BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xiii. Daniel Auclair

     Cold and grainy. Lorelei's cheek presses against a coarse, pebbly surface. Her eyes peel open to be met with stone walls. Not the familiar walls decorated with Twisted Sisters posters or quidditch players' headshots littered with lipstick and pink hearts. Hermione isn't mumbling lines from their textbooks in her sleep, and Julia Bishop isn't listening to heavy metal on her walkman, thinking no one'll notice (It's a touch too loud). Darkened bricks of cracked stone producing icy, whistling drafts, flickering candles barely emitting light.

     Lorelei rubs her eyelids harshly with her fists, pressing deep into the sockets. This is not where she was when she fell asleep. When she opens them, she'll be snuggled in all her layers of heavy blankets in the safety of the dormitory. She'll realize with a short laugh of relief that this was all a terrible dream, and she might laugh about it with Cadence. She always has odd dreams.

     One, two, three, a giant gulp of air, and—hallway. Entirely alone and lost.

     Panicked, Lorelei drags her hands down her pajamas, feeling through all the pockets and crevices. Please, please, please, she begs. Nothing. She doesn't have her wand. The one thing Lonnie told her to keep on her at all times, the only thing that'd bring her mild reprieve, and she doesn't have it.

     Lorelei stumbles through the corridor, messy hair and silky attire flying in the wind. Her fatigued mind didn't have the forethought to put on her slippers, so the icy stone floor burns through the thin layer of socks. She looks left and right, begging to recognize anything. A familiar jagged crack she decided looked like a venerable face or a potted plant she gave a funny name to years ago. Nothing. How can it be that nothing is notable? Has she somehow stumbled into an alternate dimension where the hallway never ends or is this truly a dreamscape disguised as a piece of the living?

     And then, Lorelei reaches a crossroads.

     Three pathways converge. In front, a continuation of the hallway with more dim candles and slithering shadows. The more she stares, the more it begins zooming closer, spinning and swirling together. To her left, a spiral staircase shrouded in darkness leading downward to a place unknown. If she strains her ears, she feels like she can hear a rhythmic tapping below. And to the right, another hallway though far brighter and more inviting littered with golden frames adorning the walls.

     Lorelei takes a deep breath. There's superstitions surrounding the left. Barry might laugh at Auntie Elle for throwing salt over her shoulder any chance she gets, but he refuses to sign anything with his left despite being dominant in that hand. The question lies in whether to deem it simple nonsense or a matter of irrefutable fact. A string of misfortune is always tethered to her ankle, pulling her down long paths of pain. The subtle taps at the foot of the stairwell—they have the distinct tinge of nails, perhaps claws.

     Tears prick the corners of her eyes. Unlike the time she purposefully traversed the halls to meet with her aged friends, Lorelei doesn't know where she is. That was before Black slashed The Fat Lady, before Lonnie tightened his iron fist, before things got instrumentally worse. Lorelei edges closer towards the right, hissing candles unyielding in their besotted glares.

At the threshold, she stills, breathing uneven. Sconces decorate the stonework and they illuminate protruding gilded frames. Noticeably, it isn't grand like the Hall of Portraits, there's only a few and they're scarcely placed. What catches her eye is a singular stone bench molded into the wall. From far away, Lorelei can tell it faces something, something big.

If they're awake, they can help.

Inhaling, Lorelei seals her eyelids and takes a step into the right most path. Entrapments might lie in wait—two pillars of spikes ready to barrel down, an abyss of ferocious, snapping crocodiles, arrows materializing from hidden divots. Or, really, what she knows deep within, Black's stricken form leering, grisly and gnarled, claws sharpened, gleaming like polished daggers.