BAD LUCK BLACK! ─── Harry Potter

xix. The Sea Consumes

"What you're holding, Lori," they chuckled warmly. Their face was covered by scribbles. With light steps, they were behind her. "Here, let me put it on."

Reluctantly, Lorelei handed the chain to them. She sat upright as they unclenched the lock. She might've burst from the anticipation. Their hands touched the nape of her neck—

     Lorelei feels that prolific coldness. She cannot breathe.

"Alright. Let me show you in the mirror."

With gentle hands they led little Lorelei to the entryway where a small mirror sat.

     Each second of contact burns.

The edges were ornately crafted, and it had doilies and leaf motifs dotting the designs. Lorelei stared at the pendant lying on her chest: it looked like an eye.

"See? Tiger's eye."

     This is a memory; she has no freewill. And yet, it was a downhill battle refusing to acknowledge the proprietor of this gift. But she remembers him so clearly, fondly. Why does it hurt so much?

Young Lorelei beamed in the reflection, and her gaze traveled to the figure standing to her right.

Lonnie Yates in all his pious glory.

"I love it!"

     And Lorelei really did. That was Christmas—her birthday. She'd turned seven, and Lonnie chose to return home from Hogwarts for once. Distinctly, she remembers being so excited. Nana allowed her to stay past her bedtime so she could greet him when he returned late that Christmas Eve. The embrace they shared that night rivaled the glare of a thousand dying suns.

     Without a word, only a sniffle, Lorelei tosses the necklace into a drawer. Thump! It booms thunderously. She slams it closed, flinching as the mineral lashes from the force. The even flow of the danseuses is disrupted.

     How far have they come? Lorelei doesn't recognize that Lonnie anymore. He's foreign, and his touch is like ice. He gave her gifts; he acted as her chaperone; he claimed to cherish her; he dared to breathe the same air as her; and he lied all while doing so. Above all else, Lonnie regarded her as a hapless, helpless girl. She's incapable of thinking for herself; she cannot defend herself.

     But he used to be nice. Or did he ever?

    "You are out of control."

     Perhaps what twisted the knife is the lack of exclamation. Lonnie didn't embellish it. The manner in which it was uttered was ingenuous. This is the most truthful he has ever been. To call her a monster is to air veracity. If he'd yelled, gnashed his frothed fangs, then Lorelei might've believed he had the capacity to apologize. When he pulled out the sanguinary blade, Lonnie didn't wish her anything. He left like a coward. If she's the kicked, rabid dog, he's the cur.

     Lorelei collapses where she stands. She couldn't make it to her bed merely a foot away. Strength has forsaken her. Brittle bones and unsound mind. It's her birthday and all she can do is allow herself to fall. Pathetic, maybe that's what Lonnie'd think. She doesn't know him. She realizes, she never did.

     Sleep was an afterthought. It did not come gracefully. Really, it didn't come at all. Lorelei tried to curl into herself, but no spot was comfortable. If she laid on her back, her gaze fixed on the ceiling and the enchanting starry scape winking above. That made her sick. Lonnie promised her the world; he gave her a constellation amidst the intricately arranged stars. He vowed the world and gave her hell. No blanket could offer warmth.