AN: Prompts will be displayed at the bottom to avoid them potentially giving away things.
WARNINGS: Murder Mention/Suicide Mention
Danger, Danger (Murders Innement)
AlwaysPadfoot
November 2017
Harry Potter groaned when the compass on his bedside started spinning wildly in the middle of the night.
He pulled the duvet up over his head, hoping that he could simply block it out and go back to sleep. When he couldn't, he reached out and groped around on the bedside table for the compass. In the process of doing so, he managed to knock his phone onto the floor and then the book he'd been reading.
"Ah, shit."
Giving in, Harry tossed the duvet aside and switched his bedside lamp on, fumbling for his glasses.
After adjusting to the sudden light, Harry picked up the compass and scowled as the hand spun uncontrollably. The compass had been his father's; he used to take it on digs with him and long hikes in the Lake District.
Now it was his. He only wished he hadn't inherited it so early in his life.
Harry still didn't understand why it spun round unexpectedly, mind. He couldn't remember his father ever mentioning anything when he was young; then again, that had been a long time ago.
Deciding to go to the bathroom, since he was already up, Harry stretched his arms above him.
That was when he heard it — a strangled scream.
Harry stiffened and then stood, striding across to the window. Across the street, the porch light of number one was flickering. The door was wide open. His eyes, however, were drawn to the front garden. Knelt in the grass was Mr Diggory, one of three who lived in the house opposite.
His nightshirt was drenched in blood. Harry's eyes widened and then Mr Diggory let out a strangled cry, curling forward.
"No," he howled. "No. My Pam, Pam. C—Cedric."
"Oh, shit," Harry muttered. "Shit."
Frozen in fear, Harry watched as Amos Diggory suddenly noticed he was holding a knife.
"Uncle Vernon!" Harry shouted upon seeing the man raise the knife into the air. "Uncle Vernon!"
He couldn't drag his eyes away as he heard a thunderous noise behind him as Uncle Vernon stomped down the corridor. The door slammed open behind him.
"What is it, boy?!" Vernon spat. "You've woken the whole house..."
"Mr Diggory," Harry whispered.
Vernon's hand clamped down on Harry's shoulder, but before he could yell at him, he spluttered. His eyes too were focused on the man now bleeding out on the path across from their house.
Uncle Vernon swore under his breath. "Petunia, Petunia!"
"What is it, Vernon?" Aunt Petunia's voice was shrill and concerned.
Harry felt himself trembling as Uncle Vernon yelled back in response: "Call the police! It's happening again."
Eleven Months Later
"Stay out of my room!"
Harry's head snapped up to look through his open window. To his alarm, he saw a red-haired girl on the driveway of number one. She was giving the middle finger to two identical-looking redheads leaning out of an upstairs window.
"Of course, Ginny," they chorused.
The girl huffed, grabbed her bike, which was leant against the fence, and walked it down the path, ignoring the grinning twins.
A family had moved into the Murder House?! How could anyone happily move into a house where multiple murders had happened — especially considering that one had happened in the last year?
Dudley had recounted all the rumours the morning after Harry had been woken in the night.
Apparently, in the early 1900s, there had been a vicious break-in and the whole family had been slaughtered. Anyone who'd moved in following that had come to a particularly sticky end. Either way, when Harry had googled it, he'd learnt for sure that moving into number one was fatal for anyone.
"Watch it." A new voice drifted in through the window on an autumnal breeze. "Honestly, Gin."
Harry's attention moved to the source of the voice. His gaze fell upon a tall redhead with headphones in. He wore grey jeans and a faded sweatshirt, and Harry's eyes lingered on the boy. A similar age to Harry, the boy's red hair caught the sun as he ran a hand through it. He was frowning at the girl, Ginny, who had clearly brushed past him.
"Whatever, Ronald," she snapped. "Just get those two assholes to stay out of my room."
Ronald clearly didn't hear her. He waved her off and turned, walking up the pathway.
Harry couldn't keep his eyes off him.
"For God's sake, Harry," he scolded himself. "Stop crushing on straight guys; you know that never works out."
Having abandoned the maths homework he was supposed to be doing, Harry watched Ron and then just the house in general. They must have moved in whilst he'd been at sixth form. Spinning his pen between his fingers, he wondered whether there was any way to warn the new family, or whether he was destined to see them come to a horrific end like those before them.
Biting his lip, he was about to go over and find an excuse to talk to them when he heard the familiar whizzing sound of his father's compass.
It was brief, but undeniable.
Harry took it out of his pocket and placed it on the table, frowning intently. It was as though it sensed the danger that was to come. "Why do you really keep spinning?"
"Stop talking to yourself, loser."
Harry spun and tossed a paper ball across at Dudley, who was standing just inside the door.
"Fuck you, Dudley. Stay out of my room."
The Next Day
It was distinctly colder than it had been for a while when Harry left the house the next morning.
Whilst it was cold enough to see his own breath, Harry found himself in for a surprise as he reached the bottom of the front garden. Across the street, the front door opened.
Ronald, the boy from yesterday, stepped out. He had a scarf tightly wound around his neck and his hands buried in the pockets of his bomber jacket. He called goodbye over his shoulder and started towards the gate. It was at that point he clocked Harry leaving his house.
Harry raised his hand. "Hey there! You heading to Hogsmeade Sixth Form?"
You dork, Potter.
"Uh, yeah," he responded as Harry crossed over the road. "You go there too?"
"Yup," Harry responded. "I'm Harry."
"Ron." The boy fell into step beside him as they walked in the direction of Sixth Form. "You lived here long?"
"Since I was six. Where were you before this?"
"You heard of Ottery?" Harry shook his head and Ron didn't look surprised. "It's okay. No one ever has. We used to live there until Dad found this place."
Ron jerked his thumb back in the direction of the Murder House before sliding his hands back into his pockets.
It was up close that Harry could see how the blue of his scarf brought out his eyes and how the freckles stood out against his pale cheeks. That being said, he tried not to stare.
"Oh, why the move?" Harry asked curiously.
"Because our old house was too small for six, and this place was so cheap. Dad said it was probably our only chance to have a house that fitted us all in," Ron explained.
"Six. Woah, big family."
"Six now; we used to be nine until my older brothers moved out."
Harry couldn't imagine what living with that many siblings was like. He'd only ever lived with his cousin and Dudley was an asshole. Ron smiled at the surprised expression on Harry's face. Obviously, he was used to shocking people with that fact.
"What?" Harry asked — even though he'd already guessed.
"It just never gets tiring telling people my parents had seven kids." Ron laughed. "So, what do you study, like, at college?"
Their conversation descended into the standard get-to-know-you questions and small talk. Harry was happy about that because Ron was sweet and every so often, he'd get a pleasant waft of the boy's aftershave. He didn't want their walk to end.
At Sixth Form, Harry offered to show him to the office, just to stay longer with his new neighbour.
As they went their different ways a little while later, a ball of dread swelled inside of Harry's chest. Ron — his funny, good-looking new neighbour — was potentially in the middle of a fatal mistake made by his father. He couldn't let Ron and his family die. Especially not now he'd read up on the house that stood on the plot of number one.
He had to do something.
No more murders in the Murder House.
QLFC, Round 11 - CHASER 3: American Horror Story [2. (dialogue) "Stay out of my room!", 7. (word) fatal, 9. (object) compass]