Sirius Black smiles at Natalie Yates. The skin under his eyes crinkles, softly like tissue, and the sharpness of his cheeks is rounded. Loosely, casually, he drapes an arm over her shoulder, and she leans into him. Entwined naturally, like they've been molded from the same loamy bundle of clay. Their gazes lock and so do their hands, a glimmering jewel winks on her finger. Their foreheads touch.

Lorelei has never seen Black smile. The Prophet only used one image of him—gnashing teeth, glaring snarl, a scream soundlessly replaying. It is inhuman. There is no humanity within Black, this she knows. And yet, he is happy, or he appears to be. Facades are firm foundations she's yet to crack. Lorelei knows what constitutes joviality. Engraved in her bones, painted and peppered on the marrow, is the crux of jubilation. Pearlescent grins, fluttering wisps of laughter as light as gossamers. Black expresses these raw, bona fide emotions.

In loopy calligraphy is a small, perfunctory description. November 7th, 1979. Lorelei doesn't recognize the script. Nana's is certainly loopy, even spidery, but not shorthand. Her uncles rarely transcribed scrapbooks and seldom enjoyed being photographed, while Barry's hand is so neatly straight it's seemingly typewritten. And he always writes in pencil. This is a pen.

The more she becomes familiar with it, Lorelei realizes it reads like a quill. Droplets of ink bead on the 'i's and the swirls where the 'g's would tie together are strained, like the trail went cold. As far as she knows, her family has never touched a quill, then again, what would she know?

With gentle fingers, Lorelei turns the page, each time with bated breath. For what she will see, she can never know. She awaits for the signs of a relationship gone awry, of a man saddled by his own steely morasses. Muddied and despondent in thickened murk; pinned, spurious expressions, void of introspection. Any telltale sign that he was cruel hearted all along.

There is nothing. Grins, laughter, joy. The moving pictures showcase a man who is satisfied. Black tosses leaves at an unaware Natalie, dragging her down into a full pile of their labors. Neon colors zigzag as Natalie leads him through a buzzing roller rink. Simpler moments, like dotting frosting on Black's nose whilst attempting sweets. Natalie is happy; she is incapable of a frown.

And it sickens Lorelei.

November 15th, 1979. Natalie holds a stuffed bear twice the size of her body; she squeezes it tightly and her delighted beam is barely visible behind the fluff. Next to her, dodging being hit by the ginormous animal, Black stands, and he stands proud. His focus is subdued by an object in the distance, one that she cannot see. Perhaps it's directed towards whomever is taking the picture.

There's more crabbed script, and it describes the setting as an annual carnival. Lorelei used to love those. The big ferris wheels and scents of sweetened kettle corn and various nifty treats. Colorful plumes of balloons, roaring gusts of wind from teetering coasters, and delightful prizes. Humor aside, Barry adored the clowns. Always said he'd used to imagine himself dressed as one (Lorelei thinks he'd make a great clown—in a good way!).

As the eras flew by, the attendance of carnivals, festivals, jolly events, waned. Lorelei never knew the reason—the truth. Lonnie's ascension into adulthood? Correlations lie within clotted sediments; she is entrenched in the murk. Still, Barry kept a firm hold of his adoration for clowns. Yes, Lorelei does find it odd and rather scary, but to see a smile upon her grandfather's face is heartfelt.

     However, besides Black's stolen attention and his lovesick gazes, Lorelei is morbidly aware of one singular, harsh, rotten notion: the bump steadily growing on Natalie. By the first page, it was hardly noticeable, merely a smallish curvature able to be mistaken for a full stomach or awkward pose. Then, Lorelei felt time's wicked hand.

     Frolicsome foliage fades, oranges and reds cascade through twisting branches—Natalie's outgrown her denim dungarees. Hillocks turn mountainous. High and mighty, and also sharpened by rocks and glacial trespasses. By November, Lorelei could barely stand the sight of Black's hand on Natalie's belly. They cannot be; it cannot be true. But it is, so clearly. She knows the hymns strung on heartstrings, and the ardor entwined on laced hands.

     "Ardently loved."

     There's a knock. Almost a tap, really.

     Lorelei startles, and her finger slips across the smooth surface of the photograph. To her left, the aureate knob rattles, but the latch remains locked. Sucking her teeth, she's relieved. This is her prison; it's where she belongs. Trapped within the sylvan walls of her room, she cannot hurt. Just below the door, Lorelei can see the shadows of two figures.

     "Miss Yates?"

     With sealed lips, Lorelei remains seated on the floor and coils twisty carpet fibers betwixt her fingers. Contrary to what they represent, the feminine voice is docile and disciplined. Gentleness isn't often associated with the Ministry, as far as Lorelei's aware. Well, Lonnie'd certainly say so.

     Another gentle knock.

     "We know you're in there, Miss Yates. Would you please open the door?"

     No, she can't. It's not safe. Instinctively, Lorelei brings the scrapbook to her chest and embraces it tightly. Despite her efforts, her lungs clench for air.

     From the outside, a male voice interrupts, "We don't have time for this! Alo—"

     "Cormier, enough."

     This is the Ministry Lorelei has befriended. Impatient bureaucrats set on fulfilling their agendas by any means. Tightly, she squeezes the scrapbook. Although, the woman regarded their colleague with revilement, and it has Lorelei arching a brow in interest. Maybe they aren't all impertinent, salacious government officials.

     "We do not enter uninvited. You'll do nothing but frighten her."

     Lorelei swallows heavily and gazes down at the floor. They spoke as if she was some frenzied animal. Don't get too close, she'll bite. Mindful of the snarl, the ole girl's lost her mind. Frothed lips, red laced irises, glinting claws. Out of control—more alike to him than she realizes. She is nothing more than a virulent dog.

     "We are here to do a job, not coddle!"

     "I will not tell you again. If you cannot follow protocol with compassion then you are ordered to wait downstairs."

     Silence. Then receding footsteps. The man's very irascible, Lorelei notices. When only the metronomic ticks of her ruptured clock fill the quietness, she hears a low, heavy sigh. Behind the chiseled egress, the woman dallies into irritation. Lorelei can sense it behind the puffs of air. She's familiar with being an irritant.

     "Miss Yates?" A pause, another sigh. Lorelei shrinks into herself. "I won't ask you to open the door if you're not comfortable. All I ask is that you listen."

     Nana uttered a variation of those words only hours ago, then she detonated an atomic eruption. On Christmas Eve, Lorelei discovered the sinistry of her heritage. In a matter of minutes it'll be her birthday, what falsified news will she learn then? Bitterly, she laughs. Does she even wish to know?

     "Is that alright? Can you do that for me?"

     However, the officials won't leave until they've evaluated the threat. Because that's what she is now, a threat. Nessie's cracked aids and bleeding lobes, tiny lacerations on Nana's senescent skin, more importantly the brief flashes of panic—fear. By any god above, Lorelei is grateful Dorian was safe from the horror and the harm. She doesn't think she could stomach his eyes of terror. Turning away his desperate knocks at her door felt like the twist of a knife.

     Sometimes Lorelei forgets underage witches aren't allowed magic. It happens when she's never good enough to produce spells, even the thought of utilizing it for basic needs is fanciful. Though, she did not account for involuntary explosions.

     It was an accident! Is what she wished she'd said, what she'd swore, but the revulsion of her relatives felt like heavy weights descending upon her shoulders. Lorelei ran. The house rattled when she slammed the door and the knob locked on its own. Insecurities plague her vulnerable mind. What if it wasn't an accident? Nature versus nurture might have an answer. Are her genes so strong?

     Lorelei swears she is not a violent dog. She won't bite. But maybe she will.

     With a shaky sigh, she folds her legs in a butterfly shape. "You can call me Lorelei," her response is twinged with nerves.

     "Splendid, Lorelei! Delightful name," the woman compliments, boots sliding on the wood. "Mine's Wynefrede Valentyne, but you can call me Wynnie, like Winnie the Pooh. Do you know of it?"

     "Silly ole bear," mumbles Lorelei without hesitation, and she cracks a smile. Of course, she is acquainted with Winnie the Pooh. It was Auntie Etty's favorite series to read a young Lorelei; she'd always use a different voice for the characters. Eeyore's drowsed timbre, and Rabbit's baritone. Etty's quite talented.

     "Ah, yes! I'm fond of Rabbit myself, but Pooh will always have my heart." Lorelei imagines Wynefrede placing a hand over her heart and reminiscing. The tension coiling around her lungs loosens, allowing air to flow freely. "Do you have a favorite? I can't deny my curiosity."

     Lorelei thinks for a moment. Out of all the inventive archetypes, one has always resonated deeply with her soul. "I like, er, Piglet."

     "I see." The shadow below the door moves. "Piglet's a fretful fellow, isn't he?"

     "Well," Lorelei frowns. He was nervous, but caution is welcomed. She thinks so, at least. "He's, I dunno, kind? He liked to help, and he's cute. I used to wish I could be like him."

     "Are you scared, Lorelei?"

     Despite the tangential question, Lorelei's caught in its velvety stream.

"Yes."

"Of what?"

Myself.

"Everything."

Partly, this is no lie. A simple fear of the dark transcends into an ardent phobia of anything likened to twilight. Portraitures of the past, friends at one time, bring forth palpitant memories—Daniel Auclair and all the muck surrounding his name. She wields her wand even though her hands shake. Fear is all consuming.

"Everything?" Wynefrede chuckles; it's gentle, not mocking. "My, you've got quite the load on you, don't you Lorelei?"

Atlas could only dream.

A tender zephyr streams through the linen curtains outlining the lunette panes. Effulgent moonlight illuminates the iron shackles digging into her wrists, tethering her to the weight of the world. Her bones twist, and they ache. Oh, she is tired. Lorelei's arms tighten around the scrapbook.

"May I ask specifically?"

They might know already. Birth certificates wouldn't be forged, records couldn't be faked. And yet, Lorelei cannot utter the words. She won't tell this stranger of her familial revelations. Not for the lack of trust but for the embarrassment, the mortification of sharing blood. If she could siphon this tainted sanguine, she would.

"It's a lot," says Lorelei, a little frustrated.

"Alright. A lot." The low light streaming from under the door fades as an object blocks it, most likely Wynefrede sitting against the door. "I've got a lot too. Sometimes it feels . . . heavy."

Even though they cannot see each other, Lorelei nods. Wisps of hair feather her face. She remains silent.

"You know what I do when things feel heavy?"

Lorelei winges on the cusp. This could unlock the iron chains. Yet, she frowns when she hears crinkling, a very specific type of sound. Plastic ruffles, like the unwrapping of a sweet. Her senses are precisely attuned to identification.

"Sour candy." Wynefrede's voice is garbled from the swishing of the dessert in her mouth.

"What?" Lorelei is confused. Surely she isn't serious? "Candy?"

"Oh, yes. You'd be surprised the healing properties candy possesses." The smile on Wynefrede's face is noticeable in her words. Cheeky. Though, it's odd. To have a Ministry official not be so glum. They're always a great big, dull stormcloud. Wynefrede's that speck of wistful blue peeking through gray. "Not only is it wonderfully tasty, but that jolt of acidity keeps me grounded. Handy as well. Shove a handful in your pocket for any occasion."

Lorelei stirs at the possibility of being able to carry a sackful of candy around for a justified purpose. Ever since that fateful Hallowe'en, she's been barred. However, the inclination to listen to her uncle is dissolving, especially now.

"I—I never considered this," admits Lorelei, the book loosening in her grasp.

Wynefrede's laugh is melodical. Symphonic like a bird's call of the dawn. "Few have," she says. "Worst it could do is satisfy your sweet tooth."

If what she claims is true, Lorelei'll have to consult Cadence about dipping into Honeydukes.

"Lorelei?" All playfulness has vanished, and Wynefrede bares her Ministry tone.

She gulps. "Yes?"

"It is not your fault. I want you to understand this. You cannot control your magic at this age."

But it is. She caused them harm; she bit the hand.

"You are not out of control."

Black's deranged mugshot flashes across her vision.

Lorelei coils a fist and brings it to her temple, applying pressure. "I . . . hurt them."

"Yes, you did. It is serious." Wynefrede is blunt; she doesn't traverse through falsehoods. And what a relief it is. "You will undoubtedly do it again."

Panic hits her heart. Lorelei is terrified of this notion. Her door remains locked for this very reason. Nessie's bloodied ears; Nana's cuts. She's dangerous.

"Lorelei, I'm here to help prevent further instances from happening. I can be your guide if only you'll listen."

Gulping down a harsh intake of air, Lorelei nods fervently. She'll do anything. "I-I'm listening."

"I was taught this method by my grandmother many moons ago—the five senses," explains Wynefrede. "You count backwards from five and then you'll list five things you can hear."

Lorelei hears nighttime evensongs from the cracked window, crickets chirping and breezes wheezing. Nana and Barry's voices carry from downstairs, and she recognizes the clicks of Humphrey's (or Lorre's) claws on the hardwood. Above, is the haphazard buzzing of the air conditioner.

"Then four things you can see."

In the dim lighting her lamp provides with the aid of moonlight, her eyes wander to the glowing stars littered methodically above. To the messy bundle of unwashed clothes she brought home. Verdant displays of kitschy flowers covering the walls. Finally, Lorelei's gaze travels to the withered exterior of the scrapbook still in her arms.

"Three you can touch."

Slick leather smooths under her fingertips. The material of her festive sweater and the soft tresses of her hair cascading down her front. Even the icy air wafting through the window.

"Two things to smell."

Hours have passed yet Lorelei can still smell the tantalizing aromas of Nessie's breakfast feast. Delicately, it hangs in the air. And her attire is riddled by fragrant perfume—cedar and patchouli. She inhales deeply, shutting her eyes.

"And one thing to taste." A gentle lull of laughter. "Sour candy might come in handy here."

Though she lacks tangible food, Lorelei imagines the puckered sourness of the candy and the jolt of electricity cultivated by it.

"Getting the hang of the rhythm might take a while, but practice makes perfect," says Wynefrede. There's movement behind the door, presumably as she stands. "Accidents will occur in underage witches, Lorelei. Don't forget this."

With her eyelids sealed, Lorelei basks in the serenity of this moment. Her breathing levels to a smooth, even rhythm, and the shakiness of her fingers ceases. Peace. Solace in the quiescent

Distantly, Lorelei's spirit wanders to the jovial scene of a carnival. It teems with life. Face painted children with chocolate covered cheeks and stuffed prizes; older couples situated on benches protected by canopies; and raucous cackles from clowns squeaking together balloons. She can almost taste popcorn. Lorelei walks down the cobblestone, orange rays of sun searing her flesh. She smiles as she looks to her left. There, shrouded by lustrous light, is Natalie.

Natalie offers a hand. Lorelei takes it. Her hand is warm, just like the sun.

The clock on her nightstand welcomes midnight.

Happy birthday to her.

Crepuscular whistles echo; wind, howls, loose branches tapping glass. Lorelei refuses to close the window. She likes the sonancy. Blume lays on the snowy grass, not so thick it's opaque, just enough to provide an ominous overlay. By now, her rosacea is a burgundy and icicles have formed on her ceiling—figuratively, thankfully. Tiny flurries of pure white dazzle in luminescence. The hot cocoa penguins do not provide warmth.

Harry's card is sealed neatly, shockingly. In place of a wax seal, is a sticker of a smiling cat. Not an ordinary cat, a black one with a colorfully striped party hat complete with a puffball on top. Its pink tongue sticks between its teeth. Lorelei's lips upturn slightly as she meticulously breaks the seal; she'll be saving this.

Clearly, Lorelei remembers the boy's face when he handed her the simple card. He appeared . . . anxious. That isn't a new revelation; Harry's been fretful recently despite his efforts to hide behind stone walls. She's always there with a chisel to chip away. Really, Lorelei is thankful he managed to get her anything. It's the least he could do.

A bit of the envelope sticks to the underbelly of the sticker but it's otherwise intact, thankfully. Lorelei gently frees the cardstock and an unattractive snort escapes her lips. 'Have an Otterly Awesome Birthday!' reads in calligraphy. Below is the image of a grinning otter adorning a polka dot hat. She wonders if Harry picked the card for the resemblance to his name. It wouldn't be farcical.

When Lorelei flips open the card, her heart palpitates. A squeal escapes as she practically discards the card in favor of its contents—The Fantastic Four Issue #4, the one that was just released. Its still in its shiny protective film; she runs a finger down it, biting her lip to contain the joy. Her eyes travel back down to the card and she notices Harry's scribbled handwriting. And he had the gall to make fun of her!

Messily, it reads:

Lori, happy birthday! Merry Christmas too. I saw this card out with my mum, and I bought it immediately. Otter sounds like Potter, doesn't it? Anyway, my dad managed to get a hold of that comic early. I told him it was your favorite. He says a percentage of this gift is his, but I don't agree with that. It's all mine.

Her cheeks dimple.

Yeah, I claim entitlement. I know you hate me right now, maybe for good reason, but I don't think it's very fair. So I want—

A door slams, a strident voice imposes upon the once soundless void. The symphony of nocturnal varmint is subdued. Lorelei's muscles tense; she feels her bones tighten if at all possible, and her teeth grind.

Lonnie.

Fluidly, Lorelei rushes to her feet. Brows furrowed, scowl present, fists clenched. She wondered when he'd show his face; if he'd manage at all. He's a coward. If he'd allotted truth, she'd have no qualms. Frustrated, yes, but it would only span so far. But the lies poked her flesh and made her bleed. She is wounded.

The hallway is dark. The floral wallpaper blends with midnight. Lorelei struggles to drag the heavyweights of guilt and fear, yet she must confront her uncle. He will not escape her quandaries. Remus is not here to direct her elsewhere; no one can stop her. Mentally, she's not prepared to face her marred relatives and their solemn judgments. But like a kicked dog, Lorelei doesn't know better. She'll stumble back into the embrace of sabotage.

As Lorelei reaches the staircase, Lonnie's gravelly voice is audible; it makes her nails dig into her flesh. She halts at the edge, feet leaning slightly downwards.

"—What's happened? Martha, your face!" A blow to her heart, and she almost moves back from whence she came. She chews on her bottom lip, doubt instills. Is it even worth it? Would he spare her anything of value? "I—the kitchen? What the hell happened?"

"Lonnie, darling—" Her Nana's tone is soft, like the flurries caressing the frost laden windows. They drift absentmindedly, carelessly. It's envious. Snowflakes are free spirited in uniqueness, and they express it without fear of ill will.

Her uncle must've noticed something because his voice suddenly ices over. "You didn't." He inhales, and it's so sharp, it travels upstairs. "Tell me, you didn't."

"Please, why don't you—"

"Just tell me!"

Nana doesn't reply, but Lorelei's thunderous stampede does. The rickety hardwood surrenders to her heavy lumbers, and family portraits jostle from the sheer volume of force.

"Do not yell at her," snarls Lorelei, teeth gnashing.

Though he is momentarily stunned by her appearance, physical and otherwise, Lonnie doesn't relent his livid scowl. Habitually, he does a once over, analyzing the redness of her cheeks and pallid complexion. She's seen better days; she's had better birthdays.

"This doesn't concern you," he finally responds.

Already? Lorelei chuckles, and it's full of acid. She hopes it burns. "Oh, I've had enough of that."

Lonnie straightens. "Excuse me?"

It is an impasse of willpower. Lorelei stands by the stairs with her head poised high and her fists lowered at her sides, shaking. Lonnie remains by the door—of course, she scoffs, so he can run away—but his eyes are steely, forged from the same material circling her shackles. Off to the side, her grandparents seem weary of this showdown. She doesn't look at them; she still can't.

"You keeping things from me!"

Now, Lonnie laughs, and it infuriates her. Because he's derisive and dismissive. "What secrets, Lorelei?" He asks, and his tone is almost genuine, but she can feel the falseness. "I haven't kept anything from you."

Even when cornered, he still lies. He is driven to the edge with a proverbial sword digging into his throat, and he upholds deceit. Lorelei tongues her cheek in disbelief, shaking her head. She can tell that he's beginning to panic as his precious facade of indifference oozes under her sharpened blade of pressure.

Bristling with anger, Lorelei utters the words she knows will send him over the edge. "I know."

Like clockwork, he falls.

The man pales. Caught off guard, Lonnie showcases vulnerability. His face is washed with fear. All that he's fortified is proving unstable: the beams splinter, the drywall crumbles, painted veneers chip, that crown of thorns pokes and prods. Then, everything flips. Rapidly, her uncle applies structural support and withstands the weight. His eyebrows dip into an intense glower, and he forces impassivity. Carelessly, he shoves off his iniquity.

With the tempo of a striking serpent, Lonnie turns to Nana and narrows his eyes into slits. "You told her?"

"Well, I-I—we all thought it was time," Nana struggles to explain. Her headstrong, proud nature is being snuffed by his serpentine ferocity. Just like that day with Remus. Despite it all, guilt claws at Lorelei's throat. "She needs to know!"

"So you decide to do it without me?" He lashes. "You have no right!"

"We have every right," Barry finally speaks.
He is the same. Darkened bags accentuating the firmness of his stare; arms wound across one another; and his tight lipped intimidation. Lonnie can pounce and prey, but Barry Yates will not budge.

"No, you don't," refutes Lonnie. "I am family. I deserve to be a part of these conversations!"

"And would you have agreed—if we came to you?"

Hesitation be damned. "No." But before the irony of his response could be mulled over, Lonnie's speaking again, "Because she is not ready."

Lorelei stands mere feet away from her relatives, yet they speak as if she is a spectral observer. Perhaps she is; it's what she's felt like all year—invisible and alone. The constant chills and the verdant flashes are simply phantom symptoms.

"Who're you to decide?" Questions Barry, arching a thick brow. "You're not her father."

The mention of the patriarch instills a cloud of tension. They have to wade through it, the murk. Though it raises a fair point, Lorelei thinks. Because, really, why does Lonnie always have final say? Barry is the head of the Yates; he is the elder, the founder, the leader parting tempests. And yet, young Lonnie vetoes every decision. Is it the magical aspect, the unfamiliarity?

Lonnie has usurped the role, and he rules with an iron fist.

"Why can't I decide?" Lorelei finds the courage to speak.

"You're too young," counters Lonnie with little reluctance. "You cannot understand the gravity of this situation."

"Yes, I can."

"No," he grits, "you can't."

Niece and uncle enter into a battle of resolve. The cascading flurries pelt against the windows, a white, almost sellary backdrop. Lorelei, for once, allows the anger to be all consuming. It ravages; it's hungry. Lonnie is its victim.

"For goodness sake, Lonnie, let the girl make her own decisions!" Nana's shrill yet stern demand breaks the fierce lockage of gazes. Still, Lorelei refuses to face her, seeing the bandages in her peripheral. "You cannot dictate her life. That's not how you parent."

"I know what I'm doing," snaps Lonnie obstinately.

"Do you?" Counters Lorelei. Poke the serpent.

"Watch the attitude."

She rolls her eyes. Somehow, this refusal to bend to his commands is . . . fulfilling. Her ravenous hunger is being satiated. Lorelei crosses her arms. "You know, I thought you were trying to protect me or something—you, Mr. Potter, Remus. Maybe I really wasn't ready," she starts, voice as cold as she can muster. "But, now I know you're just a coward. You all are. And you're selfish."

Lonnie's eyes flash. "What did you say?"

"You're a coward."

To her astonishment, it appears like the serpentine amalgamation brewing within Lonnie might truly strike. All of that hate ready to release in a fateful bite. He wouldn't, she knows this. Still, his wrath frightens her.

"You've answered your own question," chimes Barry. He's much like Nessie in the way he chooses his moments to speak. Inheritance of familial traits is fascinating when not burdened by bloodlust.

Frenzied, cornered, Lonnie tips his head up and down succinctly. This is a tribunal, and he's being judged. In vain, he sinks further in the morass. She watches his shoulders rumble, like a laugh—how is this funny? Of course, Lonnie doesn't find humor. He tips his head up and gestures to the kitchen. She refuses to follow.

Shards of colorful glass, splinters of cabinetry, crumbles of plaster and drywall. Splotches of blood and torn fabric. That was her winding tempest. Lorelei steps backwards and clutches the railing of the staircase, ignoring Nana's concerned gaze.

"This is what happened. The kitchen's ruined. That could've been the whole house! I mean—Martha, look at your face!" No one moves as he points to the various pieces of evidence. "I haven't seen Nessie, but I can only imagine the damage."

Swift, continuous blows. One after another. He doesn't realize, or maybe he does and that's a dubious thought, that he's cutting her deep. Flesh wounds bleeding.

In a small voice, "It was an accident!"

"Accidents don't look like this," denies Lonnie; he doesn't even consider her guilt. "This is a lack of control."

Nana elicits a sharp intake of breath.

"You are out of control."

Poison drips from his fangs. Crueler words have never been uttered. He sank his claws in her gaping wounds, and he twisted so she cried in agony. Out of control. More alike to him than she realizes.

"Lionel, you stop this," Nana demands, and she means it. "You're out of line."

Lorelei isn't sure she can hear Lonnie's response over the pounding in her ears. This was a mistake. She shouldn't have left the glacial confines of her room. Because Lonnie is right. She is out of control. Like stinking weeds, anxiety and guilt entwine. They bury their roots in her flesh, and she cannot pull them free. Always, there will be remnants. But, Wynefrede. The nice Ministry official.

Shutting her eyes, Lorelei counts backwards. She strains her ears to hear—

"—Danger. She is a danger."

Her eyes snap open. In front of her, stands Nana, sympathetic, gentle smile on her features. The woman outstretches a hand, and Lorelei flinches away. Nana pulls back, as if burned, as if bit.

Black's deranged mugshot floats into view.

Happy birthday, Lorelei Yates.

📍 Teddy's Corner ;

legitimately might be the worst
thing i've ever written.
genuinely.

lonnie's a sack of shit. might
seem ooc for him but trust, he's
a total dick. this is 100% him.

ik yall probs expected a grand
explosion but that isn't lori.
she's just not someone to do that
even if the moment might call
for it. this is what separates her
from most of my ocs.

gonna be back at hogwarts soon
so expect more confrontations
then. and some more answers.

sirius is gonna make his
appearance soon. who's
pumped????

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

ฅʕ•ᴥ• ʔฅ
© TEDDY 2024