BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

vi. Carmine's Game

     "Can I send Tommy candy?"

     "No."

     "It's untampered."

     "No."

     "What about—"

     "Lorelei. Please," Lonnie interrupts with an exhausted tone, taking off his glasses to rub his face. Mountains of papers lie on his desk along with three poorly crafted mugs (courtesy of primary school art class) all emptied of caffeinated beverages, perhaps with an added adult bonus. "Finish your homework. Read a book. Something. I already have a headache."

     "Do you want some peppermint oil? I actually have some on me—always make sure to carry the basics," Lorelei rambles as she reaches into her satchel. It's resting over the wooden backing of her chair, the one sat the farthest from her uncle in the leftward corner. By giant, messy stacks of books, boxes, papers, anything he could fit in the small space. He certainly made do of every inch.

     "No, Lorelei. Thank you, but peppermint oil would not help," he sighs and leans back, chair squeaking at the weight shift.

     Frowning, Lorelei drops the vial of peppermint oil in her bag. "Peppermint's strong. What about lavender?" She pulls out a small pocket stuffed full of organized vials. "Nice smell. Great for headaches . . . at least Nana said so."

     "Lori—"

     "Oh! Eucalyptus too!" She beams. "You know, I haven't tried that one, but it does smell good."

     "Lorelei!" Her uncle interrupts in a firm tone, yet he's fighting back a smile. Sheepishly, Lorelei seals her lips. "I'll be alright. It's just a headache."

     Though it never is just a headache, and Lorelei knows this. Stacks of papers, untidy office, three downed mugs of caffeine. It's worrying, he's worrying.

     "What if I said that?" She contradicts, narrowing her eyes. "You'd be all over me."

     Lonnie dips his head. "That's different," he waves.

     "Oh, sure. Different."

     There's a lot of factors contributing to whatever's stressing her uncle to pierces. Sneaking out, for one. Black's escape. Glaringly obvious. Today being the first day. Yet, she knows Lonnie. Through the inexplicable horrors in her first year, he remained neatly put together, save for an apparent lack of sleep—though one wouldn't sleep when their niece is suffering from somnambulism.

     He's off.

     Lorelei picks at the frayed edges of her satchel. "You know," she starts wearily, fearing the reaction, "you should really get some sleep."

     Rolling his head left and right—she winces at the cracks—Lonnie chuckles. "Seriously?" His voice is strained from the stretching. "Are you my mother now?"

     Sometimes Lorelei forgets how stubborn her family is. (Lonnie's always been Natalie's rival, some would say).

     She rolls her eyes. "What? I can't be worried for my favorite uncle?"

     "Favorite?" Lonnie scoffs, and he places his elbows on the desk. She watches him fight off a yawn. "Tommy won't like that."

     "He'll get over it. Nessie did."

     She knows he's attempting to shift the conversation to familial hilarity, and it almost works, but she knows him. All his tricks, his loopholes and key phrases. It's ironic for someone who cares so deeply about her, micromanages every aspect of her life, to be so adverse to the prospect of being doted on. Only ever selflessness, which can be seen as selfish to some extent.