If there's one thing the Yates love, it's a party.

Heralds stand by gilded gates, announcing invitees dressed to the nines. Elegant silk slip dresses showcasing scandalous patches of skin, enriched velveteen gowns reserved for swirling waltzes in ballrooms. Black-tie suits and gelled coiffures with high-spun mustaches. Marble atriums are enlivened by velvet valances and polished marble masonry. The corps d'elite of society mingle in grandeur with flutes of champagne, necks emblazoned with strings of pearls and broaches of exquisite jewels. Such is royalty.

For the Yates, not so much. Humble, much smaller, yet just as festooned. Shindigs, beach blowouts if it's budgeted, and, infamously, cookouts. Food eases the soul, so does company. The Yates' backyard is vast. They've not bothered with lavish gardens or pools, only a lush, green landscape and a swaying willow to mark the land. What better way to fill the expanse than with picnic tables, food, and family? There isn't anything better, not in their eyes.

     Ole Barry's a proud owner of multiple storage units. Well, begrudged might be the better word. If he had his way, not a penny would be spent. Aside from one stocked of diner materials, the rest are full to the brim with party equipment. In one, the bare-boned essentials: foldable chairs, spare tables, catering utensils. The other two, boxes upon boxes of decorations. The quandary is, can one have too many?

     Simply, no.

     Different occasions call for entirely different decorations. Moreover, it would be derelict to reuse garniture, and the Yates are anything but lazy. Soft-hued balloons in muted pinks and blues, cool toned streamers and matching checkered tablecloths are not suitable for Christmas get-togethers. Reversed, it is the same (Tubs of ugly jumpers don't fit summer weather).

So, twice a year, the Yates throw the Biannual Barbecue Bonanza (Jo added the last bit). Before certain forthcomings, the event used to be held annually. The Yates persevere; it's a relative to stubbornness, this time positive. Still, the event retained its rollicking status. They have proved the phrase 'money doesn't buy happiness.' Because the Yates are better together. As a whole.

     Except, this year isn't strictly exclusive to family. See, after the World Cup fiasco, morale was suffering. Days before the new semester, misery fronted. Lorelei wouldn't allow it. Diligently, she took invites into her own hands, although Barry did have to narrow down the rather expansive list. All the Weasley's (The bigger the better!), Hermione, Cadence, Carmine, Remus, and, of course, the Potters. In some ways, Lorelei's heading wizard-muggle relations.

     Then disaster struck. Cadence couldn't attend. Something about being trapped in Switzerland skiing. Remus politely declined as well. His letter was incredibly formal in supernal penmanship—she loves the way he writes her name. Desperately, Lorelei wanted her godfather to come. After . . . it all, Remus sort of vanished. Gone like the wind. She feels guilty, and it's been bothering her all summer. Remorseful for her awful behavior, she needs to assure him that she'd never view him differently. Ever.

     Among those issues, there is another, a glaring problem: Lonnie.

     Lorelei's aware of the feud between her uncle and James Potter. Towards the end of the semester, they'd gone from civil greetings to withers of disdain. Rip-roaring heat blooming into conflagrations at only mentions. What had happened? The answer is sealed. At any moment, the two could erupt into spiteful quarrels. They stand at the cliff's edge, one fruitful logomachy will send them barreling to the end.

     Forgiveness is tricky, Lorelei understands this. Her own path is laden by gnarly bushels of thorns, sopping puddles of mud, and murky skies. It isn't clear; it's not supposed to be easy. Yet, there is a beauty in it. Long embraces after hurtful words provide more healing than any magical remedy. Why does she need to suffer someone else's qualms? Lonnie and James, for one day, can set aside their feud, or they can accept amnesty. And really, Lorelei wants to see Harry (Where one Potter goes . . .).

     "Lovey, would you bring out the lemonade?"

     Her Nana's call carries into the kitchen. Lorelei adds a dash of sugar to the pitcher to alleviate the sourness before she sets it upon a reflective metal tray. Tarnished, scratched, riddled with character. With her diner experience, Lorelei props the tray atop her palm and holds it high, taking tentative steps through the dusty egress. The sky's beclouded and painted a dreary gray, though Tom assured it'll be clear by high noon. Hopeful bits of blue peek through cracks in the grayscale.

     A mixture of glasses rattle on the tray—highball, cordial, coupes, anything she could find. Plastic waste is not a thing with the Yates! Besides, Nana has too big of an antique chinaware collection for it to not be in use. Carefully, Lorelei walks to the center of the backyard where picnic tables have been smushed together. Red and white checkered tablecloths cover the impurities of the splintered wood, and it softly blows in the streams of wind.

     The backyard's buzzing with business. Off near the side of the house is a silver grill swirling savory smoke, and Barry dutifully leans over it with his trusted tongs and apron ("Life is What You Bake It!"). Where there's food, Nessie's sure to follow. Dorian's got his tiny set of tongs, and he waves them about from his spot atop Tom's shoulders. Tim's hanging lights along the pergola on the patio, and his kids, Jo and Luc, are organizing an 'adult section' affixed with an arrangement of bottles.

     Lorelei doesn't think it's fair she's not allowed over there.

     Multiple tubs are strewn about the grassy landscape, all with random bits of content poking out. Unused party equipment, most likely. Barry's gramophone sings his collection of oldies to enliven the mood. At the end of the table, shrouded in thick umbrage from the drooping willow, Nana and Aunt Elle are hunched over a black box full of artifacts. They're laughing at whatever's inside, breathy laughs of nostalgia.

     They both glance up as Lorelei approaches. "Wonderful, lovey," Nana smiles. "Thank you."

     "Ah, darling, that looks gorgeous!" Aunt Elle praises, puffy hair sailing in the breeze.

     "Of course," beams Lorelei, and she sets the tray atop the patterned surface. Grabbing a fancier glass with a fluted stem and wide mouth, she pours it halfway with lemonade. Down the table is Carmine. In his hands is a weathered book (The Invisible Man); he's been reading it all morning, basking in the serene chirps of birds and the loose sways of the willow. A curl floats from the drafts, and she smiles.

     He's doing better. Carmine's father dropped him off this morning. Lorelei didn't get a look at the man, but Nana had a sour sort of look when he left. Dearly, Lorelei missed his toothy grins and titular wisecracks. He's been a tranquil force in her life, and she'd like to do the same. Yet, traces of that night remain. Sometimes she looks at him and he's . . . gone. Faraway in his mind, staring through things. He gets lost.

     Two fingers around the stem, Lorelei slides the glass in his direction. Carmine turns to her. "Oh? What's this?" He marks his page with a provided penguin bookmark.

     "Lemonade," Lorelei responds.

     Carmine arcs an intrigued brow.

     "My own recipe, in fact," she nods, looking off at Barry and Tom roughhousing (Too close to the grill to be safe!). "Though it's a bit average. I'm still working on it."

     At the table's end, Nana and Aunt Elle share an eerily similar noise of disagreement. Identically, they wear lighthearted scowls.

     "I beg to differ!"

     "Lori's lemonade is the best! No question!"

     Heat coils along her skin, leaving a red tint in its wake. Lorelei sneaks a glance at Carmine, but he's already looking at her. Gently smiling, attention on her, and there's a sparkling in his eyes—those storm cloud eyes bursting with lightning. He is enraptured.

     "Please, don't listen to them," Lorelei begs as she untucks her hair. Strands roll over the blush. By above, this is so embarrassing! "They like everything."

     Aunt Elle laughs, "Can't help if everything you make is delightful."

     Her family is incredibly overzealous with compliments. Though it is their specialty to flare dramatics.

     "If you made it," Carmine says, "I know I'll like it."

     With those words, he tips the glass to his mouth. Lorelei sucks in a breath. A calm nature is not what she's known for, rather the opposite. Jitters are second nature. Sweets were figured to be the source, turns out it's merely a fickle bout of genetics. Her mum's the same. Compliments may as well have been ciphers. Lorelei pines after perfection she'll never achieve. It's just, what if he doesn't like it? If he grimaces . . .

     Carmine doesn't. Instead, his eyes widen in pure delight.

     Softly, Nana whistles, "Told you."

     "You like it?" Lorelei asks timidly, wringing her hands together.

     Carmine sets his finished glass onto the table. "You know," he begins, and her heart pounds, "I've never been a fan of lemonade, but this has definitely changed my mind."

     Fluttering relief. The kind reminiscent of walloping butterflies scattering in verdant fields. Orange wings of monarchs dapple the skyline. She's converted a nonbeliever! Above it all, for a moment, he was his old self.

     Out of nowhere, Nana lets loose a shrill shriek. Nearby birds halt their ameliorating symphonies and disperse. Danger's afoot! Yet, none of the Yates move in alarm, not an inch, not even a glance. Certain vocalizations relate to precise meanings. If the timbre is pitched and reedy, then it's usually excitement. Low toned drawls or guttural screeches, those are signs of exigency.

     Well, Carmine is not a Yates. He startles, pupils bulging, and his glass nearly tips over. After that night, he's been jumpy. In an attempt at reassurance, Lorelei places a hand on his shoulder. He grabs it.

     "Oh, my goodness! Ellie, Ellie, look!"

     Lorelei turns to her Nana, and she mirrors her great aunt's surprise. In her sinewy hands is a small, very small, bunny costume. Whiter than anything, fit with a puffball tail and two pointy ears. Nana's a tall woman, the costume barely stretches across her torso. All at once, her mouth drops open.

     "Nana, no!" Lorelei shrieks and panickedly tries snatching the darned thing, but her grandmother is much faster. A palpable sense of shame takes hold of her. "Please!"

     "Look how tiny!" Aunt Elle coos, covering her mouth with her hand. Cresting along her waterline is nostalgia. Fondness for a simpler time or a yearning. Someone should've been there.

     "What is it?"

     Carmine's inquiry halts everything. Sound dips out of tune, like one of Barry's records scratching. Absolutely not, he can't know. The embarrassment is far too great. Luck's got her in its palms for once, as she's grateful Harry's not arrived yet. He'd never let it go.

     "Nothing!" Lorelei rushes, and she blocks his view of the costume. As a warming zephyr swirls by, Carmine's melodic laugh harmonizes with the trilling.

     "When Lorelei was a youngin, she had a bunny themed birthday," Nana explains as she stands to her feet. She drapes the small costume across the table and smooths out the arms and legs. She takes one look at the grown Lorelei then down at the suit, stifling a cry. "Oh! You were so tiny. Barry thought you'd missed out on the genes." Gently, Nana fiddles with the fluffy pink ears, wistful. "You only came up to his knees. Such a darling!"

     Aunt Elle lightly taps Nana on the shoulder with the back of her hand. "You remember her painted face?" She clutches her chest. "She had the cutest whiskers!"

     The world's ending. It has to be. Is it humiliate Lorelei day?

     "Oh, my . . ." Lorelei collapses onto the bench and buries her head in her hands. Out of everyone they could've done this to, it had to be him.

     A hand lands on her back, softly moving up and down. "Bunnies?" Carmine questions, chuckling.

     Red, as red as the checkered cloths. "Please, I swear—"

     "I think it's cute."

     Lorelei snaps her head up. "What?"

     "Bunnies are cute," Carmine shrugs. His black mop of curls sways from the movement. "I like bunnies."

     Somehow those words applied a soothing salve. Relaxation pulls the tension from her shoulders, and the fiery heat of chagrin melts into disbelief. Lorelei searches his eyes, looking for any sign of teasing, yet she finds nothing but candor. He's earnest, and he's smiling that dimpled smile.

     From inside the house, Etty pokes her head out, "Nana, I think the Potters are here!"

     Harry.

     Lorelei bolts upright. The specks of azure in the grayscale are growing in size, and she can see rays of sun beam upon the lawn. Circles of luminescence dusting greenery, and the tendrils glitter like fairy dust. Everything's brighter, warmer. This is the air of a party. When Harry arrives, the sun shines.

     "Thank you, Etty!" Nana calls. To Lorelei's relief, she neatly folds the costume and places it back inside the tub. By above, Harry'd be such a nuisance with that ammo. "I'll be right there!"

     As Nana departs, Aunt Elle carefully sits herself at the table. It creaks from age and so do her bones. There's a minute draw of woe, a soul-strung pain that ebbs the woman's lips downwards. Age is beautiful, Lorelei thinks. All the lines across her great aunt's face speak to wisdom, like the rings of fallen trees. Patches of gray are hidden by red dye, not in a vain effort but in preference. Elle's hands are calloused and splotched by red. Jewels of age, and they glimmer.

     Her great aunt is beautiful, and she always will be.

     Out of her peripheral, Carmine resumes his spot in his book, yet Lorelei's focus is locked onto the doorway. Like always, she wants to be the first smile Harry sees. She hasn't seen him in a month, which is far too long. Instead, Lonnie exits. He's frowning, a deep-set expression harboring dislike. As he steps upon the concrete patio, a stream of sunlight halos upon him. Rather than basking in the rejuvenating warmth, Lonnie squints and moves under the pergola's umbrage. Anything to get away.

     Except, quite literally. Lonnie's game plan was simple—drop Lorelei off at the Yates, dutifully converse with family (meet the quota of familial interaction), then depart before lunch. If he stayed for the food, he'd be suckered into staying longer. Forbid that. Aunt Elle, or his mother, couldn't care less about his itinerary. All it took was one conversation in private for Lonnie to unwillingly stick around. For what does a man fear more than his mother?

     However, Lonnie could really do without his dull attitude. It's a party!

     And then, Harry stumbles into the light. Literally. Etty forgot to tell him about the raised threshold it seems. Either way, Lorelei squeals and dashes up to the chagrined boy. Flouncy waves of hair flow with liquidity. Harry barely stables himself before Lorelei's crashing into him. He rocks backwards onto his heels but her strength keeps him standing, and he doesn't hesitate to return the embrace. There they stand under the spotlight of noon, together in each other's arms.

     "Oh, I'm so glad you're here!" Rushes Lorelei, still squeezing Harry. He gives her a couple pats on the back to signify that her grip is a tad too tight. Sheepishly, she pulls back. "Right. Sorry. I can't help it. I'm so excited!"

     Harry grunts. "A bit too excited."

     "No, I could be so much worse!"

     Behind him, James and Lily exit.

     Clouds roll across the sun. Forgiveness is a long road. Well, Lorelei isn't parochial like Lonnie. Her smile imitates blooming rays. "Mr. Potter." She turns to Lily. "Mrs. Potter."

     "Lorelei," James acknowledges with a tip of his head. In his hands is a foil wrapped tray. "Say, where do I put this? Etty said you'd know."

     "And this," adds Lily, holding up a covered glassware dish.

     Lorelei gestures to one of the tables where Nessie is diligently organizing arrangements of food. It all has to be perfect. "Right there's fine, but I'd just put it down and slowly back away." She leans over Harry to whisper, "Nessie's in a mood right now."

     The Potters nod.

     The circular dish in Lily's hands catches her attention. Lorelei steps back from Harry to try and peek at the undercarriage. "What'd you bring?"

     "Oh, it's just a pie. Blueberry," Lily admits, but she's resigned.

     James rolls his eyes. "Will you stop?" He softly knocks into his wife's shoulder. "You know as well as I do that it's delicious."

     "Mum's been anxious about it all day," adds Harry.

     Lorelei frowns.

     "Well, you're all such talented bakers," says Lily, a bit frustrated. She shifts her weight. "Especially you, Lorelei. Once you've had excellence it's hard to go back."

     There's an undertone to the woman's words. Reverence. It's a withholding of sentiment, but Lorelei knows it. Among the respect is insecurity. Lily deems herself inferior, as if excellence is unachievable or perhaps disrespectful. Many moons ago, it was Natalie who donned the crown of talent. They were friends, closer maybe. She's seen the pictures in the scrapbooks. Lily doesn't want to outshine the fallen, even though her mum would bask in the radiance.

     "I'm sure it's fantastic, Mrs. Potter," smiles Lorelei, and she means every word. "You should be proud."

     Lily's eyes wash over with emotion. "Thank you, Lorelei. Really."

     Boisterously, Barry calls from the grill (Dorian clings to his leg like a monkey), "Food's ready!"

     Appearing as if summoned by the saintly smells, Nana puts her hands on the elder Potters and ushers them forward. "Let's go, let's go! I don't know about you, but I am famished!"

     Lorelei extends her hand to Harry. She smiles, and he returns it.

     In the Yates' backyard is a willow. It's taller than their one-story, so tall it overlooks the stretch of their neighborhood. The branches are wide and sturdy; they have to be in order to withstand the might of the leafage. Wispy bits of foliage spill over the limbs like seaweed passively drifting in the sea. From the outside, it is like a waterfall of silvery green.

     Through the rainfall, is the heart. Boughs imitate bone structure as it protects the lifeblood of the tree. Tendrils drip downwards in a dome shape. Within the haven of the willow, is serenity. The grass is lush, greener too, and no sound permits through the leafy safeguard. Nothing but whistling gusts, and it's like a singsongy, springy sound.

     The willow is a Yates heirloom. History is written in the ligneous exterior. Jagged carvings of names and hearts, even genetic spirals in the bark from scrapes or pokes. The willow has grown with them, and it has been watchful. Atop the highest branch with her legs dangling, Lorelei wonders what it has seen. Did it witness grief? Childish laughter? Sometimes she thinks it's truly alive. When the wind blows just right, it creaks; it breathes.

     Most of all, her mum is etched into the heart. A crooked mess of scribbles high in the boughs, Lorelei faces it now. How old was she when she braved the climb? For Lorelei, she was nine. Luc goaded her into daring it, and she's anything but a quitter. When Lorelei landed on the tallest branch, even higher than her cousin, it was like being on top of the world. The air was fresher, the horizon was clear, and she felt unstoppable.

     Of course, that was when Lorelei discovered her fear of heights, and Lonnie had to climb up and bring her down. But Lorelei isn't nine anymore. She's grown, and she isn't afraid of a few meters. At least, that's what she's telling herself anyway.

     "You're right. I can see everything." Lorelei turns to Harry who sits a bit below on a nearby branch. His body is angled slightly forwards as he ogles the sights.

     "Nice isn't it?"

     Harry expels a breath. "More than that."

     Lightly, she laughs, as airy as the feathery tendrils. High above, the whole backyard is in view. After a fine feast, everyone dispersed. Hermione declined the invitation to climb, saying it's far too reckless (That's half the fun!), so she sits at the table with a nonplussed Carmine and Ron. The Weasley appears lethargic from the conversation and all the food he consumed. Her baby cousin is exuberantly articulating in front of Carmine, and Lorelei wishes she could hear what hokum he's spewing.

     Nearly all of the adults are shrouded in the speckled canopy of the pergola. Otherwise known as the 'adult section.' The sun's in full view, as Tim promised. Even from so high up, Lorelei can see how red her Nana's face is. Their laughter is roisterous and lively. Tucked away on the opposite side of the lawn are Lonnie, Bill, and Charlie. Sun chairs squeak with each movement. Anytime her gaze lazily gazes through openings, Lorelei sees them blithe and full of life. She knew he'd loosen up.

     "How do we get down?" Harry fidgets on his branch as he nervously stares down at the grass.

     "We climb," shrugs Lorelei. "Or jump."

     "Jump?"

     "Well, yes."

     Harry blinks, frowning. "You're joking . . .?"

     "Duh, Harry," she rolls her eyes. "We'd die!"

     "You know," he starts with a huff as he leans against the willow's heart. "I don't know why I followed you up here."

     A zephyr streams through the dome of leaves, and it brushes flyaways over Lorelei's face. There was no plan, and there never is. Lorelei took advantage of Lonnie's distraction and disappeared into the willow. He believes her incapable of staying alive, which is offensive. She's only fallen one time!

     "Because it's fun," says Lorelei.

     "It was hard."

     For him. He needs to specify. Harry took ages to muster the courage to climb one branch.

     "The journey is half the adventure." Lorelei digs into the bark with her nails. It's rough to touch, yet not unpleasant to sit upon. Nature's cushion.

     Harry glances up at her. "I'd rather just be at the end."

     "Of course you would."

     With that, Lorelei turns back to the backyard and rests her elbows atop her thighs. Through the diaphanous openings, she stares down at her mingling family. Lorelei always enjoys people-watching. She likes concocting fiction and guessing truth. Judging by Aunt Elle's mirthful grin and Mr. Weasley's flustered confusion, she must've shared a funny anecdote. Lily leans into her husband, nose scrunched with laughter. Gosh, it must've been a good one (Or, the empty cordial glasses speak for them).

"Harry?" Asks Lorelei, overcome by a thought.

He hums, then gasps as a twig snaps from his prodding.

"Have you told your parents about your, uh, scar?" She casts her gaze upon him. "Like, the pain?"

Though she isn't facing him, Lorelei hears him shifting.

"No."

She sighs. "Why not?"

"It's not a big deal," he responds curtly, moving again.

Big deal. Obstinacy will be their downfall. A scar is not supposed to hurt, not literally. Ghostly pains, perhaps—reminders. This isn't a phantom; it's real, and he's suffering.

Lorelei twists her body to face Harry. He's already looking at her. "Will you promise that if it gets any worse, like even the tiniest bit, you'll tell them?"

He hesitates, eyes searching hers, then nods.

"Thank you."

The two relax on the appendages of the willow. Blissfully, Lorelei shuts her eyes, just basking in the constant wind-stream.

"Hey, Little Lemon!"

Lorelei nearly falls off her branch.

"Merlin's beard, Lori! We already got lemonade!"

A glower settles on her face at Fred's poor drollery, and Harry dares a snicker. Righting herself, Lorelei looks down at the twins standing by the willow's heart. For once, they're small. If she pinches her fingers at their collars, she could pick them up like dolls. Or, squish them. She'd very much like the latter scenario.

She cups her hands and echoes, "What's up, doc?"

Neither of them get the reference, unfortunately. That won't do. She'll have to show them Looney Tunes.

George reaches into his pocket and digs around it for a good long while; he must've spelled it larger. From above, Lorelei sees him pull out a small, blue pouch cinched closed. He shakes it. "Got something for you!"

"You'll need to come down," says Fred, grinning madly.

Lorelei's not an imbecile. Whatever's in that bag pertains to their business—Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. She has significant stock in it as a prominent shareholder (Lee Jordan is not far behind), and her refined palate is exceptionally useful. Sometimes the only way to define the value of a product is through taste, even if said product makes her tongue glow in the dark.

"Be right there!"

As a wispy foliage sails across her exposed flesh, Lorelei turns to Harry. "You comin'?"

"Nah," he replies, then he pats the branch. "I'll stay here. It's . . . nice."

Lorelei narrows her eyes but shrugs nonetheless. The pathway down is engraved in her mind. It's instinct. Branches act as rungs to a ladder. Nimbly, she drops down the spiraling boughs with fear as an afterthought. When she reaches the last limb, Lorelei's on even footing with the twins. Instead of hopping down with grace, she outstretches her arms. George steps forward and takes a hold of her torso and lightly sets her on the ground, ruffling her head for fun.

"So," Lorelei starts as she brushes off the scraps of bark from her clothes. "Whatcha got?"

Fred and George share a look. Oh boy.

Wordlessly, George unseals the pouch, dumping little sweets into his brother's cupped hands. They're pale pink and perfectly circular, polished like refined gems. "We don't have a name for it yet."

"Yeah, we just threw ingredients together," Fred shrugs.

"Got bored."

In the willow's cradle, Harry's scoff carries down.

"Well," Lorelei prompts, standing on her tiptoes. "What's it do?"

Again, nothing. Fred holds out his hands to her, and she examines the tantalizing sweets. Being so invested in their business, Lorelei knows when things are safe to handle. It's never as it seems. One particular sweet was concocted to render the properties useless in their touch, which made selling them that much easier. The twins are crafty, she'll give 'em that. It is her duty as chief operating officer to determine the longevity of their creations.

"Not entirely sure," George reveals.

"So I'm the test subject?"

Harry makes another noise, but they all ignore it.

"Pretty much."

Simple enough. Lorelei grabs one of the pink pearls. It's reminiscent of chewing gum, except nothing like it. For all she knows, it'll force her to moo  for several hours or turn her irises multicolored, even her vision too. Maybe she'll turn into an insect. The world is their oyster, and the possibilities are truly endless.

A voice interrupts, "Woah, woah! Not so fast!"

Before she can react, the sweet is yanked from her hands. Open-mouthed, Lorelei whips to face Lonnie. Leafy fibers drape across his shoulders, and it appears like an avant garde piece of fashion. He analyzes the twin's newest creation with a frown. What a spoilt sport!

Clutching the . . . thing in his fist, Lonnie crosses his arms. "What're you trying to poison her with this time?"

Identically, the Weasleys feign horror and clutch at their figurative pearls. "Poison? Why, Mr. Yates!" George cries. "That is crossing a line!"

"We'd never do such a thing," adds Fred.

Lonnie rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay," he scoffs. Flashes of their duplicitous deeds replay in his eyes. "What is it?"

"Try it."

The canopy of foliage opens to allow Bill and Charlie to enter. Lorelei rarely interacts with the eldest of the Weasley clan, but she remembers them to be exceptionally friendly. For her twelfth birthday, Charlie gifted her a plush dragon that is very soft. Its scales are royal blue, and it has three horns and a slithering tongue. She keeps it on her bedside next to Mr. Midnight, far away from the dogs.

Where the sun shines, the twins see potential. Fred lumbers over to his older brother and wraps his arm around Bill's shoulders. "Just the man I wanted to see!" He extends his supposed poison. "Care for a sweet?"

Bill shoves his brother off him. "Didn't mum tell you to knock it off?"

"Snitches end up in ditches, William."

Charlie whistles.

"C'mon," Lorelei begs. She climbed all the way down for a reason. "Let me try it!"

All three adults shout, "No!"

"Well, someone's got to brave it," she huffs.

George points at her. "Right you are, Little Lemon." He eyes his victims. "Which one of you?"

They've reached an impasse, an old western standoff Lorelei's seen in films. Fred wields the sweets like a gunslinging bounty hunter, and his brother stands beside him as his eccentric partner. The elder Weasleys and Lonnie act as the sheriffs bent on outlawing unsavory activities. Bill's even got the bushy mustache. The willow's shrill whistling is the score to the scene. And, if she wants to set the stage further, Harry's the audience reacting to the foolishness.

"None of us," says Lonnie after a while.

George imitates a buzzer.

In her fictitious tale, Lorelei decides to be the mediator. "Wait!" She steps in front of her uncle. "I've got an idea."

"Lorelei . . ." Lonnie warns.

"Just listen, will you?" When he reluctantly nods, Lorelei relaxes. "Okay, I know the perfect target—person." She coughs. "Perfect person to try it."

"Who?" Bill inquires.

"Barry."

Charlie bursts out laughing.

Before Lonnie can even utter a word, Lorelei's rushing to defend her solution. "No, c'mon! It makes sense! Barry's got a stomach of steel." And, by above, she doesn't mean that lightly. She has witnessed her grandfather willingly eat the most horrific concoctions without consequence. Plus, he's always been a supporter of the Weasley's antics. "Lonnie, you know he'd love it."

Not even Lonnie can deny it.

Fred and George brighten considerably at this notion.

"You're saying—"

"—your grandad—"

"—will indulge us?" Fred finishes, biting back a victorious smirk.

Eyes to the willow's dome, Lonnie sighs, "Unfortunately, it's true. He really would love it."

"Godric, he would, wouldn't he?" Bill laughs with a shake of his head. Lorelei arcs an eyebrow.

"Say no more!"

The twins disappear from the canopy, rushing off to bother her grandfather. Lorelei means no ill will. Barry's a jokester at heart; he loves a good prank, and he's got the perfect laugh for them. Even shockingly simple tricks like whoopee cushions or buzzers on the palms. Goodness, he almost became a professional clown! Whatever side effect would be worth the joy, in Barry's eyes. It's hard to come by these days.

The elder Weasleys follow Fred and George, eager to witness this eventual disaster. Hopefully, Mrs. Weasley is distracted. Surrounded by nature's protection, Lorelei stands with her uncle in awkward quiescence. He scratches at his nape.

"Oh," Lorelei suddenly remembers. "Harry's stuck in the tree."

Lonnie's eyes widen. "What?"

She points, and he follows the trajectory to the tallest point, up and up, until . . . he spots the glinting of glass in sunlight.

Harry waves.

Great, he'll have to climb again.

📍 Teddy's Corner ;

i bet y'all are scared abt these
tender moments. what if i said
it's nothing but sunshine from
here on out???

turns out i love to yap when it
comes to the yates. i have too
much to say, but i love them
all so much.

and ofc, some charlie action.
that's my pookie. he's so
underrated.

this act has me so pumped
y'all i'm going crazy.

anyway, i'd love to hear ur
thoughts <3 !!!

ฅʕ•ᴥ• ʔฅ
© TEDDY 2024