He quickly gathered his things from his room, resisting the urge to plunge into the sheets and sniff Harry's smell. He left all of his books in the room, since he was sure that Harry would absolutely adore them and make good use of them – or, at least he would use them in any way that he thought would be appropriate. Holding Timmy in his basket with his hands, he exited the room, double-checking if someone was walking by.

                Liam would be furious, because how had Louis dared leaving and messing up his show? Angie would probably break his bones one by one for hurting Harry. And Harry would probably wish to not see him again.

               He felt tears filling up his oceanic eyes again, but managed to stop the flow. This was no time for feeling emotional or going back; however, promised to himself that he would just sneak peak through one of the back doors, just to see Harry one last time before leaving, to watch him perform on the stage that he so much loved.

                  Louis slowly pushed the curtains on the left side of the main stage, and his heart clenched with what he saw; his gorgeous, cherubic, little Harry, all dressed up like a porcelain doll, dancing and singing on stage with over a hundred men cheering for him. However, something seemed wrong – his voice did not sound deep or sultry, nor did he look like he was putting much effort in his moves. While turning around for a spin, Louis caught a glimpse of several fairly new bruises marking up his thighs and a scratch on his skin that the makeup couldn't cover.

                   Rage swallowed his soul, and he would have surely run onto that stage and grabbed Harry's hand, bringing him into their room to protect him and heal him, if the front entrance of the circus hadn't busted open with such force that the musician hadn't stopped playing the piano.

                  "There it is!" an old, bulky male hurled with fury, pointing his finger directly at the confused Harry on stage, "That fuckin' witch!" he indicated 'the witch' with his other hand that held a long, shiny knife. Its sharp point twinkled underneath the lightning of the stage.

                   The people who created the crowd began shouting in panic. The sound of chairs being pushed away, tables being flipped around, glasses breaking and cutlery clicking against the marble plates as they reached the floor. The man who had so abruptly entered the place had brought along several other similar men and women who held dangerous weapons, their eyes locked on Harry who stood frozen from the shock in the middle of the stage.

                   "You skank!" another man screamed at the top of his lungs. The mob began moving towards Harry, pushing past terrified customers who had either run away or found shelter underneath the tables. "You fuckin' monster!"

                  Louis could feel his heart pounding in his ears – they hurt. He looked around, desperate to see someone from the circus to hold back these people who were threatening to kill Harry. When his eyes landed on Liam and Niall, however, who stood at the back of the room, hiding behind a curtain, he realized that no one was willing to save him. Liam was talking to someone, probably telling him or her to grab his belongings and abandon his business, while Niall stood frozen, much like Harry, unable to move or act in any way to protect him.

                  The mob was slowly getting closer to Harry, who still remained rigid on his feet, but had brought up his hands around his waist to cover himself, a weak attempt to protect his body from any knives that were about to pierce it.

                "T-tell me, you harlot," one seethed through his teeth in anger, climbing up the stage and approaching Harry with a small pocketknife, shiny and ready to cut, "Did it feel nice? Did you like it when you killed those people? Did your cock get nice and hard?" his fingers curled through Harry's hair, pushing his head up so that the pale skin of his neck was exposed. And yet Harry remained on his feet, not moving an inch, not speaking a word, not making a sound.

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