BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xxvi. Reap What's Sown

     Fire-whiskey. The inferno scorches his throat. Enlivened flames charing, crisping the flesh. Lonnie Yates savors it, basks in the way his esophagus constricts at the bitterness. Heat, not warmth. Molten, like lava. A fiery cocoon that envelops his chest, cinching heated rope around his vulnerable innards. The feeling's alienating, and it's harsh. But he doesn't need pleasant; he doesn't need comfort.

     Lonnie will do anything to feel.

     To feel an ache in his lungs with each haggard cough; to feel half-moons puncture onto his palms; to feel limbs fallen numb and bitten lips leaking metal. At least it's something. The maxim Lonnie lives by. Comfort is a hinderance, bordering an excuse. Imbibe and spew foul-mouthed insults all in the name of amenity. They sought comfort, they leave burdened. He does it to keep himself afloat, but he'll never do it in the name of pleasure.

     However, it is not an addiction. He has asserted control over it. Never would he allow a substance to rule him. Only on lonesome nights, only faraway from those he'd seek refuge. He denies shame, yet he hides it from her, from them. He keeps it personal and tethered to his very soul, like Barry from them, like Tim from his children. A vicious cycle passed through generations, and it's never fixed because it's never there. And yet, at varying times, Lonnie feels chained. Always at the precipice, fingers ghosting vivacious freedom . . . all it takes is one tug and he's limp on the floor. Damaged goods.

     Tick, tick. In his irritability, Lonnie understands Lorelei's distaste towards the clock. The hands are bent, and they point at the wrong time, perpetually frozen in the past. Continuous, nonsensical ticking, he's become numb to the noise. Some time ago, the mechanism snapped, and the wires lost their charge. Lonnie refuses to take it down. Despite the rusted casing, the glass perspiring and fogged from the Dungeon's humidity, it remains above his desk.

     So why does he keep it?

     This clock is a gateway to the past. Humbly, it was the first thing Lonnie hung on the wall. A gift. From a time he longs to forget. It is a reminder for who he is. Unreliable, useless, seconds away from breaking. Nana'd blow a gasket if she knew of this disaster. "That's bad luck!" She'd shriek, gripping at her graying hair. He's sure she'd broker relations between muggles and wizards in order to tear it down.

     Lonnie's aware of the spiritual implications of the broken clock. Merlin, his coworker is Trelawney! Bad luck, doom, death. Even the idiom he hears so often—a broken clock is right twice a day! He wishes it were true. All nonsense. Simply, imperfectly, it's a splintered accessory. Nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps it's why he's drawn to it. The normalcy. What secrets lie in a ramshackled clock?

     Through half-lidded eyes, Lonnie tilts his head, attempting to focus down on these vexing questions. The day's Prophet crossword is halfway finished, squares messily scribbled in with ink blots. They're never difficult, except this one. Off in the rightward corner, a picture of Sirius Black's mugshot. No matter which page, Black is there, thrashing and screaming soundlessly. He'd love the attention, Lonnie thinks ruefully. He always did.

     Created by Darren O'Hare in 1952. Three words.

     Lonnie huffs. Quidditch no doubt. He's not fond of the sport. It's untimely, roguish. The players lack any form of propriety, which is simply disgraceful. He won't speak it aloud (Knock on wood, for the sake of it), but he's grateful Lorelei never expressed any interest in it. She only ever got as far little league football. Keep her far away from any similarities.