BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xviii. Merry Christmas or Happy Birthday

Sirius Black smiles at Natalie Yates. The skin under his eyes crinkles, softly like tissue, and the sharpness of his cheeks is rounded. Loosely, casually, he drapes an arm over her shoulder, and she leans into him. Entwined naturally, like they've been molded from the same loamy bundle of clay. Their gazes lock and so do their hands, a glimmering jewel winks on her finger. Their foreheads touch.

Lorelei has never seen Black smile. The Prophet only used one image of him—gnashing teeth, glaring snarl, a scream soundlessly replaying. It is inhuman. There is no humanity within Black, this she knows. And yet, he is happy, or he appears to be. Facades are firm foundations she's yet to crack. Lorelei knows what constitutes joviality. Engraved in her bones, painted and peppered on the marrow, is the crux of jubilation. Pearlescent grins, fluttering wisps of laughter as light as gossamers. Black expresses these raw, bona fide emotions.

In loopy calligraphy is a small, perfunctory description. November 7th, 1979. Lorelei doesn't recognize the script. Nana's is certainly loopy, even spidery, but not shorthand. Her uncles rarely transcribed scrapbooks and seldom enjoyed being photographed, while Barry's hand is so neatly straight it's seemingly typewritten. And he always writes in pencil. This is a pen.

The more she becomes familiar with it, Lorelei realizes it reads like a quill. Droplets of ink bead on the 'i's and the swirls where the 'g's would tie together are strained, like the trail went cold. As far as she knows, her family has never touched a quill, then again, what would she know?

With gentle fingers, Lorelei turns the page, each time with bated breath. For what she will see, she can never know. She awaits for the signs of a relationship gone awry, of a man saddled by his own steely morasses. Muddied and despondent in thickened murk; pinned, spurious expressions, void of introspection. Any telltale sign that he was cruel hearted all along.

There is nothing. Grins, laughter, joy. The moving pictures showcase a man who is satisfied. Black tosses leaves at an unaware Natalie, dragging her down into a full pile of their labors. Neon colors zigzag as Natalie leads him through a buzzing roller rink. Simpler moments, like dotting frosting on Black's nose whilst attempting sweets. Natalie is happy; she is incapable of a frown.

And it sickens Lorelei.

November 15th, 1979. Natalie holds a stuffed bear twice the size of her body; she squeezes it tightly and her delighted beam is barely visible behind the fluff. Next to her, dodging being hit by the ginormous animal, Black stands, and he stands proud. His focus is subdued by an object in the distance, one that she cannot see. Perhaps it's directed towards whomever is taking the picture.

There's more crabbed script, and it describes the setting as an annual carnival. Lorelei used to love those. The big ferris wheels and scents of sweetened kettle corn and various nifty treats. Colorful plumes of balloons, roaring gusts of wind from teetering coasters, and delightful prizes. Humor aside, Barry adored the clowns. Always said he'd used to imagine himself dressed as one (Lorelei thinks he'd make a great clown—in a good way!).

As the eras flew by, the attendance of carnivals, festivals, jolly events, waned. Lorelei never knew the reason—the truth. Lonnie's ascension into adulthood? Correlations lie within clotted sediments; she is entrenched in the murk. Still, Barry kept a firm hold of his adoration for clowns. Yes, Lorelei does find it odd and rather scary, but to see a smile upon her grandfather's face is heartfelt.

     However, besides Black's stolen attention and his lovesick gazes, Lorelei is morbidly aware of one singular, harsh, rotten notion: the bump steadily growing on Natalie. By the first page, it was hardly noticeable, merely a smallish curvature able to be mistaken for a full stomach or awkward pose. Then, Lorelei felt time's wicked hand.