"This isn't going to work."

     "Lori, please. Your constant negativity is unneeded."

     "It's not being negative if I know the outcome. I'd call that realism."

     "Realism is half-lidded pessimism."

     Expelling a dramatized groan, Lorelei drags her feet across the chiseled stone flooring, worn and cracking from students come and gone. It will not work. In the calculus of her mind, she ran through multiple possible outcomes. Closely assessing each one with dexterity, the slow travel of feasible timelines. None of them contained the solution Hermione desired. Its specificity relegates uncertainty.

     Lonnie Yates will not offer assistance. If he couldn't manage niceties in passing, he'd surely disregard action. Ministry involvement, no less. There's always a twinge of disdain in his tone when he mentions them. Sometimes it's difficult to imagine Lonnie amongst the governance, briefcase in hand, and regulating departments. He said he'd be in charge, never the one to take orders, which does align. Why do people take jobs they seem to hate?

     Besides his brazen attitude and contempt for the Ministry, Lorelei knows Lonnie. Arisen conflicts and rotting, piney bridges, but he is still her uncle and she's known him her whole life. Skin, bone, it's homely. She doesn't know his innermost feelings, but with careful attention, she's come to recognize behavior. Lonnie does not fear confrontation, but he doesn't seek it.

     Why would he bother himself with such a conundrum? To get involved with Ministry business and potentially thwart his career path? Lonnie's much too careful. With ire, he'd spare a veiled gaze, then dismiss them with a snap of his wrist. This trek is entirely useless. Futile beyond belief. Taking a page from Carmy's addictive calling, Lorelei'd wager her savings that the only way Lonnie'd agree, would be by the universe's interference.

     Pessimism. Lorelei chews on the word; it's sour. Not in a pleasant, sugary way like Honeyduke's tangy lemon drops, but puckering, tongue twisting. Is that what she is now? A . . . pessimist? She doesn't feel like one, yet she rarely knows what she feels anymore. Sometime, somehow, Lorelei lost her jovial optimism. The sunshiny plume of positivity. She can't recall where she placed it, but she'd very much like to find it.

     Roughened limestone glints in lamplight, bits of gray granules spotlighting the way. The Dungeons are Lorelei's least favorite area of the castle for a plethora of reasons, but she particularly dislikes the staunch dimness of the corridors. The wavering darkness strains her vision and the hooked, iron sconces never produce adequate light. Only enough to heighten the dingy, wettish atmosphere. And it's always cold. Unwelcoming. Right now, it only adds to her growing aversion.

     "There's no reason for Lonnie to refuse us."

     Sharply, as if Hermione'd grown a second, more wearisome head, Lorelei turns to her. "What? Of course there is!"

     Still, the Granger's not deterred. Maybe she's stolen her optimism. "I should be more specific," she corrects. "There's no reason for him to refuse you."

     Lorelei's lips delve into a thin line, like the trails of grout sealing the stonewalls. Right, she's forgotten Hermione isn't versed in the holidays. After the rejuvenating embrace and her wails silenced, Lorelei explained the mauled tapestry of her heritage, the bloodied stain blooming across her chest. Carefully, she held her implosion as a secret; she didn't tell anyone. Not about the kind Ministry official, nor the aftereffects littered on the flesh of her family. She guarded it, snarling at anyone who got too close.

     No one knows the viper strikes of Lonnie Yates. Perhaps he wears his Slytherin pride a little too well. Lorelei was bit, and she refused to show anyone the scar.

     And yet, deep down, submerged in earthy morasses, Lorelei knows Hermione is right. If she begged for help, he'd answer. She is the exception, always has been. Truly, she wouldn't even have to beg. The Yates are an obstinate bunch. There are unknown explanations for Lonnie's behavior, but Lorelei knows if he wasn't so incredibly hardheaded, he'd have extended a hand. Or, is this a foolish dream?

     Confidence is hard to come by. She's so unsure.

     "I don't know, 'Mione," mumbles Lorelei. Suddenly, the cavernous halls feel that much colder.

     "Lori," Hermione stops walking. Curry light splotches on her face, revealing bushy, furrowed brows. What's the harm in trying? The worst he'll do is send us off."

     If only you knew the worst he could do, Lorelei reminisces. She flexes her hand, phantom nerves spiking.

     Despite it all, Lorelei dully nods. Buckbeak has nobody to speak for him. No voice to plead innocence, and he'll be punished for this natural hinderance. This creature is charged to die, but Lorelei won't allow it. Enough blood coats her palms. She is not lying face down in the mud. Helpless.

     Hermione smiles. "Thank you. Now, c'mon."

     Some things just make sense. Sunsets laden with ribbons of alternating oranges and yellows, and the moon pearling silver; Nana's proclivity for hand-crafted garments; and the family dog Lorre's snaps at the innocent mailman. Though, perhaps what made the most sense of all, is Lonnie's office located at the furthest endpoint in Hogwarts. Deep in the crevices, nearly hidden. Isolation makes Lorelei nervous.

     Lorelei cranes her neck at the looming egress, beveled peaks appearing like roughened shoulders. The thing's not even that tall, yet it feels a hundred feet high. In the painted wood, indentations and intricate patterns are carved with precision—she doesn't think magic could produce such skill. Flowing symbols all abstract and unfamiliar.

     At the centerfold, lies a brass knocker. The metal is bent and molded to resemble a serpent coiling from the plate fastened to the wood. Two emerald crystals shimmer in its slitted sockets, and its lancinating fangs drip a rusted substance. Is it paint? She does not know. Behind its forked tongue, faint whistling of drafts through stone mimics heeding hisses. Lorelei grabs the circular ring and gently knocks. She hates the way everything echoes, especially with Snape's office situated next door.

     Inside, a low, "Come in!"

     Seeing Hermione's confident nod, Lorelei twists the diamond shaped knob. Her heart increases its rhythm. This'll be the first time in months she's sought out Lonnie by her own volition. A part of her feels relief, yet it's outweighed by all the burdens he's carelessly dumped upon her. Momentarily, Lorelei is streamlined by an outpouring of xanthous coruscation, then it passes as she opens the door further. There, behind his desk, is Lonnie. She halts in the threshold, like she's been slammed with a paralytic. Gently, Hermione ushers her inside.

     "Mr. Yates?"

     Rapidly, Lonnie snaps to attention. As if his gaze is magnetized, it lands on Lorelei. Thump-thump, her heartbeat increases tempo. She isn't the one to speak, yet his attention is only on her. Then, he shakes himself out of his daze. "What're you doing here at this hour?" He questions.

     Lorelei's mouth is numbed. Outflow of verbiage is a lost cause. Instead, she analyzes every aspect that's altered in Lonnie's appearance. Surprisingly, it isn't drastic. He's wearing those stupid frames he always complains about, with the milky white tape and the scratched lenses. It almost pulls a smile.

     "It's only a quarter past six, sir," answers Hermione.

     "Oh, really? I didn't even notice," Lonnie's voice trails off at the end, a wistful sort of murmur.

     Hermione shares a glance with Lorelei.

     "Do you need something?" He looks at Lorelei. She swallows.

     Once again, Hermione takes charge. Without a care for Lonnie's veiled annoyance, she moves to take the empty seat in front of his desk. Unashamed, unabashed. What a blessing she is. "You see, sir," Hermione begins, posture as right as nails. "Buckbeak's trial is approaching, and we request your help."

     "My help?" An air of intensity over him, Lonnie leans back against his swivel chair, yet he seems intrigued.

     "Yes. Your assistance would be extremely valuable," says Hermione. "Lorelei says you're involved with the Ministry."

     A swift punch to the gut. Lorelei's eyes go wide, and her cheeks flame pink. That was not to be disclosed.

     Lonnie arcs a brow. "Oh, did she?"

     Before she averts her gaze, Lorelei catches the faintest trails of amusement at her chagrin.

     Unobservant, Hermione rolls her shoulders. "Yes. You're acquainted with Ministry Law, which I've yet to master." She shakes her head, puffed tendrils swishing. "Hagrid's Hippogriff Buckbeak has been unfairly indicted. Draco Malfoy's self-inflicted injury if you're not familiar. The whole thing's an awful accident, but the Ministry is determined to execute him!"

     Familiar, disgruntling ticks emit from the clock pressed above his desk. Heat, Lorelei can feel Lonnie's analyzing stare. She's afraid . . . of what he'll see. In the recesses of her mind, throes puncture, sharpened points of teeth dripping with venom. Forgetfulness would be bliss, yet echoes would always remain. Haunting crows. Except, in her eyes, is not a scorching hellfire nor a sodden murk of despair—it's yearning. For treasured embraces, care, kindness reserved for her alone, playful banter intermixed with jokes only they'd understand.

     Tension expels as Lonnie peels his gaze away. He leans forward onto the clean surface of his desk, resting his elbows. Ink peeks from beneath his rolled sleeves and exposed forearms. "Have you filed a formal appeal?" Lonnie inquires as he removes his glasses. Yellowed sidelight glints in the scratched lenses.

     "No, sir. Not yet."

     With a sigh, Lonnie wipes a hand down his face. "I'll see what I can do."

     And the universe speaks.

     Hermione bolts upright from the chair, nearly toppling it. Instead of acknowledging her new savior (The irony is palpable), she faces Lorelei, grinning victoriously. "I told you!"

     "'Mione," Lorelei drags the vowels of her name in a low whine. One big exposé, it seems. 

     Within Hermione's extensive mind, gears operate fluidly. In a matter of seconds, an entire plan seems to form. She rushes to Lorelei. "We've got to inform Weatherby! He'll be so pleased." Her gaze blurs in thought. "Oh! And-and Ron too! We'll need to study the legal compendium, which I have."

     Despite not fully processing the words her friend uttered, Lorelei is more than relieved to be free from this unpleasantly chilled office burdened by an unfriendly spector. She'll be glad to meet Carmy later, Oh, does she have a lot to tell him. Instinctually, Lorelei's feet carry her to the ligneous egress. Yet, a voice stops them.

     "Lorelei?"

     Thump-thump. Is she caught once more in the jowls of a wolf? Limpened and vulnerable.

     Lorelei gives an assuring nod to Hermione. He didn't need to express his desire for confidentiality; it is evident in his tone, the subtle inflexions she's attuned to catch. Hermione's softened gaze and murmured "Good luck!" is all she sees before the heavy door clambers closed. She doesn't turn.

     A billowing sigh that carries like assailing zephyrs. "Lorelei."

     And again, with the simple utterance of her name, an entire sentence is conferred. Look at me, he says. Eyes downcast, Lorelei turns, but she doesn't move closer, and he doesn't expect her. Here they stand, encapsulated by a gaping cavern. So far they've allowed this rift to expand, to rot. Who was the one to slice the ropes? Inching slowly, Lorelei brings up her gaze. From the woven stones to the cracking footholds of the desk, along the empty surface, finally to Lonnie.

     Bare of his wide framed glasses, Lorelei can clearly see undesirable aftereffects. It's no longer gratifying. Shadowed ovals dress his under-eyes, while the whites themselves welcome crimson splotches of exhaustion. And she knows he sees the same in her. Poor reflections of each other.

     "How is your schoolwork faring?"

     Lorelei sucks in a sharp breath. He . . . noticed?

     "I haven't graded your papers in a long time," he answers her unspoken question. Lonnie straightens, folding his arms. "Want to tell me why that is?"

     "I . . . I've done them," mutters Lorelei unconvincingly.

     "Don't lie to me." An afterthought, "And stop mumbling."

     Irony, again. But this isn't about splintered heritage, it's an affectionate concern. One she'd be remiss to deny.

     "I've not done it."

     Stack-fulls of parchment overflowing on her nightstand flit into her vision. Disappointed scowls on professor's faces and lackluster excuses. Lorelei is failing, and she's failing badly. Pitifully, she lets her gaze fall, undeserving. He did so well in school, and she can't turn in one assignment. How humiliating. Any moment now, Lonnie'll don his scolding baritone.

     Softly, "Look at me."

     She does. Guilt is effulgent on his face.

     "I managed to get you extensions for your homework. Dumbledore agreed half credit for late assignments—regardless of how severe." With each sentence, weight is lifted. For once, he lifts it for her. Firmly, Lonnie continues, "Exams aren't for another two months, which should be enough time to catch up." She nearly scoffs until he says, "Tomorrow, I want you to bring your work to my office, and we'll do it together. We'll get you back on track."

     "Really?" Lorelei sputters, anticipating ulterior motives.

     "Of course, I'll help you, Lorelei," Lonnie affirms. "All you have to do is ask. Don't let it get to this point again."

     Confusion swirls around her. The spontaneity of such assistance is out of character for Lonnie, at least now. What happened to his obstinance? He's nice. From the minute she entered his office, his eyes were on her. Previously, he couldn't spare a glance in her direction. What had changed so abruptly, drastically?

     Even still, Lonnie remains seated and Lorelei stays by the door. They've not yet discovered how to navigate the gaping cavern. However, the materials lie at their feet. Someday, hopefully, they'll rebuild the bridge.

     But it's like ole Barry's favorite axiom: "Forgiveness is a long road."

     Indeed, there are times when fate's lustrous twine pulls things taut. Gathering seams and snipping loose thread, ridding imperfections. A firm line, unbreakable. Like Professor Trewlaney spews, there are times the stars align unblemished (Hermione'd huff: "Astrological alignment is caused by gravitational rotation!"). The belief in spiritual destinies controlled by birth-dates and reigned by universal beings is not innocuous to Lorelei.

     For most of her childhood, she believed nameless stars were her mum. Anything that twinkled, dazzling luminously across infinite horizons. Two flashes, which she called 'tinks,' meant no, and one 'tink' meant yes. With those guidelines, Lorelei spoke with a fictionalization of her mum. Similar to how she later perceived candles. She'd always forget which star was which, and it was always a new one everyday, but her heart was in the right place.

     Perhaps the stars aligned at this very moment. A streamline of pearly jewels. To others, it isn't a comforting thought to have predestination. Yet, for Lorelei, she is fascinated. What else could explain this coincidence?

     Oblivious, Harry Potter leans over a table in the Common Room. Simply, he wears a striped jumper, fuzzy by wool fibers. Except, it isn't ever simple. That's one of the jumpers Nana made him in second year, and Lorelei can see that it's no longer flawlessly sized as it rides up a few inches on his arms and squeezes his waist. Well past dinner and Harry's the only one around. Lorelei chose this time to enter, seeking the black head of Carmy.

     How can it not be ordained?

     (Or, the rather pungent stench emitting from whatever Harry's concocting is off-putting. However, where's the fun in explanations?).

     Lorelei holds a fist to her mouth and clears her throat. "Harry?"

     The boy in question startles, flipping around with his arms raised high like he'd just been caught red handed. He must've been expecting Percy Weasley, and the prefect's hound-like sniffer for trouble. Although, Harry could very well be causing a ruckus. Various tubes and flasks laid across the table despite his efforts to cover them with his body. Once Harry sees her, he rights himself, and his ears match the color of the Gryffindor banners.

     Harry pushes his glasses up. "Don't scare me like that!" He groans. "I thought I was done for."

     Lorelei's eyes narrow. Swiftly, she angles her head to his leftward side and catches the brass edges of a . . . cauldron? So that explains the unpleasant aroma. Unsanitary messes of ingredients (unmoving and moving alike) and spilt liquids all surrounding a bubbling, roaring potion. At least, she hopes it isn't an attempt at soup. It's increasingly odd of Harry to brew in the Common Room. However, they've not spoken amicably in a while.

     "Are you brewing a potion? For fun?" She enunciates the last word.

     The inquiry flusters him. Harry moves further in front of it. "It's, er . . . uh, for Fred. Nothin' important." The potion makes a sputtering gurgle, plopping specks of purple liquid that sizzle against the table. He ignores it. "So, uh, what'd you need? I'm surprised you're talking to me."

     "I didn't intend to." Her tone is harsher than she desires, and Harry's expression sours. Lorelei sighs. While it isn't a lie, it's still rude. Pettiness would get her nowhere. "No, I'm sorry. I–I . . ."

     Silence falls. Except for the occasional spits from the potion. Lorelei hugs herself. There's a conversation she's been meaning to have with Harry for two weeks now, yet she's too afraid to poke the fire. Never the right time. Oh, he's busy with quidditch practice; he seems engrossed in that game; no, he's doing homework. Better luck next time!

     Well, what's her excuse now? The universe has presented the perfect opportunity, one void of interruptions, one so flawless it seems contrived. A comforting thought passes through her mind, delicate like the orange beams of sunlight streaming over Harry. Maybe . . . maybe her mum, with her sheer force of will, aligned the stars. Aligned fate. Damn gravity!

     "Harry, I–"

     A great, foaming glop of substance slops atop the table. Awkwardly, Harry scratches his neck, pretending such a nasty thing didn't happen. However, Lorelei cannot ignore it. Surely he cannot be this terrible at potions?

     "Okay, what is that?" Questions Lorelei as she takes steps closer. Her gaze is fixed on the disarray. Fire lizards, vials of wampus spit, sugar, lemon peels. This is oddly familiar.

     "I said nothing," Harry iterates.

     "Well, clearly it's not nothing," she drawls, taking another step forward. Yet, Harry blocks her view. She huffs, "It's burning the table!"

     He doesn't even look down. "It's supposed to do that."

     Blank faced, "Supposed to? Really?"

     Harry shrugs.

     "You messed it up, didn't you?"

     The boy scowls. "I didn't—ugh! What were you gonna say?"

      Lorelei blinks. How easily she fell into rapport with him? Natural. Her heart clenches. Four months, barring three days. She knows the exact number of days, give her time and she'll calculate the correct estimation down to the seconds. By above, it's been agony. To see him laugh and not harmonize with him, to pretend she doesn't witness the mirrored pain in his eyes. And to know she's only pursuing this conversation for ulterior reasons, not the desire to rekindle friendship. They really are alike.

     She looks into his eyes, seeing herself reflected in the lenses of his glasses. "You, um . . ." Lorelei stumbles, frowning. Why is this so difficult? It's just a question. She inhales, "You were aware the, uh, whole time . . .?"

     Confirmation is what she wants. A refresher on the blazing words said that night even though they've been permanently burned on her mind.

     Harry looks down. Yes, is what that action answers.

     It still stings just as bad. Brushing away the hurt, Lorelei rocks on her heels. "I have a question, Harry, and I think you owe it to me to answer," she states, and her tone is not harsh but it is firm. There's no room for argument. "That night, after your accident—the quidditch one?" He nods. "Before your dad interrupted, I mean, if he never did . . . interrupt, would you have told me?"

     "I wanted to tell you so many times," Harry expresses earnestly.

     "That's not what I asked."

     He hesitates. The chaotic mess gurgles behind him.

     "Answer honestly. I won't be mad."

     "No. I wouldn't have."

     Lorelei nods. As promised, she isn't mad . . . at him. Because unless Sirius Black threatened Harry himself, which is highly improbable, there is only one other person a boy would fear. His father.

     "Your dad I'm guessing." Not a question, a statement. She knows the truth; she merely needs the facts.

     "Yes." The way he utters it, like it's poison. Pieces connect in her mind. Throughout the year, she knew Harry had been having issues with his father, had the man truly put his son up to this deception?

     "Lorelei." When she meets his gaze, his eyes are wide and serious. "I couldn't."

     Fear. He is scared. What do people fear more than the wrath of a father? Lorelei holds this notion close to her soul. Harry isn't scared of his father—no, there's something else. Slow build-up, not instinctual. She has to keep pressing. A past conversation resurfaces in her mind.

     "Does your father have issues with the Ministry?"

     Flame-light ripples across Harry's face. His frown is deep. Lorelei recognizes mystification. Then, he dips his head up and down. Whatever surprise he felt at her inquiry is gone.

     "If you want me to tell you, I can't. But not because I don't want to," says Harry. He presses his palms flat against the edge of the table. "My parents won't tell me anything. Too dangerous."

     He makes a face.

     Lorelei listens. Burgundy incandescence flourishes through lunettes, cascading in a downwards flow. Harry is bathed in it. Auburn hair, verdant irises now darkened. The jumper wears even tighter, and it makes him feel like an entirely different person. Though, maybe he is. Washed anew, scrubbed of falsehoods. He comes clean; he becomes clean.

     "I ran away." Statement. "To the Leaky Cauldron."

     In reference to summertime and her nighttime escapades. Feels like ages ago, yet only a few months. Splish, sizzle, the potion gurgles.

     "I never told you why," says Harry, and their eye-lines meet evenly. Before he continues, he breaks the contact and focuses on the fireplace, jawline clenched. "Some night, I don't remember when, I heard voices. Woke me up. Figured I'd take a look, so I look out my window . . ." He pauses, mulling over potential words. ". . . My dad's talking to someone outside. I can't really see who it is, until my dad steps back."

     Thump-thump. Lorelei fears the continuation.

     "I'd seen the Prophet. We get a lot of it." Half of his face teeming with an orange, fiery glow, Harry meets her expectant gaze. "Sirius Black."

     And she knew it was to be said, yet it stings aloud.

     "My dad had him living in our guest house, and I didn't even know. Not sure if my mum did either," wonders Harry. He shakes his head, bits of hair swiping along his forehead. "Anyway, I confronted him about it—why he'd let a murderer stay here. That's when he told me about you being . . . you know."

      Does she ever. Lorelei can feel a steady rise of anger blooming. Not for Harry, all she feels for him is anguish. But for James Potter.

     Harry's voice turns pleasing. "I didn't want to keep it from you, but my dad told me I couldn't say anything. Too dangerous. I remember he said the Ministry was watching us, so I had to be careful." He wrings his hands together, revealing more familiar potion ingredients. "I didn't know what to do, so I ran off. Lori, I'm sorry."

     Wordlessly, Lorelei closes the gap between them. She crafts the bridge and traverses the canyon. Feathery touch, she lays her hands atop his shoulders and gently brings Harry in for an embrace. She locks her fingers together, like a chain-link. As for the return, Harry doesn't hesitate. He grasps onto her, tightly. With their similar heights, he rests his head near her neck, and she mimics the action. They're entwined.

      After a short while, Lorelei pulls back, only a few inches. Their foreheads ghost. "I'll be honest, Harry," she says softly, "I don't quite forgive you."

     Pain lashes like fire, yet Harry nods in understanding.

     "Not yet. But I will," Lorelei promises. She grips his arms, squeezing. "You never should've known. It wasn't fair. I just need more time, you know?"

     Again, Harry nods. "I get it."

     Her lips pull into a half-smile. "But that doesn't mean we can't talk."

     Everything's been dull. So lifeless. When she dons her most colorful attire, garishly vibrant and eye-watering, it's never enough. Cadence, Carmy, Hermione—they kept her sane, but they couldn't fill the void. Only one could.

     Harry's grin is infectious. Oh, she missed it.

     "Now," Lorelei releases his arms, stepping backwards. "Let's see about that potion."

     As if cued, the liquid spurts. Viscous glops of purple biting into the wood. Lorelei grimaces.

     "Hold on," Harry blocks her path. "What're you doing?"

     "I'm going to fix it," chirps Lorelei.

     "Fix it? You don't even know what it is!"

     Shouldn't he know she's quite astute at potion brewing? It's the most similar to the precise art of baking, which she considers herself a master.

     A bit offended, Lorelei places her hands on her hips. "Yes I do."

     "Okay, then what is it?"

     "Draught of Ineptitude."

     "Oh."

     A moment. Then, "How'd you know that?"

     "Duh, Harry. I invented it!" Reveals Lorelei proudly. Except, he only appears more dumbfounded. She falters. "My name's on the recipe—who'd you get it from?"

    "Fred and George."

     Blasted twins, she thinks bitterly. Really, Lorelei needs to forgo disclosing her recipes to them. At the very least, she'll ask for a larger cut.

     "No matter. I'll patent it next time," waves Lorelei as she steps around Harry's stunned form. A little offensive. This is her specialty after all. Carefully, she peers down at the cauldron, watching for discrepancies—ah, a flurry of blue bubbles steam from it. "Here you go. It's supposed to be green bubbles, Harry. Not blue. You must've missed adding the corn syrup."

     Ruffling through his pockets, Harry pulls out a crumpled mess of parchment littered by stains and rips. He scans it for a moment. "This just says sugar."

     Lorelei tsks. "Yeah, no. Corn syrup only. I put that note in, but I guess Fred forgot." Might've been purposeful on the Weasley's part. The potion gurgles again, and she wrinkles her nose. "Ugh! What were you gonna do with it anyway?"

     "Give it to Snape. He failed my essay."

     The Common Room is enshrouded in Lorelei's ostentatiously loud laughter. After she calms down, she turns serious, businesslike. "I can fix it for you," she offers and Harry's pleading expression is all she needs. "Don't tell Fred about this. I've told him I'm out of commission given an unfortunate accident."

     As Lorelei grabs a meandering fire lizard, Harry lands beside her. "Accident?"

     "Ask Chris Haywood."

     "'Halfway Haywood'?"

     Her cheeks flush. "I don't know the true origins of his name, but I told him not to put the viper's scales in so soon. Not my fault it exploded!"

     Harry can't contain his laughter. "He had a green face because of you?!"

     "It was only half!"

📍 Teddy's Corner ;

downgrade in writing lowkey.

ok wanna address smth,
between the time lori confronts
harry and now is like four months.
that time has passed in two
chapters. regardless of how
quick it seems to u, it's been a
long time for lori. she doesn't
hold grudges.

but she did not forgive
harry!!! they're friendly now,
but not best friend status.

same goes for lonnie!! she's
weary around them which is
very fair. and remember, she's
a child. what does she want
more than friends or family
who care?

anyway, just wanted to clear
some things up!

love to hear ur thoughts <3 !!!

ฅʕ•ᴥ• ʔฅ
© TEDDY 2024