out of there. His throat felt stuffed full of cotton as he tried to steady his breathing while his hands shook with each step. Ice cold rain pelted against his exposed flesh, but he didn't care. Not one bit. In fact, it was the furthest thing from his mind. He could barely feel it, even if his shaking said otherwise. All he could think about were the words his mother had spat, venom dripping from her tongue. Words no mother should ever say.

     It didn't matter, though. It never did. He could take whatever she threw at him, absorbing it all like he was some sponge. And after she was done, he'd roll his eyes and put on a brave face before retreating back to his room where the hurt could freely fall. But sometimes he needed a break. Sirius didn't give his mother a chance before he stormed out the house and down the street. 

     Now he was wandering alone at night with none of his possessions, besides his wand of course, and no coat all while it was storming. Just his luck.

     Still, it didn't deter Sirius. 

     There was no way, absolutely no way, he'd go back home a soaking mess. He could imagine Regulus' snide smile. And he couldn't go to James's like this. He just needed a moment to catch his breath, calm down ('cause he did feel like he could punch a hole clean through a brick wall), and definitely find something to eat. The last part was very important. 

     Only one restaurant was open at this hour, one on his path at least. He'd always seen it on passing walks and what he remembered so specifically was a neon sign blinking in big, bold red letters: 'Open late!'

     Why did he chose a random muggle diner besides it's late opening? Sirius didn't know, he simply walked there. 

     The diner was a smallish place with slightly foggy windows and a giant red and white striped awning that wrapped around the front of the building. There was a row of shrubbery he could barely see below the windows. One street lamp was out and the other was buzzing haphazardly, blinking on and off. Sirius rubbed his hands up and down his arms as he approached. Sure enough, red neon light greeted him. 

     Before he entered, he could see people sitting at bar stools laughing and a man and woman behind the counter dancing with the giddiest smiles he'd ever seen. Anxiously, Sirius grabbed a hold of the door and pushed it open. Immediately, warmth flooded him in waves and soft tunes of music played discreetly from a jukebox to his left. Bells jingled as he stepped inside. 

     The two women at the barstools looked up at his entrance and the dancing couple stopped mid spin. Awkwardly, he wiped his muddied shoes on the welcome mat and kept close to the door in case things went awry. His wand felt like a lead weight in his pocket. 

     "Oh, hello!" One of the women greeted, sliding off her chair. She was rather tall, perhaps as tall as him, with curly hair messily strewn up and wearing a bright orange shirt. A nametag with the name 'Justine' printed on it laid across her chest, along with the tiniest sticker of a smiley face. 

     The dancing woman patted her partner on the chest. "Oh, Tom! Look at him! Go fetch Martha and some blankets from the back!" She began moving to the other side of the bar, using an arm to beckon him over. "Come, come. Justine, sit him over there. See what he wants. Tom!" 

     Sirius was frozen on the spot. The curly haired woman, Justine, stepped away from the barstools and towards an empty booth. In doing so, she revealed the second woman he saw through the window. The way she looked at him that night . . . he'll never forget. 

     Her nametag said Natalie, and she too wore the bright orange shirt yet somehow it . . . complimented her more. It fit, belonged maybe. Her shoes were also the same color, and she had two literal orange earrings dangling from her ears. He never cared for that color, not until he saw it on her. She beamed widely, and Sirius noticed the prominent gap between her two front teeth. 

     For some reason, Sirius began to feel self-conscious. He was acutely aware of his dripping clothes and damp, unkempt hair. He couldn't look her in the eyes. "Uh, do you have a towel?" He asked and his voice cracked, causing his ears to burn. If his brother saw him now . . . 

     "Of course! Tom's gonna bring it out. In the meantime, please have a seat. I promise we don't bite. And don't worry about the mess." The woman, Natalie, continued to smile. She stood from her stool—Sirius knew she was taller than him—and gestured to an empty booth. As if she enchanted him, he followed her every desire. He dumbly stared up at her when he sat down. 

     Suddenly, the kitchen exploded with noise. Loud crashes of metal banging together and raised voices all in varying timbres. One stood out, a penetrating shrillness cutting like thin glass shards. Brushing a strand of wet hair from his forehead, Sirius watched as Natalie turned to Justine and whispered a string of words he couldn't hear. The other woman nodded, flicked her gaze to him, and left. Unease filled him. He shouldn't be here. Natalie faced Sirius again and smiled apologetically. 

     "I'm sorry about the noise," she said and her voice was slicked back with sleep, sounding like crystallized honey. "Tom probably woke up mum. She is not a night person. Anyway, my name's Natalie, but I'm sure that's kinda obvious. Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Mum makes excellent hot chocolate."

     Sirius couldn't speak. What did he want? Why was he there? Dumbfounded in a muggle diner surrounded by muggles . . . what was he doing?

     "Where is he?! Where's the poor dear?!" 

     Another woman burst from the kitchen with enough force to slam the doors against the walls. She was noticeably older. Sirius figured she was 'mum.' The woman's hair was slicked into a scalp-pulling updo, so tight her eyebrows raised unwillingly at the ends. Streaks of gray peppered the neutral brown identical to all the others. She wore the signature orange apron dusted with flour and a mishmash of stains but no nametag. Her eyes found Sirius like a hawk, and she charged over like a ferocious Catoblepas. 

     "You poor, poor dear! Look at you! You're soaked!" She cried, her sinewed features softening, then she whirled to the back. "Where are those blankets?! Tom? Barry, turn up the heater, will you—he's freezing!" She rounded on Natalie. "What'd he want? Tea? Chamomile? Jasmine? Green? Or chocolate? Did he want chocolate?!" 

     "I'm fine, really," Sirius interrupted timidly. Merlin, why is he nervous? "I just need a towel and, uh, maybe a phone." 

     He may as well have said an obscenity. Both women snapped their heads to him. The older woman narrowed her eyes, while Natalie gazed down and snickered. "'Fine'? Oh, no no, no! You look terrible! You're so boney!" Sirius couldn't decide if that was an insult or not. "I'll fetch you some biscuits. Yes, and some hot chocolate! You can never go wrong with chocolate!"

     Right when 'Mum' finished, about five more people all stumbled out of the kitchen at the same time. It was a flurry of orange. Sirius blinked and shifted against the plush booth, hoping to sink into the cushion. Where in Godric's name were they keeping these people? Or rather, how big is that kitchen?

     "It's about time!" 'Mum' shrieked at the group, fluttering her arms wildly. "Are they warm? You did put them in the dryer didn't you—oh, it doesn't matter! Go on!"

     Two freakishly tall men—in Sirius's words—with identical beards and physiques so big they threatened to burst their shirts, stalked over with a pile of blankets. They dropped them atop the table wordlessly, brows furrowed and eyes stern. 

     Natalie slapped one of them on the arm. "Don't be nasty, Tom!"

     They didn't reply. 

     Natalie rolled her eyes as she stepped forward. She grabbed one blanket and moved to Sirius's side, placing her knee on the booth so she could drape the blanket over his shoulders. She did the same with a second one, and he couldn't deny the warmth they brought was instantly soothing. Sirius noted she smelled vibrantly of honeysuckle, and it reminded him of Euphemia Potter's garden. Natalie passed him a blue towel, and he gratefully rubbed out the rain from his hair. 

     Sirius startled at the sound of sharp buzzing, then it stopped and the smell of burning filled his nostrils. Warmth flooded downwards from an open vent, bits of dust floating around the grates. Air conditioning, how he wished wizards utilized it. Another man came out the back wiping something off his hands with a cloth. Frankly, Sirius hadn't seen a mustache so cool—only on muggle rockstars. His hair was also streaked with silver, but it was gelled back in a swoop. Shockingly, he wore no orange.

     "There we go. Heater's on full blast now. Ah! Hello there!" 

     The older man stopped by Natalie, smiling, but it faded slightly as he came to examine Sirius. "What's your name, lad?"

     "Sirius." He looked at Natalie when he said it. 

     The man appeared puzzled. "Sirius? Never heard that before. Lovely name." His smile dropped. "Are you in any trouble, Sirius?" 

     For a moment, Sirius statued. Trouble? There's always trouble with wizards, with the Blacks. But it wasn't anything he could say; it never was. He's held captive within his glass house. Didn't matter, Sirius was used to it. Nothing was ever outwardly permanent, wounds heal and scars can be concealed. He wasn't scared, not since he was eleven, but he was then. As Sirius squirmed under the man's scrutiny, he felt compelled to blurt his life story. The argument, his fears, the sting of his mother's hand, Helena—even his hopes and dreams. 

     To strangers. Muggles. 

     Sirius clutched the blankets tightly. "Bad night," he replied with a grimace.

     "I see." The man wasn't convinced; he didn't seem like the type to be influenced. He turned to the towering twins and clapped them on the back. They stumbled from the force. "I would've offered my sons if you'd said yes! Always looking for a fight, they are."

     He'd stake his dwindling inheritance on it. 

     "Dad!" Natalie scolded. 

     Family diner, Sirius realizes. Truthfully, it wasn't hard to deduce. They're all identical. Scarily so, might he add. When he trudged down the walkway, he didn't read the sign. He was guided by the neon lights like a moth to a flame. Muggles had a lot of things Sirius envied—cars (Firebird, Stingray, Aero Warrior in that order), indoor plumbing, electricity—but he so badly wished he had their camaraderie. Wizards are not social butterflies. It's a dog eat dog world. Sirius didn't know wizards had emotions 'til he met James. 

     Surrounded by a friendly family of muggles in the quaintest diner he'd ever seen, Sirius had never felt more jealous, and it disgusted him. 

     The man let out a raucous laugh, the kind of booming laugh only a father could make. Sirius wouldn't know. "I'm only joking, Lee." He pointed to himself. "I'm Barry or Mr. Yates if you're feeling proper. That's Tim and Tom," he pointed at the burly men. He leaned down and whispered, "Don't tell 'em, but I think they might be twins." He then leaned back and laughed loudly again. Sirius forced a smile. 

     Barry turned to Natalie. "I see you've already met, Lee. That's Justine." The curly haired woman waved. "And . . . my wife is—"

     'Mum' careened from the kitchen carrying a hefty tray overflowing with food. 

     "That's the missus! Come along, Martha!" He beamed, waving his wife over. Smiling, he muttered, "Don't call her Mrs. Yates or you won't make it out alive." 

     Natalie groaned. "He just needs a phone, dad. The one on the wall workin' yet?"

     "Nah. Maintenance hasn't called me back. Left a dozen voicemails, not a peep! I'm starting to think they're ignoring me." Barry mustered a hearty chuckle. "But my office's got one. Buried somewhere . . ." 

     "Here we are!" Martha plopped the tray of food onto the table, and Sirius stared at the assortment that was far more than biscuits and hot chocolate. Lattice pies, hot cross buns, an entire sandwich, a slice of decadent chocolate cake, and four glasses of various liquids. What was more impressive was the mismatched set of novelty chinaware. Two bears picking apples in an orchard on the teacups, an unfortunately ugly image of a cat on a plate, and an unnerving goose teapot with a long neck as the spout. 

     Sirius had never seen anything like it, nor smelled anything as mouthwatering. His stomach howled in delight. 

     "Lord, mum," one of the twins muttered. " You've practically taken the whole stock!"

     "Shush, Tim," Martha chided, sending him a glare. Her gaze immediately softened when she looked back at Sirius. "Well, go on, dear! I didn't poison it! Eat!"

     Everyone stared. 

     Sirius didn't move. 

     Barry chuckled, patting his sons on the back again. "Alright. Let's give him some space," he announced to the curious crowd. "Tom, go fetch the phone and make sure not to unplug the generator. It's covered in green tape. Can't miss it." 

     Sirius unhooked his shoulders from tension as the group began retreating to the infinite kitchen. He hated being a spectacle. 

     Natalie waved and dashed an insatiable smile. "It was nice meeting you, Sirius."

     But her father grabbed her arm. "No, no! You stay!"

     Sirius exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding. 

     For a moment, Natalie's confusion was painted red on her cheeks, then she shared a glance with her father. Words transcended the bounds of reality, traveling unburdened between them. Natalie blinked; Barry blinked. They nodded. Sirius pawed at the talons of envy coiling around him. Father and daughter, so close, so happy. He knew the phenomenon of silent communication; it's how he and James manufactured all their pranks. Can't go spilling secrets out loud. 

     Natalie slid gracefully into the booth opposite Sirius, and her father followed. 

     "Go on, lad. Don't mind us, we'll be outta your hair in a jiffy," Barry waved, and it was identical to his daughter's. He propped his elbows atop the table while Natalie lounged all while maintaining her perfect smile. (Sirius hoped she never stopped). "I've just got some questions. You know how it is." 

     Sirius's heart skipped a beat as he moved to grab a biscuit. He swallowed thickly, mentally calculating the speed at which to draw his wand. "Questions?" 

     Barry rumbled another laugh. "Cool it. We ain't interrogating you. Right, Lee?" He turned to his daughter who nodded, bits of brown hair spilling from her ponytail. "See? Friendly chitchat."

     The biscuit Sirius grabbed was chocolate and delicious. Honestly, they could've pulled it from a box for all he cared, but it had the distinct flavor of being homemade. You can just tell. He used to think Euphemia made the best biscuits, now she's facing intense competition. As he savored the rich palate of butter and espresso, Sirius caught Natalie's unwavering stare. Her eyes kept flicking from the sweet to him, and her nails clicked on the table. Curious. He sent her a wink and relished the way her cheeks bloomed pink. 

     "These're really, really good," Sirius said between bites. 

     Natalie was too shy to respond. 

     "Good. I'm glad." Barry nodded. "The jammy ones are my favorite, personally. Raspberry, I think." 

     Sirius wasn't positive, but he thought he heard Natalie mutter the quietest, "Lingonberry," in correction. 

     "So . . . Sirius," the patriarch began, clasping his hands. "What defines 'bad night'?" 

     Sirius's first impression of Barry was his friendliness. Right off the bat, he was polite and attentive. Cracking jokes in earnest James would do ironically. He could also tell that Barry was a family man, so very similar to Fleamont Potter. A fire of loyalty burned eternally. They'd spin the world backwards for those they loved. But there's a ferocity to Barry, a gleam in the eye reminiscent of a knife's draw. The man's perpetual smile contrasts his daughter's; it's not welcoming, it's calculating. Assessing a potential threat. 

     Sirius was caged in enemy territory. At least, the biscuits are lovely. 

     Barry's voice was throaty and low, a timbre representative of his sternness, and his eyebrows were in such a straight line Sirius thought he might reach across the table and snatch him by the collar. He didn't like it; he didn't like feeling cornered. The diner's warmth was suffocating. He ditched one of the blankets. Sirius made a mistake coming here. They're innocents, but they're muggles . . . If it came down to it, he didn't know if he could brandish his wand. 

     Then, miraculously, or as if he could sense the unease, Barry's face softened completely. A total one-eighty. 

     "I may not know you, Sirius, but I know a downed dog when I see one," Barry said, and Sirius didn't know how he managed, but the man's voice oozed with tenderness. How could a muggle understand his plight? "You're a tough one. I knew it the minute I saw you. Swear it's like lookin' in a mirror. But lemme give you some advice, lad. Toughness can only carry you so far." 

     Sirius fiddled with one of the jammy biscuits. He held Barry's gaze despite everything telling him to flee. 

     "I've lived that life, and it's a lonely one," Barry said. His words weighed heavy with experience. "You walk alone. 'Cause you're tough, and you can't be weak. You're not allowed to be."

     Sirius tensed, then cursed himself for being obvious. 

     "Don't feel pressured, Sirius." His heart skipped a beat at Natalie's words; he'd forgotten she was there. She placed her hand on Barry's shoulder, which he grabbed in return. "My dad can be pretty, uh, intense. Say the word, and we'll go."

     But he didn't say anything, so Barry continued. 

     "Once you walk in my diner that makes you family." Barry smiled as he jabbed a finger into the table for effect. "We don't see a lotta customers, but we have plenty of regulars. Whatever problems you got are my problems. That's how it works with us Yates. We stick with our own. Hell, Tim and Tom'd be delighted to get back in the ring." He squeezed his daughter's hand. "Point I'm trying to make is . . . you don't have to walk alone, Sirius."

     But I can't walk with muggles. 

     "I-I . . . um, thank you for the food," Sirius stuttered. His nerves were driving him crazy. "I'm not in any—I'm not in trouble. Everyone's got those days, ya know?" 

     "Oh sure," Barry nodded, smile strained. The older man studied him intently, squinting, then his eyes brightened at something behind him. "Ah! Here's Tom with the phone!" 

     The scary twin appeared at the edge of the table. He still didn't look at Sirius, only at Barry. "Phone's plugged in by the register." Then he was gone. With the rest of the family being so friendly, he wondered if the twins were adopted. 

     "Great! Thank you, Tomasin!" Barry called out to his son. "Don't mind him, Sirius. He's antisocial." 

     "Low blood sugar," chimed Natalie. 

     "Whenever you're ready, the phone's waiting up there at the end of the bar—little green thing." Sirius followed Barry's gaze to a rotary phone. "I assume you know how to use one, yes?" He nodded. "Great! Well, I'm outta your hair now, lad. I know you'll be off soon and heaven knows if you'll be back, but I hope you will. You always have a seat here, Sirius. Don't forget that." 

     Before Barry exited, Sirius said, genuinely, more genuine than he normally ever was, "Thank you. Really." 

     The older man smiled a toothy smile. "No need to thank me, lad. It's my pleasure. Hope the rest of your night is splendid. And don't forget, it's a beautiful thing to be alive." 

     He gave a succinct nod to Natalie before sliding out and meeting his snooping family behind the bar, proceeding to corral them inside the kitchen. 

     "You are okay though, right?" 

     Sirius faced Natalie. They were now alone. She wasn't smiling anymore, yet her frowns were somehow beautiful. He felt hot suddenly, so he ditched the second blanket which left his damp clothes to the stifling air. In hopes of reassuring her and bringing forth the brilliant beam, he made a cross over his heart. "I promise . . ." he cleared his throat, "I solemnly swear, I'm okay." 

     He's not, but he's sure he will be. 

     "I'm just asking because, you know, you had to have been walking for a while—you're soaked!" Natalie ducked her head, and Sirius caught faint tracings of ink on her neck. "A-and it's so late and dark! Last time I went for a walk in the dark, I slipped and sprained my pinky. Oh, bother, that was not fun." She mindlessly rubbed at her pinky that was oddly bent. "You know, there's a pothole by the grocer's down the road? Yeah, slipped there. Told the owner, sweet as sugar, but really quite . . . old. He gave me a coupon, which I did use—"

     At Sirius's blank stare, Natalie's face flushed as bright as the booths. Then he huffed out the barest laugh. 

    "Oh, gosh. I'm so sorry! I ramble. It's such an issue!" She cried, trying to cover her chagrin with her palms. The sight of her reddening features was oddly endearing. Cute. She was cute. Sirius couldn't help the genuine laugh that bubbled from his throat. "Don't laugh!"

     Natalie's ridiculous ramble was funny in the sense of how random it occurred, yet he's not sure why he's laughing. Perhaps it's the absurdity of his situation. Bad night, soaked to the bone, muggle diner, life advice and underlying threats simultaneously, scary twins—how'd Sirius always manage to land himself in these strange circumstances? Some would say awful. Walburga would. Merlin, if she saw him now . . . it pulled down his lips. He still felt the sting. 

     Then a melodic, kind of squeaky and small, laugh graced his ears. Natalie failed to contain her laughter, and it was glorious. He couldn't help himself. They laughed together, as one, like they'd been friends for years. Solidarity with the ones he's been told to despise all his life. Sirius didn't know what to make of it. 

     "I didn't mean to ramble," Natalie said through her giggles, and she wiped the droplets under her eyes. 

     After a few short moments that felt limitless, Sirius calmed down. He ran a hand through his hair to separate the tangles. It was much drier, thankfully. The windows were beginning to fog from the heat Barry'd cranked to the max. Somehow it made the diner seem even more picture perfect, like it wasn't real. Was it real? A quintessential diner serving slice of life—his luck was never good. Bad luck's been running him dry for years. But it must be real because his cheeks ache from the prolonged laughter. 

     If it was a good ache, Sirius couldn't decide. 

     With his friends, he had no qualms howling at their foolish mistakes. Failed exams, ruined flirtations, quidditch accidents, or misspoken words, all fair game. Sirius never forgets. He'll remember a time when James had his fly wide open in front of Lily Evans, and he will bring it up constantly. Everyone needs humbled! However, Natalie isn't his friend; she's a stranger. A stranger who's shown nothing but kindness, and he feels guilty for laughing at her. 

     "I didn't mean to laugh," Sirius weakly apologized. 

     Natalie's blush was beginning to fade, yet her cheeks remained rosy. "Oh, stop," the girl waved, tucking a fallen strand of hair he was eyeing behind her ear. "You meant nothing by it. I know that. 'Sides I've got three brothers. I can take it." 

     Relieved. He's relieved. 

     Then, Sirius asked, "Is it true?" 

     She tilted her head. 

     "The pothole by the grocer?"

     Natalie groaned and covered her face with her palms. "Yes. Very true." 

     Covering a chuckle with a cough, Sirius was about to add another quip to the conversation when the girl interrupted. It's for the best, the joke wasn't an all-timer. 

     "I can package that for you if you want," Natalie said with a hopeful tint. Her eyes traveled down to the tray of food. She wanted him to take it. She didn't have to ask. There was no way he'd ditch the greatest desserts he'd ever eaten. 

     "Yeah, yeah. Not leaving those. I'll share 'em with my mates," Sirius nodded. "They'll love 'em. Real good."

     "Yay!" 

     Godric, Natalie's squeal of delight did something to him. 

     "I always get so jumpy when people try my food," she admits, while Sirius's suspicion was confirmed. He knew she had a hand in it. "You can never tell what people think sometimes. Drives me crazy." 

     "You made these?" 

     Uh oh. Was that offensive? 

     Yet, Natalie didn't seem to mind. She lit up like the flickering light down a few booths. "I did, in fact! My very own top secret recipe." She made a zipping motion over her mouth then giggled. "I'm a baker. Scientist. Dessert aficionado."  

     Still, Sirius was racked with surprise. He inspected the ornately crafted sweets, studying each design like he was a critic. He knew she was a muggle, yet it's hard to fathom how anyone could make such a perfectly sculpted biscuit without magic. "You made this?" He held up a tiny cookie in a flower shape, of what flower he couldn't be bothered to know, and it was covered in frosting that made the dessert look plucked from a plant. 

     "I did," Natalie confirmed, but her tone was clipped and small. He knew she's not one to shy away from conversation, but it seemed compliments were too much. How anyone could deny adulation was beyond him. 

     "Wow," Sirius breathed, astonished. "You're amazing." 

     "Oh, no, no! I'm not!" The oranges hanging from her ears blurred from how fast she shook her head. "I messed up the first batch, got the frosting all wrong. And the salt ratio is so off. Gosh, and the oven was too hot. These're barely passable."

     Her refusal to recognize her talents reminded Sirius of Peter. "You know," he began with a smile filled with mirth, "I wasn't gonna tell you this because I didn't want special treatment, but," he paused to glance left and right, "I'm actually a biscuit inspector." 

     Natalie's silky laughter kept him going. 

     "Yeah. Full time," Sirius continued, playing it completely straight. "And I declare these biscuits masterpieces. Outstanding!"

     He then popped the floral cookie in his mouth. The explosion of flavors was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Plants had never tasted so good. 

     "Well, thank you, Inspector Sirius." Natalie bowed her head. There was a harsh rattle noise coming from above and then sporadic voices shouting from the kitchens. Sirius hoped that noise wasn't anything bad, but it did seem to quell their banter. "If you're ready, don't be pressured if you're not, I'll take you to the phone. And I'll wrap those biscuits too. For the road."

     Sirius supposed it was getting late. He'd agreed to call James tonight, no doubt the boy was worried. With a slightly disappointed sigh, Sirius nodded. "Now's perfect. Thanks." 

     He waited until she was fully out of the booth before he slid out, then he grabbed the blankets in habit. The heater had worked its technical magic as he was no longer shivering, but he preferred the safety of the knitted blankets. They’re so comfortable. Natalie led him to the telephone. When they passed the kitchens, he saw her family scramble to look busy. 

     "Here we are! You know how to use it?"

    Why did they keep asking that? Did he look like someone who didn't know how to handle a phone?

     "Yes?"

     "Sweet," she grinned. "Well, I'll leave you to it! I'll have those cookies packaged in a jiffy. You've got to come back so you can tell me if your friends liked 'em!" Natalie turned and went to leave but spun back around. "Oh! And you can keep the blankets if you want! My mum loves giving them away—they're homemade. Anyway, bye, Sirius!"

     And as he watched her disappear into the kitchens and break into conversation with her family, as he dialed James's number on the telephone, cradling the homemade blankets to his body and hearing the oldies play through the jukebox, Sirius knew, beyond anything he'd ever known, that he'd return. Again, and again, and again.