BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xxvii. Lori's Laborious Lemon Layer Cake

Everything's so bright. Pure, valiant vibrancy invades Lorelei's tender vision. Blinking is hard; her eyelids feel weighty and immovable. Dots of crust rest in the corners, and her lashes tangle together. Everything's blinding. Instinctively, she moves her arm to arch it into a shield, yet even that is considerable effort. Soreness takes hold of her.

Where is she? Where is it possible that light shines so brightly and harshly? White starkness. And it's terribly chilly. There's an unwelcoming draft of frozen air that slashes the back of her neck. Goosebumps pimple along her flesh. At least, she knows it is not the afterlife. It would be warm there. Lorelei tenses her jaw, then everything floods into memory. All of it.

Pettigrew . . . he—he did something. Thick, opaque fog drifts. Pain, lots of it, then swirling crepuscule. Everything hurts. Black. Sirius Black he was there. She stood face to face with her father. Fourteen years is not long enough.

An ache stabs into her temples, and Lorelei grips her head. To her left, she senses abrupt movement, yet the stinging glow of light continues its intensity. She is blinded, and she is vulnerable. Had Pettigrew taken her? Does he stand before her now, smarmy and chittering? Lorelei yelps when a hand touches her. It's the faintest, lightest thing, and it has an air of hesitancy.

Rapidly, the touch vanishes.

More movement to her left. Then, and Lorelei racks her brain at the familiarity, "S-Sorry."

I'm sorry.

It's him. Pettigrew. It has to be.

Panic overcomes Lorelei. Despite the blindness, she reaches into her back pocket to grasp her wand. Nothing. Her heart drops. Of course, she wouldn't have it. He'd take it. She is helpless, and she wants to plead with Pettigrew but her throat is raw. No defense.

"Hey, hey. Lori. Lorelei." Gentle, no labored pants. "It's me."

Lorelei follows the voice and peers upon a figure shrouded in a fiery haze. Perfectly, it outlines them, but it isn't severely limiting or stringent. They glow compliments them, molds into invitation and friendly warmth. Whoever they are, they've brought comfort, and she craves it. She needs it. She'll do anything to be comforted.

"It's Harry."

Slowly, the speckles in her vision clear, and she recognizes the shaggy mop of brown hair, a set of glinting frames slightly crooked, and a small, soft smile. Relief overcomes the panic.

"Harry," breathes Lorelei, and her hands instinctively pull to him. Though it takes a moment, the boy grabs them. Tightly, they lock together. Nothing could pull them apart.

"I'm here," he says, not too loud, not too quiet.

Lorelei relaxes. A stream of air whistles from her lips as she leans back into the cushions behind her, and he follows. She's in the Hospital Wing. Hello, old friend. Pettigrew is not here. She's safe. Now that her sight has amended, Lorelei realizes the starkness comes from a window. Curry toned oranges ooze along the skyline visible through the panes and similar hued light streams downwards across empty rows of cots. Tattered curtains sway in impending, chilly breezes.

To her left, a mound of red catches her eye.

"Ron," she mumbles, coughing a bit. By above, her throat is torn raw. Spoken word is like sandpaper. The Weasley appears lost in the clutches of sleep, at least she hopes. Though it takes considerable effort, she recalls Ron's injury being particularly nasty.