BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xvi. Hermione & Lorelei Make Cookies

     Sugar grinding under their shoes, flour dusted on the countertops and ceiling, explosions of red and green sprinkles—the house-elves will not be pleased. Soft tunes of festive oldies carry from a small radio tucked by the ovens, baking remnants coating the exterior. Delicious aromas of freshly made desserts flood the kitchens and spill into the hallway. Passing students can't help but stop and delight in the heartwarming, nostalgic smell.

     It's the smell of childhood, of mothers dotting frosting on children's noses, of late nights cozied up in warm pajamas. Students are tempted to venture inside the kitchens to see if they can snatch a treat, yet what they encounter instead is nothing short of chaos.

     Lorelei Yates stressfully bickering with Hermione Granger as she tosses ingredients into a bowl without a second glance. Her friend, running to and fro with bags of frosting and bits of the sugary substance all over her attire. The oven seems to continuously beep as they multitask to take new batches from the ovens, and trays of decorated cookies lay finished for—Carmine Weatherby?

     Some would bow their heads in respect for the boy now assumedly trapped to forever wrap cookies in pretty packaging. They'd say, 'How'd she get to you?' like it's a common occurrence Lorelei abducts helpless students to aid in her impossible task (She'll neither confirm nor deny).

     Atop Lorelei's head, over the secured hairnet, is a pair of fluffy antlers. She wears a green apron made to resemble a Christmas tree, adorned with patchings of ornaments and lights. Behind that is what muggles would call 'an ugly sweater,' and Lorelei truly is the master of garishly hideous fashion. The design is yet to be revealed. No one is excited. Hermione wears a spare apron designed to mimic Santa's belly, and Carmine dons the jolly man's hat.

     (An elf might've been more fitting, though a tad bit offensive).

     "Not the lemon, Carmy!" Lorelei's shout freezes her helper, and the snooping students snap out of their cookie induced trances and keep moving. From across the counter, she outstretches her hand and makes a swishing motion. "Leave those for the very end, please! Daisy's not fond of citrus, and I'd like everything to be perfect."

     Carmine tips his head up and down. "Yes, chef," he confirms and maneuvers the tray until it's at the very end of a long line of sweets. Stretching across every inch of space.

     Alright, in reality, Lorelei did not corner Carmine and extort the poor boy. Rather, he found himself wandering to the kitchens to sneak treacle tarts. A lonesome Thursday before the holidays, boredom consumed him, so he accepted Lorelei's offer without hesitation. And he's a much better help than Harry ever was (Do not ask the Boy Who Lived to decorate cookies).

     Lorelei smiles, relieved. She cannot afford any mishaps so close to Christmas, especially since she'll be leaving in a day's time. The golden mixture in front of her has rested for the allotted time, so Lorelei sticks her lucky spatula inside and begins stirring clockwise—her mother's recipes are oddly specific. There's beeping behind her as Hermione pulls a tray from the fiery inferno (Ovens. She's terrified of 'em).

     "These are done, right?"

     With the spatula in hand, Lorelei turns and tips on her toes to inspect the sizzling desserts. "Hm," she squints. "Few more minutes, I should think."

     Hermione nods without question and waits for Lorelei to step back so she can slide the tray back inside. Unlike with assignments where Lorelei is guaranteed to be incorrect, baking is a science even a smart mind like Hermione doesn't fully understand. She appreciates the lack of improvisation and the necessity of following directions—that's Hermione's mantra after all—but knowing when the centers are cooked yet still soft and chewy is Lorelei's expertise. And it's fascinating to watch her in action.