BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xxxi. Hogwarts Hullabaloo!

Lorelei stares blankly ahead. Back stiff as a board, her gaze bores holes in her floral walls. Clement zephyrs drift through a cracked window, pushing wisps of hair across her face. It's not felt. The placid, fading summertime aromas and the accompanying morning birdsong are meaningless. She is a statue imbued with echoes of the past. Rigidity snaps her joints in place.

Dissociation is the word Lonnie'd prescribe. The unwilling process of separating oneself from reality. Wells of soul, there is nothing within. It is an utter lack of empathy, antipathy—everything. Most do not realize how dangerous it is to feel nothing. Touch the fire but if you omit the burning, you'll lose the hand. This term is no stranger. They have crossed paths during the winter months, on anniversaries and birthdays. There have been times when Barry becomes hollowed. He dances faraway in a place no one can follow.

Nana says it's because her grandfather is getting older. As she'd put it: "He's Ole Barry!" Yet, even that is said with halfhearted assurance. Lorelei doesn't like the implication. He's dying. Is it naive to wish people to live forever?

The scisson of one's mind is a commonality amongst the Yates. Perhaps a predisposition? Ordained by the stars before the commemoration of their births. Bad luck is its bellicose counterpart. The combination of ruination. Together they have wrecked the Yates beyond compare, and they've done it without purpose. In every form, Lorelei has witnessed dissolutions, but to experience it is another thing entirely. She is sojourning through an abyss.

Most of all, Lorelei wonders why them? Why is her family blackened by curses? They have committed no sin horrific enough to warrant such hostile ramifications. Their faults are lies, nothing more. Everyday, the Yates awake with bated breath. Things are believed to happen for a reason, so where is the causality?

Lorelei shifts, and it's the first action performed in a long while. A breeze exhales through the window, like a breath of relief. Her stillness is not without reason. Even then, dissolution has no rationale. Heavily, her head tips downwards so her gaze lands upon an unfurled slip of parchment. Lorelei awoke before dawn to caws of alarm. An unfamiliar owl was perched on her windowsill (This is the last time she leaves the window open). Attached to its ankle was a tightly rolled sheet.

A letter.

From who? Her friends wouldn't send anything, not with the trek to Hogwarts being that very morning. Also, this is not their owl. Hedwig's silvery feathers trickle like fluid streams; Carmine's Maelstrom is a quiet bird with black wings; and Cadence's has a neon green ribbon on its ankle. This bird is noisy and impatient, untrained. Lorelei was surprised Lonnie hadn't rushed in with a billowing robe and a baseball bat. Regardless of the owner, she figured it must be urgent. Why else would it arrive so early?

Lorelei had never regretted something more.

When she unfolded the parchment, her eyes swept to the bottom to discover the sender. Ron's owl gets lost, maybe he got a new one! Foolhardy hope. S. And it was as if her soul had been ejected from her body. She views her frail form in a liminal space. Lorelei is revolted in herself for how quick she identifies the signature. She doesn't want to know. Thinking that name is a curse.

Sirius Black.

Black's audacity is unmatched. He has no rival; he is the sole victor. Lorelei hopes his crown is thorny. How dare he? It may be a letter, but his words have invaded her sanctuary. If she ever wished to speak with him again, she no longer does now. This has solidified her dislike, her disdain. Nay did he offer explanations for her mother's murder or for his lack of effort in her life. Simple words, small talk.