Sugar grinding under their shoes, flour dusted on the countertops and ceiling, explosions of red and green sprinkles—the house-elves will not be pleased. Soft tunes of festive oldies carry from Marsha Jones's donated radio tucked by the ovens, glass door slathered in chocolate batter. Mouthwatering aromas of freshly baked desserts pour from the kitchens and into the hallways. A tangible taste that grips passing students by nostrils and pummels in nostalgia.

The smell of childhood. Christmas when it was still treasured. Mothers dotting frosting on children's noses, sneaking swipes of sugar cookies in late hours, snuggling under blankets with piping hot peppermint cocoa. Whipped foam mustaches and all. Hogwarts is bursting with holiday spirit. Students cannot stave the temptation to venture inside the kitchens for a cure of homesickness, yet they're presented with familiar chaos.

Lorelei Yates stressfully bickering with Hermione Granger as she tosses ingredients into a bowl without a second glance. Her friend, running to and fro with overstuffed piping bags and puffed hair resembling powdered wigs from all the spilt flour. Her eyebrows are multicolored from melted sprinkles. The oven continuously beeping as they multitask to take new batches from the ovens, and trays of decorated cookies lay finished for—

Carmine Weatherby?

Helena, help him. Some would bow their heads in respect for the boy now assumedly trapped forever wrapping cookies in pretty packaging. They'd say, 'How'd she get to you?' with coos of pity in the monthly support groups. 'Round Hogwarts it isn't uncommon to be approached by an overly enthusiastic Lorelei Yates and enfolded into . . . quests. Seriously, it's an issue. 'How to Say No to Lorelei Yates' meets on second Saturdays and has the turnout of a quidditch match. She's just so sweet, tooth-rottingly sweet. Members have discussed the impossibility of saying no upon looking in her eyes.

Harry Potter calls it the 'The Medusa Effect But Worse' because he'd rather be turned into stone. Should be stated that he founded the group as he's the only one able to defend against Lorelei Yates' enchantments (Also his words).

Atop Lorelei's head, over the secured hairnet, is a pair of fluffy antlers. She's rocking a green apron made to resemble a Christmas tree adorned with patches of ornaments and lights. Yes, they glow. Underneath is what most would call 'an ugly sweater,' and Lorelei truly is the master of garishly hideous fashion. The design is yet to be revealed. No one is excited. Hermione wears a spare apron designed to mimic Santa's belly, and Carmine dons the jolly man's hat.

(An elf might've been more fitting, though a tad bit offensive).

"Not the lemon, Carmy!" Lorelei's shout freezes her helper, and the snooping students snap out of their cookie induced trances and keep moving. Always better to leave early, according to Harry. From across the counter, she outstretches her hand and makes a swishing motion. "Leave 'em for the very end, please! Daisy doesn't like citrus, and I'd like to keep my hair intact!"

Carmine tips his head up and down. "Yes, chef," he says and maneuvers the tray until it's at the very end of a long line of sweets. Stretching across every inch of space.

Alright, in reality, Lorelei did not corner Carmine in a grimy alley and extort the poor boy. Rather, he found himself wandering into the kitchens to sneak treacle tarts. He was dead bored and quite ravenous. In fact, Lorelei had barely finished her refurbished spiel when he'd simply swiped a baggy of frosting and went to work. Ever since, he's been snacking on the scraps—his sweet tooth is abyssal. Carmine deserves it; he's a far better helper than Harry ever was. Do not ask the Boy Who Lived to decorate cookies.

Lorelei smiles, relieved. She can't afford any mishaps so close to Christmas, especially since she'll be leaving in a day's time. The golden mixture in front of her has rested for the allotted time, so Lorelei sticks her lucky spatula inside and begins stirring clockwise—her mother's recipes are oddly specific. There's beeping behind her as Hermione pulls a tray from the fiery inferno (Ovens. She's terrified of 'em).

"These're done, right?"

With the spatula in hand, Lorelei turns and tips on her toes to inspect the sizzling desserts. "Hm," she squints. "Few more minutes, I should think."

Hermione nods and waits for Lorelei to step back so she can slide the tray back inside. Heat rushes the kitchen and perspires on her nape.

"I know you said red bows, but," Carmine pauses as he rifles to present a finished package, "I think the green matches the wreaths."

Lorelei mapped her design weeks in advance, and she never reuses them. Done is done! Seven cookies are specialized to a bag fitting the preferences of all her clients, and they're arranged inside a pearlescent tray for extra razzle dazzle. Her Nana provided the surplus of wrapping material. She gave Carmine a diagram to follow and specified the type of bow, even the exact length, yet he's gone off script. Instead of the red ribbon laced with silver snowflakes, he's chosen a velvet green. By above, it looks fantastic. Her gaze tracks the spiral ends of the bow—he's even curled it!

"Oh, bother!" Lorelei pouts, tipping her head backwards and groaning. She pats her forehead with a nearby cloth doused in fallen confectioners sugar, leaving a splotchy residue on her skin. "Carmy, it looks good. Like, too good. Gosh, why didn't I see it? Red is such a mistake. Obviously!"

     "No shame in it. The red's a nice touch. Really drives home the Christmas vibe," the boy smiles, ears dusted not by flour but by his own fluster. "'Sides the bags without wreaths got your bows."

Lorelei tries to stifle the heat in her cheeks, but her rosacea is a constant betrayer. "Well, thank you for saving my mistake. I would've been a total laughingstock."

"Red's a Christmas color, Lori," Hermione adds slowly, confused by the ledge her friend jumped over. "I doubt anyone would have noticed."

"No, 'Mione. It's completely unacceptable!"

"Chef's right," Carmine says. "It's sacrilege. The baking commissioner would've revoked her license."

"There's no such thing!"

"You ever met him?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "No. Because that doesn't exist!"

"Pray you never do."

As Carmine continues his rouse, Lorelei sprinkles a dash—no more than a precise dash—of salt into the bowl of dough. Spiced carrot cookies may be unconventional in name, but they've all the flavor delight can spare. In her eyes, one of the worst offenses is spending the holidays alone and miserable. Receiving no gifts is an entirely separate conundrum, but being lonely? She won't tolerate it. As much as she'd like to solve the issue of individualism, she's instead settled for desserts. That's next year's problem.

Without fail, Lorelei labors over the daunting task of handcrafting hundreds, if not thousands, of sweets. Ron's always surprised she manages to finish year by year, like it's wholly unbelievable to bake without the aid of magic. She tried it once; the cookies tasted funny. Besides, her mother's recipes are designed to be made with authenticity.

No matter if someone's made fun of her hand-me-down clothes, or her unfortunate family affairs, regardless if they've ever uttered ill words against her or spread unsavory rumors—there's a small package of sweets with their name on it. Christmas is not the time for grudges! And even if it was, it isn't how her family has raised her. She'd be spiting Nana. Every student, professor, groundskeeper, and house-elf receives her prized shareables.

Whether or not the house-elves partake in the sweets is up for discussion, though the plate's always licked clean when she returns.

Truly, the timely dance of artisanal baking is an adequate distraction. It instills perfection so intense it's like threading the thinnest thread through the smallest needle. Lorelei's so focused on following her mother's recipes exactly that she cannot wander into Black's tempting embrace. Not a thought is dedicated to her mystery; it's all concerned with drawing reindeers on sugar cookies.

"I'm taking them out now."

Stirring from her thoughts, Lorelei glances at Hermione bending down to take out the last tray. She didn't even hear the oven beep.

"When you're done, 'Mione," starts Lorelei, prepping a tube of frosting, "can you help me with the last of the reindeers? I can never get the horns right."

"Of course," Hermione smiles, flour somehow appearing on her nose in the span of a minute.

"Wait, decorating?" Cellophane crinkles as Carmine ties a bow around the finished product, and Lorelei mimics his movements by sealing off her piping bag.

"Yeah? You wanna help?"

Lorelei tries to hide her timidity with a bite of her lower lip, but she's used to Ron and Harry 'conveniently' busying themselves.

"Psh. Obviously." Carmine interlocks his fingers and extends them, cracking his joints. Yeah, he means business. "Steadiest hands, don't you know?"

"The more the merrier!"

And merry it is. Lorelei wipes her forehead with the back of her hand in satisfaction, until she remembers the trays full of plain, unfinished cookies. To any one else (Cadence, Harry, and Ron), the task is daunting, but to her, it's cathartic. Her mother's very explicit about having the right attitude while baking. If you're upset, your cookies are going to taste all wrong. Her mum's spirit dances with her.

If students were to pass by now, they'd catch Lorelei and Hermione dancing to oldies, spinning each other in fanciful circles, and Carmine dotting Rudolph's infamous nose with red frosting, failing to control his laughter when the girls slip on loose sprinkles. It's chaotic sure, but a good chaotic. Like the holidays should be.

     Lorelei discarded the reindeer antlers with small bells attached to the horns in favor of showcasing her masterfully ugly jumpers. There are several perks to having such influential grandparents, like her impeccable taste in music (Labi Siffre, the Hollies, Al Bowlly . . . all the classics), her craftiness, and the surplus of kitschy, festive clothing. Tweed everything, eye-jarring paper dresses, Luc's outgrown collection of contemporary graphic shirts, and, of course, knitted jumpers. Thick, scratchy, wool jumpers that drag anyone's silhouette to the depths.

Although, when Barry gifted his wife those jumpers, they were very much in. Now, well, if the laughs Lorelei received said anything, her jumper said it louder.

     Mystic blue, heavy as the sacks of flour she heaved over her shoulder earlier and knitted brilliantly. Some'd say it's obvious the thing's handmade but that's what gives the garment a soul. Lorelei relishes the mechanical precision of each stitch and the embroidered exterior. Passion. Wizened, graceful hands. All along the front, starting at the hemline, is a cityscape of gingerbread houses with their candy cane doors and frosty roofs. Santa's sleigh hovers in the skyline, and Rudolph's ruby nose twinkles with a plastic jewel. And yes, the design stretches across the back. No one can escape . . . high fashion!

     Carmine described it as a 'car crash he couldn't look away from.' Whatever that means. Lorelei's taking it positively.

     Of course, Lorelei Yates, self-appointed liaison of the North Pole, couldn't let the festivities end with just a jumper. In her hands is a seagrass basket dyed naturally green fitted with seagrass snowflakes and a velvet bow. Red, duh. Carmine's lovely parcels are tucked inside and alphabetically arranged to Hermione's standards. 'Christmas Cookie Carousing' (Licensed. It's rude to steal) doesn't end when the last bow is tied; nay, the delivery is how holiday cheer truly spreads.

     Lorelei's helpers all took a basket-full of sweets, each aiming to deliver to separate locations for time efficiency. Sooner they're done, the quicker they can feast on the 'unremarkables': cookies far too imperfect to package. Treats for the chefs! Carmine graciously volunteered to take on the Slytherins. His indifference provides a shield to their bullying, and he claims to psychologically prank them by constantly switching accents. His words.

     Hermione charged herself with the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs purely to hand deliver a parcel to Ron. So, Lorelei is left with the Ravenclaws and the professors. There is no half-ing it. Everyone means everyone.

     The fifth floor is quiet. Silent in the way things are when content. As Lorelei strolls through the corridors with her basket lightly knocking into her legs, she hears the faint voices of her peers outside. Occasionally, shadows of practicing quidditch players flit through the cobwebbed windows, a quaffle or two grazing the hairs atop her head (Better not be Harry). When Lorelei stopped for respite, she glanced at the grassy shores of the Black Lake and saw students crossing the surface via conjured lily pads. One step, one appears. She'll have to ask for the incantation. Nifty, that is.

     Not everything's fine and dandy. Unfortunately, Lorelei passed a seventh year couple doing something rather inappropriate in areas they assumed were secret. If the scene wasn't so ghastly, she would've directed them to the actual hidden rooms. Thankfully, they were not in her inner circle. She shivers to even entertain the possibility!

     The last time she ventured to the fifth floor on her lonesome it was drenched in stygian tears and cold to the bone. Now, with the stonework revealing its glittering mineral specks and sunlight freely drifting in warming beams, Lorelei feels far more welcomed. Yet, it is the very floor housing Daniel Auclair's portrait. There's a stagnation in the air, cloying and pervasive. Part of her wonders if she'll be so lucky to stumble upon him once more. There's much to discuss about the Auclairs in regard to the Ministry . . . Black.

     Cellophane crinkles as the basket tips against her legs. Lorelei readjusts her grip, continuing her carousing. Discovery requires sacrifice, but fear breeds curiosity. Maligned curiosity, or misguided. She hasn't returned to the library. Days, hours, seconds—the wounds have not healed. Lorelei can't bear it; her mother's spirit drapes heavily on her shoulders. Perhaps it's a sign from the universe. Halt! You're not ready. But when is that time? Grief has no time limit and it does not wait.

     No matter! Today isn't about secrets, it's about the everlasting joy of the holidays. Cheer's spread through milk mustaches and cookie crumb jumpers. Authentic, thick hot chocolate and peppermint bark. There's no time.

     Lorelei fixes her frown, adjusting the right shoulder pad of her garment before it slides down her collarbone. Semi-focused, she slips left down a hallway expecting to be met with haloed emptiness or a wandering ghost toddling through walls. Yet, it isn't. She freezes in the threshold, eyes threatening to burst.

     Lonnie and Remus stand in the middle.

     Quicker than a blink, Lorelei scrambles back to the cover of the crossroads and presses her spine flat against stone. Her swift movements rattled the plastic in her festive carriage. Lonnie's cursed with the ears of hounds. He could very well be her Grinch. Whistling an intake of breath, she awaits the heeled pounds of her uncle's footsteps and the tired sighs of her godfather. Oh, bother. The sound was so loud, and her sweater is too bright. Caty Windmere could've seen it and she's colorblind!

     One, two, three—nothing.

     Lorelei bites down on her bottom lip as she strains her ears for approaching sounds. With the sun perched in the sky, she wouldn't find too much trouble with her uncle. More than likely, he'd give her an exhaustive scolding, but she'd prefer not to risk it. Lonnie's been temperamental as of late. The honest, wise decision is to move along . . . but it must be important if they're sneaking around.

     She's always had an aversion to bavardage, the lowly art form of snooping. It's true, Lorelei has inherited her family's proclivity for gossip (Nana's got a monthly knitting club just for it), but she finds it distasteful. An abandonment of principles, a forgoing of honor and, really, it's bad manners. Exceptions do exist, however. Sometimes it's a utility, like the time she overheard two Ravenclaws' in-depth discussion of the answers to a grueling homework assignment. She received top marks thanks to that seating arrangement, but she did repay them with a tray of brownies.

Sometimes gossip is a quarry of information. Perhaps this'll be the case.

     Surely it'd be unwise to not eavesdrop?

     So Lorelei carefully places the basket upon the floor and angles her head closer to the entrance, listening. Regret, she'll come to befriend later.

     "Never have I stated my beliefs nor shared personal matters. How can you accuse me of this?" What Lorelei recognizes first is hurt. Remus's voice sounds pained, deeply.

     A scoff, "Everyone's read the article. You chose to align with him—you joined his fallacious little cult!"

     Article? Hold on, cult? Her brows furrow. Lonnie's known to blow things out of proportion, but she doesn't think he'd accuse Remus of being in a cult without merit. He's honest, truly. Lorelei inches closer towards the edge, enough to barely see the adults. Clearly, she's unknowingly and unwillingly entered into an argument. Heatwaves swirl within the hallway.

     "Twelve years ago, Lonnie. And it's a peace coalition, not a cult. Enough with that."

     "Coalition or not, you defended him!" Her uncle's voice cracks at the end, pain seeping into his words. She briefly catches Lonnie pointing an accusing finger at Remus. He's fiery. It's not pleasant. He's not being pleasant.

     Yards away Lorelei sees the creases in his clothes, the wrinkles glaring inanity. The shininess of his loafers is dulled by earth, and his trousers are emblazoned with dark stains on the kneecaps. Succinct jitters of his leg, repeated taps against his tights to a rhythm unknown—Lonnie's restless. Lorelei knows she's stepping on the thinnest ice, but there's a growing part of her that's content to fall through.

     Twelve years. Thirteen is the accurate number. Lorelei tears her gaze from her uncle and rolls her parched tongue. They're discussing Black. Rarely is her uncle caught flailing in anger, words sifting through clenched teeth. In which case, what defense could her godfather offer? Black's guilty.

     Frowning, Lorelei faces Remus and watches as he pinches the bridge of his nose. To her, her godfather is a decorous, stern, and kind figure. She recalls a moment when she was younger; it was one of the rare instances Remus stopped by. Little Lorelei panicked at the sight of a spider dangling on her ceiling fan, huge and terrifying. While Lonnie fainted in the background, Remus offered his hands as sanctuary to the arachnid, setting it free on the grassy lawn. He kneeled to her level and told her then, in a tender voice, that kindness is extendable.

     "We fear things because they appear unfriendly. But kindness, Lorelei, has no bounds."

     Remus Lupin is a gentle man. Compassionate and subdued. Though as she watches him, Lorelei isn't sure what to believe. Is it all a facade?

     "I . . ." A slothful pause. "It was an err of judgment. I can admit my faults. The wounds were still fresh."

     As her godfather's voice fills with regret, Lorelei's mouth opens, an epiphany fulfilling its destiny. Remus knows, or at least knew, Black. Few can defend criminals, but a friend is a friend for life. Her hands ball into tight fists. Anger puffs at her reddening cheeks. How dare he? But Remus sounded remorseful, like he's embarrassed to admit he'd ever stoop so low. People can change after all. Maybe he changed?

     "You cannot continue to berate me for my mistakes. I've done my due diligence and rescinded my statements. Five years ago. Bury the hatchet, Lonnie. Please."

     There is a lapse of silence. The kind that suffocates, claws at their throats. There's a musicality to the anxiety. Trills of drafts percolating through crevices, squeaks of worn rubber against stone, labored breaths of heightened emotion. Lorelei can feel the thick string of tension coiling around them.

     "No, I have nothing to bury. Nothing to hide." Lonnie's voice is firm, stern, slightly venomous. "I at least have the capacity to be honest with myself."

"Honest? All you've done is upkeep the lie!"

"A lie I'd never have to tell if it wasn't for you!"

Lorelei's gaze rapidly shifts between the two.

"An introduction is not—"

"Don't act coy. The diary!"

     Lorelei flinches at her uncle's shout. It echoes down the corridor and knocks the breath from her lungs as it reaches her. She turns away to face the windows in front. The sky is as blue as her sweater with fluffy clouds peppering the view, and she can see blurry outlines of quidditch players flocking like birds. Frivolity, innocence. Bouts of laughter and excitable screams. Instead, she's belaboring herself with the anger of men. Oh, it stings worse when it's kin.

Silence, this time stunned. Lorelei carefully sets her basket on the floor when her hands begin to tremble. Diary, diary, diary. Could it be the one? Daniel Auclair's reveled lifeblood. She sought Remus's guidance upon revelation, and she caught him in a foul lie. Claimed to be of no importance it has rendered him speechless. It can't be dealt in doubles; there's only one. Somehow she knows there's only one diary.

"Do not utter evil in these walls." Lorelei represses a shiver at the low tones in her godfather's voice. A rocky bass trembling along her flesh. Remus heaves a labored sigh heard around the world. "James dignified my request. That's all that happened. We acted on her—"

"You had no fucking right! None. Neither does James, and yet you stood by his side!"

"I'm not James. Don't talk to me as if I'm the enemy."

Laughter, rueful. Lorelei knows it be Lonnie's. "You're all the same. Traitors."

     She delivers a shallow scoff of disbelief. Harry's dad is involved. Lorelei theorized James dangled in Black's tangled web. He acted so odd on the day of Harry's accident. Cool as a cucumber. Now, it seems rather boldfaced. Remus knew Black, James knows Remus, therefore James must know Black. By extension, they are all aware of Daniel Auclair and the alluring presence of the Griswaldes. And if James knows, then Harry . . .

     "Godric, Lonnie. Grow up, will you? Your biases cloud your wit."

     Lonnie doesn't respond, and Lorelei covers her mouth. That's the angriest she's heard her godfather; it's frightening, but she's too deep to escape.

     "You're worrying us all." She hears footsteps, and her heart begins to race. Thankfully, they stop. Remus must've stepped closer or Lonnie backwards. "I've spoken to James—about you. You don't want to hear it, but he's concerned. We all are. Baseless accusations. Negligence. Filch claims to have seen you beyond the bounds of the Forbidden Forest. Do you know how bad it is that Severus has come to me with concerns?"

     Lorelei's mouth drops open. Snape is worried? The Snape? She knows they're more than workplace colleagues, but she didn't know how far this relationship extended. Truthfully, she wasn't sure Snape could produce human emotions.

     "I know you, Lonnie, and this isn't you."

     As Lorelei awaits a response, she recalls her uncle's deteriorating organization. There's always signs. Like the stacks of empty mugs strewn about his office or the unfinished papers piling up on his desk. He no longer attends the feasts, choosing to spend mealtimes in the solitude of the Dungeons. And there's the crumpled packages of cigarettes in his bins and the stench of nicotine entombed within the fibers of his clothes. By above, she misses the cinnamon.

     Lonnie tries desperately to hide, but he fails to understand that like recognizes like. She sees right through him.

     "I won't rest until he's found," Lonnie finally utters, conviction dripping down his words. He ignores concern like it's a plague. His problems fester, emotions blackening his fingertips, but he'll be damned before he submits. Lorelei doesn't understand, and it makes her heart heavy.

     "You aren't useful to Lorelei half-dead."

     Sucking in her breath, Lorelei dares to lean forward again. She wants to see her uncle's reaction, gauge whether or not he'll accept his fading sanity. Lonnie's not facing Remus; he's staring, or rather glaring, at the wall. Any longer and lasers might spring from his eyes. Remus, however, keeps his attention solely on Lonnie.

     "Do you think your behavior is unseen by Lorelei?" The mention of her name causes her to gasp, only slightly, and it's hidden by Lonnie's scoff. "I've had to quell her worry and her curiosity because you have chosen to continue the lie."

     What is the dreaded lie? Her heart pounds.

     "She has no trust in you," continues Remus. "How are you not phased, even in the slightest?"

     Lorelei wants to interrupt and say, 'That's not true!' And then, she processes his words and realizes he's right. If she had faith in her uncle, she would've gone to him about Daniel; she would've consulted him about her fears of Black and the questionable things she discovered in the library. If anything, she trusts her friends more than her own family, and Lorelei isn't sure how that makes her feel.

     Lonnie chuckles hollowly.

     Taken aback, Remus crosses his arms. "Does this amuse you?"

     "Yeah, it does. Because it's hilarious you still act like you care."

     Lorelei's stomach plummets. He sounds so detached. Cold. She shouldn't have eavesdropped. This conversation is not meant for her ears. She doesn't want to hear personal, intimate details about her uncle without his consent. Secrets are frustrating, but she feels guilty and it's bitter to swallow.

     And yet, she doesn't move.

     "Do you think so little of me?"

     No reply. Lonnie continues to face the wall, but Lorelei knows if he turns to Remus, his vulnerability will show. And he can't have that. Not ever.

     "I see." Remus nods. From far away, he appears to chew on his next words. "You didn't read the letter, did you?"

     "I knew what it'd say."

     Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Remus turns to the side and away from Lonnie, holding a fist to his mouth. As she ducks, the candlelight catches a glistening in her godfather's eyes. Perhaps Remus engraved his soul into that sheet of parchment. It's why Nana still handwrites despite her aging hands. But Lonnie's lying. She was there when he opened it, and she was there when he read it. He read it twice.

     After a brief period of silence, Remus speaks, "What is it you're trying to accomplish, Lonnie?"

     Her godfather's voice is laced together by lethargy.

     Lonnie turns and the flash in his eyes is horrifying. A malignancy, serpentine in nature, lashes bloody, venomous fangs. Pure antipathy, raw and uncut, plucked from the atramentous pit of his soul. One doesn't suddenly present such a pungent emotion, if she could call it that. These sinful feelings are sequestered deep within. Lorelei knows he's been festering with . . . hate for some time. Years, even. He's rotting, and she's scared.

     "I'm going to kill him."

     The k-word. Lorelei's breath catches, hands shaking. The hate is palpable. Lonnie doesn't crack jokes at perilous expenses, and he scolds her anytime she dares. He's a serious man. And he's powerful. He'll tear Black to pieces, she knows it. Bones and all.

     "Kill him?" While she dwells on an oddly nihilistic approach, Remus merely scoffs. Her eyebrow raises—is this behavior common? "What, you're suddenly the slayer of criminals? An executioner?"

     "He deserves it," spits Lonnie, eyes ablaze.

     "If that's truly what you believe, then I'm sorry I've failed you." For the first time since she's arrived, Lorelei watches their gazes lock. Her godfather's cooling, calm tone is antithetical to the inferno of rage within Lonnie. "I should never have left, and I was a coward. For that, I have no excuse." Remus keeps his gaze steady. "Wherever you've found this hate, however you've nurtured it . . . I hope you can find peace."

     "I won't know peace," Lonnie seethes, like he's a violent dog gnashing its teeth, "until he's gone."

     Remus is silent, eerily so.

     "He won't get near her," her uncle continues. She doesn't think he's capable of stopping this tirade of hate. He lets it crash upon him like a tumultuous tempest. "I've made sure of it. That—that painting is gone. Burned, if Dumbledore knows any better." Her eyes widen. "He oughtta be sanctioned for lodging Griswaldes. I've alerted the Ministry on James—"

     "You've done what?" Her godfather's voice shoots upwards. He takes a quick step toward him, rushed, panicked. "Tell me you didn't."

     "What?" Lonnie scoffs. "You expect me to allow James to harbor a crimi—mass murderer."

The energy shifts massively. Lorelei feels a drop in temperature, goosebumps dimpling across her flesh. Not only that, but the revelations cause her heart to stutter to a halt. Harry's dad has given refuge to . . . Black? The man who sold out his family, who prowls his son, and James shows him hospitality? He's her godfather. Why doesn't he spit on her mother's grave while he's at it?

"How foolish are you?"

"Foolish? I—"

"You know James's history with the Ministry." Lorelei arches a brow, eyeing her godfather clenching a fist. Bitterly, Remus scoffs, "Or do you? Have you read any of our letters?"

He has; she knows it. He's got loads shoved in boxes, messily torn open because he's too impatient to apply a letter opener.

"I will not associate with abetters," says Lonnie, locking his jaw and ignoring confirmation.

"You've gone too far! You've made your own conclusions," Remus slowly, like he's trying to explain an easy concept to a child. In many ways, this is true. "You have denied simple truths to favor your misguided narrative."

The tension is steadily rising. Lorelei can feel Lonnie's temperamental buzzing.

"You know what this'll cost him," continues Remus. "What it'll cost Harry."

At the mention of Harry, Lorelei tenses. Her frame goes rigid and so does Lonnie's. He's silent, stewing on his thoughts. Why is Harry the one to quell his diatribe? Does he know of his father's actions? Even so, it's not fair to him. She'll have to warn him. Despite their feuds, she'll never wish ill will.

And then, Lonnie blows out a whistling breath, shaking his head. "James did it to himself," he spits. "It's what he deserves for sullying Natalie!"

Lorelei faces the windows as her breathing becomes haggard. Aches crawling up her spine, wrapping around the vertebrae and crushing. Green light pierce her vision, stippling through hazy flashes. Her heart pulsates, blood refusing to cooperate, and the rosacea of her cheeks deepens. All it takes is one word, a single mention. The world's spun off its axis. She chokes, stifling the sound with her fist. Oh, the unfairness.

"Sullying? Don't. He loved her." A pause. "We all did."

"That's what he said too."

Tears prickling her eyes, Lorelei stiffens. He?

"And he did."

Quietly, softly, full of pain, "Then why is she dead?"

Remus neglects to answer.

Lorelei supposes there isn't anything to say. One, two, three—in, out. Even when she desires for normalcy, the travails of her past, a past she knows nothing of, bring forth the cursed hand of fate to tighten her string. She is haunted. She is hunted.

Time approaches a standstill. Laughter sounds to her left. Full of giddiness and innocence. Lorelei wipes oozing snot with her sleeve. So much for a quiet evening delivery cookies. At this point, she should know better than to expect peace; she's sure she's never felt its touch. What is it like? Gentle? Or warm? Like delicate bloomed petals raining on spring days or feathery wisps from a willow in tranquil breezes?

"Stay out of my way." She hears Lonnie speak. "I mean it, Remus. This doesn't concern you."

     "It concerns me more than you know." Remus won't back down, but he's stretched thin.

     "I protect her!"

     A beat, "Who protects you?"

     "Protection? Like I'd need it from you."

     Stiffly, Lorelei locks her hands together and squeezes. Heavy pressure still lingers on her chest, laboring her breaths, and her attention fades sporadically. Light shuffling, a scuttle and a sniff then—hushed sibilance. They speak in whispers she's unable to decipher. She can't bring herself to lean forwards, but she thinks she catches a name, one that begins with 'a.' It didn't have the flow of Auclair; it hissed. She could tell Lonnie uttered it by the way the syllables struggled to leave his gritted teeth.

     "If you're not careful, Lionel," Remus starts, and she can hear his footsteps approaching, "you'll lose everyone." He pauses. "And you'll only have yourself to blame."

     Heartbeat increasing once more, Lorelei holds herself still as stone, praying this one time she might accomplish invisibility. She holds her breath and then Remus appears at the entrance of the crossroads. He halts and turns towards her, causing her to feel like she got hit with the Jelly-Legs Jinx. The expectation is a scolding for eavesdropping on such a personal argument, yet it never comes. Instead, her godfather gives the tiniest shake of his head, mouth zipped closed.

He doesn't incline his head towards Lonnie as if to say, 'Go to him. You're the only one he can stand.' No, it's the opposite. It's a warning. Clearly, from that shockingly eye-opening and sensitive discussion, Lonnie is not to be bothered. His animosity would be unfairly directed at her, and she is, for once, innocent.

Remus takes steps towards her and without a word, picks up her basket. He places a finger to his lips and lays a hand upon her shoulder, gently pushing her to move. At first, she hesitates. There's a weird repeated huffing down the hallway Lonnie's on, like when Barry's engine refuses to start on glacial mornings. It's familiar and yet so odd.

It hits her. And it hits so hard Lorelei freezes. Crying. She glances up at Remus with eyebrows raised, silently asking if what she's hearing is real, and he confirms with a nod that looks heavy. Lonnie's crying.

Still, her godfather refrains from speaking. He proceeds to guide her unmoving body forwards, basket now crinkling on his legs. Lorelei's stomach twists. Her uncle's sobbing and she's turning the other cheek. Shouldn't she be offering solace? She should be there, helping him. And yet, he was so angry. Perhaps those tears aren't full of loss, rather pooling with hate, the very hate Remus called out.

Among her aching heart for her uncle, is the bubbling frustration with the man leading her away. Despite his supposed 'rescinded statements,' Remus knew Black, and he was aware of this connection as long as he knew her. He uttered her mother's name knowing full well he was associated with her killer.

Lorelei rolls her shoulders, knocking his hand free. She lets him carry the basket, sick of the crinkling against her. Remus leads her in the opposite direction her services require, and it intensifies her grievances. Gone is her holiday spirit. Buried threads are resurfacing, ones she's trying hard to ignore, yet they're ever present and glaring. She'd like to think everyone she meets is honest. Caring, trustworthy. A confidant.

     Was it unwise to trust Remus with Daniel Auclair? Certainly appears so. He proctored a haven, and he lured her into confiding her desires for knowledge. Remus betrayed that bond. An avenue of information ripped carelessly from her aching hands. And it's a wonder why she confesses to her friends?

     Lorelei is officially, irrevocably done. He owes her an explanation.

     Once her uncle's cries are only ghostly figments in her mind, Lorelei halts. She digs her heels into the limestone and refuses to blindly follow Remus. Instantly, he stops, like he anticipated the action. A staircase lies up ahead, but she's unsure where it leads. Golden beams shine through lunette panes at the end of the corridor. The light hits Remus's back and basks him in a darkened haze. He towers over her with lidded eyes, despondent ones.

     "Why?"

     Remus remains silent, and it irks her further. He knows the subtext, and he chooses silence. Coward.

     "Why did you defend him?"

     Plastic crinkling against fabric, Remus straightens. "You weren't supposed to hear that," he says tersely.

     Guilt will catch up to her later. For now, anger. "Well, I did." Her tone is clipped. "I heard everything."

     Remus's frown deepens, almost pales at her words.

     "It's more complicated than you can understand, Lorelei," responds the man, sighing.

     "Then help me!" Lorelei can't help the shout. Her ears blaze as she moves to cover her mouth. That was too far, wasn't it?

"I can't. I am truly sorry."

     "No, you aren't," Lorelei fires back. She manages a halfhearted glare with her ridiculous jumper winking in sunlight. "If you were really sorry you'd tell me why. Why you were his friend," her voice cracks, eyes prickling with tears. She swallows, "That's my mum. He—he m-murdered her! How could you!"

     Pain floods Remus's face. He turns to the window. Like James the night he accompanied her to the Gryffindor dormitories, like her uncle who hides behind his thin veil, like Harry who refuses to see her as an equal. Woe is the man who bathes in misery; self-suffering will be their undoing. Orange rays refract on his flesh and grief, she recognizes grief, unbinds from deep within.

Yet, what does he have to grieve? No, he lost the right to mourn. Lorelei's cheeks swell in anger, and her fiery gaze burns him.

"You don't get to be sorry," she bites. "Not when you defend murderers! Does—" Lorelei freezes as she faces a harsh reality. Her family. "Oh, god. You—this is why you don't come 'round anymore, isn't it?"

"Lorelei," Remus warns, and his tone is low, miffed.

     Lorelei becomes lost in her revelation. Epiphanies swirl in her irises as the sun sets quietly. "Barry always hated when you were mentioned. I never understood, just thought him in a bad mood. Yeah, and he never liked the Prophet either." Her mind ventures to Harry's dad. "And I never even knew James was my godfather! Not a word." She laughs a chuckle filled with scorn, "You lost your place with my family."

     The levee breaks. All the emotions lying in agonizing wait, built up over the course of this exhaustive argument, overflow.

     "Enough!"

     Lorelei flinches.

     The seagrass basket hits the ground with a reverberating jolt, Carmine's perfect organization ruined.

     "You are out of line, Lorelei!" Remus's face is flame red. "My business does not concern you, and it never will. Whatever I said to your uncle was said in confidence, not for you to overhear, and it was foolish of you to do so." His stature is stoney. "Why do you insist on being difficult? I've told you to leave it, and you won't. Instead, you betray our trust. I'm ashamed for you."

     As he utters the last syllables, his voice trails off, like he's recognizing his regret.

     But it's too late. What's said is said. There is no spell to erase spoken word, and if it existed, his usage would garner him no reverence. Lorelei's lips wobble slightly. The anger dissipated, leaving only chagrin. A throbbing embarrassment in her chest. She should be ashamed. It wasn't morally correct to eavesdrop . . . yet, if anyone should face repentance, it's Remus Lupin. For he directed the blame upon her shoulders and denied his own culpability.

     Without a word, Lorelei snatches her basket from the floor. Sniffling, she rummages through the assorted bags. Tears freely fall. Cellophane crinkles as she holds a blue ribboned parcel that matches her jumper. A yellow sticker of a smiley face beams up at her along with a 'You're a star!' patch. The desire to rip them off is strong.

     "Here." Lorelei tosses it at her professor who catches it. Two reindeer wink at him, familiar. "Merry Christmas. Hope you enjoy."

     And she leaves. Lorelei can't await his treacherous responses. Now, she isn't sure what's a cipher and what's presented with candor. Did he ever uphold honor? She wonders what her Auntie Elle could see in Lupin to praise the man so much. Her desire to return home is strengthened. Nana and Barry aren't liars. Jo and Luc, Tim and Tom, the dogs, even Nessie and Dorian who're rarely home—they wouldn't keep things from her.

     Lorelei's tired of secrets. Of the torrents they've rained upon her. There is no one to hold her hand, to shield her from the pain. It's what they've all claimed. Protection. Yet, they're the ones keeping her locked outside, alone. How far will things go before Remus, Lonnie—everyone, admits their wrongdoings? She hopes it's soon. There's only so much she can take.

📍 Teddy's Corner ;

wowww, pretty intense. who
still loves lonnie after this one
amirite??? i just love how
everyone is contradicting
themselves, so silly guys!!!!

but fr, lonnie is a very
complex man. i definitely have
the most fun writing for him
(besides lori). i enjoy dropping
occasional lonnie lore bc he's
full of insane shenanigans. also,
remus wow not very nice.

how many times can i listen to
the dead poets score while
writing this? never enough.
listening to death of a child,
neil, and keating's triumph and
concocting this argument sent
me into cardiac arrest.

y'all are not ready for the next
chapter i promise. i laugh evilly.
(i might publish tomorrow
we'll see)

probs a lot of errors in this but
my eyeballs are melting. gonna
do a big edit when i finish this
annoying act.

anyway, love to hear ur
thoughts <3 !!!

ฅʕ•ᴥ• ʔฅ
© TEDDY 2024