xvi. Hermione & Lorelei Make Cookies
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 a small radio tucked by the ovens, baking remnants coating the exterior. Delicious aromas of freshly made desserts flood the kitchens and spill into the hallway. Passing students can't help but stop and delight in the heartwarming, nostalgic smell.
It's the smell of childhood, of mothers dotting frosting on children's noses, of late nights cozied up in warm pajamas. Students are tempted to venture inside the kitchens to see if they can snatch a treat, yet what they encounter instead is nothing short of 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 bags of frosting and bits of the sugary substance all over her attire. The oven seems to continuously beep as they multitask to take new batches from the ovens, and trays of decorated cookies lay finished for—Carmine Weatherby?
Some would bow their heads in respect for the boy now assumedly trapped to forever wrap cookies in pretty packaging. They'd say, 'How'd she get to you?' like it's a common occurrence Lorelei abducts helpless students to aid in her impossible task (She'll neither confirm nor deny).
Atop Lorelei's head, over the secured hairnet, is a pair of fluffy antlers. She wears a green apron made to resemble a Christmas tree, adorned with patchings of ornaments and lights. Behind that is what muggles 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. From across the counter, she outstretches her hand and makes a swishing motion. "Leave those for the very end, please! Daisy's not fond of citrus, and I'd like everything to be perfect."
Carmine tips his head up and down. "Yes, chef," he confirms 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 and extort the poor boy. Rather, he found himself wandering to the kitchens to sneak treacle tarts. A lonesome Thursday before the holidays, boredom consumed him, so he accepted Lorelei's offer without hesitation. And he's a much better help than Harry ever was (Do not ask the Boy Who Lived to decorate cookies).
Lorelei smiles, relieved. She cannot 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 are 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 without question and waits for Lorelei to step back so she can slide the tray back inside. Unlike with assignments where Lorelei is guaranteed to be incorrect, baking is a science even a smart mind like Hermione doesn't fully understand. She appreciates the lack of improvisation and the necessity of following directions—that's Hermione's mantra after all—but knowing when the centers are cooked yet still soft and chewy is Lorelei's expertise. And it's fascinating to watch her in action.
"I know you said red bows, but the green matches the wreath."
Carmine holds up a finished gift. Seven cookies to a bag, all different kinds, and a personalized note she crafted in bulk yesterday. A velvet green bow ties the cellophane packaging closed. And, really, it does look fantastic. He's even added a varying color of green ribbon and curled the ends.
"Oh, my gosh." Lorelei's mouth drops open and Carmine thinks he might've done it wrong until she erupts in a smile. "It's perfect! Seriously, it's amazing, Carmy. You're totally right."
The boy's ears twinge pink, and he beams proudly.
The three teenagers move like a well oiled machine. There's no out of place gears, or clanking parts; it's all structured to the most optimal efficiency. This is how the AHECC operates with each member designated to a specific task, and it's how Lorelei's modeled her annual Christmas confections.
In Lorelei's 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 cookies. Every year, Lorelei sets aside a few days to the art of baking. Usually, the week leading up to Christmas is lax, and Dumbledore supports her agenda. With whatever help she can scrounge, Lorelei crafts hundreds of sweets.
No matter if they've 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 cookies with their name on it. Christmas is not the time for grudges! And even if it was, that it not how her family has raised her. She'd be spiting Nana. Every student, professor, groundskeeper, and house-elf receives the morsels.
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 precisely 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—they're so hard."
"Of course," Hermione smiles, flour on her nose.
Cellophane crinkles as Carmine ties a bow around the finished product, and Lorelei mimics his movements by sealing off her piping bag. She 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 Lorelei, 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 sweater. There are several perks to having such influential grandparents, like her impeccable taste in music, her craftiness, and the surplus of kitschy, festive clothing. Of course, when Barry gifted his wife those sweaters, they were very much in. Now, well, if the laughs Lorelei received said anything, her sweater said it louder.
Mystic blue, heavy as those sacks of flour she lugged around earlier, and knitted brilliantly. A cityscape of gingerbread houses decorates the garment, very detailed houses with their candy cane doors and frosty roofs. In the skyline, Santa's sleigh and Rudolph's special nose winking in passing light. Obviously, the design stretches across the back so even when Lorelei passes people, their eyes can't escape.
Carmine described it as a 'car crash he couldn't look away from.' Whatever that means.
The festivities don't end there, however. Tightly woven strands of seagrass form an ornately crafted basket decorated with a velvet bow. Inside, Carmine's beautiful parcels. Of course, her Christmas cookie carousing doesn't end when the last bow is tied; the delivery is where the cheer truly frolics.
Her helpers all took a basket-full of sweets, each aiming to deliver to separate locations to save on time. The sooner they finish, the quicker they can feast on the unremarkables: cookies deemed imperfect and separated as treats for the chefs. Carmine volunteered to head the Slytherins. His indifference makes him suitable for such an audacious task, and he claims to enjoy messing with them by switching his accents. Hermione is charged with the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, and Lorelei is left with Ravenclaw and the professors. She did mean it when she said everyone.
The fifth floor is quiet. As Lorelei strolls through the corridors with her basket lightly knocking into her legs, she can hear faint voices of her peers outside. Through the many dusty windows she passed on this twisting journey (Seriously, this castle is a maze), she glimpsed students practicing quidditch, staring anxiously down at the Black Lake, or chatting with friends in the many courtyards.
Unfortunately, Lorelei did pass a sixth or seventh year couple doing something rather inappropriate in areas they thought were secret. With her cheeks cherry red, Lorelei blocked her vision and pretended she wore Harry's cloak. Thankfully, it was no one she knew. She shivers to even entertain the possibility!
The last time she ventured to the fifth floor on her lonesome, it was drenched in darkness and cold to the bone. Now, with the stonework revealing its glittering rocky pieces and the sunlight bathing her in an eternal glow, Lorelei feels much more welcomed. However, she realized this is the same floor she discovered Daniel Auclair, the man who lit the torches to her path of exploration. A part of her wonders if she'll be able to find him again, though she hasn't the faintest idea of what to say.
The cellophane crinkles as the basket tips against her legs. She readjusts her grip, continuing her calming walk. The desire to speak to Daniel again, she has to admit, is nonexistent. As well as the library; Lorelei still hasn't returned. So far, every instance of investigation has ended terribly. Maybe she should take it as a sign from the universe to let go (or Lonnie secretly sabotaging). In a day's time, Lorelei'll return home for the holidays; she'd rather not spend her last day belaboring herself with strange men. Delivering cookies is a much simpler task.
Lorelei adjusts her sweater moments away from falling, turning down a seemingly vacant hallway. Yet, it isn't. She freezes at the entrance, eyes threatening to burst.
Lonnie and Remus stand in the middle.
Quicker than they can see her, Lorelei scrambles back to the cover of the crossroads and presses her rushing body flat against stone. Unfortunately, her sharp movements caused the packages to rustle together loudly. Whistling an intake of breath, her heart pounds rhythmically as she awaits her impending doom. The sound is so loud, her sweater is so bright.
One, two, three—nothing.
Lorelei bites down on her bottom lip as she strains her ears for approaching footsteps. She won't necessarily find herself in trouble with her uncle since the sun still shines, though she'd rather not risk it. His temperaments have been volatile as of late. Lorelei should turn back around and find a different way yet . . . it must be important if they're talking in some random fifth floor corridor.
She's always had an aversion to bavardage. Moreover, the lowly art form of snooping. It's true, Lorelei has inherited her family's proclivity for gossip (Nana's the biggest gossip she knows), 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 Ravenclaw's in-depth discussion of the answers to a grueling homework assignment. She received top marks thanks to the seating arrangement. Sometimes, it's 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.
"I have never stated my beliefs nor shared personal matters. How can you accuse me of this?" Remus's voice sounds hurt, deeply hurt.
"You went public with James! We've all read the article!"
Article? Public? Is this yet another instance of a reference housed in secrecy? She can't recall coming across pieces written about Remus, let alone containing quotes. Perhaps, they mean one of the vindictive pieces written by the Auclairs? She hasn't read all of them, she hasn't the stomach for it. Lorelei inches closer towards the edge, just enough so she can barely see the adults. Although, that would insinuate Remus was involved someway with Black—she shakes her head, what sense does that make?
Because, if so, what would Remus have to say about Black? They have no connection. Doubt, instills.
"Twelve years ago, Lonnie."
"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. She rarely sees him so animated. There are definitely times he loses his collected demeanor, none as strong as this, however. It's not pleasant. He's not pleasant.
Yards away Lorelei can see the creases in his clothes, the wrinkles glaring inanity. The shininess of his loafers is dulled by earth, and his trousers are bespectacled by dark stains on the kneecaps. Noticeable is his restlessness. The succinct jittering of his leg and the way he taps a finger against his palm in repeated rhythms. His powerful facade of complacency and composure is cracking. Lonnie Yates, Mr. Yates, the one with the newly shortened fuse and the suffocating paranoia.
Defense. Lorelei tears her gaze from her uncle and rolls her parched tongue. Surely not? What defense could her godfather offer? Black's guilty.
Frowning, Lorelei faces Remus, watching 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 freaked at the site of a spider in her room, huge and terrifying. While Lonnie fainted in the background, Remus offered his hands as sanctuary to the arachnid, and he set 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 notices that well-kept facade crumbling just like her uncle's. Exhaustion drags down his posture.
"I . . . I didn't know better. The wounds were still fresh."
As her godfather's voice fills with regret, Lorelei's mouth opens, epiphany on the cusp. Remus knows, or at least knew, Black. Her hands ball into tight fists. Anger puffs at her cheeks, reddening. How dare he? But wait, Remus sounds remorseful, like he's embarrassed to admit he'd ever stoop so low. However, he's a guarded man; he holds his cards close. She might've misinterpreted his words.
"But I have done my due diligence and rescinded my statements. Five years ago."
There is a bout of silence. The kind that's suffocating, clawing 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.
"That means nothing." Lonnie's voice is firm, stern, slightly venomous. "It means nothing when you've been talking to James!"
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 her view, and she can see students mingling carelessly. There's frivolity in their innocence, a nescience Lorelei almost wishes she favored.
She delivers a shallow scoff. Harry's dad is involved. Lorelei always knew James was embroiled in Black's tangled web. It's a direct line of thought—Remus knew Black, James knows Remus, therefore James must know Black. His peculiar heedlessness now provides unsavory truth. To Lorelei, it's sinister. Duplicitous. And if James knows, then Harry . . .
"About you!"
Lonnie doesn't respond.
"You've been worrying everyone." She hears footsteps, and her heart begins to race. Thankfully, they stop. Remus must've stepped closer or Lonnie backwards. "James's concerned. We all are. Baseless accusations. Negligence. Disappearances. 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.
"When was the last time you've gotten any sleep?"
As Lorelei awaits a response, she recalls her uncle's deteriorating organization. There's always signs. Like the stacks of empty mugs decorating his office or the unfinished papers strewn across his desk. More importantly, perhaps more terrifying, are the empty packages of nicotine in his trashcan buried under crumpled paper. The ones he thinks she hasn't noticed and tries desperately to hide, but what he fails to understand countless times, is that she always sees right through him.
"I won't rest until he's found," seethes Lonnie, conviction dripping down his words. He ignored the concern like the time she offered peppermint oil for his headache. She can never understand why he insists on allowing his stubbornness to consume him. Lonnie'll never admit help it seems, and it makes her heart heavy. Because once he was alone, he used the whole bottle.
"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 lie."
Lie? Her heart pounds. This might finally be the moment she learns his secrets, at least partly.
"She has no trust in you," continues Remus. "How does that not phase you, even in the slightest?"
Lorelei wants to interrupt and say, 'That's not true!' And then, she processes his words, and she 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 ruefully.
Taken aback, Remus crosses his arms. "Does this amuse you?"
"It's amusing how much you act like you care."
Suddenly, Lorelei feels like she should no longer be eavesdropping. This is why she's averse to gossip; she doesn't want to know such personal, intimate details about her uncle without his consent. It makes her feel uncomfortable. And yet, she's so far in, she doesn't know if she can move.
"Do you really think so little of me?"
Silence. Lonnie continues to face the wall, but Lorelei really 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?"
"What was there to say?"
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Finally, 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. Lorelei was there when Lonnie opened it, and she was there when he read it. Why's he lying?
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.
"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 a 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, but 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," seethes Lonnie, like he's a violent dog gnashing it's 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 ought to 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 plummet. The very man who attacked his family, who hunts his son, and James allows him residence, hospitality? 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 are the one who made that conclusion," says 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 that'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? Is he in danger—more so? 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. Involuntary responses cultivated, deepened by revelations. At any mention, it feels like the world's end. 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."
More than anything, Lorelei wishes she heard every second of their dispute. With a taste for the truth, she won't stop. 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, but then she stops herself. No, if anything, it is her ordained right to demand answers.
"I can't. I am truly sorry."
Oh, he is not getting out this easily, Lorelei thinks.
"No, you aren't," fires back Lorelei. She glares up at him with her ridiculous jumper winking in sunlight. "If you were really sorry you'd tell me why. Why you defended him," 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!' vermillion 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? And who will still remain?
📍 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
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