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Hand shaking in his excitement and anticipation, he picks up the remote, shifting through the channels frantically for the right one.
Today is the day. His favourite idol, the love of his life, is finally having a live interview.
His beautiful, mysterious, Harry — who is part of the dance group ‘The Golden Trio’ — loves his privacy. Though, that doesn’t dispel him from finding out everything he can about him.
The other two of the group pale in comparison to the light that Harry emits. His dark, unruly hair that you just want to tug on; his bright, emerald green eyes that stare straight through your soul; his sun-kissed complexion that makes him looked favoured by the Sun God.
He inhales sharply, blood rushing into his pants, and he gulps audibly.
Finally, he finds the right channel, attention immediately honing in on a shy looking and apprehensive Harry as the host of the show starts her usual greeting to the audience.
He ignores her, transfixed on how ethereal his angel looks in casual clothing, as if the black shirt and blue jeans he is wearing were hand stitched by the most reputable seamstresses in the world.
The host turns to Harry. “So, Harry, how are you feeling about being here tonight?” She says, leaning in close. He feels irritation building up at how unashamed that hussy host is.
His Harry chuckles, scratching the back of his neck in what he knows is Harry’s usual nervous tic. “Well, I sure am honoured.”
He sighs happily. His Harry really is too kind — this whole show is beneath him, yet he still finds time out of his busy schedule to display some of his life to lowly people.
He glances at the ‘The Golden Trio’ poster he has. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley’s faces both crossed out with black ink, making the sole focus of it being Harry.
“Oh, you charmer!” The host titters, smiling wide. “Now, many people have wondered this question, and we pray you are amenable to answer.” She begins.
“Ask away and I’ll answer to the best of my abilities.” Harry says nonchalantly, but he can tell Harry is already uncomfortable. He scoffs. He would never allow his Harry to ever get uncomfortable.
“How was your childhood?” The host drops her voice, and the audience lets out a chorus of “ooo’s”.
Harry seems to deliberate over answering it, and he feels himself leaning closer to the screen, all senses focused on what his Idol will say.
A few moments pass, and it’s looking like Harry won’t answer, but then he does. And what is said boils his blood.
“My childhood… wasn’t happy. You know, I would love to say I was cared for in a loving home, but sadly I wasn’t.” Harry swallows, hands clasping together. “My parents — they died when I was only one year old, and I had to live with my Aunt and Uncle. They never wanted to take care of me, however, and forced me to do all the chores, and made me sleep in a cupboard under the stairs.”
A loud collection of gasps runs through the audience, and the host looks guilty. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that at such a young age… What about your time in school?”
The grim expression leaves his Harry’s face, and the pounding in his head dissipates somewhat at the dreamy far-off look that spreads on Harry’s face.
“Before my parents died, they registered me into a prestigious boarding school up in the Scottish highlands,” His smile became wider, light re-entering his beautiful green eyes. “And that is where I met Hermione and Ron.”
The interview goes on, and he makes sure to jot down every piece of information, but an incessant pounding drums in the back of his mind continuously.
Harry’s relatives had dared to abuse him, to use him as a slave, and curse him to sleep in a cupboard. He feels a vein pop in his temple, his jaw so tight he suspects he will break a molar.
He has to do something, he has to punish those vile creatures. He glances at his laptop, mind made up.
—
He silently moves through the front garden of Number 4 Privet drive, knife hidden in his hoodie pocket. He stares at the rose bushes momentarily, eyes cataloging how crisp and normal they look — a sheer contrast to what went on in these walls years ago.
He steps up the small stone steps, and he pounds roughly on the white, clean, front door.
A grumble comes from beyond the door, and he hears multiple latches come undone. When the front door finally opens, he is met by an ugly whale.
“We don't buy—“ The huge blubber of a man is cut off when he pushes in, his hand pulling the knife out of his pocket.
“What are you—?!” He kicks the front door shut and slices, aiming for what he assumes is the walrus’ neck. Blood instantly squirts out, causing his Idol’s uncle to splutter and fall backwards, the purple making way for a pale blue.
The fall causes a vase to fall and shatter, shards landing onto the whale’s face. Within all the commotion, a skinny woman comes rushing downstairs, wrapped in a towel.
His Harry’s aunt lets out a shrill scream, immediately dropping onto her knees, her wrinkly hands frantically holding over the gash on her husband’s neck.
He sneers, stalking closer, brandishing the now stained knife.
“W—What do you want from us?!” Harry’s aunt screams, hysterically crying at this point. “P—Please spare m—me.”
A cruel smile makes its way onto his face, and he enjoys the way Harry’s aunt breathing hitches. He knows he’s handsome, has been told that countless times, and it isn’t missed in the way Harry’s aunt blushes involuntarily.
He leans down, knee digging into Harry’s uncle’s stomach, deliberately drilling down harshly. The walrus lets out a pitiful moan, his skin already becoming deathly grey.
Suddenly, he shoots his hand up and grips the woman’s wet hair, relishing in the way she lets out a pained whine.
“Spare you? Did you ever think to spare Harry?” He growls, and the woman’s eyes light up in recognition at the name, before dulling, knife plunged deep into her bare chest.
He releases his grip, watching as she slumps to the floor, body limp. He steps back, a feeling of satisfaction washing over at a job well-done.
He takes time in removing all traces of his being there, even goes so far as to use the lawnmower to break up the knife.
Job done, he pulls a camera from his pocket — his phone being too risky to use — and snaps a photo of the bodies.
He exits the house, leaving the door open, absentmindedly wafting the picture to let the image appear.
He grins, wiping a stray drop of blood off his hand. His Harry will be so grateful.
—
A knock comes at his door.
Confused, he sits up from where he had been lounging on the couch, snack wrappers littered around him after his binge.
He wasn’t expecting anyone today — or any packages. Wiping crumbs off his shirt, he opens the door, but no one is there.
He looks down and sees a non-descript box, he tilts his head, curiosity peaked. He’s used to getting packages from a certain person who likes to call themselves “His saviour”, so it must be from him; especially since only their fanmail is sent directly to his address.
He picks up the box, bringing it into the house. He sets it down on the kitchen counter, and he grabs a boxcutter to slice it open.
What is inside is a singular photo, he squints and picks it up.
A shiver runs down his spine when he sees what’s in the picture. Two dead bodies, the male with his neck sliced open, and the woman unclothed and a hole in her sternum.
He feels sick. Why would anyone send him this?! He gasps, dread overwhelming him when he realises who the two people are.
Petunia and Vernon Dursley.
His eyes snap to a short sentence written on the photo, his whole body quivering with fear and unease.
‘Courtesy of your saviour.’