BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xxiii. Draught of Ineptitude

     "This isn't going to work."

     "Lori, please. Your constant negativity is unneeded."

     "It's not being negative if I know the outcome. I'd call that realism."

     "Realism is half-lidded pessimism."

     Expelling a dramatized groan, Lorelei drags her feet across the chiseled stone flooring, worn and cracking from students come and gone. It will not work. In the calculus of her mind, she ran through multiple possible outcomes. Closely assessing each one with dexterity, the slow travel of feasible timelines. None of them contained the solution Hermione desired. Its specificity relegates uncertainty.

     Lonnie Yates will not offer assistance. If he couldn't manage niceties in passing, he'd surely disregard action. Ministry involvement, no less. There's always a twinge of disdain in his tone when he mentions them. Sometimes it's difficult to imagine Lonnie amongst the governance, briefcase in hand, and regulating departments. He said he'd be in charge, never the one to take orders, which does align. Why do people take jobs they seem to hate?

     Besides his brazen attitude and contempt for the Ministry, Lorelei knows Lonnie. Arisen conflicts and rotting, piney bridges, but he is still her uncle and she's known him her whole life. Skin, bone, it's homely. She doesn't know his innermost feelings, but with careful attention, she's come to recognize behavior. Lonnie does not fear confrontation, but he doesn't seek it.

     Why would he bother himself with such a conundrum? To get involved with Ministry business and potentially thwart his career path? Lonnie's much too careful. With ire, he'd spare a veiled gaze, then dismiss them with a snap of his wrist. This trek is entirely useless. Futile beyond belief. Taking a page from Carmy's addictive calling, Lorelei'd wager her savings that the only way Lonnie'd agree, would be by the universe's interference.

     Pessimism. Lorelei chews on the word; it's sour. Not in a pleasant, sugary way like Honeyduke's tangy lemon drops, but puckering, tongue twisting. Is that what she is now? A . . . pessimist? She doesn't feel like one, yet she rarely knows what she feels anymore. Sometime, somehow, Lorelei lost her jovial optimism. The sunshiny plume of positivity. She can't recall where she placed it, but she'd very much like to find it.

     Roughened limestone glints in lamplight, bits of gray granules spotlighting the way. The Dungeons are Lorelei's least favorite area of the castle for a plethora of reasons, but she particularly dislikes the staunch dimness of the corridors. The wavering darkness strains her vision and the hooked, iron sconces never produce adequate light. Only enough to heighten the dingy, wettish atmosphere. And it's always cold. Unwelcoming. Right now, it only adds to her growing aversion.

     "There's no reason for Lonnie to refuse us."

     Sharply, as if Hermione'd grown a second, more wearisome head, Lorelei turns to her. "What? Of course there is!"

     Still, the Granger's not deterred. Maybe she's stolen her optimism. "I should be more specific," she corrects. "There's no reason for him to refuse you."

     Lorelei's lips delve into a thin line, like the trails of grout sealing the stonewalls. Right, she's forgotten Hermione isn't versed in the holidays. After the rejuvenating embrace and her wails silenced, Lorelei explained the mauled tapestry of her heritage, the bloodied stain blooming across her chest. Carefully, she held her implosion as a secret; she didn't tell anyone. Not about the kind Ministry official, nor the aftereffects littered on the flesh of her family. She guarded it, snarling at anyone who got too close.