His first thought is that it's very Harry Potter-esque.
November 1st, 9:37 a.m.
In a small studio apartment above a meat shop in Chelsea, a boy in his early twenties is awoken by his cell phone beeping three times, signalling a new voicemail. He groans and stretches like an overgrown cat – yawning like one, too – and blindly tosses his arm out, searching for the damned device. Finding it between the sheets, he presses play.
Right away he recognises the sound of a girl crying – no, sobbing hysterically. It's difficult to understand what she's saying and he has to repeat the message four times before he's springing from the bed and stumbling into a pair of pants.
Despite living in New York for six and a half years, he can't flag down a taxi to save his life. Weaving in and out of the mass of people on the street, he reaches the subway and all but throws his credit card to the woman selling tickets. The train, which departs in less than two minutes, takes twenty-three minutes to get to Manhattan, plus the six minute walking distance to the apartment complex. At 9:52, he should be there by 10:23.
He can't sit still for the entire trip, whether it be bouncing his leg or tapping his fingers – which earns him a glare from the elderly couple across the aisle. His hands shake as the man in the hat asks for his ticket; he always gets nervous riding the subway, thinking that somehow he dropped his ticket and will be kicked off the train. However, that's not the reason for his trembling today. The man in the hat notices his anxiety and pats him on the shoulder. It doesn't help.
November 1st, 10:33 a.m.
The entire block is swarmed by police cars, ambulances, and bystanders. He tries not to notice the coroner's cart, but fails. His stomach drops. The girl from the voicemail finds him in the crowd. Her eyes are red, her cheeks are puffy, and her hair is messier than usual – which is definitely not intentional. She takes his hand and leads him to the entrance of the building where a policeman gives her a solemn nod and lets them past the yellow caution tape.
Three flights of stairs and one nearly unhinged door later, he's close to throwing up. The walls are covered in splattered blood and slight dents; he assumes they're from someone – or something – getting thrown against the wall. The girl from the voicemail squeezes his fingers and he focuses on the contact instead of the broken furniture and ripped paintings.
But nothing compares to the sight around the corner.
The boy who loved the ocean is on the floor in the living room, stomach completely shredded and hair coated in a mixture of blood and dusty plaster. A silver kitchen knife rests on his fingertips, as if he'd been clutching it before he died. The worst part is probably his unseeing, though still impossibly sea green eyes.
A sound bursts from his lips – something between a groan and a scream – and he just about falls to the ground. The girl from the voicemail catches him before he does. An EMT with a kind smile leads him to the back room, warning him of something worse to come.
In front of a baby's crib, the girl with the princess curls is also dead, head bashed in and face frozen in an expression of sheer terror. She's not as bloody as the boy – her husband – but her leg looks snapped in half, two pieces of bone visible through skin.
This time he does throw up.
November 1st, 8:16 p.m.
After he emptied the contents of his stomach into a potted plant, the kind-smiled EMT helped him through the apartment and down the stairs, sitting him down on a park bench and placing a blanket around his shoulders. He watched everything else from across the closed-off street.
The blue eyed rebel arrived at about noon, demanding to see her best friend and cousin. He heard a tortured scream a few minutes later and was soon joined by another blanketed figure.
The previous amnesiac was away on business and had to be informed of the incident – (such an insignificant word for such a tragic occurrence) – over the phone. Having been close with the girl with the princess curls, he was just as crushed as everyone else.
The gangly third boy in their trio cried for at least six hours, if not more.
No one knew what to tell the boy's mother. So no one did.
November 2nd, 11:01 a.m.
Apparently in their will, the couple left the custody of their daughter to him. He wishes he could question it – ask them why. Actually, he wishes he didn't have to ask them at all. He wishes they were still alive.
The stony-faced lawyer hands over a box of undamaged things from the apartment and slams the door on his way out. Inside is a solar system mobile, a stuffed giraffe, and a dozen or so toys and books. He spreads the toys about the room and sets the little girl on the carpet, leaving her up to her own devices. She's a quiet thing, with curly blonde hair like her mother's and sea green eyes like her father's.
His back against the wall, he slides down to the ground and pushes his palms against his eyes until he sees spots.
His first thought is that it's very Harry Potter-esque.
His second is that he's a cross between Sirius Black and the Dursleys – an image almost too scarring to conjure up.
And his third thought is that Harry Potter is a story, this is his reality, and he's never wanted to switch two things more.
A/N: merry christmas, eh? (forget fluff – you guys get angst)
Disclaimer: characters belong to RSquared and Harry Potter belongs to the fabulous Jo Rowling
Note: I seem to be allergic to dialogue and canonical character names
Note #2: this is in Leo's POV, if you couldn't tell