Chapter Text
Harry jerks awake with a start.
He lies silently on his bed for a minute, confused and blinking to the ceiling, wondering what woke him up. Then the alarm starts screaming, and Harry would’ve buried his head under the pillow, playing deaf until the dame thing eventually dies down on its own if he hasn’t already learnt firsthand that it won’t.
He grumbles, slips out of bed and into his slippers. It’s the third time this month his new alarm system goes mental midnight and wakes him (along with every other living beings within ten miles) up. Harry only agreed to buy it because the neighborhood committee strongly suggested, aka demanded, him to—for his own safety, obviously—and the woman lives next door coaxed him in so they could all get a discount for group purchase. A compromise was made to save him from a good hour of unwavering persuasion, but now Harry deeply regrets his decision. Even if the woman next door teams up with the sales man, they cannot possibly be as loud as his new alarm.
Harry has never met something quite so paranoid as this system. First it went off at 3 a.m. because an early bird landed on his balcony (Harry admitted it was a very big bird when he checked, but then again, IT’S A BIRD!), then because he forgot to close his window before going to bed, and it slapped shut by wind and successfully set off the sensitive bastard with a not even loud bang. Not to mention all those times when it suddenly began beeping at nothing in the middle of the day, forcing Harry to return home early only to turn off the false alarm.
He has no idea what it is this time. Maybe the fat bird comes back for a return visit.
Harry rubs at his eyes with a grimace. He’s had a long day, and he needs to go in early the next morning. Harry checks the pad they gave him, and a little blinking light shows that there’s an ‘intruder’—Harry shakes his head at the screen—on his balcony.
If it’s a raccoon, Harry wants it to know he’s not above punching baby animals in the face at this point.
He drags himself to the balcony with murder schemes in his mind. He reaches out to unlock the door, except it’s already open. It’s strange; Harry remembers locking it earlier.
There’s something on the carpet too. Harry squints in the dark—something liquid and black, like oil. For god’s sake, he probably has to wash the whole carpet for this. Harry kneels down with a grumble and brushes his finger against the stain. His fingertips come back with a slight slimy touch. Harry sniffs at it, and the realization hits him like a truck.
It’s blood.
Harry’s whole body goes cold. Slowly gets to his feet, he's not sure what to do. The alarm is still shrieking without mercy, doesn’t at all give a shit about all the people around who are sleeping. Harry traces the bloodstain; It goes from his study to the balcony, crossing the (curiously) open door where carpet gives way to floor tiles, and keeps going until it vanishes behind the railing. It’s third floor up here, Harry hopes whatever the intruder is did not fall down to its death.
Or, a voice in his head helpfully prompts, it could be the other way around.
Harry turns back so quickly, he almost gives himself a whiplash. Something squirms in the dark, deep in his study, hiding under the shadow of Harry’s bookshelves. Something big and hunched and definitely not a raccoon.
“Turn it off,” the shadow hisses.
It’s a man’s voice, coarse and rough, like he hasn’t spoken for a long time. Harry freezes, hands still holding in the air, blood cooling down on his finger.
“Turn it off!” the voice demands again, more urgently this time, “now!”
Harry is calmer than he gives himself credit for. “Okay.” he walks backwards into the balcony, eyes fixed on the breathing shadow. Night air licks coldly at his skin, sending a chill down Harry’s spine. He fumbles without looking away, fingers searching for the off-button. A simple click to kill the alarm, and all dies down.
The silence screams even louder.
Harry stands alone on his balcony, hands holding defensively in front of his body. He can hear the hard, sharp thrusts of the other man’s breathing even from out here, and Harry wonders how he missed it in the first place.
Something else slices through the silence of the night, grabbing Harry’s attention. “That way!” someone’s shouting from afar, voice obscured by the distance, but is becoming louder and clearer by the second, “go find him!” From the way the shadow’s breaths hitches, he hears it too.
The shouting comes from the street below. Harry risks a glance back over his shoulder, and sees a bunch of dark figures running down the street, splitting up at a crossroad and heading different directions. Two of them are coming this way. Harry turns back to the shadow.
The shadow stirs, lets out a shaky breath, and steps forward. It’s only a small step, but enough for the lamp light to catch him.
It's a young man.
There’s blood on his face, and a nasty scratch sprawling on the side of his cheek. His cloths a mess beyond redemption, ragged and dirty, impossible to tell the original color under all the layers of blood and dirt. He clutched at his left arm, and leaned strangely on one leg; a small pool of blood already forming around his shoe. He’s pale, only color besides red on his face comes from the warm orange light of street lamp.
He looks no more than 25. “Please hide me,” the young man whispers.
Damn.
How Harry wishes it's a raccoon.