Prologue

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Hey, it's Claire Bear, here to publish Sadie's next masterpiece.  

You know how she once mentioned to you lot in "Dreaming in Music" that she was writing a Larry Stylinson Fan Fic?  Well, she had time to finish it before she passed away, and I'm so glad she was able to, because I read through it, and I honestly had tears pouring down my face.  It reminded me so much of her, the stlye of writing, how much she loved Larry, just everything.  I hope you guys love it as much as I do!

This is Larry fic, so if you're uncomfortable with this kind of thing, please don't continue reading.  The last thing I or Sadie would have wanted is to offend anyone.  This story also contains language and possible triggers.  Thank you!

All works are copyrighted under the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.  This Includes all chapter, prologues/epilogues and associated content.  Any unauthorized copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution or selling of this work constitutes as an infringement of this copyright.  And infringement of this copyright is punishable by law.

We not own One Direction, their songs, their tour manager, their girlfriends, or anything/anyone associated with The X Factor, Syco Records, or Modest Management.  All else is owned and copyrighted.

Without futherado, I give you "When Harry Met Louis!"

Love, Claire Bear xxxxx

❡❡❡

In the Year of 2002

Bounce. 

Harry hated his parents.  

Bounce. 

He’d never forgive them.  

Bounce. 

Not in a thousand years. 

Bounce. 

What they’d done was inexcusable.  

Bounce. 

Unforgivable.  

Bounce.  Bounce.  Bounce. 

Clenching his teeth, he slammed the faded, lifeless football against the deteriorating maroon brick, hoping that maybe, if he kicked hard enough and grew angry enough, he might just kick the ball right through it, sending small, rust-colored bits of rock flying and whizzing around his feet.  He glared at the unpleasant shade of red through narrowed eyes, his jaw set as the ball bounced off the rough, cracked surface for what must have been the billionth time. 

Despite his endless protestations and claims that his life would be over once he crossed the threshold, they had buckled him into his booster seat and driven nearly two hundred and fifty miles from Harry’s home and safe haven, Eastbourne, to this hell of a town.  He had known he would hate the place before he had even arrived, and once he did, it only seemed to make matters worse.  He had struggled with the strap of his seat belt, scrambled out of the car, and plopped down in the grimy dirt and dust before gazing around, furrowing his blonde eyebrows, and asking, Where’s my beach? 

Harry had practically lived at the beach in Eastbourne.  Where had he taken his first steps?  Where had he finally let out a bubbly giggle, jabbed a finger in the direction of their small, red house, and hiccuped his first word, “Cat?”  Where had his father, someone he had not seen in over a year, taught him how to spell his name, his stubby, peachy little finger trembling as he carved an ‘H’ into the sand?  The majority of his childhood belonged to that familiar, beautiful beach, and now, they were leaving it behind as simply as one would toss a piece of rubbish into the waste bin. 

His rosy lips puckered with disapproval as his mother explained gently that here, there was no beach; that they would have to travel nearly fifty miles to visit the ocean.  

Things are going to be different, she had said, her hand on the young child’s shoulder.  

But I don’t want things to change, he’d insisted, folding his gangly arms tightly across his chest and stomping his foot.  

Now, Harry, it’s not about you, is it? His stepfather had scolded him sharply.  Small, salty tears welling in his eyes, and, his lower lip jutting out in a severe pout, he had fled for the car, kicking up dirt and dust as he did so, and clambered back into his seat, buckling the belt himself.  

Turn around, he had requested firmly.  I want to go back home.

 Now, here he stood, weakly nudging the old , deflated football and watching with grim satisfaction as it pounded into the ugly, brick wall.  Ever since his stepfather had driven him past that road sign, that sign that had changed everything, his life had never been the same.  He may have been young, but Harry knew what happiness was, having experienced it in the sandy beaches of Eastbourne, and he knew that it hadn’t followed him to this wreck of a town. 

He hated that brick.  He hated every brick in the wall.  He hated every wall in the house.  He hated that house.  He hated it more than he hated his inconsiderate, disrespectful parents, who had decided that he, Harry, would be living in that house for the next ten years of his life.  They knew Harry hated it, knew he loathed that house with every fiber of his small, eight-year-old body. 

A sob rising in his throat, he sat down cross-legged on his dried, yellow lawn, even uglier, perhaps, than the brick wall.  He put his blonde head in his hands and began to cry.  Life was surely taking a turn for the worst in this nightmare; this lonely, unheard of, unseen hell of a town. 

Holmes Chapel.

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