Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Ten Years Ago

The England weather was ghastly. No more than usual for it being a rain-washed December afternoon, mind you, but one that brought a melancholy emotion to an already joyless occasion. The sky hung low over London like a shroud of gray cotton, heavy with unshed tears that mirrored the grief that should have been present in St Paul's Cathedral but wasn't. Rain lashed against the ancient stone walls in relentless sheets; each drop a tiny drumbeat playing a somber rhythm for the departed.

Syco Entertainment's founder Simon Cowell lay dead in a simple mahogany-shined casket at the head of St Paul's Cathedral—one of the largest churches in London, though today its vast emptiness made it feel more like a tomb than a house of worship. The cathedral, usually alive with the murmurs of tourists and the echo of choir practice, was unnervingly still. The silence of the dimly lit chapel was so profound that one could hear the downpour outside clicking against the roof and stained-glass windows, a natural percussion that underscored the artificial quiet within.

The air inside carried the scent of old stone, melting wax, and the faint metallic tang of funeral flowers arranged with clinical precision rather than genuine care. Light struggled through the rain-streaked windows, casting distorted colors across the stone floor—blues and reds and golds that seemed almost obscene in their beauty against the backdrop of death. Shadows stretched like grasping fingers from the vaulted ceilings, making the already cavernous space feel even more vast and empty.

Inside the Cathedral at the front by the coffin stood six souls, all with the same emotion one possibly could express at such a daunting time—or perhaps, six different variations of the same hollow numbness. The Bishop, the priest, Louis Tomlinson, Liam Payne, and two graveyard keepers that would ultimately transport the body to its final resting place outside in the courtyard. They stood like isolated islands in an ocean of empty pews, each lost in their own private thoughts while sharing this moment of profound solitude.

According to Simon's final arrangement in the letter of his last rights, he wanted to be buried in the wealthier section of Kensal Green in a mausoleum. Unfortunately for him, his wife had depleted his net worth with her own selfish desires and in turn the plot had been neglected to be paid. That left Tomlinson as the primary benefactor and he would be damned if he was paying £1,000,000 pounds for an extravagant funeral. Louis had made that decision with the cold precision of a businessman cutting costs, not as a grieving successor honoring a mentor.

So here they were: no music, no decorations and the cheapest coffin next to a pine box that could be purchased. The only thing Louis Tomlinson did for his successor was hold the funeral in the cathedral and that was only because he had enough respect to honor one of his final requests—which also happened to be the cheapest. The mahogany coffin, while handsome in its simplicity, seemed almost an insult in this grand setting—a modest boat in an ocean of stone and expectation.

He cleared his throat loudly, the sound echoing off the acoustics of the walls and vibrating back to the other five occupants like an accusation. The noise seemed to startle them all, including Louis himself, as if he'd forgotten they were there at all.

Liam, who was positioned at the foot of Simon's coffin, turned toward his friend with a frown, wondering why he would interrupt the proceedings of the priest, but then again—no one had been saying anything to begin with as they were the only ones to show up for final respects. The silence had stretched so long that Liam had found himself counting the water drops running down the stained-glass windows, each one a tiny tragedy hitting the stone floor below.

The priest, who had finished the final eulogy a few moments prior, stood awkwardly at the front and overlooked the endless rows of unoccupied seats. His hands were clasped tightly in front of his simple black robes, fingers white with pressure as if he were trying to hold back words that might never come. His eyes kept darting toward the main doors, as if expecting more mourners to arrive even now, late but present. But the doors remained closed, and the rows stayed empty.

It was almost disheartening that the music mogul's wife, nor son, attended to wish him a final farewell; but then again, that's what happens when you are despised by virtually everyone, even one's own gold-digging family. The absence of family spoke louder than any eulogy could have—a testament to a life lived in pursuit of success at the expense of love, of connections built on contracts rather than genuine affection.

"I'm a bit surprised, truthfully," Louis began, his toneless utterance causing the vibrations to reiterate back to the small gathering. His cerulean eyes were as cold as ice while glancing over the wooden pews, the blinding white walls with decorated holy statues and comforting shelter of the stained glass that kept meddlesome noses from prying into the affairs of others that came to grieve. His voice carried no emotion, no inflection that might betray any underlying feeling. It was the voice of a businessman reading a quarterly report, not a man speaking at his mentor's funeral.

If Louis could feel sorrow to mourn for his successor, he would. If he could feel anything but the icy water that constantly circulated in his veins, he'd gladly offer it in place of the nothingness that haunted him now. Ten years had passed since that last Christmas, the one that had broken him so completely that pieces of himself had never been found again. Sometimes he wondered if those pieces were scattered across the snow-covered ground of that terrible night, or if they had simply dissolved into the tears he could no longer cry.

Grief was something he had been well acquainted with for a very long time and eventually with enough anguish, even the strongest break. Louis was broken and couldn't be bothered to carry that burden anymore—so he didn't. He left it alone as it should have been left when it started and thus, the man that stood there was not the same one as he once was and if he could help it, never would be again. The Louis who had once laughed with abandon, who had loved with his whole heart, who had believed in the magic of Christmas and the promise of forever—that Louis had died on that snowy December night ten years ago, and this empty shell was all that remained.

"That more people weren't here?" Liam questioned softly, not wanting to disturb the atmosphere in such a holy place. He kept his voice low, almost reverent, as if speaking too loudly might wake the ghosts that surely haunted this empty cathedral.

Louis scoffed, the sound harsh and ugly in the sacred space. "No. That his wife didn't come about to make sure he was well and truly dead. I was there when he keeled to the floor, but try telling that to the callow cow." He finished with an eye roll that seemed more genuine than any emotion he'd shown since arriving. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something like anger or maybe just the ghost of what anger used to feel like.

"Heart attack was it? Poor soul." The priest shook his head sadly and looked at the pale face in the coffin that would soon be left to rot. Simon looked smaller in death than he had in life, the sharp edges of his personality smoothed away by whatever final illness or accident had claimed him. His face, usually so animated with either enthusiasm or cutting criticism, was now just a mask of waxen stillness.

Louis chuckled, a dry sound that rattled in his throat like dead leaves. "Aneurysm, actually. One moment he was overlooking the rooftops of the smaller buildings in his penthouse office on the top floor, prattling away about the next big sensation and then the next he just clutched his head, screamed and fell to the ground as dead as a doornail. By the time the emergency service team got to him, well, he was hemorrhaging out his eyes, nose and ears—horrific sight to say the least." Louis recanted, the memory still fresh to him. He remembered the blood—a shocking crimson against Simon's pristine white shirt, like someone had spilled wine on a blank canvas.

Liam's mouth dropped open in astonishment at Louis' blunt description and yet, he said it all with a smile and a wink that never quite reached his eyes. The disconnect between his words and the emptiness in his gaze was unsettling, like watching a poorly made movie where the actor's emotions didn't match the script.

"Louis! That is hardly being appropriate." Liam chastised, adjusting his copper cufflink on his white undershirt, which matched perfectly with the black jacket, pants and shoes he chose for the occasion. Liam had always believed in showing respect, even for those who might not deserve it. It was about principle, about being better than the circumstances might demand.

Louis was far less formal with a baseball cap of his favorite team, a pair of old ripped knee jeans and a Bob Marley shirt with Tom shoes. He looked like he'd stopped by the funeral on his way to a casual lunch, which perhaps he had. The disrespect was almost artistic in its execution—a deliberate middle finger to convention and expectation.

"Sorry. I did not realize there were children under the age of five here to be concerned about." Louis's voice dripped with sarcasm, each word carefully chosen to wound. "Seriously, Liam—if you're going to chastise me for the events I did not bother to sugarcoat, then you needn't concern yourself with showing up for work tomorrow," Louis threatened, gesturing his hand out almost cockily before his tone took on a more indignant hum. "Seeing as Simon Cowell chose me as his successor, I need an assistant to tend to my affairs and we have known one another since private school, yeah?" Louis quirked his eyebrow, finally turning to look at his old friend. The look in his eyes was challenging, daring Liam to argue, to push back, to be something more than the obedient sidekick he'd always been.

Liam gave him a disgruntled look, but merely nodded his head. What else could he do? Louis held all the cards now, and Liam had responsibilities—a mortgage, a kid, a wife who deserved the life they'd built together. Sometimes survival meant compromise, and Liam had learned that lesson well over the years.

Louis concluded with the same gesture. "Good man. Now, seeing as there isn't much else to be done here; I must leave and attend to more important matters. Just because someone dies doesn't mean there isn't profit to be made for today and I must see that the things that earn profit stay at or increase value." The words came out like a business mantra, something he might have repeated to himself in the mirror each morning. "Liam? I will see you tomorrow bright and early at five AM sharp, yes?" Louis asked rhetorically, his footsteps making muffled thuds as he bounded quickly away from Simon's coffin and down the long row of pews to the front door.

Liam gave a sideways wave to his new employer with an almost dread of the schedule they would have, especially with Louis' attention span and his ability to start twenty projects at the same time. Something he could not attest for with Simon. Simon had been demanding but focused—laser-like in his pursuit of success. Louis was scattered, chaotic, like a storm that blew through the office leaving destruction and confusion in its wake.

The story was, when Louis was a young lad of sixteen if Liam recalled correctly; Simon had given Louis his own record label at the very height of his stardom to pass on opportunity and success to other young artists in what he may succeed in the time he had. It had been Simon's way of ensuring his legacy continued, of creating little versions of himself who would carry the torch forward. But Louis had been different then—still full of hope, still believing in dreams, still capable of seeing the magic in music rather than just the numbers on a balance sheet.

Solo artists at that time had about the same shelf life as boybands and Louis realized he needed his foot in the door before opportunity closed. He had been smart, even then—understanding that fame was fleeting, that the bright lights of stardom inevitably dimmed, that the screams of fans eventually faded to silence. But he hadn't counted on tragedy, hadn't anticipated that the universe would have such cruel plans for him.

Alas, despite wanting and getting his own label, not much was done with it. Tragedy had been ever present and it always struck on Christmas. The pattern was almost biblical in its cruelty—each December 25th bringing another loss, another wound that never quite healed until the next one opened fresh. Christmas had become synonymous with pain, with absence, with the ghosts of what might have been.

The heavy oak door slammed shut, bringing Liam out of his troubled thoughts with a heavy sigh. The sound echoed through the empty cathedral like the final note in a sad song.

"He sure is a peculiar sort, isn't he?" The minister spoke, gesturing a sign of the cross toward the door. His hand moved through the air in slow, deliberate motions, as if trying to cast a net of grace over the departing soul.

Liam had a feeling he was doing it purely for the sake of Louis' soul and he doubted that or the purest of holy water would be able to help save it at that point. Louis' soul wasn't just lost—it had been deliberately thrown away, discarded like something unwanted and unnecessary.

"He's troubled, sir. A lot of bad memories for this time of year for him. His family, his son..." Liam murmured, his voice gentle, almost afraid Louis would hear him and come ranting back at him for telling strangers his business. The memories were too painful to speak of, too fresh even after all these years. Some wounds never really closed, they just learned to bleed silently.

"What of his family, what of his son?" The priest asked softly, his weary sadness ever present at the mention of the news Liam related to them. His eyes held a genuine concern that made Liam feel both comforted and exposed. It was the kind of empathy that made you want to confess everything, even things that weren't yours to tell.

Liam looked down at the floor, guilt taking over his thoughts. The stone beneath his feet had absorbed countless confessions over the centuries, witnessed more grief than any human heart could comprehend. What was one more story of pain and loss in the grand scheme of things?

This was neither time nor place for a confession on Louis' behalf and he could not relinquish information so freely without his blessing and he would get one when Hell froze over if Tomlinson had any say about it. Louis guarded his privacy like a dragon guarded its treasure, and Liam had learned the hard way that crossing that line resulted in consequences that lingered long after the initial transgression was forgotten.

"I'm afraid that is not my burden to tell, but I can tell you that his demons are many." Liam's voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. "I fear the worst for him if he doesn't make peace with them or himself." Liam finished, walking a few steps so he was at the edge of the coffin to pay his final respects.

For a moment he simply stared down at the now lifeless corpse that was their former boss. Simon looked surprisingly peaceful in death, all the sharp angles of his personality softened, the perpetual frown that usually creased his brow finally smoothed away. It was strange to see him so still, so quiet. Simon had been motion and sound and energy—infinite, exhausting, overwhelming energy. This stillness felt wrong, like a song that had been cut off mid-verse.

The minister and priest stepped on either side of Liam, both taking to putting a comforting hand on each side of his shoulders. The weight of their hands was grounding, a reminder that he wasn't alone in this moment, that grief, even for someone like Simon, was still a human experience that deserved to be acknowledged.

"You know what's so ironic?" Liam scorned, keeping his eyes unblinking. The men replied nothing, so he simply continued. "That for all the artists and bands Simon made big, not one of them showed to pay their gratitude. Not even the corporate suites whom he helped line their pockets with was enough to take them from their busy schedules." The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. He hadn't realized how much this bothered him, this profound lack of loyalty, this final confirmation that Simon had built an empire of relationships that meant nothing in the end.

The priest nodded in understanding. "Sometimes my son, the work we do for others is far more a greater burden, but we do it because we are driven with the desire to do so. Simon knew what he wanted out of life and he took it without thinking of the consequences that his actions may have. This is the result and it is by far a thankless one at that. He forged his chains in life; he must reconcile with them in death." The words held the weight of countless funerals, of too many lives spent in pursuit of things that ultimately didn't matter.

Liam gave a halfhearted agreement and slowly brought the top of the coffin down with a faint thud. The sound was final, irrevocable. Whatever Simon had been, whatever he had done, whatever he had become—it was over now.

"Goodbye, Mr. Cowell. May you rest in peace." Liam said, making a sign of the cross above. The words felt hollow even to his own ears. Peace was something Simon had never known in life; why should death be any different?

"Amen." The rest followed somberly.

The funeral followed quickly, the men taking Simon's casket to a corner wall grave with a simple headstone laid neatly in front of the freshly dug ground. The rain had let up slightly, but the sky remained gray and heavy, as if the heavens themselves were in mourning. The earth smelled rich and dark, the scent of new death mixing with the ancient scent of the cemetery.

When the coffin was centered into the ground below, the thumps of dirt was the only thing that could be heard—by the living at least. Each shovelful of earth landed with a dull thud that marked the finality of it all. The priest said words, but Liam barely heard them. His mind was elsewhere, thinking of Louis, thinking of the past, thinking of all the Christmases that had gone wrong.

Unknown to the world above, a large ghostly safe weighing at least a ton lay right below the deceased's coffin. It shimmered and shifted like heat haze on summer pavement, its form solid and yet somehow insubstantial, a construct of will and regret rather than physical metal. Inside the ghostly hollow shell of the rusted supernatural metal was a soul—Simon's soul.

His screams of agony continued to echo endlessly. Simon had been begging for days for someone to help him, but the living cannot hear the dead and would most likely not offer assistance even if they could. He was trapped between worlds, neither fully alive nor completely dead, stuck in a purgatory of his own making.

He was damned to be locked in a vault that he had encased around himself decades ago while he was alive and it grew in weight and size every day after. Each deal he'd made, each person he'd betrayed, each compromise of integrity had added to its mass until it became too heavy to move, too vast to escape.

At that present moment, he felt the constant strain of its weight and the endless empty space of what was once his in its hollow belly. It was empty and he had nothing to show for it but a life unlived, a life spent accumulating things that meant nothing when stripped down to the essential truth of existence. The success, the money, the fame—all of it had vanished, leaving only the cold hard reality of what he had become.

It was excruciating, crushing and overwhelming, but the thing Simon felt the most was the heavy chain he had forged in life sutured into his back and attached inside the safe he once held dear. Each link represented a choice, a compromise, a moment when he had chosen the wrong path. The chain was his legacy, his monument, his eternal punishment for a life spent building prisons instead of connections.

It remained that way for ten long years, each day blending into the next in an endless cycle of regret and remorse. The safe grew heavier with each passing year, the chains tighter, the screams more desperate. But no one could hear him, and no one was coming to help.

For Simon Cowell, the price of success had been his soul, and the bill had finally come due.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 – Ten Years, Present

Christmas Eve Morning

The December morning broke over London in shades of pewter and pearl, a thin cold light rinsing the glass towers and skipping across the Thames like a stone that never sank. The streets steamed from last night’s rain; pavements shone the colour of coins, and every exhale from the rush of commuters hung white for a heartbeat before the city breathed it in again. From forty floors up, the movement looked almost choreographed—double-deckers inching, cyclists threading needles between black cabs, a newsagent propping his door with yesterday’s tabloids, steam from his kettle ghosting the window.

Inside Louis Tomlinson’s penthouse office the world felt hermetically sealed. Leather. Gloss. Quiet. The diamond-gold chandelier threw measured facets of light over an ebony desk the size of a dining table, across onyx tiles veined with metallic flecks, onto walls where platinum discs glimmered like a row of medals.

Louis Tomlinson sat in the centre of it, still as sculpture. Arms folded, jaw set, eyes narrowed to that particular winter-blue that meant someone—possibly everyone—was about to suffer. The only sound in the room was the metronome tick of a clock and the soft burr of the city, tamed by glass.

“Liam? Have the girls made it to the video shoot yet?” His voice was clipped, almost bored.

On the other end, silence. Not even breathing. Which meant Liam had pulled the phone from his ear and was making faces like a man bracing for shrapnel.

“Liam.” The second time, softer. Sharper.

Nothing.

Louis’s calm shattered. “LIAM! Why aren’t my girls on set? I don’t pay you to rehearse your quiet breathing—get them there!” The bark bounced off the high ceiling, rattled the crystal in the decanter.

Across from him, the kid in the guest chair flinched so hard he nearly toppled. Sixteen, all elbows and nerves, with straw-blond hair and a heart that hadn’t learned self-preservation yet. Jamie Trenton half-stood, panic snapping his muscles into flight, and made for the door.

Louis tapped a button under the desk. The heavy lock thunked with expensive finality.

“Sit,” he said, without looking. The boy sat.

Finally a small voice arrived down the line. “Sir— Ms. Amherst’s childcare fell through and… her son stopped breathing again. She stayed at the hospital all night. He’s still in a coma.”

Louis rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if appealing to a God he didn’t believe in. “Tell Allure she’s the bread and butter of One3One. If she insists on being late, I’ll claw back every penny I advanced, including the hospital fees I covered when she cried on my carpet. She wants a career? Wonderful. If she wants charity, there’s a vicar two streets over who adores a sob story.”

A beat. “I can’t say that to her, Lou.”

“Of course you can’t.” Louis hung up with neat cruelty and finally let his gaze settle on Jamie, the way a cat notices a bird again once the dog’s been kicked outside.

“Right,” he said, voice sliding from acid to silk. “Where were we?”

Jamie swallowed. “S-sir, I only wanted to know… how much do I actually earn? Like, if three million quid’s worth of music is downloaded— or if one CD per distribution is purchased— what’s my cut?”

A smile not unlike a blade tipped upward at the corner of Louis’s mouth. “Good lad. A head for numbers. If revenue tallies to three million, the boilerplate gives you ten percent of each unit sold. Shows and festivals are add-ons. Now, say you run a year-long tour—stadiums seventy-five to one-hundred percent sold—your baseline from recorded music might land around three hundred thousand after recoupment. The shows? That’s the artery. With merch and VIP you could sniff five million.”

Jamie sat very still, reaction flooding his face before he could hide it. “Five… million?”

“If you don’t cock it,” Louis said mildly. He poured a measure of whisky into a black mug as if it were tea. “And if your cheekbones hold out.”

Jamie’s laughter came out as a squeak. “What if I went… somewhere else?”

“You could. They won’t give you a ten-album deal, and the split will be meaner. You’ve got a golden eighteen months if the single hits. Two years if we time the releases. After that, you’re eating your vegetables and praying you don’t get dropped.” Louis slid a neat stack of papers across the desk; a red pen rested like a small wound on top. “So. Do we have an accord?”

The boy didn’t even blink. “Yes. God, yes.” He signed with shaking hands, his name carving a bright arterial line across the page.

Louis watched him with a satisfaction he never called by name. Another hinge closed. Another cog slotted in. “We’ll be in touch about writing camps,” he said, already half turned back to his notepad.

Jamie stood, clutching his copy to his chest. “Thank you, Mr. Tomlinson. I won’t let you down.”

“You will,” Louis said pleasantly. “But not yet.” He thumbed the lock; the door sighed open. The kid vanished into the corridor like a released balloon.

Louis leaned back and lifted the mug. “Build them up, break them down,” he murmured toward the chandelier. “Name of the game, eh, Simon?”

Down at street level, Christmas had colonized the city. A brass band busked under a dripping awning, coughing carols through cold valves; a vendor turned paper cones of chestnuts with a singe and a smile; schoolkids in too-big scarves dragged harried parents toward a toy shop whose windows snowed soap flakes on the hour. London’s morning had that brittle brightness your teeth feel.

Louis cut through it like a blade through icing. Hands in pockets. Coat unbuttoned despite the wind. A tune, low and amused, under his breath. “I’ve got friends in low places…”

A tap on his shoulder. The bells got him first—tiny, nervous chimes—then the smile.

“Mr. Tomlinson! So sorry to catch you—” She wore an elf costume that tried its best in daylight, felt and sequins and cheer held together by optimism and cold-reddened fingers. A silver bucket knocked coins against itself with every tremble. “I’m collecting for the children’s hospital. Christmas Eve’s our big push. Would you consider—”

“You must be new.” Louis didn’t stop walking; she trotted a half step to keep up. “Simon adored your cause. He’s been dead a decade. I’m not him.”

She blinked, steadied the smile. “We do this every year. The money keeps families together while their children receive treatment— accommodation, hot meals, even small presents on the wards. It means the world to them. Your support would—”

His hand sliced the air, clean as a guillotine. “Let’s skip the pitch. My son didn’t ask to be ill. Your miracles didn’t arrive. Tell me why I should pay you to fail for other people.”

A couple of commuters slowed, then pretended they hadn’t. Her bells chimed again—small, helpless. “Sir, I’m… I’m very sorry for your loss. Truly. But these children—”

“—can pray to God,” Louis said, stepping closer so she had to tilt her chin. “If He wants them alive, He can do the healing. I’m done funding hopelessness dressed as hope.”

Tears pooled without her permission. The bucket bumped her knee; the coins clinked like a tiny yes. “It isn’t hopeless to feed a mum who hasn’t left her child’s bed in two days,” she whispered. “It isn’t hopeless to buy a warm blanket for a baby who shakes between chemo rounds.”

He leaned in, voice soft and savage. “Tell the parents this, luv: if they can’t afford their own children’s lives, maybe the rest of us shouldn’t be paying the bill. Life’s a ledger. Some debts don’t get cleared.”

The bells fell quiet. For a breath the whole street did, too—the band drawing a pause to wet their mouths, a lorry idling at the light, a pigeon tilting its idiot head as if it understood cruelty when it heard it.

“Merry Christmas,” Louis added, making it sound like a verdict, and walked on.

Behind him the crowd closed over her like water.

Deblancheos breathed heat onto the pavement every time the door swung open. Inside was condensation and chatter and the clatter of cups, a chaos that felt almost festive if you didn’t mind people.

Louis minded people.

He slipped in sideways, slid past the patient queue and right up to the counter, a salmon upstream with sharper elbows.

“Morning, Zayla.”

She looked up from wrangling the espresso machine, cheeks high with colour, curls losing the war with a hair tie. “Lou! You’re a menace. Give us a minute, yeah? We’re three deep and down a barista.”

An older man in an army-green coat turned from the front of the line, eyebrows doing all the things his mouth wanted to. “Oi. Back you go, lad. Some of us have manners.”

Louis gave him a sunny pat on the shoulder. “You first, granddad. Time’s limited for your lot.”

Gasps from the nearest tables; a hiss from somewhere in the milk-steam. The old man’s face plum-coloured itself.

Before he could detonate, Zayla slid a coffee and a small white bag across the counter to him with a smile that could knit a wound. “So sorry for your wait, sir. We appreciate your patience.”

He thawed under it. “You’re a marvel, love,” he said, the words soft with a Midlands burr. “My wife’s at St. Bart’s. If I bring her a pastry from here, she says it tastes like when we were first married and broke, which is somehow better than now. Told her I’d be quick.” He lifted the bag as if it were more fragile than it was. “You’ve no idea what this’ll do.”

He turned to Louis not with anger but with a weary kindness that landed like a slap. “Hope you find your kindness, son,” he said. “It’s lighter to carry than whatever that is.” He tipped his chin toward the storm in Louis’s eyes, then headed for the door.

A small smattering of applause crackled from a corner table. Louis rolled his eyes so hard you could’ve heard it.

“Drama society in this morning,” he muttered, and leaned on the counter as if the line did not exist. “My usual.”

Zayla gave him a look that lived somewhere between fond and furious, then got on with making it. She moved with that controlled panic baristas master—left hand steaming, right hand pouring, lips counting orders without sound. When she brought the cup over she tucked a raspberry pastry on the tray as well.

He arched a brow. “You flirting or pitying?”

“Birthday,” she said. “Try being nice to someone. Start with you.”

He took the tray to a corner table that wobbled on one leg and slumped into the chair as if the morning had tried to kill him personally. Zayla came for a minute when the queue thinned, perching on the edge opposite.

“How long you going to work here,” he asked, “when I could have you on a winter catalogue cover by tomorrow? Be honest, you enjoy poverty?”

“I enjoy people,” she said, stirring a coffee she didn’t need to stir. “I like hearing about their days. Makes mine feel… less small. I’ve got a roof, a job, and Fluffadally.”

“That cat’s going to eat your face when you die,” Louis said, taking a brutal bite of pastry. “Models are miserable, yes. But they’re paid to be.”

“Money’s not the point of living.”

“Says the woman whose boyfriend—” He stopped himself half a second too late; the words knifed out anyway. “—killed her two-year-old and got three years because the evidence went for a walk.”

For a heartbeat she didn’t breathe. Then she did. “I work because I care about people, Louis.”

“Spare me the Hallmark.”

“It’s not Hallmark. It’s survival. If I don’t care, I become you.”

He laughed without humour. “Careful. You’ll ruin your apron with all the sanctimony.”

She studied him, head tipped, not offended so much as sad. “You’re loved,” she said simply. “Even if you decide not to be.” She stood, pressed a quick kiss into his hair as if he were a sulking brother, and went back to the machine.

“Bloody women and their bloody logic,” he told the pastry. It didn’t argue.

Behind the bar a second barista appeared, or rather reappeared from where she’d been hiding in plain sight—phone in hand, thumbs a blur, apron on but untied. She looked like someone whose favourite hobby was breaks.

“Thought you were on till eleven,” Zayla said without looking at her.

“Still am,” the girl replied, smile not making it to her eyes. She set the phone face down and picked it up again before gravity finished.

Louis watched the exchange with a predator’s interest. “You,” he said, as if recalling a file. “Wally Wobbles, was it?”

“It’s Mara,” Zayla warned.

“Good for Mara. If this queue’s here tomorrow because your thumbs needed cardio, I’ll be having a word with the owner.” He smiled in a way that meant he would enjoy it. “Two staff on at all times. That’s the rule. The other rule: if Zayla has to run laps while you text, I break your phone. Publicly.”

Mara stared. “You can’t—”

He reached across the counter, plucked the mobile from her hand with magician speed, and laid it back down very gently. “I can do anything I pay for.”

“Louis,” Zayla said, quiet steel. “Enough.”

He held Zayla’s gaze a second longer, then stepped back. “Do your job,” he told Mara, bored again. “Consider it a Christmas miracle.”

He left before he made good on the threat, because some days you choose not to be the story and call it growth.

Outside the café door, On his way out, something in the glass snagged the corner of his sightline and wouldn’t unclaw.

His reflection looked back the way reflections do: same jaw, same mouth, same eyes that could cut. But behind the shoulder blades something had burst through skin. Chains. Thick as a fist, rust-bitten - nearly the colour of dried blood. They were sutured into him—threaded with wire through muscle and bone—and each shift in the glass dragged them, scraping, as if the pane itself had grit. The reflected Louis’s lips were open, stretched around a scream that never reached the pavement. The sound found him anyway; it crawled behind his teeth and vibrated in his sinuses until he tasted iron.

Louis stumbled, the coffee sloshing hot over his knuckles and not registering. He blinked hard. The vision snapped—just a man in a window again, pale, handsome, furious with fear.

“Get a grip,” he told himself, because there was no one else willing to, and turned the corner into a thinner stream of foot traffic—and three lads blocking the way.

They were wrong before they spoke. Wrong in the way of hospital corridors and polished shoes. Three boys, all winter coats and ear-warmed heads, standing too still for the cold.

“Morning, sir,” the smallest said, curls escaping a hat with pom-poms as if joy had misremembered itself. His skin had that warmed-over pallor, and his green eyes were too bright. He beamed like it didn’t hurt.

“If you’re with the elf,” Louis said, lengthening his stride to step around, “I already told her—”

“We’re not,” said the raven-haired one, sliding a cigarette from a crushed packet like he’d done it a thousand times. He lit it with practiced match-flick grace and smiled through the first exhale. “We’re with you.”

The blond didn’t speak at all. He watched Louis with the soft interest of someone already halfway to somewhere else.

“What is this?” Louis said, folding his arms across his chest. “You lot out of a horror flick? Children of the Corn audition in Shoreditch?”

The curly boy giggled. “I’ll see you at twelve.”

“I don’t have a noon appointment,” Louis said, deadpan.

“He means midnight. I’m your one o’clock,” the raven-haired one corrected, smoke writing cursive between them. “We’re punctual and never late. We suggest you do us the courtesy of the same.”

“Not happening,” Louis replied. “You want autographs, queue like everyone else.”

“Nah,” the raven-haired boy said, grin widening, accent rounding the syllable into something almost affectionate. “We want you sober.”

The blond lifted three fingers lazily, as if counting down to something only he could hear.

“Run along,” Louis said. “Go nick sweets. Harass your headteacher. Whatever kids do when they’re not trying to be interesting.” He stepped again; they matched him like a mirror that didn’t believe in letting go.

And then the world did a small, private trick. The air thickened, taking weight. The chatter behind him went muffled, as if the city had pressed a hand over its own mouth. Daylight shivered; somewhere, a streetlamp blinked though it wasn’t needed.

Louis looked to the side to catch someone’s eye—a woman with a pram, a cyclist easing to a stop—and saw only the soft blur of strangers who couldn’t quite make out what they were seeing.

He looked back. The pavement was empty.

Only a curl of smoke unspooled where the raven-haired boy had stood; it smelled faintly of clove and winter and the inside of old churches.

“Brilliant,” Louis said to the air, pulse hammering like a fist on a locked door. “Absolutely brilliant.” He checked his watch as if time could be bullied. It looked back innocently. He steadied his breath, squared his shoulders, and walked on, because there was always somewhere to be, and if you moved fast enough, sometimes the ghosts had to jog to keep up.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Oops

Louis had his arms folded across his chest with a glare fierce enough to freeze boiling water. It was intimidating and he knew the right amount of intensity to get the desired effect from the people around him and it was working. Some might even say a little too well. The video set buzzed with activity—technicians adjusting cameras, makeup artists doing final touch-ups, the low hum of equipment creating a backdrop of organized chaos. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was the power Louis radiated, a dark energy that made the air itself feel heavy and charged.

"M-Mr. Tomlinson?" The director gaffed surprised. "What brings you all the way down here? We're just about to shoot the video per Mr. Payne's request. Everything is under control." The director stuttered, trying to assure their boss. He felt himself shrinking under the rageful stare that was silently thrown in his direction. His sixth sense was tingling and it told him to abandon all hope. The director had been in this business for twenty years, had dealt with divas and disasters, but something about Louis Tomlinson was different—something primal and dangerous that made the hairs on his arms stand up.

The man noticed the chilly quietness that followed, smiling nervously. Louis stood there like a statue and if nobody knew any better, he could pass for one had no one paid attention. The set grew unnaturally silent as people sensed the shift in atmosphere, like animals before a storm. Even the air conditioning seemed to hold its breath.

"I'm here to see Allure Amherst. She's been quite the pain in my arse lately." Louis dismissed boredly, glaring at the man; completely ignoring everything he had just said. "I'd like to know where she is?" He quirked his brow up expectantly. "However, I have my doubts I'm going to get anything useful from you so, begone away from me." Louis waved him off and walked away to go and do the job himself. The dismissal was absolute, a royal command that left no room for argument or dignity.

The director was still stuttering like an idiot as Louis walked away, ignoring the older man's babbling. They were meaningless where he was concerned. Words were just noise unless they served his purpose, and right now, only one thing served his purpose: finding Allure and making an example of her.

"Louis!" Liam called from the other end of the room, waving to him with a cheery smile. Liam's smile was like a sunbeam in a crypt—completely out of place and somehow more disturbing than the darkness.

Louis was positively not amused. Liam should be cowering behind a chair and if Louis saw his will done, the man would need it to fend the music executive away for fear of being mauled. The fact that Liam wasn't terrified meant either Liam was an idiot, or Louis was losing his touch, and neither possibility was acceptable.

"PAYNE!" Louis bellowed with thunder as soon as he saw him, marching over with the intent to pounce. His voice cracked like a whip, making several people jump and drop what they were holding.

Liam flinched and stopped waving, backing up against one of the makeup artists and not so shamefully using them as a shield. The makeup artist, a young woman with purple hair and too many piercings, looked like she might faint from either fear or the honor of being so close to the legendary Louis Tomlinson.

"Before you go off the Paddy, Lou, just listen to reason. It was good and rational, alright? Allure's son had another attack, he quit breathing. She was at hospital all night, her son is still there in an induced coma, this attack was worse than all the others, his body needs time to heal." Liam rushed to explain before Louis could go full on rant. The words tumbled out of him in a desperate cascade, each one a prayer that Louis might actually listen for once.

Louis grunted and looked around to find Allure slumped in one of the makeup chairs looking exhausted and asleep. That would simply not do and he felt the need to let her know. Sleep was a luxury he hadn't allowed himself in ten years, and he'd be damned if he let anyone else indulge in it on his time.

So he turned from Liam without a word and marched up to the makeup chairs where the girls were just getting finished up. The air around the makeup station was thick with the scent of hairspray and foundation, a cloud of artificial beauty that couldn't quite hide the exhaustion etched into every face.

"Hello, Ms. Amherst, Ms. Pendleton, Ms. Blackwood, Ms. Danger and Ms. Havoc." Louis greeted with insincere cordiality. His voice was smooth as silk but sharp as broken glass, each name delivered with surgical precision.

"Good morning, Mr. Tomlinson." The four girls responded in kind unison, looking at Allure who had actually managed to catch a few moments of peace. Their responses were automatic, conditioned by years of training to respond to authority with immediate compliance, even when every instinct screamed to run.

"Poor dear." Nevaeh Pendleton murmured, her hand reaching up to wake her fellow band member. Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with genuine concern that was quickly extinguished by Louis's presence.

Louis grabbed her wrist and scowled. His grip was like iron, cold and unyielding. "No, I will take care of Ms. Amherst, you four get your butts onset," He pointed to the side door that led to the lavish video room. "Now." Louis finished and smiled when they all jumped up from their chairs and practically flew from the room. The smile didn't reach his eyes, but the satisfaction did. He loved this power, this ability to control with just a look, a word, a gesture.

Louis turned toward the sleeping girl and sat down beside her, his hand gently going to the loose piece of honeydew hair that hung in her unrestful looking face. The gentleness was a lie, a performance designed to lull her into false security before the strike.

"Allure? Why do you like to disappoint me? I've been kind and I've been patient. Both are now comparable to charge cards, because I have reached my limit." Louis spoke softly, his hand pausing in mid-stroke when someone cleared their throat. The softness in his voice was more terrifying than any shout—a predator's purr before the kill.

Louis looked up and saw it was Liam wearing a frown. Liam's disapproval was like a rock thrown into a smooth pond—annoying, disruptive, and begging to be crushed.

"You have no compassion." Liam told him without expression, folding his arms across his chest. The words were simple, direct, and somehow more cutting than any insult Louis had ever heard. They weren't an accusation; they were a statement of fact, and that made them harder to dismiss.

Louis barked out a rough but soft laugh and clapped his hands. "Oh Li, that gave me a tickle in my bones, mate. You missed your calling. You could have been the court jester for entertainment at Buckingham palace, a circus clown or village imbecil, because God knows a few towns have been calling in lately, claiming to be missing their idiots. I believe I just found one." Louis's face was stoic when he finished and his normally higher spoken voice was a dark rumble. Each word was carefully crafted to wound, to belittle, to remind Liam of his place in the hierarchy of their relationship.

Liam rubbed the back of his neck nervously with a sigh. "Louis? Allure has had the upmost deplorable night. Must you be so cruel to make your point? Can you not just explain the situation without making her feel like crap? If I ask for nothing more from you this Christmas, it would be that you show mercy on the young lady," Liam murmured, continuing when Louis didn't interject to chew his butt out for disrupting his fun. "It is unlikely that her son will live through to next year. He needs time to heal, but his body can't recover fast enough."

Louis looked down at Allure and pulled his hand from her head. "What's ailing the boy and how old?" Louis asked passively, standing up so that he and Liam may continue the conversation face to face. The shift in topic was so abrupt it was dizzying—cruelty one moment, clinical curiosity the next.

Liam seemed taken aback by his boss's queries, but answered. "Seven and he suffers from a rare genetic disorder. The surviving age is five once diagnosed." Liam cleared his throat to stop the emotion from falling through. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of mortality and helplessness.

"Impossible. She would have been fourteen when she had the kid and did she not know he would be born genetically crippled?" Louis asked, glancing back to Allure to see her eyes opening. The calculation in his mind was immediate and cold—fourteen years old, a child herself, facing a lifetime of caring for another child who would likely die before he reached double digits. In Louis's world, that wasn't tragedy; it was poor planning.

"Allure, you're wanted on set, luv. Knock them dead." Liam tried to hurry her, but Louis was quick to grab her by the wrist and stand her forcibly on her feet. The movement was rough, designed to disorient and intimidate.

"Not so fast, luvvy. I want to know why you were hours late for a video shoot? You have done gone maxed out your chances and I won't stand for it anymore. If you want to be committed to this band, then you will need to make sacrifices in other departments. I have been more than reasonable on the matter of your son. If you should choose to go back on your contract, I will have no choice but to file legal actions against you for the money leant for the treatments that you had requested. That was filed under a verbal contract that you agreed to uphold," Louis reminded her, using his arm to direct her towards the door the other girls had gone through. "Don't forget to smile, that's about the only redeemable quality you have right now. You have crow eye—have your assistant put some concealer on before the cameras roll and tell her to use the whole tube, you're going to need it." The cruelty was methodical, each phrase designed to strip away her dignity and remind her of her powerlessness.

Allure hurried toward the door in a haste to escape her less than desirable boss. She hated him with every microfiber of her being, but he was right about the verbal contract. He would give her advances if she did the work required of her within the band. The trap was sprung, and she was caught in it.

Liam shook his head and turned to walk away, because arguing with Louis was like arguing with a talking bird. You could scream all you wanted, but the bird would yell back louder, and eventually you'd be the one who looked crazy.

"Liam?" He called, sitting back down on one of the makeup chairs. The leather sighed under his weight, accepting him like an old friend.

Liam stopped with a sigh and turned to Louis, eyes furrowed in confusion. "Yes, Lou?" Liam questioned, turning himself around to meet the music executor. The weariness in Liam's posture was evident—a heaviness that came from years of trying to reason with the unreasonable.

"You need to get it together. If I have to come down here to make sure things are running on schedule, I will assume you are not competent enough to do so yourself and terminate your contract immediately," Louis warned, leaning back in the chair completely at ease and continuing merely. "For now, I will deduct your pay two-hundred pounds for a couple of months to make up the revenue that was wasted on delay time. I'm sure your cash-cow ex-wives can do without this season's minx coats and jewelry line for a tick, yeah?" Louis challenged, giving Liam a cold stare. The mention of Liam's ex-wives was deliberate, a reminder that Louis knew all of Liam's weaknesses and wasn't afraid to exploit them.

Liam's shoulders slumped knowing Louis would cut him back more if he protested and he wasn't going to argue the fact that he needed the money. "Yeah, Lou. I'm sure I can make up the difference in other ways; it's really not that big of a deal." Liam responded politely and went to oversee the video progress. The resignation in his voice was palpable, the sound of a man who had learned that resistance was futile.

Louis watched him go with a snort. "Somehow, I don't think your ex-wives will see it like that, but whatever gets you out of bed in the morning, Sally Sunlight," Louis responded sarcastically, closing his eyes for a few moments to get his thoughts straight. The silence of the empty room was welcome, a brief respite from the constant noise of the world and his own thoughts. "God, Simon—the incompetence here is getting worse with every passing year. I wish you were around to keep the nitwits in line."

"Are you sure you want that as a wish, mate? Somehow, I don't think that would end well for you," A young voice rang through the silence of the empty room. The voice was wrong—too clear, too close, too knowing.

Louis's eyes snapped open and saw the three young kids from earlier—minus the ear muffs. They stood there as if they'd materialized from the shadows, their forms somehow more solid, more real than they had been on the street.

"He isn't exactly happy you had him buried in a rent-a-suit and cheap coffin. Though I'm sure he can grace you with a brief appearance." Raven hair shrugged, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up with his lighter. The flame danced between his fingers, unnatural and mesmerizing.

Curly hair and silent blonde sat on the other side of him with neutral expressions. They moved with an economy of motion that was unsettling, as if they'd practiced this exact configuration countless times before.

Louis furrowed his eyebrows into a scowl, not missing that the kids seemed to have grown and aged slightly since he last saw them. Their faces were the same, but something about them had shifted—matured, deepened, as if time worked differently for them than it did for everyone else.

"Are you three stalking me? What's going on?" Louis demanded, standing up from the chair and saw that his eyes were in fact not playing tricks on him. "And for Heaven's sake, put out that damn cigarette! You shouldn't even be smoking! Who the heck is providing you with them?!" The questions came out in a rush, his usual composure shattered by the sheer wrongness of the situation.

Raven haired chuckled and dropped the cancer stick on the ground, stomping it. The smoke that rose from the crushed cigarette formed patterns that almost looked like faces before dissipating into the air. "Stalking is such a strong word, mate. I prefer the term following for educational purposes and nobody provides my fags. I had them before I came here and will most likely have them after." Raven hair quipped back, taking out another cigarette and sticking the tip of it in his mouth, lighting it up.

Louis's mouth dropped open, watching his nonchalant behavior. The defiance, the casual disregard for authority, the absolute certainty in his movements—it was like looking at a mirror image of himself, but younger, dead, and somehow more real.

Curly hair smiled. "Okay, I just asked you to put your damn cig out and you go and light up another one!? Bloody Nora! Are you lads related to children of the corn by chance? Because sweet mother of Jesus Christ, you lot are creepy as fu—" The curse was cut short, the word dying in Louis's throat as raven hair's hand shot to his mouth.

Louis felt his voice stolen away abruptly, the hand as cold as ice against his living flesh. The cold spread through him like poison, silencing not just his voice but his thoughts, leaving behind a blank terror.

"As much as I would love to hear the sweet bliss of a filthy mouth, you really shouldn't swear in front of us. You know, being that we're children and all that bollocks." Raven hair taunted, removing his hand. The taunt was delivered with a smile, but the eyes were ancient, knowing things no child should know.

Curly hair frowned, hitting the raven-haired boy gently and shaking his head. "We must keep with the plan, mate. He'll understand tonight," The curly one advised softly, glancing at the silent blonde. "And you need to pop by the hospital, yeah? You have your one o'clock to collect, right?"

Silent blonde nodded and hopped up from the chair and looked at Louis with the same lifeless blue eyes, waving at him with a simple smile. The smile was wrong—too wide, too fixed, like a mask that had been glued on.

With a final goodbye he reached behind him, a black object beginning to grow tall as it seemed to materialize before them. The air around it shimmered, distorted, as if reality itself was bending to accommodate its presence.

Raven hair began protesting, knowing that was something that could not easily be explained. "Mate! Not in front of the mortal!" Raven hair hissed, seeing Louis's mouth dropping open further in fear when he saw the object was a scythe. The blade gleamed with an inner light, sharp enough to cut through not just flesh but the very fabric between worlds.

Curly hair let out a small sigh. This could have gone much better. "Louis, we can explain. You just need to remain ca—" He began, but it was far too late to save face and Curly knew it.

Silent blonde waved his hand and disappeared from the room in a black flash of smoke, making Louis's high pitched scream radiate around the empty room. The sound was raw, primal, the terror of a man who had just seen the impossible and realized it was real.

Raven hair was quick to silence him with a wave of his hand and Curly at the same time with his to stop Louis from running. The combined power was overwhelming, paralyzing him completely while leaving his mind terrifyingly free to process what he had just witnessed.

"Okay, this could have gone way better. We were told specifically to stick to the rules. Follow him around, pop up to guide him in the right direction if he needed and to be in a nonthreatening entity form of some sort that wouldn't scare him. I believe that's been all cackled up to Hades and back." Curly observed calmly, watching raven hair push back against Louis's shoulder so he was sitting back down in the makeup chair again.

"I believe it was cocked up when blonde revealed his big swoop-swoop blade he carries about with him. We aren't children for God sakes, why do we have to be in this ridiculous form? I feel like a Midget." Raven hair complained, making Curly shoot him a look. The complaint was delivered with the casual arrogance of someone who had never had to worry about consequences.

"Because mortal children are unthreatening." Curly responded, taking his finger and closing Louis's gaping mouth, his silent screams only filling the dead frequency that was unheard by human ears, though it was giving both Curly and raven hair a headache. The screams echoed in their minds like nails on a chalkboard, a testament to Louis's terror.

"Not all children, mate. Let's play a game of horror movies that had creepy little children in them," Raven hair snipped back, looking at Louis's wide eyes. "Lad? No one can hear you but us. Can you stop the screaming? It's giving my Demons a gigantic headache and they already get that from curly there’s incessant lecturing." He finished with a chuckle. The reference to demons was delivered so casually that it was somehow more terrifying than any explicit threat.

"Zayn? That's enough," Harry warned, looking at Louis who was trying his hardest to move at that point to run for his life. "We aren't demons; we're spirits who were assigned to help you. Think of us as your guardian angels." The explanation was offered gently, but the word "spirits" still carried the weight of the unknown, of things that should not be.

"Harry? We're damned souls who if this doesn't work will be forced to walk the earth from now until judgment day. We can't afford to mince words and sugarcoat them. If he doesn't learn, we don't move on." Zayn said, huffing when Harry shot him another glare. The honesty was brutal, stripping away any comfort Harry might have been trying to offer and replacing it with cold, hard reality.

"You like blundering everything, don't you?" Harry asked tonelessly. The question was rhetorical, the kind of thing you say when you've been dealing with someone's chaos for far too long.

"Only if I know it takes away your fun, mister we must follow the rules to pass on," Zayn laughed, sucking on his lit cig that surprisingly never burnt passed the tip. "There are plenty of ways to complete the task and not be a boring git whilst doing it." The cigarette was another impossibility—a flame that consumed without consuming, a paradox given form.

Louis had quit screaming and watched the two ghost children arguing. The terror was still there, but something else was beginning to surface—curiosity, the human need to understand even when understanding was impossible.

Harry grumbled out a small swear and looked at Louis. "The corpse is out of the crematory, I suppose." Harry relented and in a blink of an eye, when Louis looked, he was now staring at a young looking male of twenty-two or so. The transformation was seamless, like watching a film transition from one scene to another, but the change was absolute and undeniable.

Zayn followed his lead, growing to his natural height and cracking his bones out as he did so. The sound was like popcorn popping, an unsettling reminder of the physical changes they were undergoing.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're dead, what was the bloody point of that display?" The question was exasperated, the kind you ask when you've been putting up with someone's theatrics for centuries.

Zayn shrugged. "There's always a point to something. After all—we learn from our past, right Harry?" He quipped sarcastically, leaving the other ghost to nod. The wisdom in his words was ancient, the kind that comes from watching countless humans make the same mistakes over and over again.

"I suppose there is and I suppose we do." He agreed, looking around the room full of props and cases that were set inside. The room, once just a video set, now seemed like a museum of human vanities, each prop a testament to the fleeting nature of fame and beauty.

Zayn nodded and patted Louis on the shoulder. The touch was still cold, but now it felt less threatening, more like the touch of an old friend who happened to be dead. "Anyhow, in case you were wondering, Niall is your last appointment. That one will be a real eye opener for you, man. Take it from me." He grinned, making Harry smack him in the head. The gesture was playful, brotherly, a reminder that even in death, some relationships remained the same.

"Enough! Alright, Louis? I will see you at midnight, unless you decide to go ahead and be a scrooge again, then we'll be seeing you sooner. So, try to behave, hm?" Harry chastised with a cheery tone, waving his hand up to release Louis from his frozen state. The release was sudden, like being snapped out of a trance, and Louis gasped as sensation and control flooded back into his body.

"Wait!" Zayn yelled, grabbing a tub of fire red lipstick and some dark burgundy eyeshadow that was on the makeup stand from earlier. "Let's give him a makeover before he runs from the room peeing his trousers, let's have a little bitta fun, yeah?" The mischief in Zayn's eyes was infectious, a reminder that even spirits knew how to have fun.

"Zayn, do you really want to risk upsetting the powers that be? We are supposed to be helping him and I don't believe a makeover is a benefit to our assistance." Harry cautioned him, making Zayn look at the makeup and then Harry, before setting his sights back on Louis. The caution was paternal, the kind of warning an older brother gives to a reckless younger one.

"Come on, the red will bring out his fa—" Zayn started, but Harry waved his hand and just like that, Louis could move again and he wasted no time in doing it either.

With the speed of speedy Gonzales, the flash and Superman combined, Louis flew from the room as fast as the two spirits could blink their dead eyes. The movement was pure instinct, fight or flight taken to its absolute extreme, the primal terror of prey escaping from predator.

"Give him back his voice, Zayn." Harry sighed, his screams echoing in their heads again like a siren bouncing off a cave wall. The mental screams were worse than the physical ones, carrying the full weight of Louis's terror directly into their consciousness.

"Gladly, bloody bloke has a good set of lungs on him." Zayn relented, waving his hand in the air. The restoration of voice was as sudden as its removal, and Louis's screams immediately filled the physical air.

"DEMON CHILDREN-MEN! CALL AN EXORCIST! CALL THE POPE! HELL, CALL SANTA CLAUSE BUT GET SOMEBODY THE HELL OUT HERE TO TAKE CARE OF IT! AND GET ME SOME HOLY WATER AND A CROSS WHILE YOU'RE AT IT!" Louis screamed, interrupting the active video shoot in the other room. The screams carried through the entire studio, causing chaos and confusion as people tried to understand what was happening.

"That's our cue to leave, isn't it?" Zayn asked, not waiting for Harry's answer before he popped out in a white puff of smoke. The departure was theatrical, a final bit of showmanship that was pure Zayn.

Harry shook his head sadly and followed Zayn's lead. The sadness was genuine, the weight of their failure settling on him like a shroud. This wasn't going the way it was supposed to, and he had a sinking feeling that things were about to get much worse before they got better.

Louis's hands were shaking terribly, unsteady fingers struggling to light the cig that was pursed in his tightly thinned lips. The tremor ran up his arm, through his shoulder, down his spine—a physical manifestation of the terror that still clawed at his insides.

"Here, mate. Let me help." Liam offered kindly, taking the lighter from his hand and lighting the tip of the cigarette he had requested from one of the volunteers helping with the video. The gesture was simple, human, and somehow more comforting than any holy relic could have been.

"They were children, but then they weren't. They were spooks like Casper, only not so friendly and—well the one was friendly. He was nice for a ghost I suppose. The blonde reaper kid, Niall? He doesn't say anything but he had this reaper stick coming out his arse…or behind his back? Zayn was a cocky mother fu—I am not crazy! STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!" Louis rambled, yelling at Liam as the poor bloke could only look onto the boss with sympathy. The pressures of work were finally getting to him. Or perhaps it was something more—perhaps the pressures of reality were finally getting to him.

"I believe you, boss. Take it easy," Liam calmed, using his one hand to straighten the blanket on his shoulders. "Why not go back to the office? You need to relax; perhaps use today to do what you want? It is your birthday after all." He suggested with a small smile. The suggestion was gentle, a reminder that even monsters had birthdays, that even the hardest hearts deserved a moment of peace.

Louis waved him off. "I don't want to do anything! I want to work and then go home and relax on my couch with some strong weed, a bottle of alcohol and pretend this day never existed." Louis told him blatantly, his voice raspy from screaming. The honesty was brutal, a glimpse into the emptiness that drove him.

"How about skip work and go home and do that? What about dinner with your mum? Any chance this year or am I to tell her the same thing I had the following years?" Liam asked. The question was gentle but probing, touching on wounds that Louis kept carefully bandaged but never truly healed.

"Tell her to get bogged It's too late to mend the past and if she wanted a relationship with me, she wouldn't have sent me away to boarding school." Louis retorted darkly, throwing the blanket from him and standing up, the other workers parting to get out of his way. The anger was familiar, a comfortable armor against the pain of rejection and abandonment.

Liam let a small look of hurt cross his face. "That's where we met." Liam reminded him, making Louis grunt out an agreement, taking another drag. The reminder was a dagger twisted in an old wound, a reminder of connections lost and friendships strained.

"I am aware. Anyhow, I can't stop shaking and I need to go make a pit stop at a local church for some holy water and cross. I wasn't kidding. I need them, because I will be damned if those demon-men are stealing my soul!" Louis bellowed, making his way to the door, but stopped when he realized he had taken a taxi. The desperation was palpable, the terror of a man who had seen beyond the veil and wanted nothing more than to pull it shut again.

"Li?" Louis turned around, his body still somewhat unsteady. The admission of weakness was rare for Louis, a sign of how deeply the experience had shaken him.

"Yeah, Lou?" Liam returned, walking to his boss and helping him to the exit, all the heads in the room watching the spectacle in either annoyance, disbelief, concern or curiosity. The entire studio had become an audience to Louis's breakdown, a private tragedy made public.

"I need you to drive." Louis muttered, stealing a glance at his assistant who merely nodded and helped him out to a broken down looking Toyota Camry. The car was a symbol of Liam's life—functional but worn, reliable but showing its age, a stark contrast to Louis's world of luxury and excess.

Louis grunted, making a note to think about getting Liam a more reliable looking car than the deathtrap they were about to step into. The thought was fleeting, a momentary concern that was quickly buried under the weight of his own terror.

"Nice car, does it come with a contract from Death?" Louis asked sarcastically, opening the passenger side door on the left and getting in without waiting for Liam's reply. The sarcasm was a defense mechanism, a way to reassert control when he felt he had none.

Liam got into the driver's side and took his keys out from his pocket. "If it does, it would be filed in one of your folders, wouldn't it? After all, you're the one seeing ghosts." Liam hit back with friendliness, making Louis scowl. The gentle pushback was unusual for Liam, a sign that even his boundless patience had its limits.

"I love a comedian as much as the next person, but your act sucks." Louis told him flatly, crossing his arms across his chest and looking straight ahead. "Get me to a church and then get me home. I'm taking your advice and making it an early day." The surrender was complete; a white flag raised in the war against a world that had suddenly become terrifyingly real.

Liam nodded and drove off to find a church that had readily available holy water and crosses. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. Holy water wasn't exactly something you could pick up at the corner shop, and crosses required more than just a quick stop at a religious goods store.

Unbeknownst to Louis or Liam; Harry, Niall and Zayn sat in their child forms in the back so they could all fit, watching the interaction between the men—well, Harry and Niall were observing. Zayn was too busy laughing hysterically at Louis's persistence of finding holy water.

"Man, that boy takes things way too literal." Zayn smirked, looking at the other two. The amusement was genuine, the kind of joy that comes from watching someone else's desperation and finding it funny because you know something they don't.

Needless to say, they didn't share in Zayn's amusement.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Ghostly Pasts

"For the last time, I know what I saw! They were not linked to my imagination! Can you not get that through your cranium? I. saw.DEMON.MEN-CHILDREN and I need those items, pronto! Now would you PLEASE give me some holy water and a bloody cross?! I know you have to have them stashed somewhere around this place of hypocrisy." Louis sneered, walking up the altar and that would have been okay—if they weren’t in the middle of their service…and if it wasn't Jehovah Witnesses.

The scene was a masterpiece of chaos and inappropriate timing. Louis, dressed in his expensive clothes that screamed wealth and authority, strode up the aisle like a conquering general approaching a conquered city. The Jehovah Witnesses, people known for their quiet devotion and orderly worship, stared in horror as this wild-haired man disrupted their sacred space with demands for Catholic relics they didn't believe in. The air thickened with tension, the kind that comes when two completely different worlds collide in the most unexpected way possible.

Liam groaned and hit his hand against his forehead in exasperation, with Harry not far from joining him in his now adult form next to Zayn and Niall. The three spirits watched from their invisible vantage point, witnesses to a train wreck in slow motion. Harry's face was a mask of paternal disappointment, while Zayn's eyes sparkled with unholy glee at the unfolding spectacle.

Zayn was still finding great amusement in the mortal's actions as he watched Louis go up to a desk and start to look through it. The sheer audacity of it all—the balls-out confidence that Louis displayed in invading someone's sacred space and demanding they accommodate his supernatural paranoia—it was, in Zayn's considered opinion, the most entertainment he'd had in decades.

Evidently, the elder was not amused as he insisted that they did not believe in symbols as symbolism is a sign of false prophet and will damn the soul into eternal damnat—Zayn yawned. The elder's voice droned on and on, a monotonous lecture on the dangers of religious symbolism that was completely lost on Louis, who was currently upending a drawer filled with church pamphlets and donation envelopes.

"Yeah, he's not gonna have much luck here." Zayn chuckled, his eyes following a flying drawer as it nearly missed one of the other elders sitting in the front row. The drawer sailed through the air with improbable grace, turning end over end like a clumsy bird before crashing against the wall in a shower of paper and splintered wood.

"This isn't funny, mate." Harry frowned, crossing his arms into his chest with a stern look. The disapproval in Harry's voice was thick enough to spread on toast, but Zayn had developed a remarkable immunity to Harry's disappointment over the centuries.

Zayn rolled his eyes and glanced at Liam, the tired look in that bloke's soul sobered the ghost slightly. There was something about Liam's weary resignation that struck a chord even in Zayn's cynical dead heart. The man looked like he'd been carrying the weight of the world for so long that his shoulders had permanently curved from the burden.

"What's this one's story then? I'd of quit years ago if I was stuck working for the world's largest arse." Zayn asked, puffing on his fag. He was curious and Harry was after all, the ghost of the past—keeper of stories and memories that time had otherwise forgotten.

"He was Louis's first and only friend in boarding school. His mum and dad sent him there when he became too difficult to deal with at home and while Louis was away, his father died. Car accident, hit dead on by a drunk driver," Harry paused and looked down with a simple shake of his head, before pressing on. "His mum paid for extracurricular schooling for him after and married a year later. By the time she sent home for him, he was already well into the limelight. He wanted and still wants nothing to do with her. Liam stayed with Louis because he is in a sense, keeping the man from going off the edge, but it won't be enough. He has a lot of demons in his closet and that's what concerns me as we might not overcome them in one night. He has a lot to face." Harry sighed, pinching the headache he felt coming on—even though he couldn't physically get one since he had been dead for nearly three hundred and seventy-five years. The memory of headaches was so ingrained in his muscle memory that he still went through the motions, a ghost pain for a ghost of a man.

Zayn let out a small grunt. "Fine, let me talk to hi—"

Harry cut the other ghost off with a sharp-tongued warning. "Don't you dare! We stick to only becoming visible when the situation calls for it, Zayn." Harry yelled, jumping when the whole desk suddenly went flying. The desk lifted into the air as if by invisible hands, hovered for a moment like a UFO preparing to abduct someone, then crashed to the ground in an explosion of wood and paper.

Zayn gave Harry a sarcastic look, blowing smoke out his nose like a dragon that had given up on fire-breathing. "It's a bird! It's a plane!" Zayn exclaimed in mock sarcasm, before dropping his voice back to a passive monotone. "No, never mind it's just the sight of flying drawers, chairs, desks and an Elder about to drop dead from a high blood pressure coronary," He finished lamely, rolling his eyes. The sarcasm was delivered with the practiced ease of someone who had been perfecting the art of annoying Harry for centuries.

"Harry? I think now would be a good time to pop up and remind Lou about being a good little church-boy, unless you want Niall to have to lead Elder Uptight into the light?" Zayn asked, cocking his brows and tossing his eternal lit cigarette to the floor and reaching into his pack to grab another one. The cigarette hit the ground but didn't go out, just lay there glowing ominously like a fallen star.

"You have a serious smoking problem and they don't even burn down. The tip burns forever, why do you keep doing that?" Harry asked, curious at the very least—considering the cig never burnt passed the tip, even as he sucked on it. It was one of the many mysteries of their existence, small paradoxes that hinted at the complex rules governing their state of being.

Zayn shrugged. "I had them on me at the time of my death, lit one and wham—no more me. It's nice to have endless fags and never have to worry about buying more or them burning down. I doubt they have a ghostly commissary around here to buy them at and then there's the currency to purchase them with. Hell, if this is damnation, why should I worry?" Zayn finished with a shrug that was somehow both philosophical and deeply irritating.

"Because we don't know if damnation is walking the earth forever or if it's worse than Simon's punishment. We don't know so therefore, you need to quit mucking about." Harry's head snapped at the sudden crash of a potted plant being kicked nearly across the room.

"HOW PRIMITIVE ARE YOU IDIOTS?! WHO DOESN'T CARRY THESE ITEMS IN A CHURCH?!" Louis yelled, making Harry sigh and make himself visible. The plant, a sad-looking fern in an ugly pot, skidded across the floor leaving a trail of dirt and broken leaves behind it.

"Louis!" Harry exclaimed, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries.

Louis spun around and let out a high-pitched scream, before bolting toward the door and out it. The scream was pure terror, the kind that comes when the impossible becomes real and your mind can no longer deny what your eyes are seeing.

Zayn watched him run, his lanky legs kicking up a storm, though he still couldn't help the smirk that overcame his lips. Louis moved with the desperate speed of a man running from his own grave, his expensive shoes slipping on the pavement as he scrambled for escape.

"DEMON MEN-CHILDREN!" Louis screamed in panic, running down the street. The panic in his voice was absolute, the raw terror of someone who had just had their understanding of reality shattered into a million pieces.

Harry stomped his foot in frustration, turning to Niall and Zayn. "Come on, Z, we're going to have to ghost him again." Harry turned to face his fellow spirits. The frustration was evident in every line of his transparent form.

Zayn rolled his eyes. "We won't be able to do anything if he keeps running away from us."

Harry mocked his earlier action. "Gee, I wonder whose fault that is, hm?" Harry returned just as sarcastic. The sarcasm was rare for Harry, which made it all the more effective when he deployed it.

"Niall's," Zayn accused without pause, smirking. "He's the one who materialized his bitty-boppity stick with the curved edge and zippity zappity zipped to go collect more deadlings to fill his tunnel of darkness. Hell, if I was still mortal—I'd of pissed myself and ran too."

Harry let out a groan and transported to where Louis has gone, leaving Liam to apologize to the Elder—who was currently upset and berating him. The transition was seamless, Harry disappearing from one place and appearing in another in the space between heartbeats.

Zayn frowned, turning to Niall. Niall just stood there with an immense look of displeasure across his extremely pale face and his middle finger sticking directly out. The gesture was universally understood, even across the boundaries between life and death.

Zayn shooed him with his hand. "Catch up to Harry, I'll be with to joining you in a tick." Zayn promised, seeing Niall disappear without argument—well, not that he could really argue considering. The silence that followed Niall's departure was somehow heavier than his presence had been.

"I'm sorry about Louis. This time of year is pretty ha—" Liam tried to apologize again, but failed when the Elder spoke above him. The apology died on Liam's lips as the Elder's voice rose in righteous indignation.

"Regardless! I have half a mind to phone the police! He destroyed property!" The elder gestured about wildly and then pointed to the destroyed plant across the room. "That, was a present from my mother and it added character to here, now look at it!" The ugly off brown of the majority of the church and the hideous off white walls were enough to convince Liam that the plant didn't add anything, but he really wasn't in the mood to challenge the opinion. The church was aesthetically challenged at best, and the dead fern had been the least of its problems.

"I'm sorry, I will mail you a check and you can replace anything that was dama—" Liam paused when he noticed the Elder's pants started to slide down his hips. The sagging trousers were an unexpected development in an already bizarre morning.

The Elder noticed it too and yanked them back up, his face flushing with embarrassment. "It cannot replace that plant! My mother gave it to me a few years' prior before dying. I don't care about the desks or the chairs—but that plant added something in this church that cannot be replaced and your friend's behavior is unacceptable! He is mad. You best escape while you're still able." He insisted, glaring at Liam. The word "mad" hung in the air like a verdict.

Liam knew how the elder felt. For example, he couldn't begin to replace the sanity he'd lost this morning alone thanks to Louis and no amount of money or pleading to God has yet changed that course. "I know how he feels, sir. My sanity wakes up every morning before me, escapes from its cage and jumps out the window naked and takes a nice leisurely stroll somewhere between Doncaster, England and Italy. If you see him, please tell him to come home, I'm beginning to miss him." Liam half chuckled and half cried, turning to walk away without waiting for further verbal abuse from the angry Elder.

"Don't come back!" He heard before the door closed completely and Liam most definitely took that to heart. He wouldn't be returning, even if it was the last standing building in England.

Liam groaned, hearing a loud bout of excitement inside from fellow Jehovah witnesses. If he had opened the door again, he might have seen the elder standing with his trousers and skives down around his ankles—a final indignity delivered by Zayn's spectral mischief.

Zayn smirked and decided to follow Liam out without transporting to Harry. "You did mention naked, mate. I figure he could use some humility, don't thank me or anything," He chuckled, knowing Liam couldn't hear him. With a shrug, he continued. "Should we go find—" Zayn paused, hearing Harry call for him telepathically. The summons came as a mental tug, insistent and impossible to ignore.

He rolled his eyes. "Excuse me, I'm being summoned by curly pain. Gotta pop, but stay safe, yeah?" He asked, disappearing to Harry, who had Louis on the ground, paralyzed.

Zayn chuckled. "What's going on?"

Harry's hand was tightly on Louis's mouth and Louis was trying unsuccessfully to bite him. The struggle was pathetic but determined, a mouse fighting a hawk.

"Will you silence him, please?" Harry asked, seeing Zayn channel the link and wave his hand up, effectively paralyzing Louis's vocals to the inside of their heads so only they could hear. The mental silence that followed was a blessed relief.

Niall was nowhere to be found.

"Let me go you demonic children-men of the corn!" Louis screamed at them, making Harry smile despite the situation. The reference to "Children of the Corn" was almost funny, if you ignored the terror behind it.

"We aren't demons, Louis. We are—" Harry began, but Louis interrupted him.

"Tall, dark and evil there said you were!" Louis insisted, trying his hardest to struggle against their invisible hold. The struggle was entirely in his mind, a desperate attempt to assert control when he had none.

"Yeah? Well, Zayn is a smartarse. We're spirits, not demons. Running across a demon is like finding a leprechaun under a rainbow with a pot of gold. It's near impossible. As for who I am; I'm Harry Styles." He furrowed his eyebrows, watching Louis's eyes as they could only stare upright in frozen fear and annoyance.

"No! Imbecil, I meant, who the hell are you? Where did you come from?! I demand to know if you're going to be demonizing me!" Louis screamed in their heads. The mental screams were somehow more piercing than the physical ones had been.

Harry snorted and Zayn smirked. The reaction was almost reflexive, a shared moment of amusement at Louis's continued defiance.

The curly headed young man cleared his throat, not that it needed it. He was dead and their voices didn't crack, because they could not feel anything of their own lives. Simply put, Harry could feel every emotion and feeling from the past of the people he saw and that was torture, because he couldn't feel an ounce of sadness for his own young soul that had been snuffed out.

"I was mortal once, just as you. I was born February 1st, 1619 in Redditch, England. I died February 14th, 1641. It was a carriage accident in Holmes Chapel that claimed my life. I had just turned twenty-two and I stepped onto the street while clearing the slush of snow for my mum, since it was Winter and we had just had our last snowfall of the season and she was not in the best of health due to the less than satisfactory conditions of our home," Harry cleared his throat again inside his head out of habit, wishing Louis could somehow feel what he should be able to, but couldn't. The memories were as clear as if they had happened yesterday, the pain still fresh despite the centuries that had passed.

"My sister spent her days helping a neighbor who had just lost her teenaged son to the bubonic plague—something that later claimed my sister. Mum died not long after and I didn't stick around much, even after I had died, I couldn't bear to see her in that state. Even if I couldn't fully connect." Harry recalled, his light eyes slightly darkening at the memory. It was his curse to see everyone's past, his own included; whether he wanted to or not. The weight of all those lives, all those stories, was a burden that never eased.

Louis tried to move, their heads unnaturally quiet from lack of his vocal protesting, which made Zayn cork an eyebrow. The silence was unnerving, like the moment after a storm when you realize the damage left behind.

"Nothing smartass to add? How uncharacteristic of you, Louis." Zayn antagonized sardonically. The taunt was delivered with the ease of long practice, Zayn knowing exactly which buttons to push to get under Louis's skin.

Louis furrowed his eyebrows; about the only thing he could move. The furrowing was a small act of defiance, but it was all he had left.

"Louis! Oh, God! Are you alright?" Liam asked, the sound of his footsteps growing closer. The concern in Liam's voice was genuine, a reminder that not everyone in Louis's life was afraid of him.

Harry looked into Louis's eyes. "Louis? I need you to stop screaming about demons, alright? We are ghosts, nothing more and nothing less—except Niall, but he's a special case. I'm going to unghost you now, okay? I need you to get up calmly and tell Liam that you're alright. When you do that, he's going to help you up and take you home. When you get home, eat and get some rest. It will be a very long night for you and for us. Let me know if you understand, because I really don't want to have to keep doing this to you." Harry demanded, his voice calmingly slow and gentle, his face glancing down at Louis while he just laid on the sidewalk by Liam's car. He had desperately been trying to claw his way inside before Harry and Niall had caught up. The sidewalk was cold and unforgiving, a harsh contrast to the warmth of Louis's terror.

"Yes, I understand." Louis answered bitterly, hate in his eyes. The compliance was reluctant, forced by circumstances rather than genuine agreement.

"I mean it Louis—" Harry began sternly, waving his hand slowly and nodding to Zayn. The warning was clear: behave or face the consequences.

Zayn waved his hand up a moment later, nodding to Louis to go ahead and speak. "I'm fine, low blood sugar." Louis lied, his voice cracking from screaming so much and his head killing him for the same reason. The lie was flimsy, but it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances.

The cold wind blew around them for a moment, the small swoosh of air parting to accommodate the physical forms of the two living beings. The wind carried with it the promise of winter, the kind that seeps into your bones and reminds you of your own mortality.

"Alright, let's go pick something up and get you back to your flat." Liam suggested, helping the lanky man from the ground. The help was offered without hesitation, another example of Liam's unwavering loyalty.

Louis let him help, turning back to see the two other spirits already gone. "Wonderful." Louis muttered disdainfully, jerking open the now unlocked door and getting into the passenger seat without another word. The relief was temporary—he knew they'd be back.

"Do you still want to try another church, Lou? I know one more." Liam asked when he got in, starting up the car and putting his seatbelt on. The question was gentle, a genuine offer to help Louis feel safe.

Harry, Zayn and Niall were back in their child-like forms, sitting quietly in the back to continue their task. The car suddenly felt crowded with the presence of three extra passengers, even though Liam couldn't see them.

Louis sighed tiredly, looking into Liam's equally exhausted eyes. "Tell me, Liam—do you think getting these items will help my soul any less be damned when I die? Because at this point, if these ghosts are demons, I'm beginning not to give a f—" He was cut off by his phone ringing. The question hung in the air, heavy with the kind of existential dread that only comes when you've actually seen what might be waiting for you in the afterlife.

Louis shook his head and took it out. "Louis bend-over-and-take-it-today Tomlinson, how may I assist you in torturing me as I live and breathe?" He grit out, his eyes growing a darker blue if that was even possible. The phone greeting was pure Louis—bitter, cynical, and designed to intimidate.

Zayn laughed. "I could have been besties with this bloke if I hadn't died in WW1 at 23, now those were the times to be alive, mate. Woman loved a solider in a suit and chasing tale was not a feted challenge." Zayn recalled with a smirk, though the feelings associated with his time of life was hard to place, because the happiness he felt was only associated in the here and now. He couldn't go back and he couldn't move forward, trapped in the eternal present of the undead.

Harry chortled. "Yeah, I'm sure you were a real ladies man. Keep smoking whatever it is that you're smoking, because I don't see how chasing women is such a lavish goal in mortal life, but then again—mum raised me to be a gentleman." He finished with a shrug. The gentle reproach was Harry's way of reminding Zayn that there were more important things in life than carnal pursuits.

Zayn let out a loud 'HAH!' before full out laughing. "I think that's what got you in the position you're in, in the first place." Zayn shot back, referring to shoveling the snow before his untimely demise. The barb hit its mark, as Zayn's barbs usually did.

Harry let out a smirk of his own. "Yeah and your smoking got you to where you are, didn't it? Don't cast the first stone, because I know everyone's history here. You lit your fag and then got a cannon ball right through your head because you idiotically stood up from your trench. Hell, you were buried in a mass grave with the other fallen platoon. Not even a proper burial. Your family—" Harry stopped when he saw the hard look crossing Zayn's face. The look was so cold that Harry instinctively took a step back, even though they were both dead.

"I suppose I should be thankful I can't feel emotions, not my bloody own at least—because then it would be a pretty safe bet to say that I would beat the death out of you. My family suffered enough, my sisters were orphaned because my parents abandoned them, so step off and keep your non-breathing nose out of my past you curly haired little cockroach." Zayn huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and focusing back up to the front. The anger was real and palpable, a rare glimpse of genuine emotion beneath Zayn's usual cynical facade.

"No…no…well, cut his contract then. He has an album left and it isn't my fault he's a has-been cokehead. I didn't force the bump down his nose and if he dies from the overdose, send a bouquet of dead roses to his mother for condolences and a card that says she should have tried better in raising him right without the drugs. He had problems when I signed him, I sent him to a program—he chose to screw it up, not me." Louis defended hotly. The coldness in his voice was absolute, the voice of a man who had learned to armor his heart with ice.

Niall pointed to Louis's phone. "Your next appointment?" Harry asked, adjusting himself in the seat. "Will you shrink some more, Niall? The backseat here for three of us, even in lad's form is a tight fit."

Niall nodded, gesturing a two and then a zero, pointing again, but at the car clock this time.

"Twenty minutes, sounds good." Zayn nodded, deciding to try another form that wasn't a kid and smaller than one so he could stretch out a bit and be comfortable. The shift was instantaneous, Zayn's form dissolving and reforming in the space between heartbeats.

Harry watched with slight amusement when Zayn started to shift into a pure black coated cat with beautiful honey brown eyes. The transformation was seamless, Zayn's human form melting away like wax and being replaced by something sleek and feline.

Niall rolled his eyes, though chose to shift into an Irish red and white setter. The dog form suited Niall somehow—loyal, silent, and watchful.

"More room for me, thanks lads." Harry smirked, choosing to grow into his normal twenty-two-year-old body. The car suddenly felt even more crowded with Harry at his full height.

Zayn let out a purr, a small glint in his eye as an idea came to mind. The purr was unnervingly realistic, the kind of sound that shouldn't come from something that wasn't really there.

"Zayn? Don't you even—" Harry warned, but watched as Zayn's eyes glinted with mischief and he made himself visible to Louis, jumping onto his lap and showing off a smile that cats shouldn't know how to even make. The smile was wrong, too human, too knowing for any animal.

"DEMON CAT!" Louis screamed, his cellphone flying out the window when he threw his hand away. The phone sailed through the air like a discus of doom, disappearing into traffic with a final gleam of sunlight.

Liam's head jerked as he saw his boss go stiff, his hand on the handle of the door to open it, which would have happened if Harry didn't ghost him again. The potential disaster was averted by Harry's quick thinking, another intervention in a day that was rapidly becoming a series of interventions.

Since Harry needed Louis to calm down and not try to kill himself by jumping from a moving car, he decided to ghost him completely, leaving Zayn to use his paws to manually shut Louis's eyes. The gentle pressure of Zayn's paws against Louis's eyelids was surreal, a cat tending to a man who had been paralyzed by ghosts.

"Lou, you okay?" Liam asked, gently shaking his shoulder. The concern in Liam's voice was unwavering, a constant in the chaos of Louis's life.

Louis screamed inside the dead channel of the other three ghost's minds, making them flinch—mostly because the words leaving his mouth would make a nun have a heart attack. "Lou, Zayn's a dick, but for the last bloody time, WE AREN'T DEMONS! We're dead, we can take whatever shape we want." Harry yelled over his screaming, making Zayn and Niall rub their heads, glad they could only feel a phantom of what a headache was. The mental screams were like nails on a chalkboard, scraping against their consciousness.

"Is there a way to gag him completely?" Zayn asked, jumping in the back again. The question was practical, if a bit dark.

"You started it! He was about to jump out the bloody door!" Harry accused, making Niall roll his dog eyes and vanish in a puff of smoke to his next appointment so as not to be late. The departure was sudden, Niall disappearing like a dream upon waking.

"Okay, fine—no more toying with the mortal. I'll be a good little ghostie from now on, reaper's honor." Zayn chuckled, switching back into his kid form, staring up at Harry with the largest smile, kicking his feet back and forth. The smile was innocent, but Zayn's eyes held the promise of future mischief.

Harry looked back and saw that Liam had gone back to driving, assuming Louis fell asleep—though, Louis was still pissed off about Liam not stopping to make sure his cellphone was alright and complaining about having to get another one and that it was most definitely coming out of his pay. The internal monologue was a masterpiece of entitled rage and petty grievances.

Harry gave up trying to calm him, it was an hour back to his flat, hopefully by that time he will have calmed down—but it was Louis after all, so God only knew. "Tonight, is going to be long, but I swear to God, Zayn, if you cock your time up, you're pretty much screwing all our chances down the loo. Please just do what the powers that be ask, okay? It depends on all of us working as a team, because I'm tired. I'm tired of hanging around, seeing everyone's past and being stuck. Nearly four hundred years, mate. I'm ready to see something else beyond this world." Harry admitted with defeat, eyeing off the smaller boy's form. The confession was raw, a rare moment of vulnerability from the usually composed Harry.

Zayn was quiet for a moment—as was Louis strangely enough. The silence in the car was heavy with unspoken thoughts and fears.

"How do we even know there's an existence beyond this one?" He challenged back with curiosity, stopping his feet and tapping his fingers against the window to create a rhythm on the glass that only they could hear. The question was profound, the kind that keeps philosophers and theologians awake at night.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know, but if there's life beyond death, then there is something beyond death, right?" Harry pondered, hearing Louis let out a scoff. The logic was circular but comforting, a way of making sense of the incomprehensible.

"If there is, then their whole system is fu—" Harry stopped listening at that point, his eyes furrowing at the simple question that they themselves as the dead didn't even have an answer for.

"I don't know, but cheers. Here's to hoping." Harry nodded, shaking his head when Louis was back on his cellphone and demanding to be unfrozen so he could scream at Liam to take a detour to the nearest phone store—Harry needless to say, just let him vent. It was all he could do at that moment and if Liam knew, no doubt he'd be falling onto his knees in thankfulness, but since Louis looked like he was asleep, well, Liam was still thankful.

"I hope you three burn in hell you no good, evil, demonic motherfu—" Louis continued like that all the way to his mantion, which took extra time thanks to heavy traffic. The mental tirade was impressive in its creativity and persistence, a testament to Louis's talent for creative cursing even when physically unable to speak.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Niall

"You are NOT leaving me here, Liam."

Louis's voice cut through the luxurious silence of his mansion, each word dripping with the kind of desperate authority that only the truly powerful could wield when cornered. He stood between his assistant and the door, his fingers wrapped around a sleek black remote control that had already engaged the titanium bolt locking system – a feature he'd installed specifically for moments like this, when the world refused to bend to his will. The LED indicator above the door glowed red, a digital sentinel standing guard over Louis's crumbling sanity.

Liam Payne, normally the picture of professional patience, looked like he aged ten years in the last forty-five minutes. The dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes about his boss's early evening crisis, and the way his suit jacket hung slightly askew suggested he'd been running his hands through his hair in frustration more times than he cared to count. The winter sunset streaming through Louis's floor-to-ceiling windows did little to warm the growing chill between them. Outside, London's skyline glittered coldly in the early evening light, indifferent to the drama unfolding in Louis's grand mansion.

"Louis, there are no such things as ghosts or demons. They simply do not exist – at least in this universe." Liam kept his voice level, though the strain showed in the slight tremor of his hands as he gestured toward the balcony overlooking the city. "I think you may need to cut down on watching Supernatural, mate. Now, I need to go pick up my son Jake and my daughter Ember. It's about the only decent thing in my life going right is them getting to spend Christmas with me this year since their mothers are going on vacation for a week to Bali. So, please unlock the door so that I may leave."

The mention of Liam's children seemed to strike a nerve that Louis couldn't quite process. For a fleeting moment, something like understanding flickered in his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished by the fires of paranoia and fear that had been raging since the supernatural visitations began. His arms folded tighter across his chest, a defensive posture that did little to hide the slight trembling of his hands. The expensive fabric of his designer shirt whispered against his skin, a constant reminder of the wealth and power that suddenly meant nothing in the face of supernatural visitations.

"I know what I saw and also, you owe me another phone!" Louis ranted, his voice rising in pitch as his control slipped. He took a step forward, his expensive leather shoes silent on the marble flooring. "You just stood there while those... those things floated around my living room like they owned the place! You saw them too, don't you dare lie to me!"

"Louis? I will get you a new phone and anything else you want, hell, I'll even come back later to check up on you if you want, but right now – I need to go pick up my children. Please unlock the door." Liam's calm façade was cracking under the pressure, but he fought to maintain it. After all these years of working for Louis Tomlinson, he'd learned that showing fear only made the situation worse, like blood in the water with a particularly territorial shark.

"No!" Louis stomped his foot, the sound echoing in the vast space like thunder. The movement was so childlike, so completely out of character for the man who routinely commanded boardrooms and terrified executives, that it momentarily stunned Liam into silence. The tantrum would have been impressive coming from a toddler, but coming from a man worth billions, it was just pathetic.

Harry sighed from his position on Louis's ridiculously expensive Italian leather couch. He'd been sitting there for what felt like hours, watching this particular drama unfold with growing concern. The ghostly form leaned back, his semi-transparent body sinking slightly into the cushions as he considered the situation. Zayn and Niall were away performing their own tasks, which meant Harry was left to handle the increasingly unstable mortal alone. This was not going according to plan. Not even remotely.

"Louis? Let the poor man leave." Harry's voice carried the weight of centuries of dealing with difficult mortals. He allowed himself to become visible, knowing this would probably make things worse but seeing no other option. The air around him shimmered slightly as he shifted from the spirit realm to the physical one, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees at his manifestation.

Louis's head snapped toward the couch with a speed that would have given anyone whiplash. His face, already pale with fear and sleep deprivation, took on a greenish hue that reminded Harry of spoiled milk. The stomping resumed, more frantic this time.

"NO!" He shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the couch. "Keep out of this you demon spawn from Satan's arse, I am not going to let you possess me again! BE GONE!" Louis's hand waved through the air in what he probably thought was a powerful gesture of dismissal, but which mostly made him look like he was swatting at particularly persistent flies.

To Liam, this was the final straw. His boss – the man who ran an international music empire, the man who could buy and sell small countries with pocket change – was standing in the middle of his living room, waving his hands at an empty couch while screaming about demonic possession. The urge to call security, or perhaps an ambulance, was becoming overwhelming. He discreetly pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the emergency contacts.

"Louis? You need to let me go, right now!" Liam yelled, stepping back as Louis's attention snapped back to him. The transformation in his boss's eyes was terrifying – the normal stormy blue had darkened to something unnatural, something that seemed to draw all light from the room and replace it with shadows that danced just beyond the edge of vision. When Louis spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm, which somehow was more frightening than the screaming.

"Liam, if you step out of that –" Harry began, trying to intervene before this escalated further.

"Louis, don't make me ghost you again so I can free your assistant, because I will do it. Let him go, you are breaking the law." Harry spoke again, exasperation dripping from every word. He was already at his ghostly wits end with the mortal, and they hadn't even gotten to the really difficult parts of the night yet. This was just the warmup, and already Louis was performing beyond expectations in the department of being difficult.

"I am NOT breaking the law, I demand to know how?!" Louis exploded, his carefully constructed composure shattering like glass. He grabbed a heavy crystal coaster from the marble coffee table, the kind that cost more than most people's monthly rent, and hurled it at Harry. The object passed harmlessly through Harry's spectral form, but Louis didn't seem to notice. He was already reaching for another one, his face twisted in fury and desperation. The crystal shattered against the wall behind Harry, the sound of expensive destruction echoing through the mansion.

Meanwhile, across town in a sterile waiting room that smelled too strongly of antiseptic and broken dreams, Niall Horan was dealing with responsibilities that came with being a reaper, duties he'd been performing for millions of years. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed a monotonous tune that seemed designed to drive the living insane, their harsh white light reflecting off linoleum floors that had been mopped a thousand times but never really looked clean. The air conditioning whispered constantly, circulating the scent of illness and despair that clung to every surface like stubborn dust. But Niall barely noticed any of it. He was too focused on the woman crying silently in the corner, her shoulders shaking with each breath as she clutched a worn photograph to her chest.

Allure had been sitting there for what felt like an eternity, though the clock on the wall insisted it had only been forty-seven minutes since the doctor had delivered the news. Forty-seven minutes since her world had ended. Her makeup was streaked down her face in dark rivers of mascara and foundation, creating patterns on her skin like watercolor paintings of grief. The carefully styled hair that had taken two hours to perfect that morning now hung in lank strands around her face, some stuck to her damp cheeks, others falling across eyes that couldn't seem to focus on anything. The expensive designer dress she'd worn to what was supposed to be a triumphant video launch party now looked cheap and sad, like a costume for a role she never wanted to play. The silk fabric, meant to shimmer under studio lights, now seemed dull and lifeless in the harsh hospital fluorescence, clinging to her body where her tears had soaked through.

The photograph in her hands was worn at the edges from frequent handling, the corners soft and rounded. It was of Michael, her son, grinning gap-toothed at the camera during their trip to Brighton last summer. In the picture, he was holding a half-eaten ice cream cone that was dripping down his wrist, his face sticky with melted vanilla and chocolate sprinkles. His eyes were bright with happiness, crinkled at the corners from the force of his smile, and one front tooth was missing, creating a dark gap that made him look both mischievous and innocent. Behind him, the sea stretched out in endless blue, with tiny whitecaps frothing on the surface. Allure could still remember the feel of the sand between her toes that day, the taste of salt on her lips, the sound of Michael's laughter as he chased seagulls down the beach. Now that memory felt like it belonged to someone else, to another woman in another lifetime.

Niall floated closer, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something heavier, more profound. Being a ghost meant you could see things the living couldn't – the invisible threads connecting hearts, the weight of unspoken words, the echoes of love that lingered even after death. Right now, he could see the golden cord stretching from Allure to the small boy standing beside her, a cord that had once pulsed with life and laughter but now flickered weakly, like a candle in a hurricane. The boy was very much there, very much real, even if his mother couldn't see him.

Michael looked confused, which made sense considering he'd gone to bed the previous evening feeling as well as he ever felt these days, which wasn't very well at all, and now found himself floating in a hospital waiting room, watching his mother cry over his own death. The seven-year-old's ghost form was barely more than a shimmer, translucent and wavering like heat rising from pavement in summer. But Niall could make out the features clearly – the same button nose as Allure, the same unruly dark hair that refused to be tamed even in death, the same eyes that had held so much promise for the future despite the fragile body that housed them. He was wearing the same pajamas he'd gone to bed in, blue ones with little spaceships all over them, the fabric now as ethereal as the rest of him. His feet were bare, hovering just above the stained carpet, and he kept looking down at his hands as if surprised by their transparency.

Actually, Niall hadn't been at the video shoot at all – he'd been at the hospital, where Michael had already been when the medical emergency began. Michael had been admitted to the children's hospital earlier that day for monitoring, his condition having become increasingly unstable over the past few weeks. Allure had been reluctant to leave his side, but the doctors had assured her that he was stable for now, that the video shoot wouldn't take long, that she should keep her commitment to Louis. She'd kissed her son goodbye, promising to be back soon, not knowing that it would be the last time she would see him conscious.

Niall had been there when the call came through from the children's hospital, watching as Allure's phone buzzed with the news that would change everything. He'd seen the moment her professional mask shattered, the way she'd gone from performer to desperate mother in an instant. But she hadn't spoken to Louis at all - she'd waited until he and Liam had left the video set, then immediately announced she had to go. The director had protested, her bandmates had begged her to finish the musical shot, but she'd defied them all, leaving straight for the hospital despite their desperate pleas to stay. She'd made it there in time, not having expected to be saying goodbye.

Allure had been there when the doctors rushed in, when the machines started screaming, when they fought to save him. She'd been there through it all, her presence a silent testament to a mother's love that transcended fear of unemployment or anger from a spoiled music mogul.

Niall had watched it all – the desperate medical interventions, the emergency procedures that had worked so many times before but failed this time, the doctors' increasingly grim expressions as they realized this was different from the other attacks, this was the one they wouldn't win. He'd seen Allure's seven-year battle end in that sterile hospital room, surrounded by machines and strangers and the terrible knowledge that some fights, no matter how bravely fought, eventually end in defeat.

The irony was devastating. Louis had been so wrapped up in his own manufactured drama, so convinced that the supernatural visitations were the most important thing happening in the world, that he'd completely missed the real tragedy unfolding just miles away. While he'd been locking Liam in his mansion and screaming at ghosts, Allure had been making the impossible choice between her job and her dying son. While he'd been throwing coasters at imaginary demons, a real-life angel was losing his fight with a cruel genetic disorder. The video could be reshot, the lighting could be fixed, but Michael was gone forever, and none of Louis's billions could have changed that, could have bought the experimental treatments, could have eased Allure's seven years of sacrifice. He had no concept of real courage, real love, real loss.

At least that’s what she assumed. He did understand, more than she’d ever be aware. Louis did know love and loss. He just never had the courage to face his demons and you can only ignore those for so long before they manifest in other aspects of life; something Louis was about to understand real soon.

If Niall could have intervened in this situation, if he could have changed anything, he would have. He would have shaken Louis, would have forced him to see what was happening right in front of him. He would have somehow gotten that ambulance there faster, would have found a way to make those CPR compressions work, would have bargained with whatever powers ruled the universe for just one more heartbeat. But the rules of being a reaper were absolute and unchangeable. He was the ghost of possibilities and outcomes, created by otherworldly forces to maintain balance between the living and the dead. For millions of years, he had guided spirits from one plane of existence to the other, never intervening, never changing outcomes, only ensuring the transition was handled with the dignity it deserved. All he could do was witness, and sometimes that was the hardest job of all.

"Mum?" Michael's voice was like wind chimes, too soft for living ears but crystal clear to Niall. It was the sound of childhood innocence, the sound of a child who couldn't quite grasp the permanence of what had happened. "Why are you crying?"

Allure didn't respond, couldn't respond. Her entire world had collapsed in the space of ten minutes, the doctor's words still echoing in her head: "Massive coronary event. There was nothing we could do. I'm so sorry." Those words would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life, she knew. She would hear them in quiet moments, would see the doctor's kind but pitying face when she closed her eyes. The finality of them, the absolute certainty that this time there had been no chance, no hope, no last-minute miracle. Just sudden, devastating finality. For seven years she had fought this battle – seven years of experimental treatments the NHS wouldn't cover, seven years of watching her son defy the odds that said most children with this rare genetic disorder never made it past their fifth birthday. Seven years of hope that each new treatment would work longer than the last, that each attack could be managed, that maybe, just maybe, they would find the one that would last. But that treatment which had kept Michael alive for two years past his expected lifespan had begun to lose its effectiveness over the past few months. The attacks were coming more frequently now, lasting longer, leaving him weaker each time.

And now the regret was crushing – the regret of leaving his side that afternoon, even though the doctors had said it was safe. The regret of choosing her job over being there with him, even if it had only been for a few hours. The regret of not trusting her instincts when they told her to stay, of listening to medical professionals instead of the mother's voice inside that knew something was wrong. Those hours she'd lost, those precious moments she could have had with him, would haunt her forever. One minute her son was fighting as he always fought, and the next minute he was gone. Just like that. No warning this time, no chance to prepare, no opportunity to say the things she'd always assumed she'd have time to say. No chance to tell him how much she loved him, how proud she was of his courage, how he was the strongest person she'd ever known.

The paramedics had worked on him for twenty-seven minutes before calling it, twenty-seven minutes of hope and terror that ended in silence. Niall had watched it all – the chest compressions that left Michael's small body bruised and broken, the injection of epinephrine that made his heart flutter briefly before stilling again, the desperate attempts to restart something that had already gone. Twenty-seven minutes that felt like both an eternity and no time at all. Twenty-seven minutes during which Allure had stood by, helpless, watching strangers try to bring her son back to life. Twenty-seven minutes of machines beeping and people shouting and her entire existence narrowing down to the desperate prayer that her son would just breathe again. Allure knew the protocols better than most mothers – she'd lived through enough emergency episodes to know exactly what should happen, exactly what medications should be administered, exactly the signs to watch for. But this wasn't like the other times. This wasn't another attack that could be managed with the emergency treatment she carried everywhere. This was the one they hadn't been able to win, the final battle they'd lost.

But he hadn't. And now here she was, alone in this sterile room while the world continued to spin outside these walls, oblivious to the fact that her world had just stopped turning completely.

Sometimes being a witness felt like being complicit, felt like standing by while tragedy unfolded. But those were the rules that had existed since the beginning of time, and Niall had learned the hard way that breaking them only made things worse for everyone involved.

"I don't know, mum. I was sick and then I'm better?" Michael asked, looking up at Niall with eyes that held too much understanding for a child his age. There was no confusion in his expression anymore, just a sort of gentle acceptance that was heartbreaking to witness. In death, for the first time in years, Michael wasn't struggling to breathe. For the first time since he was four years old and first diagnosed with the rare genetic disorder that had defined his entire childhood, there was no pain, no tightness in his chest, no desperate gasping for air that came without warning and left him terrified and exhausted. The wisdom of the newly dead was always painful to see – that moment when they understood more than the grieving left behind. In death, Michael had access to truths that living mortals could only guess at, but the price of that knowledge was steep. He understood that he was dead, that his mother was grieving, that this separation was permanent, but he didn't understand why he couldn't just reach out and touch her one last time, why after seven years of fighting together, he had to leave her alone now.

Niall could only force out a smile, feeling like his face might freeze if he tried any harder to appear reassuring. The waiting room was depressing even by hospital standards – metal chairs that promised back problems for anyone unfortunate enough to sit in them for too long, grey carpet that had seen too many tears and too many frantic pacing sessions, walls painted in a color that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like faded hope. A few scattered coffee tables held outdated magazines, their glossy pages untouched by hands too busy with grief to bother with celebrity gossip or home improvement tips. The dim lighting suggested this area wasn't in active use, which was ironic considering it was currently hosting one of the most intense emotional scenes of this early evening. Somewhere down the hall, a baby was crying, a sound of new life that made the absence of Michael's even more painful.

"They said I have to go home now, mum – but I don't want to. I want to go with you so we can play." Michael insisted, reaching out a ghostly hand toward his mother. His fingers, translucent and shimmering, stretched toward the solid warmth of her living body. The gesture passed through her shoulder without resistance, a painful reminder of the barriers between their worlds. He wanted her to hug him back, wanted to feel the familiar comfort of her arms around him, wanted to bury his face in her hair and smell the perfume she always wore. But those days were over. He was beginning to understand that now, the way children sometimes understand things without needing them explained in words – through feeling, through instinct, through the undeniable certainty that comes from beyond the veil.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye before he slipped into the coma. I was working, please let me say goodbye." Allure's voice cracked as she spoke to the empty air around her. The words weren't directed at anyone in particular – just spoken into the overwhelming silence that pressed in from all directions, so thick and heavy it felt like a physical weight. It was the kind of silence that swallowed sound, that made her wonder if her voice was even working anymore. She kept replaying those last moments, kept seeing his face as laid in the hospital bed that somehow seemed too big for his small body. If only she'd refused to go to work, or at least had gotten there sooner. If only she'd insisted on telling Louis where to go when Michael said he didn't feel well. If only, if only, if only. The ifs were killing her, each one a fresh knife in an already bleeding wound.

But even in her physical anguish, there was something comforting near her, something warm and familiar that she couldn't quite identify but could definitely feel. It felt like Michael, like his presence still lingered somehow. Like if she just reached out her hand, she might be able to touch him one last time. It was the kind of feeling that was both comforting and torturous, a reminder of what she'd lost and what she could never have again.

"It's not too late, luv." Harry's sudden presence made Niall jump, though the other ghost appeared seamlessly beside him. Harry's arrival was so smooth that for a moment Niall wondered if he'd been there all along, watching from the shadows as he so often did. The older ghost's expression was soft with sympathy, his centuries of experience showing in the gentle way he observed the scene before them. He'd seen this kind of grief countless times, had watched parents mourn children since the beginning of human history, but it never got easier. Each loss was unique, each pain fresh and devastating.

Michael nodded, sensing that his time was growing short. There was an urgency building within him, a feeling like gravity pulling him toward something else, somewhere else. It wasn't frightening, just inevitable – like knowing you had to leave a party before you were ready but understanding that it was time to go nonetheless. He couldn't explain it in words, but he knew he was better now, knew his mother would eventually be okay too. The pain would lessen with time, the memories would sweeten instead of bitter, life would somehow continue even though it would never be the same. That was the way of things. The living kept living, even when it hurt, even when it felt impossible. They found ways to breathe again, to laugh again, to find joy in a world that had taken so much from them.

"I love you mum and I'm gonna miss you." Michael whispered softly, the words barely disturbing the air around them. He leaned back from his mother's side and stood again, just in time to see Zayn and Niall standing with Harry now. The three spirits formed a silent, solemn triangle around the grieving woman and her ghostly child, witnesses to a tragedy that shouldn't have happened. Witnesses to the kind of pain that no parent should ever have to endure.

Niall held out his hand to Michael, a gesture of invitation and transition. The small boy took it without hesitation, his trust absolute. Niall nodded at Zayn, acknowledging the unspoken communication between them. It was time to go, time to move on to the next part of their duties, time to leave this mother to her grief and allow her the space she needed to begin the impossible process of learning to live without her child.

Zayn, in typical fashion, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a flick of his ghostly fingers. The smoke that curled from the tip was somehow more substantial than Zayn himself, tendrils of gray that twisted and turned in the stagnant hospital air like living things. Each puff released chemicals that shouldn't exist in the spiritual realm, but Zayn had always been good at breaking rules. His good mood and joking personality had vanished completely, replaced by something dark and dangerous that radiated from him like heat from a fire. The death of a child always affected him more deeply than he cared to admit – it reminded him of losses he'd rather not remember, of injustices that still burned like acid in his soul centuries later. Children were supposed to be safe; they were supposed to grow up and make mistakes and have chances to fix them. They weren't supposed to have their stories end before they'd really begun.

In the next moment, Michael and Niall disappeared, the transition so smooth that they might have never been there at all. One moment they were there, solid enough to be seen if you knew how to look, and the next they were simply gone, leaving behind only the faintest hint of ozone and the memory of a child's laughter. Harry remained seated beside Zayn, the two ghosts observing Allure as she continued to grieve, unaware of the supernatural drama that had just played out inches from her. She was tracing the outline of Michael's face in the photograph with her thumb, over and over again, as if by touching his image enough times she could somehow bring him back. She would spend hours here in this waiting room, lost in memories and grief, before finally gathering the strength to face the world without her son. The strength would come, eventually, but it would be the hardest thing she'd ever had to do.

"Louis is a donkey's arse crack. She needs someone here with her and he can't be arsed. That's it, I'm turning into a ten-foot lizard and eating him. Let's see how he feels about THAT for a bloody hallucination." Zayn growled, his voice low and dangerous, the words carrying the weight of centuries of accumulated frustration. He threw his cigarette onto the ground where it vanished before it could land, disappearing in a flicker of spectral energy that left behind the smell of ozone and regret. The transformation was already beginning, Zayn's form shimmering and stretching as his rage took physical shape. His bones elongated with sickening cracks, his skin darkened and scaled, his fingers elongated into claws. This was the side of Zayn that most beings knew better than to provoke, the side that had earned him his reputation as someone you didn't cross unless you had a death wish.

Harry sighed, the sound carrying centuries of weary resignation. He looked at Allure, wanting nothing more than to join her in the floodgates of grief, to offer comfort that she could actually feel. He wanted to tell her that Michael was okay, that he wasn't alone, that there were people waiting to welcome him on the other side. He wanted to tell her that her love hadn't been wasted, that the time she'd spent with her son mattered more than she could possibly know. But he didn't. He simply absorbed her pain, took it into himself and processed it as glances of her past flew through his mind like a movie played at triple speed. He saw her as a little girl, singing into a hairbrush in front of her bedroom mirror. He saw her as a teenager, discovering her voice in the school choir; while in the same breath, holding her newborn son for the first time. He saw her age to now. Her heart still so full of love, it felt like it might burst. He saw her struggles, her triumphs, her moments of doubt and her moments of pure joy. He saw better in her than he did in a lot of people these days, and that comforted him somewhat. In a world full of Louis Tomlinsons, people like Allure were rare and precious. They were the ones who made the job bearable, who reminded the spirits why they kept doing this year after year.

Why they had to.

"You're a good person, Allure. Just hang in there and I promise that it will get easier." Harry's voice was barely a whisper, meant more for himself than for her. The words were useless, empty platitudes that meant nothing in the face of such devastating loss, but they were all he had to offer. "Now, not to sound insensitive, because truly I'm not, but I hear Louis screaming and I need to go calm down Zayn before he actually causes irreversible psychological damage to the man we're trying to help. Hopefully when this evening is over; your boss will have learned some valuable lessons – like not piss Zayn off, which is something he's learning right now."

Harry hurried away, popping back to Louis's mansion to help Niall control a pissed off ten-foot lizard ghost – which, as it turned out, was significantly more complicated than it sounded. The sounds of Louis's screaming reached them before they even fully materialized in the living room, along with the distinctive crash of expensive things being broken. There was the shattering of glass, the splintering of wood, the thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Louis had apparently moved on from throwing coasters to throwing furniture.

Louis, for lack of small mercies, had passed out against the back wall he had cowered in. His body was slumped in an undignified heap, his expensive clothes rumpled and his face pale even in sleep. The ten-foot lizard ghost was currently trying to fit through a doorway that was clearly not designed for supernatural reptiles, getting stuck halfway and thrashing in frustration while scales scraped against expensive wood paneling. Meanwhile, Niall was attempting to reason with it using logic that, frankly, had no place in this situation. You couldn't reason with Zayn when he was like this, you could only contain him and wait for the rage to burn itself out.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if this was what all Christmas Eve interventions looked like, or if Louis Tomlinson was just special. Somehow, he suspected it was the latter. After all these centuries, after all the souls he'd guided and the lessons he'd taught, he'd never encountered someone quite as resistant to change as Louis Tomlinson. The man was like a fortress of his own making, walls built so high and thick that even divine intervention struggled to make a dent. But this evening wasn't over yet, and Christmas magic worked in mysterious ways. There was still time for a miracle, still hope that the hardest hearts could be softened, still a chance that Louis might finally learn the lesson that Simon Cowell had died trying to teach him.

The lizard ghost had finally managed to extricate itself from the doorway, leaving deep scratches in the expensive wood that Louis would undoubtedly blame on someone else when he woke up. Zayn was pacing the living room now, his massive tail knocking over a table lamp that shattered against the marble floor. Niall was trying to clean up the debris with ghostly hands that couldn't actually touch anything, his expression a mixture of exasperation and concern. And somewhere in all this chaos, Louis Tomlinson slept on, oblivious to the supernatural drama playing out around him, oblivious to the lessons he was supposed to be learning, oblivious to anything beyond his own small, self-contained world of privilege and pain.

But the evening was young, and Christmas Eve had a way of revealing truths that no other evening could touch. The spirits had their work cut out for them, but they'd faced tougher challenges before. They just had to keep trying, keep showing, keep hoping that somewhere beneath all that armor and arrogance, there was still a man worth saving.

Harry looked around at the wreckage of Louis's living room in the mansion, at the supernatural chaos that had erupted from one man's refusal to change, and sighed. It was going to be a very long evening indeed. Most mortals at least had the decency to be properly terrified when confronted with supernatural lizards, but Louis? Louis had apparently fainted from sheer exhaustion, leaving the spirits to deal with the aftermath of his temper tantrum. It was going to be a long evening.

*

Back in the mansion hours after the dramatic event, Louis eventually woke up with a headache and no memory of how he'd ended up on the floor. He would find his home in disarray, would see the evidence of his early evening breakdown, would slowly piece together the events of the hours before. But he wouldn't know about Allure, wouldn't know about Michael, wouldn't know that his temper tantrum had played out while a mother was learning to live without her child. The irony was lost on him, as it so often was. He was too busy being Louis Tomlinson to notice the consequences of his actions, too wrapped up in his own drama to see the real tragedies unfolding around him.

But the spirits saw. And they remembered. And they hoped, against all odds and past experience, that this Christmas Eve might finally be the one that changed everything.

For in the grand scheme of things, in the cosmic balance of justice and mercy, there were moments that mattered more than others. Moments when one heart's transformation could ripple outward in ways that no one could predict. Moments when the choice between love and hate, between compassion and indifference, between redemption and damnation, hung in the balance with consequences that stretched far beyond a single soul.

This was such a moment.

Louis Tomlinson, sleeping fitfully on his expensive floor while a mother walked home to an empty flat, was at a crossroads whether he knew it or not. The paths before him were clear, even if he couldn't see them yet. One led deeper into the fortress he'd built around himself, into a loneliness so profound it would eventually crush him completely. The other led outward, into the painful but liberating light of connection, of empathy, of the kind of love that required sacrifice and demanded growth.

Neither path was easy. Neither promised happiness. But only one offered the possibility of salvation.

The spirits would be there, watching and waiting, ready to guide but not to force, ready to show but not to dictate. For this was Louis's choice to make, Louis's battle to fight, Louis's soul to save or lose. All they could do was make sure he saw the truth, really saw it, before the sun rose on Christmas Day and the magic of this particular evening faded away.

And somewhere in the space between heartbeats, between what was and what could be, a little boy named Michael smiled, and a mother named Allure took another breath, and three spirits prepared for the hardest part of an evening that had already been harder than most.

Christmas Eve was almost over, but the miracle was just beginning.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Simon's Damnation

Louis woke himself with the kind of scream that clears a house. He came up off the leather like a cat booted from a piano lid and braced for teeth.

“Don’t eat me!”

Silence answered, stunned and heavy. The great room only gave him himself: lacquer-black floors reflecting a pale, wild-eyed man with his hair at moral outrage angles; a chandelier shivering faintly as if gossiping about what it had just seen.

He tasted copper. His heart bowed its back and raced like it had to outrun his body. The picture returned in one rush: a ten-foot thing, scaled and wrong, red eyes like hazard lights, a mouth full of dental malpractice and a howl that didn’t belong in houses. It had cornered him against the panelling. He remembered dragging breath over broken glass. Then—blankness. Now he was on the sofa with a blanket draped to the shoulder like a kindness he didn’t ask for.

“So that’s fantastic,” he muttered, peeling the throw off and flinging it at the armrest as if it had any say in events. “Haunted and tucked in.”

The house was holding its breath—rich, elegant, and as alive as marble. He pushed up, legs not interested in cleverness yet, and made for the kitchen. His hand brushed the wall on the way, the way you do in the dark even when the lights are on.

The kitchen met him with curated composure. White cabinetry; twin crystal fixtures hovering like obedient small galaxies; the black granite island glossed and wide as a runway; appliances that hummed at a price point. The floor—a lake of black sapphire tile—threw his reflection up at him like evidence.

“Dinner,” he announced, because saying it made hunger feel less like a dare.

The clock over the stove read 10:15 p.m. It felt later. He opened the fridge and let the cold look him in the face. A self-heating pizza sat there like surrender. He took it, unboxed it, slid it onto a plate, fed it to the microwave, tapped in the time. The hum began, small and obedient.

“Harry?” he said, testing the room, pitching the word like you throw bread to ducks you don’t trust. “You around?”

On the island: a vodka bottle, intact. Earlier, it had been decorative modern art on the far wall. “Score,” he said, genuine relief breaking through like sun through railings. “Something’s going right.”

He unscrewed the cap and took a pull. The burn settled in like an uncle who didn’t call first. The silence stayed. No curly-haired lecture. No cigarette sarcasm. Maybe he’d dreamed the basilisk. Maybe his brain had decided to do performance art.

The oven door creaked open by itself.

He stared at it. “Okay. Weird.”

He padded over, closed it calmly because anger is a currency and he was saving his. A knock rapped at the front door—smart, quick, confident. His shoulders rose; he put the bottle down like he might have to fight with both hands.

“I’m putting up a sign,” he told the hall as he went. “‘Kick Louis in the nut sack day.’ One day only. Bring a friend.”

He jerked the door open, ready to make someone the volunteer of the year. Nobody. The December street sat blank and shiny; a parked car watched him with frost-lashed eyes; the hedges across the walk looked pleased to be expensive. His neighbours were off scattering selfies across islands.

“Quoth the raven, nevermore,” he said to the weather, closed up, locked, and walked back. The microwave had already fallen silent. Good. At least the science worked.

He opened the microwave.

His vodka bottle sat inside, grinning at him.

“What the bloody elf arses—” He stopped looking for language and started looking for culprits. He scanned the room the way a cat scans a doorway: every corner suddenly guilty. He pulled the bottle out and slammed it on the counter, then shouted, “Zayn? Harry? This isn’t funny!”

Two shapes were already at the island: one perched with the ease of a man who’d never been chased from a chair, the other lounged like smoke choosing a shoulder. They watched him with tired fondness and practised resignation.

And a third leaned against the freezer with a cocky grin and a teenage tilt, shaking the door like he was checking if a grown-up had child-locked the snacks.

“He’s funny,” the newcomer said, delighted by his own assessment.

Zayn arched a brow. “And exactly where did you come from, lad?”

The boy shrugged, hair falling into his eyes in a way that tried too hard and succeeded. “Followed you back from the hospital. It gets right boring there. Heart monitors used to be a laugh. Unhook—beep—chaos. Now it’s like telling the same joke to a mirror.” He thumped the freezer twice; the whole thing rattled. “You left a trail. I’m excellent at trails.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, concern landing soft but definite in his face. “Stop scaring the mortal,” he said, not bothering to look at Louis yet. “And be gone before Niall gets back. You won’t like what he does. You won’t like what happens, full stop.”

The teenager’s grin sharpened. He zipped to the foyer with a blur and knocked again—one-two-three, prim and precise. Louis jumped, swore, marched to the door like a man prepared to punch weather. He opened to emptiness again.

The bell rang—ding-dong-ding-dong—too fast and too cheerful to be anything but malicious. In the kitchen, the boy slid open the fridge, snatched the pizza box he’d hidden back, and frisbeed it upward. It hit the chandelier above the island and stuck there, cheese stringing down like modern art that had lost a fight.

Zayn watched the cascade of mozzarella with the resigned stare of a babysitter who has lost the battle but not the grim satisfaction of the report to come. “I’m all for scaring him,” he said. “Trust me, I could live off it. But Harry’s right. You need to leave. Why follow us?”

The boy sniffed the air and hummed. “You were angry. He stinks of misery.” He tilted his head toward Louis. “It’s… delectable.” His eyes darkened, the black spreading like spilled ink until there was no iris left.

Harry’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Zayn.”

“Uh-huh.” Zayn didn’t get up; he didn’t have to. “That is most definitely not a ghost. Not a deadling. Not a teenager. Lou should’ve bought the holy water and the cross. Niall?” he called, like a man calling for a friend who brings a bigger dog to the park.

Niall appeared the way Niall did: suddenly, and as if he’d always been there. His gaze flicked over the boy and back to Zayn, question raised without a word.

“That,” Zayn said. “Back. Preferably yesterday.”

Niall’s scythe arrived with him. The curve of it caught the overhead light and held it obediently. He lifted it, control absolute, and took a step forward.

“Oh, please,” the thing in the teenage skin said, smirking. “He’s a death spirit. What’s that going to do to me? I’m only having a bit of fun.”

“Fun’s over,” Zayn told him. “If I can’t eat him as a hallucination, you can’t toy with him as a demon. Professional courtesy.”

Louis burst back into the doorway just in time to see gravity betray the pizza. It let go of the chandelier and parachuted toward his face. He yelped and ducked. It slapped the floor in a cheesy thud and left him with strings of dairy like festive tinsel across his sleeve.

The bottle he’d placed on the counter lifted itself with petty grace and shot at the far wall. It shattered into the same constellation he’d swept earlier, glass glittering like swearing in sunlight. The boy clapped once, delighted.

“Well,” Harry said dryly, “there’s your leprechaun under a rainbow with a pot of gold. We didn’t just find one—we got the tour package.”

The demon laughed, eyes on Louis as if he were lunch or a bet. Niall brought the blade down in a clean, air-splitting arc. The boy vanished between the start of the swing and its finish. The steel met only kitchen and an offended chandelier.

“Brilliant,” Zayn muttered. “We’ve gone from haunting a walking moral hazard to playing tag with sulphur in skinny jeans.”

Harry glanced at the clock—10:25—and measured his voice. “We save our strength. We deal with the little fire hellion later. Bottom-feeder. Loud, hungry, cowardly.”

Zayn took a drag of a cigarette that never shortened and nodded toward the living room where Louis had begun shouting threats at the floor, the ceiling, and the fact of existence. “He’s going to keep doing that,” he predicted.

Harry sighed and crossed into the room. He lifted a hand, and space listened. Louis froze mid-rant, mid-breath, one hand fisted in the air like he’d intended to punch an idea. Harry guided him to the sofa and let him soften into it, a neat unspooling.

“Sorry, Louis,” he said out of habit. He looked to Zayn.

“Can’t hear us,” Zayn said. “Can’t hear himself either, now.” He flicked two fingers, and Louis’s throat unclenched without giving him back volume. “He can shout to his heart’s content and not perforate ours.”

Niall reappeared beside them, a silent weight that steadied the room by existing. He lifted two fingers, then touched his temple and made a small circling motion.

“Yeah,” Zayn translated. “He saw our little straggler pop in on Allure.” He grimaced. “Of course he did.”

Harry’s face went stored and still. “We cannot chase every shadow,” he said, not to be cruel, but because the night had assignments and time had limits. “Louis invoked them. Louis will have to drive them out. We’ll be there if it turns teeth.”

He straightened, the robe he wore tonight glowing faintly at the edges, the way fog glows around a streetlamp. “Past first. I need a recharge.” He tipped two fingers off his temple to Louis, more benediction than salute, and vanished in a soft wash of colour.

Louis sprang upright like a man surfacing in a cold lake. “Stop bloody possessing me, you fu—”

“Right. That’s our cue,” Zayn said. He and Niall disappeared between syllables, and Louis’s voice crashed into the house like a skidding lorry.

“I hope you burn in hell!” he finished, breathing hard, looking around for an audience and finding only a chandelier patterned in cheese and an expensive rug that now wore marinara as a badge.

The landline rang. He stalked to the kitchen, snatched the handset with a grip that promised the plastic nothing good. “Santa Christmas speaking. What the hell do you want? Harry, if this is you, I will re-kill you and make you scream like a dickless wanker—”

“Louis. It’s me.” Liam sounded like a man whispering in a hallway outside sleeping children. “Stars on a Christmas cracker, mate. Calm down.”

“Screw you in the pie hole with a pine cone,” Louis snapped. “I will not calm down, because I am calm.” He checked the clock without meaning to. 10:55.

“Did you go check on Allure? She’s not answering. Goes to voicemail now. I just—want to make sure she’s alright.”

“Why would I check on her?” Louis slid onto a stool and tapped the island with two fingers until it sounded nervous. “Checking implies caring. I don’t. My interest begins with her voice and ends at the cash drawer. She’s a contract, not a cause. Stop treating me like I’m the Make-A-Wish Foundation.” He didn’t breathe between thoughts; he didn’t give Liam space to wedge in hope. “Also, change of plans: office open tomorrow. Thirty minutes early. Miss it and you’re done. I’ll make sure you can’t get a paper round in this town.”

He hung up with surgical neatness and threw the handset at the far wall. It burst in a black plastic snow.

“Bottom feeders,” he told the fridge as he opened it. “Everyone wants something for nothing. Not my charity. Not my job.”

The milk went down in three long pulls that made his stomach complain and his throat forgive him for earlier. He lobbed the carton into the bin, squared his shoulders, and went looking for anything that didn’t feel like surrender.

The house shivered.

At first it was the small kind of tremor a lorry causes when it barrels past on bad tarmac. Then it was deeper—bone-deep—like the ground had decided to cough. The crystal overhead began to prickle against itself. The ceiling registered alarm. The walls admitted they were attached to something bigger than themselves.

“Mother of Jack Nicholson,” Louis shouted over the growl, because why not recruit the patron saint of axes. “There are no earthquakes in England!”

Lights flickered. A chandelier—one of the side ones—lost patience, tore its brackets, and slammed down onto the island with a crash that would have been funny with the right soundtrack. In the living room, something heavy hit the floor with a sound that had corners.

Then the shaking stopped. The house set down whatever it had been carrying and asked everyone how they felt.

“What,” Louis said to the hallway, “the actual hell?”

He moved with the care of a man walking through a crime scene he owned. He reached the threshold of the great room and stopped so fast it yanked a small sound out of him.

The room had been given a centrepiece: a vault the size of a van, iron-sided, door ajar, hinges exposed like the tendons of a huge jaw. It sat exactly where sitting did the most damage: the Persian rug crushed, the coffee-table legs splayed and doomed, the console split like a broken thought. It had not fallen; it had arrived.

“Bloody monkey nuts,” he said, because profanity needed novelty. “Why do you spirits hate me? What did I ever do to you specifically, aside from live?”

“You buried me in a rent-a-suit and left me to rot under holy ground.” The voice came from the sofa. Calm. Wry. Familiar enough to rearrange his heart’s furniture.

Louis turned so fast the room lagged behind. “Simon?”

Simon rose from the couch like a man who’d never had to ask a chair permission. His shape was wrong where it should have been right: edges a little soft, light sliding off him oddly, as if it had to be negotiated with. He moved, and the sound came: the whisper and clink of chains too heavy to be polite. They fed into him. They were him.

“S-Simon,” Louis managed. “What the actual fu—”

“Louis.” Simon didn’t raise his voice. He never had needed to. “Come and sit down. We’ve got a bit to discuss.”

“I’m comfortable,” Louis lied, arms crossing, feet refusing to uncross.

“I’m not a hallucination,” Simon said, not unkindly. “One last time—nicely—come here and sit. I have something to show you.”

“And if I don’t?”

The chains murmured as Simon stood. It wasn’t a rattle. It was a memory of metal against bone. “Still the same lad I knew ten years ago,” he said, with a sadness that wore a disguise. “I’d congratulate you if stubbornness were a pension. We’re short on clock. Stop fooling around.”

He lifted a hand. Green light bloomed, cool and narrative. It unwound the shadows and showed Louis what he’d been refusing to see.

Louis’s mouth opened to scream because there’s a particular honesty to a chain soldered into the meat of a back. The links sank into Simon’s spine and fanned outward like a fanged peacock. Some clamped his wrists, some his waist. Others vanished into air behind him toward the open vault like lines to an anchor. They had weight you could hear and hunger you could feel.

By the time Louis remembered how to stand, he was already sitting. Simon had guided him to the couch with a briskness that didn’t accept debate.

“Focus,” Simon said without sharpness. “I’ve got an hour and you’ve got a life. I’d prefer not to waste either.”

“Y-you—” Louis said, eloquent as a dropped spoon.

“The chain,” Simon said, as if commenting on his tie. “Expanded. It’s a one-time dispensation. So listen. You’ve met the three who will handle your… education. Take their lessons. If you don’t, what’s happened to me will feel like a back rub compared to what waits for you.”

He reached without asking and picked up a book from the coffee table. It passed through his fingers, hesitated, then decided to behave. He flicked through it with interest a man reserves for evidence he didn’t ask for. He slipped it into his coat pocket. Louis blinked. The coat pocket had no bottom.

“Hey—” Louis started.

“And two more.” Simon palmed a paperback and an iPod with the practised cheer of a street magician. “You never did label your things.”

“I don’t see how this affects me,” Louis said, trying for bored and landing on brittle. “I’m content. I know the shape of myself. That’s the point.”

“It’s your last chance,” Simon said, mildly enough that the air decided to write it down. “Before my fate becomes yours.”

“Why would you care?” Louis shot back. The chains slid and sang as Simon moved; the sound threaded the room until even the panelling seemed to listen.

“Because I still see salvation,” Simon said. “I still see a version of you that earns the kind of peace money can’t hire.” He shifted to the desk. A laptop woke up under his hands. “Password?”

Louis bristled on reflex. “Like I’d—”

“Tits345,” Simon typed, rolling his eyes. “Honestly.”

The desktop bloomed. Simon opened a browser and Googled like a man who’d always used someone else to do it. He slid the machine across.

Louis read the headline and laughed once, brittle as glass. LOUIS TOMLINSON, MURDERED.

“Poppycock,” he said, and shut the laptop. “I don’t have enemies. Everyone who hates me owes me money or a favour. They can get in line, take a ticket, and kiss the ring.”

“None yet,” Simon allowed. “My advice? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. And look for rats in silk. The bites you don’t see are the ones that take the hand. Be careful which hands you offer.”

“Allure?” Louis asked, safe because her name was always to hand.

“She isn’t your problem for much longer,” Simon said with a dryness that suggested this didn’t count as comfort. “You’ll find out.” He lifted Louis’s laptop again and slid it into his coat alongside the book and the iPod. The coat did not protest. “For now, be teachable. It’s cheaper than chains.”

Louis stood because sitting felt like concession. He didn’t move forward because the chains had their own gravity and he had no intention of testing their radius.

“I’ll try,” he said, and surprised himself with how the word tasted. He swallowed and added quickly, “Don’t expect a miracle.”

Something in Simon’s gaze relaxed, then tightened. “Good,” he said. “Because what you felt just now—”

Louis didn’t have time to ask what he meant. Pain tore through the centre of his back like a hook on a cable being driven home. His breath left him; his knees softened; his hands found the edge of the sofa and held. Weight clamped across his ribs, waist, shoulders—links that hadn’t been there a second ago leaned their iron into him and asked how truth felt.

He gasped, bit on a sound, and hated the wetness in his eyes for daring.

Simon watched without flinching. “—is one percent of it,” he finished, calm as a clock. “Consider it a free trial.”

The weight eased. Louis breathed like the room had been holding his lungs for him and just now handed them back.

“You’re a bastard,” he said, voice catching on the edge of something he didn’t want to name.

“I was,” Simon said, without flinch or pride. “And yet—here I am, telling you not to be. Listen to them. Especially the curly one. He will break you and bless you in the same hour. I would have… done it differently, if I’d known.”

He reached out with his free hand. Louis stared at it and then took it because sometimes your body remembers other lives when your brain does not. The shake was warm because memory is stubborn.

“Accord?” Simon asked.

“Fine,” Louis said, which in Louis meant possibly.

Simon pulled him into a quick half-hug that smelled faintly of old rooms. Up close, Louis saw what four thousand nights had done to the man’s face: time had not been charitable; regret had been thorough; and the iron didn’t let go.

“Goodbye, Louis,” Simon said. He lifted his chained arm in a small, elegant wave. “If you meant ‘don’t expect a miracle,’ I’ll be seeing you again very soon.”

The vault was gone. The room reset itself around an absence like water closing over a stone. No damage. No glass on the floor. No pizza printed into a Persian. No laptop on the desk. No iPod. No two books.

“Why would a ghost nick a laptop,” Louis asked the stunned quiet. He could already hear a policeman laughing in his face. My dead boss stole my tech; please send help. He snorted. “Enjoy last year’s model, you son of a—”

Midnight came with the sound of nothing else moving. Harry appeared in the doorway in a robe white enough to be a joke if it hadn’t suited him. The hems hummed, the fabric lit itself from within as if it had a hand in it.

“Let’s skip the pageant,” Louis said, rolling his eyes so hard they threatened to fall out. “Show me what you’re going to show me and be done. I’m not a marionette and you’re not Geppetto.”

Harry smiled like someone who’d heard the line translated from five languages. He held out his sleeve. “Grip here,” he said. “We’ll go to where it began.”

Louis hesitated because he knows a trap door when he sees one. Then he gripped the terry, because pride is for daylight and midnight has rules of its own.

He was a scream travelling down a white throat. He was velocity dressed as a man. The house fell away. London fell away. The years unrolled like ribbon from a spool. The tunnel of light taught his stomach a new position. Then the world snapped back, hard and particular.

Snow caught him with both hands and laughed. He face-planted into it with dignity. Harry remained upright and annoyingly photogenic.

“That wasn’t funny,” Louis said through a mouthful of winter. “You stupid spook.”

He pushed up, spat, wiped his lip with the back of his hand. The air bit his cheeks cleanly. The night wore a clear, frigid halo. Ahead: the low long brick body of a school he knew in his bones. The windows watched with the slightly malicious interest of old institutions. The sign in iron script announced the name he had refused to say for years.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Back to hell.”

Harry began to walk, hands in his robe pockets like a man strolling through a memory he’d rented for the evening. Louis followed, swearing softly into the scarf he’d not been offered and pretending the echo belonged to someone else.

Behind them, somewhere he could not hear, a woman in a beige room rocked a grief that refused to bargain. Somewhere else, a boy discovered that running did not hurt. Somewhere between those places, a man who had made a career of not looking would be asked to open his eyes.

And somewhere far below, iron shifted in a vault and waited to see who would arrive next.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Down Memory Lane

Harry and Louis stood off to the side in a large auditorium, watching as kids of all ages and backgrounds filed in single file through the front doors and into the bleachers on either side of the expansive space.

There was an important announcement, and each student was required to attend for safety and educational purposes.

“You remember this day?” Harry noted, seeing the smirk crawl across Louis’s face.

In fact, Harry had never seen him giddier.

“Oh man, I remember this day like I remember the atomic bombs dropping in London in history class on the tele,” Louis responded, walking over to one of the bleachers and glancing over at his old schoolmates. “There’s Nichelle; little snitch—that was his nickname.” He recalled thoughtfully, reaching over as if to slap the little ginger out of his seat.

Harry looked unamused and grabbed his arm. “These are only memories, Louis. You can’t do anything. So quit trying to cause problems. You can’t slap the ginger out of him, and that attitude of yours needs to be put on a lead until we finish. You’re missing the point of all this, lad,” Harry warned.

“We only just got here; how much could I have possibly missed? I mean, if you’re ready to call it a night—” Louis paused, his eyes shining a bit when his younger, smaller self shoved his way through the bleak lines of drab-dressed students in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts and a Doncaster jersey.

“Good morning, fellow bitches!” younger Louis yelled throughout the auditorium, taking his seat at the very top of the right-side bleacher and plopping down at the end of the row, his voice loud in the almost silent auditorium.

“What a delightful little lad,” Harry drawled sarcastically.

“I was a far cry from delightful, but you’re the ghost of the past; you know perfectly well why. Now shush, my favorite part is coming up.” Louis said, shushing Harry as Headmaster Bryans marched toward the bleachers where Louis’s younger self was seated.

“Mister Tomlinson? Your clothing is unorthodox. Go and change into the school uniform,” Bryans demanded, beckoning the younger lad from the bleachers, making the little boy smirk even more.

Scarily enough, older Louis had an exact replica of the smirk his younger self currently wore.

“I would, sir Headmaster Bam-bam. Truly, but I’m afraid they’ve been nicked. You see, when I opened my drawer this morning, I found this ransom note,” he told the headmaster with a dead straight face.

He handed it to the administrator, who read it aloud with disbelief, his lip twitching with amusement—almost. “This is a ransom. If you ever want to see your school uniform alive again, bring two hundred quid to the courtyard at three noon.” He looked at Louis, his face projecting as serious as he could manage.

“So, the ransomer’s name is HAHA? How peculiar. Well, we’ll certainly have Scotland Yard on the case within the hour,” Bryans replied, trying to maintain his composure.

Little Louis snorted. “Those dodgers couldn’t find a fart in a whoopee cushion factory, mate. I say, best forget the uniform and go with casual dress.”

Headmaster Bryans was most certainly losing his amusement then. “Lad? You’ve been here two weeks, and I’ve had teachers complain about you. In fact, that is the main reason we have all been brought together here today. You and your wonderful achievements have caused much unneeded distraction. If you put more effort into your schoolwork as you do into your creativity, you may actually get far in life.” Bryans smiled, turning to leave but stopped Louis from returning to his seat.

“Actually, I am most curious, Mr. Tomlinson—how did you cement Master Thompkins’s chair to the ceiling? We have been trying for three days now to get it down, but the cement appears to have bonded itself permanently with the plaster, and though I do not encourage the destruction of school property, I have never seen a sight such as I have with four men hanging from a roof trying to get a chair down off of it.”

Louis chuckled and glanced at Harry. “I actually liked Headmaster Bam-bam. He was a rather fair administrator. Sad when he had that heart attack the following year. One moment he was walking the halls, and the next, he dropped to the ground.”

Harry nodded. “That would seem to be the pattern for those who stick around you. Poor bloke, you caused him more stress than he’d ever admitted,” Harry chuckled lightly, his smile slowly fading back to a serious expression. “You amused him, Louis. You were a clever lad and a nice kid, but that all changed, didn’t it? Maybe the first question to ask yourself is when—not why or how.”

Louis snorted, folding his arms tighter across his chest. “I already know the why and how. Piss off and let me trip down memory lane on my own terms here. I’m quite enjoying this,” he waved Harry off.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint, but to sum it all up, you put a sign-up sheet for dissecting a human head on the teacher’s desk and had everyone sign their names to which part they wanted to cut up. You put an actual sheep’s head in a cooler you brought in while labeling it ‘human head,’ and in the turn of events for strict amusement, you put it where the math professor would find it. When he opened it, he made the teacher piss himself and faint dead on the floor, earning him a bad concussion because he actually had a legitimate fear of blood.” Harry pointed out, covering the same exact explanation that Headmaster Bryans had given—only with a little less detail.

Louis was grinning bigger now with the memories, realizing that school had a certain appeal to it when pranks were concerned. “I also stole eleven pheasants from a local farmer and spray-painted numbers one through fourteen. I skipped nine, ten, and eleven. They spent a week trying to hunt down nonexistent pheasants.”

“Yep, and just as well, you protested the homework your teachers gave you. I assume that’s why Thompkins got his chair cemented to the ceiling? He called you a blighting imbecility and told you that you would never be anything, wasn’t it?” Harry asked, seeing Louis’s past play out like an old black-and-white movie.

Louis’s demeanor darkened a little. “Thompkins was a knob. I wasn’t stupid, but his course was rigorous, and I had been dumped at this hellhole against my will and basically told, ‘Chin up, you’ll fall into line soon enough.’ But I didn’t and never could because Louis Tomlinson takes orders from no one.” Louis proclaimed with a chuckle.

“Except for Simon, right?” Harry reminded him, pointing a finger.

Louis sobered. “That bastard stole my laptop. Tell him he owes me money for another one if you see his dead ass again. And yes—he was the only one whom I saw reason to listen to. He offered me something I never had before, and he believed in me, unlike the wobbly whalers at this prison.” Louis spat, his gaze zoning in on his younger self, who now sat quietly in reflection—still pleased with himself, but not quite as satisfied.

“You were lonely,” Harry observed, noticing that none of the other children sat near him.

The feeling radiating from the small boy was desolate. He didn’t understand why his mum and dad couldn’t get into his way of thinking. He was different from other children, and he had only been brought home by the cops twice, but evidently, that was enough to be tossed in a cab and sent six hours away.

“I was confused and angry. Loneliness has nothing to do with it, Harry. Remove your head from your arse and pay attention.” Louis snapped, the familiar feelings swarming around him like a horde of buzzing bees.

“I won’t press, but I sense loneliness and anger. They are much stronger emotions you carry, even still today, than the confusion that you assumed was just your parents being twats and deciding they didn’t love you,” Harry told him bluntly.

Louis growled, kicking the wall lightly. “HEY!” A loud, deep voice boomed over the halls, echoing in the dead, stale air.

Louis rolled his eyes. “It’s Captain No Violence to the Rescue, my savior… not.” Louis retorted overexcitedly, remembering Liam and his lax reaction to the other boys.

Harry frowned slightly. “Louis, you remember this moment, yeah? I believe something extraordinary happened to you.”

“That’s where I met Liam, and then we both got shoved in lockers because he didn’t believe in using violence unless the situation called for it. Round of applause, golf style, for the sheer display of heroics from Captain Moral Muscles.” Louis recalled, watching the confrontation unfold.

“Welcome to hell, you little four-eyed twat,” Jerry Larsen beamed darkly, using his other hand to take Louis’s glasses off his nose and drop them on the ground.

A crunch resounded a second later.

“I wore contacts half on and half off, but glasses were more convenient. Hard time explaining to Mum why I needed money for repairs or replacements, and half of me suspects she didn’t believe me after the second time,” Louis observed his younger self, the tiny form of his body struggling against the bully’s muscular frame.

“She believed you, though you could have told the headmaster. He would have done something,” Harry said, seeing younger Louis smile.

“Thanks, minge maggot. It’s a pleasure to be here in this shithole with a crap stain like you,” the younger boy replied, using his knee as a weapon and aiming to hurt the older bully by making him sing soprano.

Harry looked from the little boy to Louis. “I see not much has changed these past few odd years, hm?” Harry asked with retort, flinching when the bully jammed his knee into Louis’s stomach.

“Yeah, hard to wonder how I turned out so awesome, isn’t it? I mean, with people like Jerry—who the hell needs enemies?” Louis retorted, making Harry shake his head.

“I don’t think you’re helping your case, mate. You ran away screaming like a girl today from a Kingdom Hall… in front of a congregation, after you vandalized them,” Harry pointed out.

Louis rolled his eyes. “First-century hypocrites with no respect for symbolism! I mean, you see the words JB, and you automatically think Justin Bieber.”

“Who?” Harry asked in confusion, flinching when the locker was suddenly opened.

Louis wasn’t far from copying Harry as he watched his younger self get thrown into the small space and shut in.

Louis watched as the locker next to it was opened. Although Liam wasn’t as skinny or as short as Louis, he was shoved in all the same, with slightly more difficulty.

Jerry slammed his fist against the door to Louis’s prison, laughing triumphantly. “Enjoy your time together, twats. I’ll see you around. Welcome to North London Academy, Louis. We are going to have a few lovely years together,” Jerry promised, laughing as he and the other lads stalked off, shoving one another as they left.

It was quiet for a moment between the two young boys before Liam’s enthusiastic voice broke through the thick silence.

“My name’s Liam; you’re Louis. It’s nice to meet you,” Liam greeted politely, shifting a little and swearing silently. “Bollocks, the door pinned my arms down or I could jimmy the lock.”

Louis didn’t speak from the locker, though he did start to thrash around and call for help.

Older Louis chuckled. “The next year after this, Liam was too big to get put into lockers, but I still fit. I fit up until my early teens, right before I left. Liam gave me his phone number, and anytime Jerry put me into the lockers, I’d call Liam, and he would know where they had stuffed me thanks to a tracker we had set in our phones.”

Harry nodded. “He certainly seemed like a good friend to you, even still now; and if you don’t mind me saying so, you haven’t been very kind to him in recent years. I’m surprised he sticks around, but I also know he has his reasons.”

Louis snorted. “I’ve done shit for him. In fact, he was an assistant of mine when I got famous, and I made sure he was well taken care of throughout the time we were roommates in that shit job—”

“A coffee job, wasn’t it? The job he helped you get. That’s actually where we’re going next, but first—we have two more places to visit, and you’re not going to like either of them,” Harry warned, listening to the two kids start to talk in the lockers—well, more like Liam begging Louis to calm down.

“I can’t. Not again.” Louis told him, glancing at Harry’s ghostly form.

Harry could feel a heaviness in his dead chest that could take a mortal’s breath away, and honing in on Louis’s pain at that moment was heart-wrenching. “Your father loved you, and his last known thoughts before the car accident were ‘I’m sorry, Louis.’ But I can’t show you the accident or what he was doing before because you weren’t there. I will tell you that he was coming to pick you up as a surprise so you could spend Christmas with him, but you had already been told that after the fact. It wasn’t your fault. This was never your fault,” Harry assured, seeing Louis’s desperate features break a little.

He hadn’t known his father was on his way to get him. Not until after being told by the administration.

“It was my fault though, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t been there in the first place, then everything would still be alright.” He murmured, looking directly at Harry for some sort of reassurance, feeling the familiar heaviness in his heart that he hadn’t felt for a long time.

“Your father blamed himself for you being at that academy. He was going to invite you back home to finish your schooling in Doncaster; that you didn’t know. He wanted to see you more and had made plans before coming to get you, but it obviously never came to pass since your mum blamed you. It’s why it took her so long to reach out,” Harry explained, holding his arm out for Louis to take hold of his sleeve. “Come on, Louis, we need to go.”

Louis shook his head, turning away and beginning to walk in the opposite direction.

“I can’t. Not again.” Louis told him, his voice laced with frustration.

Harry could feel the weight of Louis’s pain pressing down on him. “If you don’t come with me willingly, I will have to make you. I promise I will try to make it hurt a little less if I can,” Harry promised, easily catching up to Louis and stopping him from walking any further.

Louis looked defeated, and the corner of his eyes were tearing slightly, but he lifted his hand and gently placed it over the sleeve of Harry’s arm in defeat.

“In your own words, it’s the past, yeah?” Louis turned his head to meet Harry’s dead sea eyes.

“Correct,” Harry confirmed with a gentle nod.

“Then no matter the years that march on, it’s the past. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. Hell, Mum didn’t even send a ticket so I could go to his funeral and say goodbye. She didn’t want me there, and I never understood why. I guess she blamed me for being at the school in the first place and I guess it kind of was, but I was not a bad kid. You said so yourself.” Louis murmured, trying to seek answers from the ghost to unjumble his muddled thoughts on the memory he tried so hard to forget.

“I’m afraid I can only offer you insight; not answers. You can try to seek a solution, but unfortunately, you will find more queries than you will answers. My job is to show you the cause, and then from there, it is your responsibility to figure out how that is affecting your life now. That will also be where Zayn takes over.”

Louis nodded quietly, his hand gripping the white cloth on the ghost’s arm.

“Come on, two more stops, and then we can get to the fun aspect of your life,” Harry coaxed, transporting them to the exact same location, two years into the future.

When Louis looked around, all he could see were the dreary dark clouds overhead. It was about to snow, and the chill factor, Louis remembered, was well below 0 Celsius, which would have been around 30 degrees Fahrenheit.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Louis muttered, walking toward the school building again, leaving Harry to follow closely behind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Teenagers

Louis stood over his younger self, his attention riveted on the particular song verse scrawled across the notepad his past self had been obsessively writing on for the past several hours. The dormitory room around them seemed frozen in time, with textbooks scattered haphazardly across desks and clothes draped over chair backs like silent witnesses to the creative struggle unfolding.

"I remember feeling inspired when I woke up that morning and wanted to take a whack at some song lyrics." Louis nodded toward the paper his younger self was hunched over, the pen still gripped tightly in his hand as if threatening to escape if loosened for even a moment.

Harry stood beside Louis, reading over the verse that had his younger counterpart stumped, remaining characteristically silent. He understood that Louis needed to open up in his own time about the events leading up to the devastating news of his father—rushing him would only build more walls around the already fortified defenses of his heart.

"Hey Lou? Are we going into town after lunch? I want to buy some more weights for the dorm." Liam's voice echoed from their joint bathroom, the sound of running water providing a backdrop to his cheerful inquiry.

"Yeah, I need some music paper anyway, we'll get some on the way." Younger Louis called back, his voice carrying the distant quality of someone deeply absorbed in creative concentration, the words almost reluctant to leave the page he was wrestling with.

"Awesome!" Liam's reply came back enthusiastically, the silence that followed settling over the room like a comfortable, well-worn blanket.

"We were pissing around for a few months after the locker meeting and eventually, the administration moved Liam and I in as dorm mates, because we had a habit of sneaking off to the pubs and getting bladdered. I suppose it was just easier to keep an eye on the corrupt one and his minion." Louis shrugged with a dismissive gesture, still unable to comprehend why the school authorities would ever voluntarily room the two notorious troublemakers together.

"Actually, Liam requested it. He was very good at getting you out of trouble and even took the two disciplinary marks for your haywire actions." Harry informed him with matter-of-fact precision, his gaze lifting toward the bathroom door as it swung open. Liam emerged wearing nothing but a towel wrapped securely around his waist, water droplets glistening on his bare chest like tiny diamonds.

"What haywire actions? If I was doing it, so was he." Louis rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to study his younger self's handwriting on the page. "As for that last lyric, I should have scrapped it entirely."

Harry wasn't entirely certain whether he should reveal the truth about Liam—that it was essentially Louis's fault that Liam had quit school alongside him. Well, actually, Liam had been expelled because of Louis's actions, and the music executive standing before him remained blissfully unaware of this crucial detail.

"You blew up the science room, Louis." Harry pointed out, turning to sit carefully on one of the younger boy's beds, strategically positioning himself to keep an eye on his charge and prevent any sudden bolt attempts.

"By accident." Louis replied stonily, his head turning to find the ghost staring intently at the radio that happened to be playing softly in the background, its melody a strange counterpoint to the tension building in the room.

"On purpose and you stabbed Jerry in the eye, mate. You blinded him in that eye. I am understanding of your anger—" Harry attempted to forge a connection, to bridge the gap between them with empathy, but of course Louis wasn't having any of it.

"You don't understand nothen, nosy Harriet. You have no idea what went through my head the moment I stabbed Jerry in his fat toad face," Louis snapped, his anger flaring like gasoline poured on a smoldering fire. He slammed his hand down on the table his younger self was writing at, the impact making the pens jump. "For god sakes, you're making an idiot of yourself; you stupid cad, no one is going to like that song."

Harry sighed quietly, the sound barely audible as he rose to his feet again, placing a gentle hand on Louis's shoulder. "Liam took the disciplinary marks for the destruction of the science room and he also took responsibility when it came to Jerry. He admitted to the administration, but because Jerry insisted it was you and not him, Liam got written up rather than an assault charge. He also paid the school back for damages for the next five years because you caused about twenty thousand pounds' worth of destruction."

Harry could only shake his head in slight disbelief, the magnitude of Louis's behavior weighing heavily in the air between them. "You certainly have lived quite an interesting life, mate. I'll give you that one."

Louis folded his arms defensively across his chest, his posture radiating defiance. "I didn't ask him to do any of that shit. He chose to throw himself under the bus, not me. I can't help if he's too nice. How the hell is that my bloody fault?" Louis snapped, turning sharply and marching out of the dorm room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor like thunder.

Harry ran after him, raising his hand with supernatural speed and ghosting Louis's feet to the spot where he stood frozen in the hallway. "It's not, but I thought you should know. He is a friend, isn't he?" Harry questioned, moving to stand directly in front of Louis so they were locked in an intense stare-down.

Louis folded his arms even tighter beneath his chin, affecting an air of mock thoughtfulness while allowing a slight, predatory smile to play across his lips. "In this business, there are no friends only partners and being that is so, I wouldn't exactly consider Liam a friend. He's my employee, nothing more and nothing less." Louis responded, his words hitting Harry like a quick punch to the throat.

For being the ghost of Christmas past with centuries of experience observing human behavior, Harry certainly hadn't seen that particular revelation coming.

Harry's surprised expression gradually faded to a stony glance; to say he was disappointed in Louis would be a profound understatement. "He helped you through your father's death—" Harry began softly.

"Again, I didn't ask him to and he technically didn't do anything but be human." Louis defended himself, making Harry's eyes spark with something dangerously close to life—or in his particular case, pure, unadulterated fury.

"He made sure you had a place to stay; he got a job, he got you a job when you were feeling well enough to work and because of that job, you are where you are today! You—you, you're a real charmer, you know that? Everything Liam did, he did because he considers you a friend. He did it and it's because of that job that HE GOT YOU, that you got famous." Harry put everything into stark perspective, struggling with every fiber of his being not to slap Louis across his infuriatingly smug face.

"Yeah, well, we all see how that turned out, yeah? I got famous and it still didn't seem to stop fate from pissing all over me. El, and oh, let's not forget about my son—tell me, Harry? Did Niall kill my son? I mean, he seems to be the death spirit in this part of the city. I'm curious, because if he did, tell him I said thanks." Louis responded with equal parts sarcasm and a frighteningly convincing tone of friendliness that masked the roiling emotions beneath the surface.

Harry remained silent for several heartbeats, and that was all the opening Louis needed to continue his verbal assault. "You won't tell me, that's answer enough. Let me go, we're done." Louis demanded, struggling futilely to move his feet from their supernatural prison.

Harry watched Louis lose his balance and fall backwards onto the floor, then took the time to kneel down in front of him with the same emotionless expression, though his livid green eyes burned with ancient fire. In that charged moment, Louis fell quiet, returning the stare with a fortress-like glare of his own.

"Elanor wasn't your fault, but if I'm being completely frank here, your son dodged a bullet with having someone like you for a father. We have enough damned souls in this world, it would be a shame for your son to be added on to the list." Harry spoke with deceptive calmness, feeling a sharp stab of icy cold pierce his dead, unbeating heart as the knife-like words left his lips.

Louis's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "How dare you! I wasn't a bad father!" Louis exclaimed, genuine hurt making its way to the surface of his tone, thawing the frozen exterior of his carefully constructed demeanor. He blinked hard a few times to steady his emotions.

Harry moved himself slightly closer so they were both locked in a battle of wills, each making sure the other understood exactly where they stood in this moment of truth. "You weren't at fault for your son's death, but you still have his blood on your hands, Louis. Don't act blameless on the matter, because you're not without some of the responsibility." Harry told him, waving his hand and allowing the man to stand again.

Louis felt the hollow pain stab him in the chest again, sharp and jagged as broken glass. "I loved my son and I regret what happened every damn day that I didn't see the warning signs with Bells, but I can't do anything about it now. I have to press forward, but it doesn't mean I need to see the good in life either." Louis stood up and brushed himself off with angry, jerky motions.

"Then, what is living? If you cannot see at least some good?" Harry asked, rising to stand with him.

Louis shrugged with studied indifference. "Breathing, working, eating, sex and dying. Not exactly in that order, but you get the gist." Louis responded coldly, walking off in the general direction of the administrative office, his back ramrod straight with defiance.

Harry simply sauntered after him, not exactly thrilled with the way the events had played out, but understanding that Louis was a work in progress—albeit an extremely frustrating one. His pain was intense and Harry did have to remind himself that the bloke was mortal, nothing more and nothing less, with all the limitations and frailties that entailed.

"Niall didn't release your son." Harry decided to answer his former query.

Louis stopped dead in his tracks, but refused to turn and face Harry. "Alexander was collected by another death spirit, we know him as Grim. Niall didn't do that one, but he was there the night El—" Harry stopped abruptly when Louis spun around with the same fierce, burning glare.

"Do me a favor? Don't talk to me the rest of the time we're together, because I might just go find your dead corpse, perform black magic on it to bring you back to life, just so I have the pleasure to kill you again. You just told me I was a lousy father and you don't know anything about me, maybe my past, but not me." Louis gritted his teeth, his voice dropping low and dangerous.

He had a point there.

"Fine, I'm sorry. Maybe I don't know you as you are now, but I know from what I’ve seen that you're a lousy person and THAT is your own doing. You claim to have no friends and push them away when anyone wants to get close. What are you so afraid of, Louis? Because you're obviously scared of something if you aren't even willing to consider Liam your friend." Harry argued, his eyes still intense and probing.

Louis shrugged again, the gesture practiced and dismissive. "Nothing. I'm afraid of nothing, so to speak. Liam just isn't worth my time."

Harry could only stare after the mortal in complete astonishment, but eventually followed to walk beside him, his eyes an impassive reflection of centuries of witnessing human folly. "You're right, he isn't worth your time. He's much too good for you. I've never met such a selfish mortal and I've met some pretty intolerable ones in my day, but you sure take the cake."

Louis turned with a predatory smirk and held his hand out in mock greeting. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Louis Tomlinson, biggest ass this side of London, pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Harry. Now that we are on the same page, do me a favor and shut the hell up!" Louis finally exploded, stalking off, opening the administrative door on his left and going in, making it a point to slam it dramatically in Harry's face.

Harry simply walked through the solid door unbothered and materialized back beside Louis again. "Go away." Louis hissed, deciding to sit down in the unoccupied chair next to the secretarial desk. Harry sat next to him on the other chair without a word, his presence a constant reminder of the inescapable journey they were on together.

One of the administrators wore a deep frown etched into his worn face, the lines around his mouth carved by years of dealing with difficult students and even more difficult parents. He kept biting thoughtfully on a pen he held poised at his lips, the plastic showing teeth marks from countless similar moments of contemplation.

"I see. I wasn't aware of his passing, Mrs—" He paused when the voice from the other end of the phone line spoke up again, allowing Louis to hear part of the conversation and though he would never admit it aloud, he was more disheartened by the cold, distant words of his mother than anything else.

"I understand. So, you will not be sending for Louis this year after all? Am I understanding that correctly?" The administrator asked solemnly, shaking his head slowly as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

Louis turned toward Harry, pointing accusatorially at the balding faculty member. "My mother didn't even send for me to go to his funeral. I actually hopped a train back to Doncaster straight after Christmas and asked around until someone showed me where my father was buried. I never forgave my mother for that. It's rather strange, isn't it? He does something kind and it bites him in the ass?" Louis asked rhetorically, watching the administrator finish the short, devastating conversation with his mother.

"He was a kind soul, Louis. He sent you here, because he thought it would be best for you. After all, you had no friends to speak of and you kept causing havoc." Harry made a valid point.

"My point is, kindness gets you nowhere. My father was indeed very amiable, but what good did it do him? Not one iota of nothing if you want my view of it. So, why should I follow such a dead-end example and then suddenly become worm food for the effort? Piss off with that kindness stuff, it's not going to work on me, stupid spook." Louis finished his bitter ranting, starting to get up from the chair. He didn't want to be around for his younger self's meltdown. It had not been pretty.

Harry simply waved his hand up and ghosted Louis firmly to the chair so he couldn't move. He needed to see his path, even if it was excruciatingly painful to witness. "You are staying for this, Louis." Harry told him firmly, rising to his feet.

Louis looked up at him like a deer caught in the headlights, pure panic flooding his features. "Unposess me, right now, Harry! You can't just leave me here!" Louis demanded again, struggling fruitlessly to move from his supernatural prison.

"The term is called ghosting and no, this is something you're going to have to deal with alone. I'll be out in the hall, because truthfully? I need a break from you and you need to go about this memory alone." Harry said, turning to walk toward the door, but Louis's panicked screams made him turn back slowly.

"You can't just leave me here! Don't leave me here. Please?" Louis begged, another crack appearing in his frosted charade, the desperation raw and real beneath the surface.

Harry didn't know if it was guilt or something else entirely, but he turned back and sat down again. "Alright, but you are one truly vexing human being, Louis. I hope you know that." Harry told him, trying desperately to maintain his patience, but failing miserably.

"Yeah? Well, for the ghost of the past, you're not much better. Your comment about my son was uncalled for. I was a good father…" Louis trailed off, the words hanging in the air between them.

Harry realized Louis did have a point and he should have expected the hostility after what he'd said—had he been alive and in the same situation, he would have probably been just as upset, if not more so. "I apologize, I shouldn't have said it, but the fact remains that your son, the situation with your ex—it was unhealthy. You tried your best, that's all anyone could do." Harry relented so Louis would move on from the painful subject and concentrate on this one.

"There was nothing wrong the first few hours." Louis recanted, but fell silent when his younger self and Liam entered into the office when the administrator went to fetch them.

He watched quietly as his smaller self moved effortlessly to sit in the large chair at the next desk over, his posture radiating defiance even in this moment of uncertainty.

"Mr. Tomlinson, are we behaving?" The administrator smiled, though if Louis would have compared his grin to Barbie's plastic tits, Barbie would take first prize for being the most authentic compared to the forced, artificial expression the man was wearing.

Younger Louis simply said nothing, fearing that any words he spoke might incriminate him further, and stared straight at his prison warden as if challenging him to make the first move.

When the man realized Louis wasn't going to say anything, he shrugged with resignation. "Okay, down to it then, yeah?" The administrator took a deep breath and with as much carefulness as he could muster, delivered the crushing blow of news that would change Louis's world forever.

"Your father was coming to get you as a surprise for the Holidays. His car got hit by a drunk driver. Medical tried to revive him with no success. He was killed instantly, he didn’t suffer. The other driver survived, no one else was hurt.” He delivered in one breath, pausing for just a second to inhale so he may continue. “Your mum thinks it's best that you stay here over the Christmas break; at least for now."

The man's voice was cautious, measured, but it didn't hold any genuine emotion in it. If older Louis could describe it accurately, it sounded like a broadcasted version of reading the evening news—detached, professional, utterly devoid of the human connection needed in such a moment.

There was an accident and yeah, people died, but it didn't happen to anyone they knew personally, anyone they cared about. It was easier for them to shut off a part of their humanity and just explain it like they were reading a script, and to hell with the boy's or anyone else's feelings, because it didn't involve them directly, they couldn't relate to the devastation before them.

Older Louis felt a stab of empathy for his younger self. He remembered the feeling of loneliness and isolation in that moment. No one to hug him, hold him and tell him it would be alright. Something his mum should have done and couldn’t be bothered to even pay for him to come home to the funeral.

"I'm not dwelling on this, but I could have used my mum. I remember just wanting to go home and be with my family. When I called home, no one answered. When I reached out, she acted like I didn't exist." Louis threw his head back, flinching when his younger self picked up a pencil holder and hurled it at the administrator's head, screaming at him for being a liar, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief and disbelief.

"She paid for my schooling to continue up until graduation and living allowance, but she wouldn't speak to me over the phone or return my texts. Not for six years and only after I got famous. I felt alone then and since everyone I knew gave up on me, I suppose I gave up on myself as well. I functioned; I lived—but screw everything else." Louis spoke up over his younger self's erratic yelling, his voice heavy with the memory of that profound isolation.

Harry unghosted Louis and helped him stand to follow the younger boy out of the office, the echoes of grief still reverberating through the hallway.

Liam had been standing wordlessly just outside, listening to the entire devastating exchange, trying desperately to calm his friend down and running after him as he took off at full speed down the hall, his grief propelling him forward like a rocket.

Louis and Harry ran after them, mostly because an irrational part of Louis wanted to go and try to help the boy, but the other part—the more rational side—its voice spoke loud and clear, reminding him that this was the past, unchangeable and already written.

"You remember what happens next." Harry pointed out, his voice returning to its normal, soft-spoken, gentle tone.

Louis did indeed remember, and a vicious smile spread over his lips like blood in water. "Oh yeah, Jerry the toad got a real rude wakeup call." Louis said with a triumphant hiss, watching Jerry's arm pop out from around a corner, his fist meeting contact with younger Louis's jaw with brutal force.

Louis dropped like a rock, hitting the sidewall hard as he had still been running at full speed when he received the punch, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.

"Hey, twat!" Jerry greeted with malicious glee.

Liam skidded to a stop in front of them when he saw the scene unfolding, shock and fury evident on his face. "Hey! Leave him alone! His father just died, scuzz-dick!" Liam yelled, balling his hand into a fist and snapping his arm up and then down—right into Jerry's nose, going on to knock another of Jerry's goons to the floor with a powerful right hook.

Louis could feel the white-hot rage his younger self was feeling and subsequently, when he ran from the office, he was still clutching a pointed pencil that hadn't made it toward the administrator's head in his initial grief-stricken fury.

"Liam never gave up on you, mate. You gave up on everything and yet you are content to blame everything else and get close to no one. That's going to bite you in the arse someday." Harry observed, taking a step back when young Louis shook off the devastating punch and stood to his feet with a sound similar to a war cry, arm raised up with the pencil and bringing it right into Jerry's eye, twisting it in and breaking the tip off inside the socket with sickening finality.

The screams of agony echoed through the halls and spilled outside the building, carrying the weight of consequences that would ripple through all their lives.

Little Louis and Liam took off through the front door, down the road and didn't stop running until they were deep in the heart of town, their breath coming in ragged gasps.

When they made it to the inner city, Louis balled his hand into a fist and struck Liam hard in the side of the face, the impact making Liam's head snap back with shock. "Don't go telling people my father died, you twat! If I wanna tell someone, I will. If I don't, then keep your damn nose out of it. You aren't my friend; we are not friends! Now piss off, traitor!" Young Louis screamed, pushing Liam away from him and stalking down the street with his hands shoved deep within his pockets, his shoulders hunched with defensive anger.

Liam could only stare after Louis in complete shock, his hand rising instinctively to touch his bruised cheek. When Louis was halfway down the road, Liam called out to Louis again and raced after the hurt, grieving boy, his loyalty unwavering even in the face of such rejection.

Harry and Louis simply watched them go, the scene playing out like a ghost story in the twilight. "I don't know why he's stayed with you all these years, but they say God works in mysterious ways." Harry concluded softly.

Louis folded his arms across his chest, watching the two boys with a hard, calculating stare. "Or he's got a sick obsession with submissive kink play where if you treat him like crap, he'll try and do more to please you. I personally think it's the latter, because no offense—if there is a God, he has certainly been slacking."

Harry smiled faintly, a sad knowing in his ancient eyes. "Liam is a good bloke and he has very little left to give, but he does try. He always made sure everyone got what they needed first. He always made sure to help you, because he saw potential in you and he was right, too bad you have little regard to his needs."

Louis scoffed, turning to Harry when the boys disappeared down the street. "He has a job, what more can he even need?"

Harry shrugged with celestial indifference. "Not my department. Zayn will fill you in on that, but you would be surprised what he needs and can't get because of the little you pay him. He's due for a raise, mate. Take it from me." Harry insisted, his tone carrying the weight of supernatural knowledge.

Louis grabbed Harry's sleeve impatiently. "Just take me to where we're going now, hm? I really want to get this over with. How many more things do you have to show me?"

Harry wasted no time in transporting them; a little later down the timeline, Louis had just turned sixteen.

"You remember this place, don't you?" Harry asked when they materialized, the warm, inviting smell of fresh pastries and rich coffee meeting their noses like a welcome embrace.

Louis did remember this place, and the recognition sent a shiver down his spine.

Louis shifted uncomfortably, already dreading where this particular memory was heading. "Yeah, I do. After the news of my father, I tried getting my grades up but couldn't focus. When I went back to Doncaster, I never bothered going back to school and that was a week before Thompkins got outed as a sheep guru and a day after I caused a chemical explosion in the science lab. I was surprised when Liam showed up a week after that." Louis thought back, his head snapping toward the backroom of the coffeehouse when he heard a loud crash.

He shook his head slowly. "Liam and I spent a few years in shelters or out walking the streets. We panhandled, but it was rarely successful. Liam was behind the coffee shop at the time the owner came out and saw him, offered him employment as a barista. It took a few weeks, but he managed to save enough for a one-bedroom apartment and we stayed there, our food usually consisted of leftover coffee and day-old pastries." Louis smiled, though his heart felt heavy and broken with the memory of those desperate, hopeful days.

"You were content though, yeah? At least you seemed happy, if only briefly. He helped you through your father's death and was there for you." Harry said, walking toward the back area of the shop.

Louis followed reluctantly. "I was happy to rest somewhere warm that was indoors and have a bearable mattress. We had been struggling to stay alive and he never gave me stress about getting a job."

Harry nodded understandingly. "He struggled to make sure to keep the rent paid and he did, along with getting you a job with him. You just turned sixteen and this was only a few months before your whole world blew up to something I bet you would never have dreamt." Harry egged on slightly to get Louis to focus on the here and now moment unfolding before them.

Louis was certainly in the moment, his eyes glancing over every detail of the little shop that had been their sanctuary during those dark days. "Actually, I met Simon on this day—and his assistant, who was a real snake charmer. I didn't have the job long, neither did Liam. Liam became my assistant." Louis recalled, his eyes meeting across the room at Liam.

He let a loud laugh escape his mouth, walking toward where Harry wanted to head. "Oh Christ, the elf costumes. I forgot about this." Louis groaned, ducking under the counter and going into the back to get a better look, though immediately regretting it when he saw his sixteen-year-old self-stop dead in their tracks at the backdoor.

Liam was rushing around behind the counter, a large, genuine smile on his face, his body clad in a green ruffled costume with matching tights, elf shoes, and a jester elf hat with bells that jingled with his every movement.

The look on Louis's face was pure, unadulterated horror. "Holy elf balls. I've died and gone to Christmas hell," Younger Louis muttered, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. "There is no way will you get me into that type of costume."

The owner, who was washing dishes in the sink, turned with a large, gleeful smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Louis! I am so happy to see you've made it to work on time! No, Liam's costume is for baristas. You get a special one for servers. I think you'll love it!" Cathy Reinard exclaimed, turning to the far counter and taking the material from it, thrusting it into a confused Louis's arms.

"Spoiler alert, I did not love it." Louis replied lamely to Harry, wearing the exact same horrified expression sixteen-year-old Louis wore when confronted with the costume.

He remembered that particular costume very vividly—every humiliating detail burned into his memory like a brand.

Harry stared between Louis and his past self, before completely losing control and busting up laughing, the sound echoing strangely in the small coffee shop as the supernatural and the mundane collided in this moment of pure, unadulterated humiliation.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Work

Harry would have passed out from the hearty laughter he couldn’t seem to control as Louis stood glaring death at his old manager, with an intensity that could freeze the darkest corners of hell.

Younger Louis could only hold his costume up as if it had contracted a disease he was afraid he might catch.

“I will jump out a window butt-naked and run through London screaming the Germans are invading on a dare before I wear this costume!” His younger self hissed, eyes wide in mortification.

Harry’s laughter grated on older Louis’s nerves, so he abruptly turned to the ghost of the past. “Yuck it up, asshat. I thought you were supposed to be the sympathetic one. Why are you laughing at my pain?” Louis asked, feeling a twinge of sympathy for his younger self.

In younger Louis’s hands was a pair of white-striped Shakespearian breeches. One strip of fabric was a white velvet glitter, while the other was a brighter white cotton, designed to evoke a fairytale look. The short pants ballooned out and ended just above the knees.

The next thing his manager did was put a Robin Hood glitter felt hat with a white and black striped feather on the side atop his younger self’s head.

Older Louis flinched as a pair of white tights were thrust onto his younger self’s arm.

“I believe these will fit you,” she said, ignoring the younger boy’s protests while holding up the last two pieces of the ensemble: white glittered bell-toed curled elf shoes and a majestic white peasant top that looked like it belonged to David Bowie during his younger cross-dressing days.

The top itself featured long, drooping sleeves and a festive white vest fit for an elf prince.

Louis Tomlinson did not wear tights. He did not wear breeches, and he most certainly was not going to wear that costume.

“They may fit, but I ain’t wearing ‘em, woman. I will not demean myself—” Louis started, but was cut off by his manager calling Liam from the front.

“Dear? Make sure he gets changed. We’re shorthanded today, and you’re the only two for the morning and afternoon shifts. I need all the help I can get for the next two days, lads. If you value your jobs, Louis—your ass will go out there and greet the customers, take their orders, and smile while doing it, or I will make sure your next place of employment will be at the local zoo, cleaning the animal pens,” Cathy threatened with a friendly grin.

“This is demeaning!” Louis protested hotly, flinching as Cathy thrust the last pieces of the costume into his already full arms.

“The costumes are worn in support of the children’s hospital down the street. We get a lot of workers from there, and each donation we receive supports the hospital. Please just grin and bear it, Louis. It’s for a good cause, and you already agreed to do it at the start of your employment. When someone makes a promise—” Cathy lectured, older Louis repeating it after her.

“They keep it,” Louis mimicked with a sigh.

Harry still wore a smirk. “And you did keep it. Man, you got a lot of crap that day,” he chuckled, seeing spots of visions enter across his eyes.

“Yeah, but I was high as a kite when I agreed. Still, I did—mostly because I couldn’t afford for Liam to lose this job, and I wasn’t going to be the cause,” Louis observed, watching his younger self’s shoulders slump in defeat, just as his own had.

Harry stood there with the same smirk, wishing more people he came across were as spirited as this lively bloke appeared to be.

Louis noticed and huffed, but he wasn’t going to antagonize the ghost further.

Younger Louis glanced at Liam’s costume, deciding it wasn’t that bad after all. “Can’t I have a costume like his? Or better yet, how about I make the drinks, and we can switch costumes so he can be the fairy elf prince and take the orders?” Louis asked hopefully, making Harry laugh again.

Liam didn’t say anything but rather took a firm hold of Louis’s arm and led him toward the bathroom at the far side of the coffee house.

Harry made to follow.

Louis gripped Harry’s arm with a harsh glare. “You, pervert, are staying out here. Liam and I had wardrobe issues, and I still think I’m traumatized now that I’m being forced to relive this. I hope you plan on paying for my therapy bill because I’m going to need it after this,” Louis snarked, releasing the ghost and trekking toward the lavatory.

He stopped just outside of it, listening to his younger self complain about the tights and asking if he could leave his underwear on, to which Liam could be heard insisting that he “please do.”

It took fifteen minutes of pulling and tugging at the costume, but it was perfect and fit Louis like a pure white glittering glove. He looked something out of a fairytale; though if anyone asked his opinion, he’d say it was straight from Freddy Krueger’s dream world.

They walked a few steps out of the bathroom, Louis’s complaints echoing loudly. “Come on! I look like Tinkerbell’s boyfriend! Actually, no, I look like Peter Pan’s unknown gay fairy brother. I mean, you might as well call me Lou Pan! This can’t possibly get any more humiliating,” young Louis whined, seeing his boss walking toward him with something else in her hand.

“I stand corrected,” younger Louis muttered unhappily.

“Oh my God, Louis! You’re so cute! I wish my son were here serving today; you two would be so adorable!” Cathy cooed, standing in front of him, moving his hair from his face, and placing pointed ears onto each side to complete the elf look.

“I wish your son were here serving today too. I can’t fathom why on earth he would miss out on such great fun,” Louis quipped back sarcastically, forcing a large fake smile.

Cathy reached into her pocket and pulled out two bell bracelets, putting them on Louis’s wrists. “I have to get a picture—oh my God! So cuuute!” Cathy clapped, happy beyond reason.

Harry’s loud laughter boomed in the coffee house, and older Louis’s cheeks turned slightly pink. “That picture went viral when I got famous. Oh, sweet baby carrots, the horror of it all. Poor dignity—alas, I knew ye well,” Louis saluted, ignoring Harry’s laughter as he watched Liam fuss with his younger self’s costume.

“It’s not that bad, Lou. You look—” Louis cut Liam off before he could finish.

“If you finish that sentence, Liam, by promise to all the stars in the sky, I will end you,” younger Louis growled, adjusting the tricorn Robin Hood hat.

Liam chuckled. “You look great, Louis,” he tried to calm him, coming to stand in front of him and pinning Louis’s name tag to his chest.

Younger Louis just stood there and let his roommate pin on the nametag, just like he had to help Louis dress in the constricting costume. 

“My bloody pants look like I let one rip, and the gas has nowhere to go. For carrot’s sake, Liam—my underwear is chafing my arse crack, and these tights are constricting my cock and beans! Not to mention, I think I’m getting the worst wedgie of my life. If my skivvies go any further up my arse, they’re going to be considered a bloody thong!” Younger Louis continued to complain.

Liam just patted Louis’s shoulder with a small smile. “For what it’s worth, Louis, happy birthday anyhow,” Liam said kindly, reaching into his pocket and handing the dark-haired brunette a silver-plated necklace. It had a genie lamp attached to the chain.

“You wear it or hold it, and the wearer or possessor is supposed to rub the lamp. It’s good for seven wishes—so says the guy I got it from,” Liam explained, watching Louis look down at it thoughtfully, his finger gently rubbing over the rough metal.

He thought for a moment, a smirk entering onto his lips. “Alright, I wish I were a famous singer and lived a successful life. I wish I found a girl who would love me for who I was, like, money never mattered, and I wish my father never died.” He paused, looking around and rolling his eyes. “Magical!” Louis snapped disbelievingly after standing there and waiting for something to happen. He sighed, eyeing Liam, feeling let down that his roommate wasted money on the useless piece of jewelry. “No offense, mate, but if you believe that rubbish, you’re a stupider git than I took you for,” Louis snapped, putting the necklace on anyhow since it went with his costume.

Liam chuckled. “Maybe, but it’s the thought that counts, and it never hurts to make a wish.”

Louis had forgotten about the necklace Liam had given him. In fact, he didn’t even recall what happened to it.

“You threw it in the trash when your son died. When you made a wish and it didn’t bring him back, you tore it off and threw it away. You were almost convinced it worked because of the events that happened after those wishes, but if you know anything about wishes, then you know they can’t bring people back from the dead,” Harry responded quietly to Louis’s unasked query.

Louis nodded, remembering when Harry filled in the blank. “Wish I still had that necklace. I was almost convinced it helped me get to where I am. I mean, do you think it was by magic that I got famous?” Louis asked with a snort, flinching when Cathy approached the younger lads with her digital camera.

“No, it was your own talent and insight that got you where you are today,” Harry replied, another chuckle leaving his lips. “I like your boss here, mate. She knows how to liven up a party.”

Louis did not appreciate Harry’s opinion. “Shut up, spook,” Louis grunted, going back to ignoring him.

Liam wrapped an arm around Louis’s shoulders. Cathy made the boys smile, and much to Louis’s dismay, wouldn’t leave it alone until he had acquiesced to her demand. Still, she got her picture.

With that over, she flipped the open sign. “Liam? Get ready for the morning rush. Louis? Remember, when in doubt, smile and nod,” Cathy directed, taking her place by the till.

Louis walked with a slight limp toward the door, his hand going to the back of him and adjusting the obnoxious position of his pants.

Liam ducked behind the counter, standing at the ready. Louis went to the door to wait for customers so he could show them to their seats.

It was maybe ten minutes before someone walked in—an older man in his seventies accompanied by a woman around the same age.

“Welcome,” younger Louis greeted with a smile.

Older Louis was blanching, and Harry still couldn’t stop laughing. “I’m dying…again,” Harry chuckled, greatly enjoying Louis’s mortified expression.

“You’re already dead, with no chance of resurrecting. Give it a rest!” Louis yelled, unamused by Harry’s amusement, to say the least.

The older man stopped and observed the younger lad with a small lift of his brow. “Lad? You do know Halloween was two months ago, right? What are you supposed to be?” the old man jested lightly, now smiling.

Older Louis groaned and sat down heavily at one of the tables. “I remember this was a very long and trying day for me. Let’s go; older Louis is done being traumatized now,” he ushered, but Harry was having none of it.

“We have to stay. There are some very important facts here that I think you need to be reminded of,” Harry said, his laughter casually ceasing. It was clear by his tone that the ghost was not joking.

Louis huffed, kicking his heels toward the table and letting out an irritated grunt. “A Shakespearian Christmas elf with an anger problem,” younger Louis quipped back unshyly.

Older Louis chuckled at the same time the old man did. He took his wallet out and passed a note to the younger lad. “Was only kidding, lad. Have a good shift, ay?” The old man nodded, his wife ushering him patiently to the counter to order their teas.

“It was a £50 note—the first one I ever legitimately earned,” Louis said, losing a little of his hostility.

“He liked your response. You have an amazing way with words when you put your mind to it,” Harry said, observing the shocked look on Louis’s younger self.

“I would like to think I have some talent—being a musician and all,” Louis responded, equally.

Harry shook his head. “Yeah, but you weren’t as jaded. Look at you. You actually felt a slight sense of accomplishment, and what you did afterward—well, you really are an enigma.” Harry nodded toward Louis’s younger self, a look of conflict crossing over his young features before he walked to the counter and handed Liam the fifty-note when the couple walked out.

“Give this to Cathy. Tell her to donate it to that damn hospital or kids' institute or whatever. Hell, tell her I’ll give her my next paycheck if she lets me go put my normal clothes back on,” Louis tried to bargain, but Cathy heard and came out, taking the note with a smile.

“Nice try. If you ask again, you will be elf dancing customers to their tables until New Year’s, at which point you will then have the choice of being Father Time or Baby New Year,” Cathy threatened good-naturedly. “Thank you for the donation, Louis. It means a lot, especially for the kids.”

Louis sighed and turned to head back toward the door. “I call dibs on Father Time,” Liam grinned, joining in Cathy’s lighthearted threat.

“I call dibs on waiting until you fall asleep and shaving your eyebrows off,” Louis remarked with a smirk of his own.

Liam snorted. “You already did that. Took them forever to grow back,” Liam retorted, making younger Louis cackle.

“Then go about fixing the coffee and teas, mate. Don’t cross me; I am a force to be reckoned with. You of all people should know,” Louis hummed in satisfaction.

Liam hummed back with a shrug, and Louis returned to his station.

“I have never been tipped before. We don’t usually do tipping in the restaurants or coffee shops. The man was kind to do it,” Louis furrowed his brows and turned to Harry.

Harry decided to sit at the next table beside him, hopping up effortlessly. “The same kindness you showed in giving it to someone else who needed it more—even if you didn’t have food for that entire week except stale pastries,” Harry shrugged.

“Yeah,” Louis murmured, seeing a group of three older jocks enter. He remembered those a-holes quite vividly too.

“Slap me upside the arse and call me Shirley, not those ass-hats,” Louis muttered, standing to beat the snot out of them.

“Visions, Louis. You can’t hurt them. Now, sit down,” Harry ordered, raising his hand and ghosting Louis’s feet to the floor.

Louis growled but took a chair nearby and sat down. His disposition went from agitated to enraged in point five seconds when he saw the three jocks.

“I don’t see how you’re even still upset about those numpties. You got even,” Harry pointed out, watching younger Louis greet the older teenagers with a respectful nod.

“Good morning, welcome. Have you gents been here before?” younger Louis asked, eyeing the other boys carefully as they indiscreetly looked him up and down.

Louis stared back, but not because he was gawking. It was due to the loud scoffs that left the older blokes’ mouths. “Que uncomfortable music,” older Louis muttered, feeling Harry take the ghostly effect off him again.

“What are you supposed to be? Elton John? Mate, you a whoopsie or somethin’? No straight bloke wears a fairy costume and serves tea,” the younger of the boys insisted, maybe a year or two older than Louis.

Younger Louis smiled and nodded. “Yes, well, we all can’t live off mummy and daddy’s money, can we, jocker boy? It’s called a job and doing things you don’t want to do. That’s life. Now, let me show you to your table if you’re staying,” Louis snarked with a friendly dose of venom and a smile—but it certainly wasn’t done for the sake of pleasantries anymore.

The older boy seemed to match Louis’s grin.

Liam watched with interest; their manager was luckily away from the counter for a moment, attending to making sure the coffee papers were stacked and ready to use.

“Louis?” Liam caught his attention with a forced smile.

Louis whipped his body around and glared at Liam. “Piss off, I’m trying to work!” Louis hissed, jumping with an exclamation when he felt a pinch to his backside, the middle boy reaching over mid-grab when he spun back around. “And you! I don’t swing for your team, mate. You want some action? Pinch your mate’s arse and piss off to the bathroom if you have such an urge. Otherwise, follow me,” Louis growled, walking with the same limp, his elf shoes and bracelets jingling with each step.

Louis took them to the first table and gestured sarcastically. “Your thrones, your majesties. Now, what are you arseholes ordering?” Louis asked, seeing no reason to be pleasant.

Older Louis watched Liam trying to gesture discreetly behind him to indicate that Cathy was standing in the doorway, watching. She didn’t see what the boys were doing, but she certainly saw and heard Louis.

“Louis, darling? A word if I may? Liam? Bring the boys a cup of coffee on the house. We’ll be right back,” Cathy smiled, flipping the counter up, walking to Louis, and, in no uncertain terms, dragging him to the back by his prosthetic elf ear while also having a very firm grip on his real one.

“What do you think you’re doing being disrespectful to customers like that?!” Cathy demanded once they were out of earshot.

Louis opened his mouth to interject, but Cathy put a finger on his lips, suspecting he would say something sarcastic. “Never mind. I don’t want to hear it,” she decided, exasperated, glaring down at the younger gent. “If I get any more complaints today, Louis, I will fire you. I need people with happy attitudes and friendly smiles.”

Louis opened his mouth to interject again, but she cut him off once more. “No, you’ve had your turn to explain and couldn’t give me a straight answer. Now, get back out there with a smile and friendly attitude, or you will rue this day. I will make sure you do,” Cathy promised, walking to the back door and out of it to cool down.

Younger Louis was left standing Younger Louis was left standing there, scratching his head, the bells on his costume jingling merrily with the movement. He stopped and glared at the wall, as if it held the answers to the universe. “Shut up,” he barked at the empty space around him, stomping back out, ignoring the rash currently being irritated by his clothes.

“Hey? Nancy Pansy? Did mummy give you a timeout and a warning to be a good little boy?” the younger one from the group of jocks antagonized patronizingly.

Louis grit his teeth into a bared smile, waiting a moment before replying so he could keep his voice cheerful. “Why yes. Yes, she did. But I never was one to listen to my mum. Touch me again, and I will neuter you with a teaspoon,” Louis hummed lightly with a clipped warning, feeling a hand grip his upper arm gently.

He looked and saw Liam standing beside him with a friendly expression set on his face. “Lads? Can I add anything to your coffees? Milk, sugar, or cream?” Liam asked, trying to distract the situation from escalating.

Younger Louis just folded his arms across his chest, gritting his teeth to maintain the faux friendliness. “Yeah, all three,” the older one chuckled, practically throwing the untouched tray at the two young workers.

Liam took it merrily, humming a Christmas tune as he did so. “Alright, I’ll be right back, mates. Louis? A word please? Your behavior is unacceptable. We’re going to have to report it to Cathy. Come on,” Liam encouraged, turning his head fully to Louis and winking.

Older Louis let a smirk fall on his lips. “I did forget that it was Liam who came up with the idea. That was brilliant, mate,” he turned to Harry with a small laugh. “Perhaps I stand corrected when it comes to him; he has helped me out a few times.”

Harry’s eyebrow cocked. “A few? Mate? He’s been here for you since you got shoved in that locker, wanting nothing in return but your friendship,” Harry rolled his eyes, forgetting how incredibly thick Louis could be.

“Alright,” younger Louis said in mock defeat, walking to the back ruefully and out of sight of the table.

Liam was on his heels with a glance that would make even Loki nervous. “Take the keys, act natural, but give it a minute and lock the lavatories. I’ve got the rest,” Liam ordered with a smirk, setting the coffees down and beginning to put the required stuff into them, except instead of milk, it was two packets each of milk of magnesium with a pinch of sugar and a spoon of cream to cover the taste of the magnesium.

“Most powerful laxative on the market. I put two packets in their coffee for maximum performance,” Liam grinned, stirring the contents and heading back to the table, his elf bells jingling in sync with a small tune he was singing as he walked.

Louis grabbed the keys, bowing his head like a scolded dog, and ran past the table as if he had just gotten fired, hiding to the side where the bathrooms were, locking both toilets in triumph. “Drink crap, become crap,” Louis hummed, turning and giving his best glare to look angry.

He balled his hands into fists, marching past the table and into the kitchen to avoid looking suspicious.

Liam was already there, his hand held out for a high five.

Louis planted a firm palm into Liam’s, shaking it. “Good job, mate,” Louis praised, seeing the back door open. He cleared his throat and chuckled. “Very good point, Liam. I’ll do that.” Louis clapped his hand on the confused boy’s shoulder and walked to his place by the door.

Liam wasn’t confused for long, seeing as Cathy was standing by the door with her head cocked. “Oh, Louis was telling me that he’s going to try to tap dance when the next customer comes in,” Liam tried saving face, making younger Louis blanch for the second time that day.

Cathy became excited and started clapping. “Louis, that’s wonderful! I can’t wait to see!” Cathy exclaimed, clapping like an overly excited teenage girl.

“Of course she couldn’t. You know? I wonder how many times her own son ran away from home. I’d have left without forwarding my address. Letters in the mailbox? Keep them! I don’t need the men’s catalogues or the notice my favorite uncle cro—” Harry cut Louis off.

“She wasn’t that bad, Louis. She just liked to dress people up. She only made you wear the elf costume for two days. She liked to see others happy, and she thought that if she got you to dress up and smile, you might be more in tune to open up and have some fun. She wouldn’t have fired you, you know? She just would have made you dress up as Father Time or Baby New Year,” Harry chuckled. “She manipulated you, and you didn’t even know it. But she did it because she thought it could help. She saw potential, Louis. Something not a lot of people did, if you recall.”

The older version of himself couldn’t argue with the ghost’s logic. “Yeah, well, I was happier on the road when my career took off,” Louis muttered, really not in the mood to continue. “Still, there were nights I missed her and her over-excited knee-jerk reactions.”

Harry nodded in understanding. “I have two more things to show you, but first; let’s fast forward. We’re crunched for time now; my hour is nearly up. I’ll freeze time if we need more, but we shouldn’t, as there is still a tick to be had, but not by much if we continue on.” Harry held his hand out for Louis to touch.

Louis was far too focused on seeing the end result of what happens when you screw with Liam Payne and Louis Tomlinson. “Come on, I want to see those jocks go liquid arse! It was hilarious watching them try to open the loo—” Louis was cut off by Harry taking a page from Cathy’s book and grabbing his ear, transporting them to a later time.

When they zapped through time, it was only in the afternoon when they reappeared in the same coffee shop. “You remember this moment, don’t you, Louis?” Harry asked, having released his ear when they finished transporting to where they needed to be.

Louis nodded. He most definitely remembered this moment.

The bell to the door jingled, alerting younger Louis to look toward the entrance tiredly as two middle-aged men stood in front of him.

Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh, owner and manager of Syco.

Louis plastered on a smile while they glanced at him oddly, having absolutely no idea who these men were.

“Hi! I’m Louis, and I will be serving you. Are you ordering to go or staying?” Louis asked, forcing his hand down into the back of his balloon pants pocket and picking up an order pad he had stuffed there.

Louis Walsh looked unsure at Simon, but the man just chuckled and gestured about. “Staying. Show us your best seats,” Simon said, laughing as Louis started to walk, the bells chiming and jiggling.

“You look very festive, Louis. Can you dance?” Walsh asked with a cocky smirk, followed by a laugh.

“Only on a girl’s toes, mate. Sadly, that’s why my girlfriend Tinkerbell refuses to let me tap dance anywhere near her feet. Actually, she refuses to let me tap anyth—”

“LOUIS!” Cathy yelled from the back, making Louis jump.

Walsh gave Louis a back wave with the back of his hand. “Run along, lad; your mum needs you. The adults need to talk. We’ll let you know our order here in a few. Bye-bye,” he dismissed, though Simon didn’t come to his defense; he nodded subtly, his eyes glancing across the tea and coffee menu.

Louis backed away when Cathy screamed for him again, and this time he rushed to her, double-stepping.

When he got to her, she pulled him further into the back with a worried look in her eyes. “Liam said you can sing and play guitar. I need a favor. The original artist coming in to sing got hit with a stomach bug and can’t get off the loo. I brought a guitar; can you do the rest?” Cathy asked hopefully.

For the first time that day, Louis smiled genuinely. Music was his life! “Yes! Are you kidding? Hand me a guitar, and I can have a party up in here in no time,” Louis paraphrased, seeing Cathy frown slightly.

“No sex or sad/depressing songs. You can only play Christmas and Hanukkah tunes. If you have a happy one, those are allowed, but I need you to stick to Christmas to keep the mood alive. Please? I’ll double your pay next month once I balance the books,” she promised, before rushing out the door, leaving Louis standing there in confusion.

She rushed back ten seconds later with a wooden guitar and a large, scary smile.

Older Louis watched on, feeling the excitement radiating off his younger self. “Can I stop playing Louis Pan now? I don’t want to be the prince elf of Gat Circle Lane anymore,” Louis complained. “Do you know how many people asked me if I nicked this costume off a Halloween clearance rack from Five and Younger? My balls can’t breathe, and little Louis could use some air—”

She thrust the guitar into his hands, pushing him toward the front before he could continue his rant. “Go play! Oh my gosh, I am so excited!” Cathy clapped, running next to the till to see what her only hope at that point could do.

“She sure does get excited easily,” Harry smiled kindly at her enthusiasm.

Older Louis simply snorted. “Understatement of the year. That woman would be excited to have a heart attack. No, if you think she’s excited now—wait till you see what happened. She started dancing,” Louis flinched, “That doesn’t sound—” Harry paused, seeing an image of his boss dancing on the counter of the store. “Never mind.”

“Told ya!” Louis pointed, shuddering.

Harry laughed, watching younger Louis go to the front of the store, clearing his throat nervously. “Ladies and gents? My name is Louis Tomlinson, and I’d like to play a song for you all. Would you like that?”

This particular phrase caught Simon and Walsh’s attention immediately. The other patrons cheered in a less-than-excited manner.

Older Louis sat down, the familiar feelings of freedom overwhelming him. There was nothing like the aura of being completely unrestricted. “You remember what it was like to just…play. No expectations and no pressure to please anyone,” Harry said, his own eyes not leaving the younger lad.

“I’m going to sing an original Christmas song. It’s called ‘Wish Tree.’ I wrote it for my mum when I was just starting out in writing. I’d like to give it a try and see what it’s like with a wider audience,” younger Louis announced, getting centered and allowing his hand to absently tune the guitar.

Harry smiled. “You still had hope reconciling with your mum, even after those few years,” he noted sadly.

Louis’s face seemed to turn to stone, which was a stark contrast to the bliss he felt a moment ago. “It takes two, mate. She didn’t bother—” Louis started, but was cut short by Harry speaking over him.

“Just call. You don’t have anything to lose. Just—ring her, because the regret we have for not doing something is worse than the feeling we keep with us if we knew that we could and didn’t,” Harry tried to plead, but Louis shut in on himself again, his stormy blues focused on the front of the store.

One thing was for sure: if Harry couldn’t break through to Louis, he hoped Zayn could. Niall was their absolute last hope, and it seemed every time Harry made progress, Louis would buck his head and topple everything Harry had just accomplished right back into pieces.

“I can’t tell you the future, Lou. What I can tell you is, don’t make mistakes that you can fix. Don’t push people away because you’re afraid. Forgive those whom you can and hate less in your heart for those you cannot,” Harry recited an old passage from a philosophy book he had once read. “Louis? I’m reaching out here to tell you that your past doesn’t have to define you.” His voice rose, making the older lad look at him with the same expressionless glare.

Without a word, he went on to watch his younger self, though annoyingly, Harry’s words continued to echo in his head.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Love Lost, Love Found

Harry and Louis travelled from the coffee shop, leaving his pre-fame days behind them as they plunged into a part of his life that he had spent years meticulously erasing from memory. The journey between moments felt different now, heavier somehow, as if the very air around them had thickened with the weight of approaching revelations. Now it was back again, and the bitterness that already soured Louis's mood intensified until it became something almost physical, a metallic taste in his mouth that made his jaw ache. If such a thing were possible, his outlook had grown even darker.

When they materialized in a large ballroom, the transformation was instantaneous and disorienting. The older singer knew exactly where he was with a dread that settled deep in his bones like ice in winter. It was a few years later, he had just turned eighteen, and for appearances—a word that had already begun to rule his life—Simon and Walsh had hooked him up with a gig to host and support the local children's hospital. The very one Simon had donated money to, though Louis suspected now that even that act of generosity had been calculated for maximum PR impact.

It was a dance, and the room shimmered with forced festivity. He wore a white button-down suit with gold tasseled shoulder pads that felt ridiculously ostentatious even then, the coat buttoned down the front with matching gold buttons while his pants were held secure by a black belt. Dress shoes completed the ensemble, polished to a mirror shine that reflected his own hollow expression back at him.

"Liam? How long do I need to be here?" Louis asked lowly, his voice barely carrying above the orchestra's swelling strains as he leaned toward his friend, careful to ensure he went unheard by the others around them.

Liam smiled the same as he always did at his boss, but tonight his eyes shone with a light that Louis hadn't seen in years—pure, unadulterated life. He had just met his first girlfriend, and the transformation in him was remarkable. Louis could almost taste the sweetness of young love rolling off Liam in waves, a stark contrast to his own growing cynicism. He couldn't be any more in love than he was in that moment, and something in Louis's chest twisted with a combination of happiness for his friend and bitter jealousy that he couldn't remember feeling that way anymore.

Louis moved away from Liam, approaching his slightly younger self with Harry following silently beside him, a constant presence throughout the entire journey. The eighteen-year-old version of himself stood awkwardly near the refreshment table, clearly uncomfortable in his formal wear but trying to project an air of confidence that fooled no one.

"Eleanor." Louis muttered, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. His hard-blue eyes reflected a sadness so profound it almost seemed to swallow the light around him, and his heart could feel the familiar ache that beat within his chest, a steady drum of pain that never truly faded. Some wounds never healed; they just learned to bleed less frequently.

Harry nodded, his expression tinged with the ancient wisdom of someone who had witnessed countless such moments across the centuries. He understood that love, in all its forms, was both the greatest blessing and the most devastating curse humanity ever experienced.

"Simon signed you on for a four-album deal. You spent two years recording two albums and doing four-part tours. You barely had a moment to breathe." Harry said, his voice soft with understanding as he saw the flashes of Louis's hard work flash before him in severed memories, each one a knife twist of stolen youth. The loss of his teenage years rushed past in a blur of studio sessions, hotel rooms, and endless travel, his whole life up till then displaying itself in Harry's mind like a film running too fast to appreciate properly.

The shame of it was, Harry remembered every single soul he came across during these visitations. He knew their life, their death, their weaknesses and their regrets with an intimacy that sometimes felt like a violation and other times felt like a sacred trust. He relished in the bliss of their happy memories and spared a thought of reflection in their sorrow, understanding that both were necessary parts of the human experience. He was the ghost of the past, and seeing Louis's long-ago dreams—what they might have been, what should have been—displayed only great sadness through the next couple of years and misery that stretched up until the present moment like a long, dark road with no end in sight.

"You were always a free spirit. You had dreams—maybe fame really never mattered? Perhaps you just wanted to be happy, feel happy and find a purpose? We all search for that in life, you don't seem to be any different." Harry continued when Louis didn't answer, his voice gentle but insistent. The ghost's eyes were busy spanning the large ballroom, searching through the crowd for the one girl who he knew was the turning point, the moment when Louis's otherwise carefree life had begun its slow, painful derailment.

"A few hours. Dance with a few patients, offer a comforting smile and ask them a few questions about themselves. You wouldn't believe the difference you'll make. Remember what Simon said about image." Liam pointed out with a light hum, already slipping into his role as Louis's unofficial manager and protector. He turned and walked toward the far end of the wall, where a lone girl in a wheelchair sat watching the dancers with wide, hopeful eyes, clearly intending to offer her a dance.

Younger Louis groaned with an actual stomp of his foot, a gesture of teenage frustration that made his older self-cringe with embarrassment. Some things never changed.

"Fine." He relented and turned abruptly, bumping and knocking the person who had been crossing at the same time he turned to the ground with a surprised exclamation that was lost in the music's crescendo.

"She found you, mate." Harry smiled, pointing to his younger self and the young woman with the most striking face and kind eyes he had ever seen. There was something about her that seemed to glow from within, an inner light that drew people to her like moths to flame.

"I am so terribly sorry, miss!" Younger Louis exclaimed, bending down the same time she sat up, their heads bumping together with a dull thwack that made them both see stars for a moment.

Both of them let out groans of pain, their hands simultaneously going to their foreheads as they rubbed the smarting spots with matching expressions of embarrassment and pain.

"I needed to come with a warning label and she needed to wear a hardhat with as many times as she fell." Louis said, his voice tightly restricted in his throat as he watched the painful memory unfold. The irony wasn't lost on him that the girl who would capture his heart was the same one who couldn't seem to stay on her feet.

"I am so sorry, miss." Louis said again, rubbing his head once more and standing to help the pretty girl he had just run over with his petite frame, extending a hand down to her with a charming smile that already hinted at the rockstar he would become.

The girl laughed tiredly, the sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze, and allowed him to guide her from the carpet to her feet once more. Her movements were graceful despite the fall, and there was a resilience about her that Louis found instantly captivating.

"I'm Louis, by the way." He introduced himself with a big smile, the soft hum of Christmas music flowing from the live orchestra that had been hired for the event, the smooth voice that accompanied the music weaving around them like a warm blanket on a cold night.

"I'm Eleanor. It's a pleasure, Louis. If you'll excuse me though, I'm needed elsewhere." Eleanor excused herself, but paused when her eyes met Louis's ocean ones, and the connection between them was immediate and electric, a spark that ignited something deep within both of them.

That's when the match seemed to ignite, and her tense muscles seemed to relax almost visibly, as if she had been carrying a weight that suddenly lifted in his presence.

Younger Louis still had that stupid, hopelessly smitten smile on his face as they stood there, stuck in a moment of endless seconds that stretched into what felt like an eternity, almost like a perfect dream from which neither wanted to wake. A girl in a pure white gown and a charming rock star dressed as a prince—no, not a prince, but something close enough to magic for one night. It was a picturesque scene you could only capture in a flawless painting, a moment of perfect, fragile beauty that neither of them would ever forget.

"Are you sure? Because I was just about to ask you for a dance or two—if it pleases you so that is?" Louis asked, still keeping his hand firmly over hers, unwilling to let go of the connection that had formed between them in that brief, charged moment.

"You lust-struck git." Older Louis muttered, watching Eleanor nod with a slight beam of her own lips and allowed the rock star to guide her to the middle of the dancefloor, where other couples swayed to the music in a sea of color and motion.

Using his hand to guide her in front of him, he allowed for her arms to place themselves around his neck and maneuvered his hands so one rested on her upper back and the other over her lower back, pulling her closer until they were dancing as one person, moving to the rhythm as if they had been doing this together for years.

"You have questions, I can see them reflecting in your eyes." Harry observed, the crushing feeling returning to his dead chest as he watched the scene unfold, knowing exactly where this moment would lead and hating himself for having to be the one to guide Louis through it all over again.

"I want to know why she lied to me." Louis growled, following the two new lovers as they moved across the dancefloor, because he remembered the conversation between them quite well at this point. The memories were repeating themselves as fast as they were playing out in front of him, a cruel reminder of everything he had lost and everything he had failed to understand.

Harry rushed after him, lifting his hand up to ghost Louis, but he found that it didn't work this time. Louis was far too focused, his emotions running too hot, and the intensity of his own dead soul was interrupting the ghost's power. Sometimes the living had more strength than the dead, especially when fueled by love and loss in equal measure.

"Louis, calm down." Harry advised, seeing the older man stand in front of the couple and scream with a raw, broken sound that tore at the ghost's dead heart.

"WHY DID YOU LIE?! YOU LIED AND THEN YOU LEFT! YOU ARE ALL THE SAME! YOU LIE AND THEN YOU LEAVE! I COULD HAVE HELPED!"

Harry flinched, the raw pain in Louis's voice so intense it almost felt physical. He definitely wished Zayn was with them at this point; the other ghost might not be as gentle, but he was certainly better at handling explosive emotions than Harry was.

"Louis—"Harry started, taking a step back when Louis turned toward the ghost with an intensity that was fueled by something so bitter, so corrosive, that Harry could actually taste it in his mouth like poison.

"Take me the hell home, NOW!" Louis roared, his growl so fierce that if Harry wasn't already dead, he might have actually been afraid that the bloke would kill him if he didn't listen. The sound of his voice echoed through the ballroom, though none of the living participants seemed to notice anything amiss, lost in their own worlds of music and motion.

Harry shook his head, his expression firm but not unkind. This was a necessary part of the journey, as painful as it might be.

"No. I told you I had two more things to show you and this was one of them. It's about damn time something got through to you. You can't hide from the past, you can try but it always catches up to you somehow," Harry took a stand, taking a step and grabbing Louis's arm before he could storm off. "You dated her for a year; Lou and she didn't lie. She was just never one to weigh others down with her problems."

"She broke it off, didn't give me the reason, just an excuse and then the next day I'm being called and investigated because she was reported missing! WHY?!" Louis demanded, taking his other hand and gripping Harry's wrist in a bone-breaking hold, his desperation palpable in the white-knuckled grip.

He was desperate for those answers, because he never got them, not even when her body was discovered in the city river a week later, cold and still and gone forever.

"She was terminal, Louis. You knew that." Harry replied softly, using his free hand to grip Louis's shoulder in a gesture of comfort that was both accepted and rejected simultaneously.

"After the bloody fact! If she just told me..." Louis trailed off, his grip loosening on the ghost as the weight of what might have been settled over him like a shroud.

"She would have made it a few weeks if she was lucky, Louis. The night on the beach, she ended it to save you the pain. It's obvious that it was handled poorly, but you got over her a half year later, yeah? What was her name? Bella? Bells? You slept with her and got her pregnant. Congrats on thinking with your head and not your prick by the way, mate." Harry spat, his frustration getting the better of him for a moment.

Louis stepped back as if he had been physically slapped, the words hitting him with the force of a fist. The accusation—because that's what it was—stung more than Harry could ever know.

"I NEVER got over El. I want to know if she suffered or was Niall kind enough to grant her mercy? Was it quick?" Louis seemed desperate for an answer to that question, because he always wondered if her final moments were peaceful or agonizing, as morbid as it was to think about. The not knowing was sometimes worse than knowing.

"She climbed to the highest bridge in London and jumped. When she hit the water, the force and the way she hit—"Harry started, but Louis interrupted him, his voice breaking.

"Did she?!"

Harry wanted to be done as much as Louis did, because the overwhelming feeling of helplessness was making him sick, and though it was only phantom sickness, it was getting to be too much even for someone who had been dead for centuries.

"No. It was a quick second of flight and the way she came down, the force collapsed her lungs and rib cage. She was unconscious the moment of impact because of the ice that froze over the water below," Harry replied truthfully, scratching his head as he tried to choose his words carefully, knowing how much this would hurt. "Like jumping from the Empire State Building in New York. I met a jumper from there one time. He told me the sudden stop was the free falling and the ground coming up on you and then...nothing. I can't say the same for the poor bloke he fell atop of, he felt everything for a few moments—Niall wasn't quick enough to scythe him because it was just him and he wasn't quick enough, but he was there for El, he got her soul out before she hit the water, also another reason she didn't feel anything."

Louis rubbed his fingers over his face, the rough stubble scraping against his palms as he tried to process the information, the image of Eleanor's last moments burned into his mind forever.

"Brilliant. I get a ghost that directly and indirectly answers my queries and leaves me with bloody more." Louis calmed slightly, though the feelings didn't get any less tense for Harry, who could feel the storm of emotions still raging beneath the surface of Louis's fragile composure.

"You'll know when you die. I can't explain it." Harry dismissed, figuring he'd have to just get Niall to show Louis firsthand if he really wanted to understand, though he suspected that knowledge would come soon enough.

"Comforting!" Louis yelled, grudgingly turning to his younger self, who was still dancing with Eleanor as if nothing else existed in the world beyond their small circle of happiness.

He noticed the younger him never lost his charm or smile throughout the dance, completely oblivious to the tragedy that lay just around the corner.

"You stupid soft bloody numptie." Louis muttered, kicking himself metaphorically. He should have known something was wrong, should have paid more attention, should have done something differently.

Harry remembered a quote he read in a book once. It was written two hundred years after his death, but it still left an impact, and one line he could recite in his sleep...if he slept.

"'I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most' 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.' A quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson. The man was a Victorian poet and I think he was onto something. You can't regret meeting Eleanor, because she is what shaped you. It was short, but it was enough for you to feel alive, to feel love and you deserved that, Lou. You still do, but you have to let love in to receive it."

Louis turned his back on Harry, ignoring him again as he focused on the dance scene playing out before them, his expression unreadable but his posture radiating pain.

"So, tell me, what is a beautiful girl like yourself doing at a Christmas Eve dance for sick people?" Louis asked smoothly, trying to be cool and charming, but the girl's eyes flickered and the mirth that had been there began to fade like a candle in the wind.

"Smooth move exlax." Older Louis snarked to himself, wondering how he was ever that stupid, that blind to the signs that must have been there if he had only known how to look for them.

Younger Louis saw and immediately backtracked, his charm turning to concern as he realized his mistake.

"What I mean is, you're beautiful. I didn't mean to say you were better than the sick people here—I mean they're ghastly looking and you're pretty, I mean they're not okay and you were—I—um..." Louis chuckled nervously, tripping over his words like a teenager who hadn't yet learned the art of smooth conversation. "Can I redo that? Okay, simpler question; where are you from?" He tried again with something that was less insulting, though he couldn't see how the question was inappropriate to begin with or why she frowned so heavily.

"Here in London. I'm local—though judging by that Yorkshire accent you speak with, you clearly are not." She chuckled, their bodies beginning to move with the heavenly voice that sang with the orchestra, the music wrapping around them like a warm embrace.

"I am not fair lady, you are correct. I was born and bred in Doncaster." He stated proudly, his chest puffing out slightly as he always did when talking about his hometown.

"That explains so much. You certainly are blunt." Eleanor tsked, though her eyes were sparkling again and for Louis, that's all that mattered in that moment—the light in her eyes, the way she looked at him as if he were someone special, someone worth knowing.

"This was the first time you looked at someone and felt something incredibly new. It was almost as freeing as singing, wasn't it?" Harry tried, standing beside the music executive, trying to bridge the gap between past and present, between the man Louis was and the man he had become.

"If I would have known I was going to lose her a year later, I wouldn't have bothered." Louis spat bitterly, eyeing the ghost with pure hatred. "Piss off, asshat. You're a bloody cruel one, crueler than the corporate suits I work with in the office."

Harry of course paid no heed to Louis's threat and stood there for a moment to watch the young couple, pursing his lips slightly and shrugging. He had heard such sentiments before, understood the pain that birthed such words.

"You can't always save your heart from breaking, but you can't keep it locked away either. El was there to introduce your heart to what could have been and still can be if you put in the effort to change. Her purpose on this earth was accomplished and so she went back. You can hardly fault nature for being what it is destined to be." Harry said, his wisdom wise beyond his years—even if he had nearly four hundred years to perfect it, understanding the ways of the heart was something that transcended time itself.

Older Louis watched the red, blue and light green spotlight above the room sparkle down and cast them in a hue of cheery auras that felt mocking somehow, a reminder of the happiness that had been so real and so temporary.

"I suppose that's just humanity? Live, breathe and die. Cheerful. Merry bloody Christmas, mate. I'm done. Take me out of here, yeah? Because if you don't I will—"Louis started to threaten, his words halting in his throat when El's legs gave out when she ended up stepping wrong, his younger self moving quickly to tighten his hold on the girl with a laugh that held genuine concern beneath its light surface.

"Your mother did not name you Grace for a reason." Younger Louis teased, the pair's eyes meeting again in a moment of perfect understanding that made older Louis's chest ache with longing.

Louis noticed the way his younger self held the girl to him, her body dipped slightly in a dramatic but gentle movement, and his blue eyes lit with pure joy as the lights circled around the room, the music fading into the background as the rush of blood hitting his face when he realized they were paused in this position, frozen in a moment of perfect happiness.

Eleanor didn't seem to mind though and only laughed with him, the sound full of life and happiness that seemed to light up the entire room.

"Well, you didn't let me fall." Eleanor smiled, her body slowly being lifted upward again as Louis righted them both.

"Gentlemen do not let beautiful lasses collapse. I'll catch you every time...well, that I'm around that is. I can't fly back to London every time you trip as I do not have Superman's powers, but as long as I'm around, you'll never fall." Louis's younger self beamed, taking her hand and letting the other rest on her shoulder, his voice full of youthful confidence and sincerity.

She did the same, stars in her own tired eyes, but her energy seemed recharged in his presence, and he let her hand rest on his back and the other on his shoulder as they settled into a comfortable dancing position.

"Then, I am in debt to you, Louis. Shall we?" She gestured with her hand, her smile genuine and warm.

Younger Louis obliged and the couple were again dancing slow to the music surrounding them, the bliss of young blossoming love shadowing in their eyes like the stars that shone in the jet-black night sky outside the ballroom windows, a universe of possibility contained in their small circle of happiness.

Older Louis could feel that loss like a physical blow and wrapped his arms across his chest defensively, minus the hostility, a simple gesture of self-protection against a pain that still felt fresh despite the years that had passed.

Harry could feel the anger dissipate back to a dull ache, his own memories filled with fond recollections of the couple and when Harry saw the beach move across his own vision, he knew that it was time to move onward if they hoped to get to the last thing Harry needed to show him, and he wasn't sure at this point if it wouldn't break the man entirely.

"We only have two more things to see." Harry told Louis, holding his arm out for Louis to take so they could transport, but Louis just stood there and watched the memories of that Christmas Eve night play out in his head like a too loudly playing bass, each note a reminder of what he had lost.

He stood frozen to his spot and so Harry reached out to take his shoulder, but he swung around and pushed the ghost away, his movements sharp and aggressive.

"I will break your hand and then snap your neck. It might not bloody kill ya considering, but I'll make sure your dead ancestors feel it." Louis growled, his blue eyes aflame with barely extinguishable agitation, a fire that burned hot enough to scorch even the dead.

Harry knew his threats were empty and since time was crunching closer to a close, he grabbed Louis's arm and hurriedly transported to the beach—a year later, on the same night they had met and the last time they would again.

Older Louis growled and swung out at Harry, the ghost quick enough to jump back and go transparent so Louis's fist went through him, connecting with nothing but cold air that left him off-balance and even more frustrated.

"Hurting me is not going to change our course." Harry told him blatantly, seeing the year older couple walking along the beach, their breath falling out in the icy air in white puffs that mingled with the snow falling around them quietly. The snow hardened the sand below their feet in snowy frost, but it was still a breathtaking sight, especially at the sight of two apparently young loves trekking down along the coastline waters, their silhouettes dark against the winter landscape.

"That's the infuriating thing! I CAN'T HURT YOU! Oh, how I wish I could. You have little business to concern yourself in my bloody past! You won't leave it alone!" Louis exploded, finally having enough of being forced to relive his greatest pains without any control over the process.

Harry regarded Louis calmly, his expression undistinguishable for once. He looked neither happy nor upset. He just looked lost, which was probably close to how Louis felt at that moment—adrift in a sea of memories with no shore in sight.

"I was not sent here on my own accord. I was sent by a power higher than my own. If you want to take it up with them, fill out a comment card and I'll give it to them with your list of concerns. If not, don't scream at the messenger, mate. As for your past? You know what I wish? I wish I could feel happiness in my own memories instead of others and that someone had been around to show me my regrets, because if I had the chance to go back and redo things differently, I'd take it in a heartbeat, but I can't. My time is long past, yours is not too late so I suggest opening your eyes a little more to what's around you. We can't do anything with what's behind, but you can change the future. You just got to learn from prior experiences. That's my job tonight and I'm doing it to the best of my ability."

Louis pushed Harry from him harshly and ran after his younger self, needing to be closer to the memory, to understand what he had missed, what he had failed to see when it mattered most.

Harry decided he would let Louis go this one alone for a few minutes, because the ghost could sense the bloke would hold true to his word of trying to cause him harm if he didn't let Louis some time to cool off. Sometimes space was the only thing that could temper the fires of grief.

Louis could almost feel the snow below him, but it was as Harry said, a simple long-ago memory. He wasn't cold in this one as he had been at the private school memory. Something he suspects Harry had something to do with. Without the bitter chill, it allowed him to jog after himself within seconds, walking beside the couple who were strangely silent, their usual easy conversation replaced by a heavy stillness that spoke volumes.

"Is something wrong, El?" Louis asked his girlfriend after a few minutes of silence, the weight of the quiet between them pressing down on his chest like a physical weight.

It wasn't uncommon for them to let their actions speak more than their words, but even Louis couldn't ignore the troubled look his girlfriend wore and how tired she appeared—more so than normal, as if something was draining her from the inside out.

For a few seconds, their footsteps were in tune with the winter-cold waves that crashed forward with force and lulled back with gentle ease around them, and in a sense, it brought a comfort of the here and now. Louis remembered the calming effect it always had on him to be by the water, especially in times of great stress, the rhythm of the ocean matching the rhythm of his own heart.

"Nothing really, luv. Just caught up in my own thoughts today, I suppose." She smiled wearily, her face a pale glow that reflected off the sunset, lighting her aura in a soft hum of life that drove Louis absolutely crazy even now, even after a year.

"You just seem sad today, you're usually more talkative." Louis pressed, stopping them and coming to stand in front of Eleanor, his expression full of concern as he searched her face for answers.

Eleanor just shrugged and looked down to the ground, unable to meet his eyes, and that should have been his first clue that something was terribly wrong.

"I don't know, Lou. I was thinking of taking a break, you know? The paparazzi, you being away—the traveling and that. I just think we should take a break or like—just...end things, but at least end them on a good note?" Eleanor almost pleaded, but it came out as more of a question, as if she were hoping he would argue, would fight for what they had.

Young Louis stood there in shock, his hand tightening against hers instinctively, as if he could hold on to what they had through physical touch alone.

"If you want to spend more time together, I can take you with me. We can spend a holiday together, somewhere bright and sunny, rekindle things, work out issues, but don't—don't do this to me, El. Please? I'm willing to work this out, I'm willing to try." Louis pleaded, his older self wanting so desperately to express the words his wisdom had to offer the love-struck lad who couldn't see the truth behind her words.

"Oh mate, if you knew the bollocks you had to deal with—you wouldn't have bothered. Take it from me." Louis expressed his own grief to Harry, his voice thick with the pain of hindsight.

"It's too late for that, Lou. It's all way too late. I can't leave London and I just...I just think we need to end it. It'll be better for the both of us." Eleanor insisted, taking her hold from Louis's, sadness reflecting in the dying light of what was left of the day, which was another hour if they were lucky.

"You can't mean that, El. I know you don't want that. No one wants that, we were fine a few months ago, what did I do? What can I do to fix it? I told you I would never let you fall and I've kept that promise, I thought I did at least?" Louis began to panic, tears literally about to trail down his face from the harsh blow he felt and decided a physical one would have been less painful, at least that would have healed faster.

Eleanor seemed conflicted, but her next words cut Louis deeper than any knife could, slicing through his heart with surgical precision.

"I mean every word and I may not want it to be so, but it is and you can't do anything to change it! God, I wish you could, Louis. More than anything I wish you could, but it's beyond my control, your control and God doesn't seem to be listening, so we're all bloody being punished in a sense. I never wanted...I never meant to fall in love with you. I did and now this is going to end up being my fault, isn't it?" Her voice cracked and she could no longer concentrate on making any sense. She was hurting and her depleted energy was zapped from her for the effort of maintaining the façade.

Louis's arms caught her when her body fell against his and wrapped their arms around his neck tightly, a fear-pained sob leaving the depths of her throat that tore at something deep inside him.

A sharp pain shot through Louis's chest and the complete helplessness he felt in that moment had been indescribable, a feeling so overwhelming it threatened to drown him entirely.

"She wanted to tell you if it is any consolation." Harry appeared beside him, entering in ever so carefully, especially with what was happening, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment but needing Louis to understand the truth.

"Piss off!" Louis hissed, keeping his eyes glued to the scene of the two heartbroken teenagers, his attention split between past and present, between what was and what should have been.

"She was afraid how you would have reacted. You called those patients in there sickly and unattractive; she stayed in London for treatments while you were off traveling for weeks or a month at a time. She kept her diagnosis hidden from most people; you included. The only ones who knew were Walsh and Simon, but she asked them not to breathe a word. She did it because she thought she was protecting you. It was no more your fault than it was hers, Lou. Please believe that." Harry rushed to explain, going transparent again when Louis took another swing at him, his movements driven by raw, unfiltered pain.

"SOD OFF!" Louis screamed at the ghost, his eyes reflecting the same emotions as his younger self—confusion, anger, and overwhelming hurt all mixed together in a toxic cocktail of grief.

They were confused, mad and hurt. He had always wondered what he could have done different, and it stung to know Walsh and Simon had failed to tell him about El's predicament. He could have gotten her more advanced treatments if he had known, could have spent more time with her, could have...

"No, you couldn't have. Her diagnosis was terminal two years before you met her. They gave her three years, mate." Harry heard Louis's sparse thoughts amongst the anger of him being around, understanding the spiral of what-ifs that threatened to consume the man entirely.

"What part of bog off don't you understand? Do I need to say it in Spanish for you to understand?" Louis snapped, his attention going to the ghost who refused to leave him in peace with his memories.

"She used her time the best she could, she would want you to do the same, that's all she ever wanted. Eleanor liked seeing you smile and it gave her hope as well, no matter how little." Harry ignored him and went on, knowing that some truths needed to be repeated until they were heard, until they sank past the anger and reached the heart beneath.

Louis's heart seemed to break when she pushed away from him, stumbling in the cold slush, Louis's jacket wrapped around her thin shoulders that he had given her to wear over her own to make sure she continued to be warm, a small act of care that meant everything and nothing all at once.

Young Louis just stood there in shock, making no attempt to stop her, paralyzed by the suddenness of it all, by the finality in her voice.

"I'm sorry, Lou. I should have...I...I didn't mean for it to end like this. I thought maybe I could beat the odds, but I can't. I'm so sorry." Eleanor said and shrugged Louis's coat off, handing it to him, the gesture feeling like a final goodbye. "You deserve to be with someone that won't leave you and I don't want to, but I don't have a choice. I'm sorry, Louis. I am so sorry." Eleanor sobbed, turning to walk away.

Louis rushed forward to stop her from stumbling, but it was her that pushed him back onto the ground, her strength surprising him in that moment of desperation.

"No! Don't you understand?! You can't stop me from tumbling every bloody time I fall! I'm going to eventually collapse and when that time comes, you nor anyone else will be able to stop it! Just LEAVE ME ALONE! GO AWAY, WE'RE OVER! WE'RE DONE!" Eleanor cried, hurrying to turn and walk away from her flame, the agonizing pain in her heart zapping the life from her already dying body with every step she took away from him.

Younger Louis just stood there and watched her stumble away in shock, the silent cries leaving with his tears that froze on his cheeks in the cold winter air.

"I was going to go after her. I was going to comfort her and I didn't. I let her go, because I figured I could just call her later and we could talk it out and I did try, but her phone was turned off," Louis recalled helplessly, turning to Harry with the desperation of a man who had been carrying this guilt for far too long. "Why did she end her life? Just answer me that."

Harry looked out as the girl got further away, a soft sigh leaving his dead lips, heavy with the weight of too many similar stories witnessed across too many years.

"Because she wanted to be left with her dignity, not helpless in a bed. Death is not always a pleasant end and she wanted to end things on her terms, not on her sickness. She was a strong lass, Louis and you were truly blessed to have known her." Harry responded, holding out his arm, knowing what came next and dreading it almost as much as Louis did.

Louis knew what that meant and he wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to face the last thing that took away the life he had tried so hard to rebuild again and again and again, each attempt ending in failure more devastating than the last.

"No. You're the ghost of the past, right? Can you stop a moment? Just for a few seconds, if this is like a film—it can be paused." Louis reasoned desperately, going after Eleanor while the setting sun grew dimmer in the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that seemed cruelly beautiful given the darkness of the moment.

Harry watched him run after her and jog backward once he had caught up, understanding the need for this small mercy, this brief moment of suspended time.

"Please!" Louis begged, just wishing he could pause the last memory and take in his old love one last time, commit every detail to memory before it was gone forever.

Harry let out a small sigh and waved his hand in the air, a simple gesture that held immense power.

Just like that, the scene froze, the world holding its breath for this man's grief.

Louis stopped and felt the wetness cascade down his cheeks like a small stream, taking in every aspect of her youthful face, every detail he had tried so hard to remember but could never quite capture perfectly.

He reached out, wishing he could remember the touch of her cheek or the feel of her hand running through his hair when he was stressed or upset, the simple comforts he had taken for granted when they were available.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more and I'm sorry I failed to understand." He apologized, bringing his fingers to where her cheek was and held it there, closing his eyes as if by closing them he could somehow make contact, could somehow feel her presence one last time.

It was then he could almost imagine what it felt like to touch her again, but it was short-lived, the sensation fading as quickly as it had come, leaving only the cold emptiness of memory.

"You could only do what you were capable of doing. You gave her something special and she gave you something. It's not about failing." Harry said, watching the older man just continue to stand there and take in the memory of his old girlfriend, his heart breaking all over again for the pain of the living that never truly healed, only scarred over.

"You never truly forgot about her, Louis. She is a part of you and always will be."

Louis opened his eyes and glanced one more time at the frozen look of desperate helplessness on Eleanor's face, dropping his hand back down to his side as he prepared himself for what came next, steeling his heart as best he could.

"We need to go." Harry said, touching his shoulder gently, a gesture of compassion that was both welcome and unwelcome.

Louis jumped away as if burned, the touch breaking through his reverie and reminding him of the painful reality of their situation.

"No bloody way. You're about to show me my son and what happened. I don't need to see that. Take me home. Please?" He begged the ghost, his heart feeling like it was about to stop beating at any second, the anticipation almost as bad as the memory itself.

Harry sensed his upcoming panic and sighed, grabbing his wrist and hurrying through to a few years later, the transition jarring and immediate.

Louis was twenty-two at the time and his son Alexander had just turned two. He remembered this day like it was yesterday, every detail burned into his memory with the painful clarity of trauma.

"You met Bella six months after Eleanor's passing. Your brain took a vacation from your head, because you were shagging anything with a hole and two legs. Low and behold, you met Bells —though not before realizing she was a complete psychopath." Harry intoned, his voice flat as he recalled the disaster that had been that relationship, the train wreck that had led to even greater tragedy.

"Yeah, psychopath double dipped in chocolate covered crazy with an extra scoop of manic on the side." Louis summed up hatefully, the bitterness in his voice so thick it was almost suffocating.

He still blamed Bella, even still after all these years—which was logical considering she did murder their son, a fact that no amount of time or therapy could ever truly erase or explain away.

"You had been battling for sole custody, but because of the nature of your job the judge thought that awarding Alexander to Bells was more beneficial to the child and you had joint custody rights to visits whenever you wanted." Harry continued on, reciting the painful details with the detachment of someone who had seen too much injustice to be surprised by it anymore.

"SHE MURDERED MY SON!" Louis exploded, going to walk away though Harry was able to ghost him before he could, trapping him in place with supernatural force that felt like violation despite the ghost's good intentions. "LET ME GO!"

"Not until you've calmed down." Harry told him, glad that ghosting him actually worked this time, the ghost's power responding to Louis's heightened emotional state in ways it sometimes failed to do when the man was more controlled.

"She murdered him and then took her own life because heaven forbid she actually stay around and take responsibility for something! When I picked him up from her house, nothing was amiss. He was fine, but then I noticed he started getting sick throughout the few hours I had him. He was lethargic and throwing up, so I took him to the children's hospital straight away. That stupid bloody git of a nurse demanded I fill out paperwork while they looked him over, I finish and am waiting for three hours and then she comes out and has the nerve to accuse me of poisoning my own flesh and blood!" Louis ranted, pulling his body desperately to the side to move, but Harry was not unghosting him until he was calm again, because the moment he did he knew Louis would bolt, unable to face the memories head-on.

"Ethylene glycol was the poison that showed up on toxicology." Harry said, seeing it in his vision, the technical details as clear as if he were reading the report himself.

"Antifreeze," Louis spat, simplifying it and stilled, glaring hatefully at Harry with eyes that burned with the fires of hell itself. "The bitch put it in his juice. You know the worst part? I never got to say goodbye to him either. I was arrested! WITHOUT PROOF! Then when I was released nearly a day later, I went back, only for them to tell me my son died. I was then informed by police when I walked into a crime scene at Bella’s house that I found out that she had also died, but not before leaving a note. “If I can’t have him, then he won’t have either of us." Louis smirked in a sarcastically sadistic way, the expression twisted and ugly with pain, continuing with his breath coming out heavier. "Hers was a bit more permanent, but hey, according to her; if you aren't sure you're going to get it right the first time, make sure you do it in a way that won't fail. Her report indicated that she had drank not only half a bottle of antifreeze to make sure the job got done; she also swallowed a full bottle of sleeping pills and half a bottle of tricyclic, an antidepressant medication she had been on."

Harry saw the images flash over of the woman Louis was talking about. She was beautiful. Slim, with a gothic style pale complexion, dark eyes that seemed to hold secrets and pain, and raven hair that fell like a shadow around her face. A tragedy wrapped in beauty wrapped in madness.

"She was exotic." Harry said, the world around them growing dark as the scene shifted, the focus narrowing to the children's hospital and the lights that lit up the outside decorations of the cheerful looking building with the few scattered benches around the grounds so visitors could sit outside for some fresh air if they needed it.

"She was a psychotic cu—"Louis started, only for Harry to shush him harshly, cutting off the vulgarity that seemed insufficient to describe the depth of the evil they had encountered.

"Maybe so, but her problems are over, Alexander is at peace and you..." Harry trailed off, seeming to feel a bit of sympathy for the man who had lost so much, who had been through so much that it was a wonder he could still stand at all.

"Mine is bloody excellent, mate. Thanks for your concern. NOW LET ME THE HELL GO!" Louis yelled, tugging his body again with renewed desperation, the need to escape this memory overwhelming everything else.

Harry lifted his hand and waved it, releasing Louis from his spot with a simple gesture that ended the ghosting effect instantly.

Louis had to catch himself from falling, but he knew where he was, it was after he had gone back to the hospital the third time, lost and alone did he find he was not truly so. The scene was painfully familiar.

"This was the worst Christmas ever. Worse than when I found out my father died or when Eleanor left me. There is no feeling like losing a child. There is no greater loss." Louis said, feeling his eyes grow puffy with unshed tears that he refused to let fall, refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing his weakness.

"There is." Harry disagreed simply, gesturing for him to follow, knowing that Louis still had one more lesson to learn before this part of the journey was complete.

"Yeah? What's that? Nothing matters when everything feels stacked against you." Louis's voice was full of despair, the kind that came from losing everything and having nothing left to lose.

Harry stopped and pointed to the far end of the grounds, where darkness seemed to gather like a living thing.

"The greatest loss of all, is forgetting what pain is. You know what it feels like, but you can't feel it. You know what it is, but can't express it. To feel emotion is to be human, Louis and when you lose that, you lost everything." Harry murmured, seeing a lone figure hunched over herself, sobs of anguish echoing around the courtyard, a sound so raw and broken that it seemed to tear at the very fabric of the night.

The newly turned twenty-two-year-old Louis heard it from the door he had just stepped out of to have a cigarette, seeking a moment of peace from the chaos inside. His solemn curiosity carried him toward the sound, his heart already aching with a familiar pain at hearing someone else's suffering.

"You remember this." Harry smiled warmly, recalling the coffee shop worker from earlier, the connection that had formed between two broken souls finding each other in the darkness.

Louis nodded and walked over the same time his younger self did, his movements synchronized with the memory as if he were reliving it in real time.

He watched the young man sit by the crying woman, extending his own painful introduction with a gentleness that seemed out of place given his current hardened exterior.

"Hi, I'm Louis." He murmured sadly, his hand cautiously reaching over to settle on her shoulder, a simple gesture of comfort that spoke volumes about the man he used to be.

He didn't expect the woman to fling herself at him, a complete stranger and cry into his shoulder. If anything, he expected to be slapped for touching her, even if it was meant as a gesture of comfort. But instead, she responded to his kindness with a desperate need for human contact, for someone to see her pain and acknowledge it.

It took a moment for him to realize that she had scars and bruises littering her bare arms and legs. She was outside in a sleeveless short dress. No protection from the cold that bit at her exposed skin, and the sight of those marks—evidence of violence that made his stomach clench with anger—woke something protective in him.

Louis shrugged off his long brown coat without a word and draped it over her shoulders, the gesture automatic and instinctual. It was supposed to snow soon, and she would freeze out here without proper protection.

"I'm sorry, luv. Whatever it is, I'm so very sorry." Louis cooed softly in her ear as a means of comfort, but in the end, he simply let his tired actions speak for him by wrapping his arms around the woman and returning the much-needed hug, holding her as if he could absorb some of her pain into himself.

Harry patted Louis's shoulder, his touch light but meaningful.

"You don't know this, but you saved Zayla that night."

Louis didn't respond, he kept staring at how far Zayla Gretchen had come. She overcame her loss and how he was proud she was able to do it. He wished he was as strong, wished he had been able to overcome his own traumas with half the grace she had shown.

"It's not too late. Every wound heals with time; some just take longer than others. You were human and deep down, you still are whether you know or believe it or not." Harry finished, clapping his hand on Louis's shoulder a few times, holding out his arm as the time for their journey together drew to a close.

"Come on, I can only manipulate two hours into one human hour and my time is just about up." Harry smiled, the expression tinged with the sadness of departure, the bittersweet knowledge that this part of their journey was ending.

Louis didn't move though, he just looked down at himself, wondering when he changed, wondering what happened and wondering how he got so bitter, how the kind young man who had comforted a stranger on the coldest night of the year had become the cold, hard executive who fired people without a second thought.

"Ashlee. After Simon's funeral, you went back to Ashlee's place and saw her cheating on you with someone else. That didn't help." Harry responded to his silent questions, understanding the unspoken questions that swirled in Louis's mind like ghosts.

"It had started before that, I just can't really remember. I know the next few years consisted of me working my ass off to get Simon's job. To feel I was as good as him, that I had to be him. He wasn't this bad though, was he?" Louis turned to Harry, placing his hand on his arm, suddenly desperate for some kind of reassurance, some kind of proof that he hadn't always been this broken.

Harry just simply smiled, the expression enigmatic and knowing.

"He was worse in other ways." Harry replied, waving his hand up as the final transport began. "These are the things that have been. You cannot change them, but you still have a chance to change what happens. It's never too late." Harry smiled, snapping his fingers.

Louis nodded and when he blinked again, he was alone on his leather couch, the sudden transition leaving him disoriented and breathless.

He looked around his living room, no hole in the ceiling, not broken furniture, everything exactly as it  had always been, but it all somehow different now, colored differently by everything he had witnessed, everything he had been forced to remember.

"Harry?" Louis called, standing up and listening, hoping for some final word of guidance, some last piece of wisdom to carry with him.

Silence was the only thing that greeted him back, heavy and absolute.

With a sigh, he went to the kitchen and saw that he had five minutes to spare before Zayn was scheduled to arrive. The knowledge brought no comfort, only a new kind of dread. Zayn was the Ghost of Christmas Present, and Louis suspected his visitation would be even more brutal than Harry's had been.

"I'm getting a beer." He decided, walking to the kitchen and opening the fridge door, letting out a high-pitched scream when the light came on, revealing something that should have been impossible.

Zayn's head was on the middle shelf, his eyes open and staring at Louis with amusement. A cigarette hung from his lips with the biggest smile on his face. The rest of his body was nowhere to be found, just the head sitting there like some grotesque party decoration.

"Hope you don't mind, I wanted to get a head of schedule. Get it? A head?" Zayn laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the confined space of the refrigerator.

Louis slammed the fridge door closed again and ran for the main door, throwing it open and taking off down the street, his heart pounding with adrenaline and fear. Zayn's laughter still echoed in the fridge and the blaring alarm sounding around them from when Louis just left and not bothering to disarm the door beforehand, the noise adding to the chaos of the moment.

"Some people can't take a joke. Hey, Harry? I might have gone a tiny bit too far; can you get Louis back here for me while I pull myself together?" Zayn called into his head, hearing Harry let a less than pleased response back that sounded suspiciously like fond exasperation.

Zayn just rolled his eyes and popped himself together, silencing the alarm on the door with a casual wave of his hand, already anticipating the chaos that would come when Louis returned, even more pissed off than he had been before.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11:  Zayn

"You're calm now, right? Because we've got to get this show on the road. I have an hour, and I can't exactly manipulate the past like Harry. That's his own special gift; he crammed your one hour into two, and as much as I would love to torture you like that, we're living in the present, baby. Time to get it going." Zayn dismissed with a wave of his hand, snapping his fingers to allow Louis to talk again, releasing the ghosting effect that had held the man's speech captive.

"SCREW YOU!" Louis finished his long four-minute rant just as Zayn had unghosted his mouth, the words exploding out of him with the force of all the frustration and anger he had been forced to swallow throughout Harry's visitation.

"No thanks. Now, Harry's a bit exhausted and needs to rest. He ghosted you, and I can take it off, but we have to transport. You good for that?" Zayn asked, sitting beside Louis and balling his hand into a fist, a gesture that was both casual and threatening, the way he moved like a predator who knew exactly how much damage he could inflict.

"Go get sucked, mate. I am not going ANYWHERE WITH YOU!" Louis tried to emphasize his point by leaning forward, his posture defiant and aggressive, but the ghost remained utterly unimpressed by the display.

Zayn smirked, the expression sharp and wicked in the dim light of Louis's living room. "I so love when they say that. Okay—don't flinch." Zayn warned, his balled fist clipping Louis across the face harshly, the impact so sudden and brutal that Louis didn't even have time to react.

For a moment, all Louis saw were stars exploding behind his eyelids like fireworks in a dark sky, his body falling freely through space as consciousness flickered in and out like a faulty lightbulb. When he opened his eyes, a hand was sticking down into his vision to help him get up from the thin carpet of a place he didn't recognize at all.

"What did you do to me?!" Louis groaned, the tips of his fingers grasping the ground as he struggled to lift himself, his head spinning from the unexpected blow and the disorienting transport.

"I played a game called unghost the moron. You were the moron," Zayn said with a cocky smirk, hauling Louis from the ground when he made no attempt to take his hand, his strength surprising despite his slight frame.

Louis growled and jerked away from the World War ghost with ease, putting distance between them as he took in his surroundings with growing horror.

"Where the hell are we?" Louis demanded, taking in the gray-stained carpet that had seen better decades, the bleak crumbling walls that seemed to lean inward as if the entire building was slowly collapsing in on itself, and the old antique-looking coffee table and couch directly in front of a fireplace, which had a small wooden beam above it with nothing on the surface. The whole place smelled of dampness and despair.

Directly behind the couch sat a small six-foot Christmas tree with sparse branches that looked like they had been through some kind of trauma. It was nearly bald, and the look of it was pathetic—especially with the handmade angel on top that looked like it had been crafted by a child with limited motor skills and a half-working string of lights that hummed erratically, flickering on and off like a dying heartbeat. It actually made Louis cringe with secondhand embarrassment.

"This would be Liam's residence, mate. Charming, huh?" Zayn smiled at the orange tabby cat that lay curled up on the couch to the side of them, completely oblivious to their supernatural presence.

"If you enjoy tripping back to 1972, which is where this furniture looks like it's from—sure, it would be ace. This is 2026, however, and hardly appropriate." Louis looked around, his eyes stopping at the fluffy furball on the couch, taking in the details of the animal with a critical eye.

Zayn let out a long-suffering sigh and gestured to a hallway directly to their left. "Leave it to you to miss the point entirely. Follow me; I want to show you something that I think you should see." Zayn said, moving to follow the short path to the end of the small hallway, opening one of three doors that lined the narrow corridor like confessional booths.

It was Liam's door.

Louis followed in, seeing his assistant in a pair of boxers and a wife beater that had seen better days, the fabric thin and stretched in places. The man was pacing back and forth in the small room, his movements agitated and worried.

"You wanted to show me Liam half-naked? Thanks! Like I don't have enough traumatizing images to work through; let's add invasion of privacy to the list!" Louis exploded, realizing he'd never get that image out of his head no matter how hard he tried to forget it.

Zayn ignored him completely. "No. I wanted to show you what you've caused. It's now 1 AM, and he's up fretting about work in a few hours. I bet you never took into account that he has children and no one to watch them. I bet you also didn't realize or care that his son has a deformity or that any precious time he gets with his kids is limited as he is constantly battling his ex for visitation rights for his boy. This Christmas, he overspent on those trips for his wives so he could see his kids, did you?" Zayn asked almost accusingly, pulling Louis into the small room further until they were standing practically on top of each other.

"He's trying to figure out how to tell his kids why there won't be anything under the tree or why they're going to have to settle for frozen pizza. You garnished his wages by two hundred; he's also trying to figure out how he's going to make rent come the first of January for however long you decide to garnish them."

Louis rolled his eyes, the gesture automatic and defensive. "Between Allure and him, that stunt set me back about thirty-five hundred in wasted costs. I wasn't going to charge him the complete thirty-five. How is their incompetence my fault?" Louis defended himself, watching Liam pace back and forth in front of his single bed. There were no sheets on the mattress, and the pillow looked like it had gone flat long ago, probably from years of use without proper replacement.

Zayn snorted, the sound harsh and judgmental. "It's not all completely your fault, but what I'm saying is clearly not getting through, mate. So, let me break this down: you are an arsehat."

Louis folded his arms across his chest, his posture closing off defensively. "I never denied that I wasn't."

Zayn gestured to Liam with an exasperated wave of his hand. "Clearly you see nothing wrong with this picture then?" Zayn asked rhetorically, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck that way.

Louis shrugged, the gesture dismissive and casual. "Never said that I didn't."

Zayn was becoming a little bit annoyed with Louis's quips and evasions. "So, are you planning on doing something about it?"

Louis just smirked and said nothing, turning his back to walk out, but Zayn grabbed him by the arm with surprising speed, stopping him in his tracks.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret: nobody likes a wiseass. I need to know what you're taking in from this. Unlike Harry, I can only read body language, and yours is throwing me for a loop. Because I have no clue what your plans are, telling me would save me some guesswork and you another punch to the face." Zayn smiled, an underlying threat ringing in the tone he used, his eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light.

"Fine; I plan on doing sweet f all. It is not my responsibility to help Liam out of the hole he's dug himself in. I didn't marry two selfish women; I didn't fall in love with Envy and Sloth, and I most certainly did not choose to lay down with Thing One and Thing Two. His mistake, his fix." Louis growled and walked out of the room to the small living room, his footsteps heavy with irritation.

When he arrived back in the room, he noticed the cat seemed to be staring directly at him, its gaze unnervingly focused and knowing.

It was a cute little miniature devil-looking creature, if Louis thought so himself. All orange except for the little black paws it had, giving it the appearance of wearing tiny socks.

If Louis were an animal person, he'd even go as far as to say it was a unique-looking cat, but since Louis wasn't, he simply hissed at it mockingly, figuring the animal couldn't see or hear him anyhow, being a normal, living creature and them being supernatural visitors.

He was surprised to find the cat let out a low growl, the tips of its ears laying flat against its head in a clear sign of aggression. "Noooooo, nononononono."

Louis became a little bit alarmed, considering the animal was pointedly looking at him and saying...no?

"Her name is Mittens. Liam got her from the rescue shelter about three years ago," Zayn said from beside Louis, a wide smirk playing on his lips. "I see you two have met, and like an animal with good instincts, she knows an arse when she sees one."

Louis rolled his eyes, refusing to be intimidated by a feline, even one with apparently supernatural perception. "So, that cat can see us? Who else? Not Liam, I hope; that would be pretty awkward to explain."

Zayn scoffed, the sound dripping with condescension. "No, otherwise he would have been wondering what his boss was doing in his room at one o'clock in the morning. Come on, Lou, I know you're smarter than what people give you credit for. We are visible to children and animals. So, try to behave yourself around both, hm?" Zayn chastised, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth to create a clicking sound. "Hey Mittens, you're a good kitty, aren't you?"

"Noooooo." The cat licked her lips together, watching the two strangers with caution, her body tensed as if ready to flee or fight at a moment's notice.

Louis just chuckled, finding the situation amusing despite himself. "Well, we know she has excellent taste in instincts. Guess that makes us both arsehats," Louis decided, leaning on the side of the beam above the fireplace in a casual display of disregard for the property.

"Louis, don't!" Zayn warned, but the warning came too late.

Louis's weight combined with the loose screws was a disaster looking for a place to happen—and sadly for Louis, it happened to be in Liam's apartment. The wooden beam gave way with a sickening crack that echoed through the small flat.

Louis flinched at the horrendous crash, but that was nothing compared to what happened next. The sound of the falling object spooked Mittens up the small Christmas tree in the corner, her claws scrabbling for purchase as she tried to escape the perceived threat.

Which, coincidentally, also crashed to the floor with a cacophony of breaking ornaments and snapping branches.

"Hey, I'm off the hook! The cat did it!" Louis exclaimed with a smirk, clearly amused by the chaos he had inadvertently caused.

Zayn was less than pleased, though the comical part was the cat yowling underneath the thorny branches, her cries of distress sounding like accusations.

"Oh nononono." Mittens could be heard yowling from beneath the wreckage of the tree.

"You owe Liam a new fireplace shelf and Mittens a therapist for all the trauma you're causing her. It was not the cat's fault you were being careless," Zayn chastised, his tone sharp and disapproving.

"Mittens needs a therapist? What about me?! Do you have any idea what I've seen tonight?!" Louis exclaimed, his head jerking to where the door opened down the hall as Liam emerged to investigate the noise.

Zayn waved him off dismissively. "Meh, I'll schedule you both a joint appointment, and then you can both vent about your hard lives. Back to the situation. You realize that Liam needs help, right? You see the living conditions of his flat and yet feel nothing? You have no empathy because his two wives keep his kids from him simply because he fell in love with the wrong two people? Mate, I think you should look in the mirror. He's helped you out when you were in a tight spot—shame you're so conceited that you can't see past the edge of your nose." Zayn huffed, watching Liam come out into the room, his expression confused and concerned.

"Mittens Guinevere Payne! Naughty cat!" Liam exclaimed, seeing the broken fireplace shelf and the knocked-over tree, his voice a mix of frustration and fondness for his pet.

"He has a full name for his cat? Okay, maybe I will help him out. I'll call London's psychiatric hospital first thing in the morning to get him evaluated." Louis nodded, stepping away from the fireplace and walking toward the tree, his movements deliberate.

"What are you doing?" Zayn asked, seeing Louis about to pick up the tree that had fallen over so the cat wasn't trapped underneath it anymore.

"Helping Mittens out of a predicament," Louis replied, reaching for the tree trunk.

"Noooooo. Mittens howled, struggling to get away from the ghostly human who had caused her distress in the first place.

"Leave the cat alone, Louis. Let Liam do it," Zayn warned, watching him lift the tree slightly, his movements careful but misguided.

"Why?" Louis asked, seeing the cat skedaddle from underneath it and head toward Liam, using her claws to climb him and attach herself to the top of his head with surprising speed and agility.

"MOTHER OF GOD! GET OFF! GET OFF! OUCH, THE CLAWS, MITTENS—THE CLAWS! NAUGHTY CAT!" Liam screamed, his voice filled with panic and pain as the cat's claws dug into his scalp.

"NOOOOONONnononono." Mittens glowered, her stare dead set on Louis as her nails only tightened into the temples of Liam's face, her body rigid with aggression.

"That's why," Zayn finished lamely, gesturing to the chaos unfolding before them.

"Here, let me try to help," Louis insisted, stepping forward with the misguided intention of assisting.

"No!" Zayn exclaimed, grabbing his arm and eyeing the cat with renewed caution. He took a step back, forcing Louis to follow him, creating distance between them and the angry feline.

"It's okay, kitty, we come in peace. Well, I do. Louis is another story entirely," Zayn accused, his voice calm and soothing as he addressed the cat.

The cat settled down some, and Liam was able to get the cat onto the couch after dislodging her claws from his head, his hair sticking up in every direction where she had been clinging.

"The hell's the matter with you, Mittens? You look like you've seen a bloody ghost!" Liam yelled at the cat, backing off when it kept its intense stare focused behind him with Louis, who was still in the room but invisible to the human.

Louis stared back with a cocky smirk, refusing to be intimidated by an animal, supernatural or not.

"Hiss, motherfu—"

"Noooooo—" the cat warned, backing away with her ears pinned back against her head, her body language screaming danger.

"Leave her alone, Louis!" Zayn snapped and dragged him down the hall toward the opposite door across from Liam's, his grip firm and unyielding.

When they entered, the girl was still sound asleep in her bed, her breathing soft and even. The little boy, however, was wide awake, sitting up in bed and watching them with wide, curious eyes.

At first, he just stared at the door, but then a large smile spread across his face, one of pure, unadulterated childhood wonder.

"Is that you, Santa?" the little boy asked, throwing off the torn blankets from his small body, excitement radiating from him in waves.

Zayn and Louis paused just inside the door, having hoped the kids would stay asleep, but it might just work in Zayn's favor after all, having a child's perspective on things.

He lit up a cigarette and took a long, slow drag, the smoke curling around him in ethereal wisps.

"Nah, just his elves. Except Louis here, he's playing the Grinch this year." Zayn jested, snapping his fingers and making the small bedside light come on, illuminating the room in a soft, warm glow.

Louis noticed almost immediately the unnatural angle of the little boy's foot, a clear deformity that had been surgically corrected but still left the foot twisted and scarred, a visible reminder of the medical struggles this child faced.

"Grinch? Papa says there's no such thing," the boy disagreed, his voice innocent and certain.

Zayn took another puff, stamping the cigarette out onto the floor—even if there wasn't any need to do so—and took another one out of his pack, lighting that one up and repeating his earlier actions, the ritual clearly important to him despite the lack of physical necessity.

Louis just watched him curiously, fascinated by the ghost's odd habits.

Zayn shrugged, the gesture somehow elegant despite his casual posture. "Imagine being dead since the First World War and unable to relieve your burning desire for a cigarette. They're right here, but no amount of them in the world will stop the craving. Sucks; I got one puff in before that cannonball took off my head. One puff, bam, no more head," Zayn sighed, the memory still fresh despite the passage of more than a century.

Both Louis and the little boy just stared at him.

Louis with a look that read 'really? In front of the kid?' and the little boy's was just plain confused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing.

"I thought you said you were elves?" Jake inquired suspiciously, his childhood skepticism starting to kick in.

"We're not elves. Zayn here is a pain-in-the-arse ghost, and I'm your dad's boss. Meaning, whatever I say to him goes, and whatever I say to you will be obeyed, yeah?" Louis decided to step up and try to get him back to sleep before Liam walked in and found the boy talking to himself, which would undoubtedly raise questions Louis didn't want to answer.

Jake nodded and glanced at his half-sister Ember, who was still asleep in the other bed, oblivious to the supernatural visitors in their room.

"My dad talks about you all the time. Louis Tomlinson, right? What are you doing in my room?" the little boy quickly pieced together who the older gentleman was, his intelligence and perception impressive for someone so young.

"Zayn here thinks I need a lesson in humanitarianism. I disagree, what do you think?" Louis chuckled, walking over to the boy's bed and sitting at the edge of it, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

Zayn didn't say anything for once, he figured the boy was good enough on his own without the ghost's help, his innocent wisdom more powerful than any supernatural intervention could be.

"Dad says you and him were friends since boarding school when you were really young. He says you keep him in an exciting job and he never complains, but if you are here—that means you're going to help him, right? Because he needs a lot." The little boy pouted slightly, leaning forward and covering himself up again to stay warm, his small hands clutching the thin blanket.

Louis gave Zayn a look, to which the ghost only smirked, enjoying the uncomfortable position Louis found himself in.

"I hate you, I hope you know that," Louis muttered, turning his attention back to the boy—figuring he would entertain the notion of listening, if only to get the child back to sleep. "Besides psychiatric evaluation for naming a cat Mittens Guinevere—what pray tell does your dad need help with?"

"Mum says Dad doesn't make enough for her to pay for the medical for my operations, so she says I'll just need to go without. England has some good doctors, but the ones I need are privately licensed and won't help my dad out. He says he's needed a raise, but because he maxed out his accounts and says you're mad at him, he is afraid to ask for more money. So, I'm asking. I don't want anything this year; I just want to see my dad happy. I wish I could see him more as well, but he says you need him more." Jake explained, his yellow-golden hues staring wondrously up at Louis, his expression so open and trusting that it made Louis's chest tighten uncomfortably.

Louis forced out a small smile that felt more like a grimace. "Um—I'll have to check my schedule; your dad might be due for shorter hours." Louis agreed, receiving a disapproving look from Zayn that clearly communicated his disappointment in Louis's response.

He realized how it sounded immediately. "Not like that," he assured the ghost, scratching his head awkwardly.

Jake shrugged, the gesture accepting and matter-of-fact. "Mum probably won't let him see me anyhow. She wasn't going to until he offered to take me and pay for a two-week trip to Bali. When Ember's mum heard, she was upset. So, Dad managed a payment for her too. I know he's stressed, so I don't expect anything this year, but Ember really wanted this life-like doll. I dunno what it's called, but if I had a wish, I'd wish for Dad and her to get what they really wanted this year."

The sentiment of it melted Louis's heart slightly, the selflessness of the child's wish striking him harder than any lecture or punishment could have. He cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling uncharacteristically emotional. "Well, your father most certainly needs a new car," Louis chuckled, remembering how bad the brakes were on the vehicle Liam drove.

"He needs a new life," Jake yawned, settling back down to lay on the bed. His weight made the mattress creak in protest.

Louis didn't disagree there, the child's assessment painfully accurate.

With a flick of his hand, Zayn turned the light out again just in time for the door to open, the timing perfect as always.

Louis could see Liam's silhouette through the shadows of the small plain room, and Jake was already dozing back into dreamland, his breathing soft and even.

He heard his assistant sigh in relief; glad the noise hadn't woken his children up. He finally got the cat calmed down to where it wasn't cowering in the corner, its previous agitation replaced by sleepy contentment.

That just left him to complete his nightly rituals and get what little sleep he could before he had to get up and go to work, another day of struggle and sacrifice in a life that seemed to offer little else.

When the door closed again and the darkness enveloped them, the only sound was Louis's soft breathing, the quiet thick with everything he had just witnessed and learned.

"How's that for an explanation? I figure he could give you a better insight than I ever could." Zayn said, taking Louis's wrist and tugging him back into the hall, the ghost's touch cool against Louis's skin.

With the lights completely dark, save for the small amount of light coming from Liam's room, it was hard to see where he was walking, although he had a pretty good idea when Zayn suddenly stopped and they were back in the living room, the journey through the small apartment taking only seconds.

"Be careful where you—"

MMRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLL! Mittens screeched when Louis accidentally stepped on her tail, the sound so loud and sudden that it made both of them jump.

"Step," Zayn sighed, seeing the cat run from under Louis's feet and back up the tree, seeking refuge in the branches once again.

Louis jumped back with a yell the same time the tree came crashing down again, another round of destruction in a night that already had too much chaos.

"Holy forking Kim Jong-un!" Louis swore, his heart racing out of his chest, the adrenaline making his hands shake slightly.

"You owe that cat a lifetime supply of tuna. Christ, remind me never to cross you on a bad day, mate." Zayn muttered, going to the Christmas tree and lifting it slightly so the cat could get out, his movements careful and practiced as if he had done this before.

Louis saw a fierce glare glowing out from the darkness, the cat's eyes glaring directly at him with an intensity that was almost supernatural.

"Nooooonononono."

"You've already done gone past my crap list. Also, I think that cat is trying to tell us something, like: get the f out of my flat. I say we listen. Because if looks could kill, I'd be deader than you right now." Louis insisted, thoroughly fed up with the feline and the entire disastrous evening.

Zayn shrugged, the gesture unconcerned. "I think that may be best, but I have something to show you first." Zayn said, walking over to where the fallen fireplace shelf lay and bent down, picking up a small photo frame that had survived the crash intact.

Zayn lit another cigarette, illuminating a portion of the small room with the ethereal glow of the ghostly flame.

Louis took the object from Zayn carefully and observed it, letting his mouth drop in horror and embarrassment. "I ordered him to delete all evidence of that day from existence. That was embarrassing!" Louis insisted, glancing down at himself and Liam in those hideous elf costumes; Liam indiscreetly giving younger Louis bunny ears behind his head in a moment of playful camaraderie.

Although, in his opinion, Louis looked the better of the two of them, even in the ridiculous outfit with the pointy ears.

"Read the back of the frame," Zayn insisted with a smirk that was both knowing and annoying.

Louis flipped it to the back, seeing the messy inscription written in what was clearly Liam's handwriting. "'The best day of my life.' Well, glad he thought so," Louis muttered, reading the bottom line. "'The best mate a bloke could have.'" Louis finished, a few drops of guilt settling into his chest like heavy stones.

"You can't erase the past, and he sticks around because of the history you two have shared. You changed his life, and in some ways, he's changed yours, but you need to tread carefully, Louis. He might not always be there to catch you. Sometimes, we can only take getting walked on so far. If you want a friendship with him, don't continue to push him away. If you don't, then give him the damn decency to find a better job so he can care for his kids!" Zayn yelled, his voice rising with each point he made, the passion in his words undeniable despite his ghostly nature.

Louis flinched, feeling the slight course of anger etched in the ghost's words, the truth of them hitting harder than he wanted to admit. "Can I have one of your cigs, mate? I could use one." Louis dismissed his ranting, grabbing the lit cigarette from the ghost's mouth and taking a puff, coughing a second later as the foul taste filled his mouth. "Stab me with a pig’s snout! Oh my God, what brand is this?! It tastes like decaying flesh and dirt!"

Zayn cackled, watching Louis hand him back his cigarette and lean over to exhale the foulness from his chest, the sound echoing in the small room. "I've been dead over a hundred years, mate. I was buried with them, so I'm sure you're just tasting the remnants from when I was dumped in a mass grave. Enjoy." He saluted, inhaling again with clear appreciation.

To him, it still tasted like menthol, but he didn't exactly warn Louis as he probably should have.

Oh well, it's not like Louis will die from it. Technically, the cigarette is still in a ghostly realm, and Louis was just tasting what they would if he had decided to steal a cigarette off a one-hundred-year-old buried corpse...which in fairness, Louis didn't ask before grabbing a puff, so serves him right.

"NOOOOOnonononono." Mittens howled, wishing the intruders would leave. They were making her upset and disrupting her normally peaceful existence.

Liam yelled for the cat to be quiet so that he could sleep, but Louis was going to take the whole cake, because truthfully, the cat was annoying him with its constant noise and aggression.

"Hey, Mittens? You fancy becoming my next fur coat? I ordered a cousin of yours offline, and he is damn warm." Louis antagonized, watching the cat's ears point back further, her body tensing with each word he spoke.

"Mmmmhhhrrrrrrllllllll." The cat growled again, deeper and more threatening this time.

Zayn just grabbed his wrist and gave him a look of disbelief. "Really, Louis? You're talking smack to a cat right now? I believe Liam isn't the only one who needs evaluating. Come on, we need to go." He went to drag Louis out, but Louis jerked his arm back, challenging the cat with renewed stupidity.

"Come on, you don't got anything to say to that?"

A huge hiss left Mittens' snout, and before Louis could blink, he was being pursued, leaving him and Zayn running straight into the kitchen—away from the door and any hope of escape.

Now, Zayn could transport, but he would be leaving Louis behind, and he didn't think Harry would appreciate him losing Louis—even if it was accidental...and as much as he would love to abandon the arrogant idiot to his fate with the angry cat.

"Open the fridge!" Zayn ordered but remembered he could do it himself.

So, with a wave of his hand, the fridge flew open in front of Louis, knocking him on his back as Zayn then levitated the cat and threw her onto one of the shelves, closing the door with a decisive slam that echoed through the small kitchen.

"NOOOOOOONONONONONO!"

This was followed by what sounded like the top three shelves in the fridge collapsing on one another, creating a cacophony of breaking glass and falling containers.

"Is the cat okay?" Zayn asked, helping Louis up from the ground. "The next time I tell you to leave the cat alone, you damn well bloody leave the cat alone!"

Louis ignored him and knocked on the fridge door, his curiosity overriding his common sense.

"Noooono."

"Mittens is fine," Louis assured, opening the door a little to see eyes the color of hell flames glaring back at him from the darkness of the refrigerator interior.

He shut the door again quickly. "Yup, I'd say perfectly peachy. Shall we go?" Louis asked enthusiastically, hoping to get out of the flat without causing any more damage, but if you asked—it was the cat's fault for being so aggressive.

"We can't just leave her in there, Louis. Let me put her in with Liam," Zayn insisted, ever responsible despite the chaos.

Louis moved back from the door and let Zayn do his thing, watching with morbid curiosity.

When the ghost opened the door again, he gently levitated the cat and began to spin it around in a slow, controlled circle.

"NOOOOONONONONONONONONONONOOOONONONON!" Mittens protested, the sound varying with the speed of the spinning.

Louis watched with an amused smirk, noticing Mittens did not like that one bit at all, her body rigid and uncooperative in the ghost's grasp.

"It's a kitty piñata; I'll go get the bat!" Louis chuckled, though he was curious what Zayn was doing with this bizarre method.

"I'm spinning her around until she gets dizzy. When I put her down, she'll be trying to walk and won't be so aggressive. We used to do similar experiments back in training; though it was mostly on dogs," Zayn explained, walking with the cat to Liam's door and gently opening it to levitate the cat onto the floor before shutting it again, giving Liam and cat some privacy.

A few seconds later the cat threw up, followed by a tired groan from Liam.

The man could not catch a break, even when he was away from Louis, the chaos following them both like a curse.

"Can we go now? Liam sounds like he's had enough fun for one night," Louis smiled, heading toward the main door and freedom.

Zayn followed after him, having a faster way to travel that would leave Louis disoriented and miserable.

"Louis?" Zayn called, smirking when the other bloke turned his head in response.

With no hesitation, Zayn balled his hand into a fist and punched Louis square in the jaw like last time, the impact sending him stumbling backward.

"That was for Mittens. Now come on. Allure is next." With that, he bent down where Louis had dropped and picked his head up, slamming it onto the ground with brutal efficiency, the violence sudden and shocking.

When Louis opened his eyes, not only was he staring up into the black eyes of the endless abyss of misery, but he also realized that they most certainly weren't normal—even for a ghost.

The black eyes blinked, and then its mouth seemed to spread into a long and mischievous grin that revealed teeth sharpened to points. "Ooh, a late-night snack that delivers; you shouldn't have." It said, leaning forward so Louis could get the whole picture, and man, was it ugly—the stuff of nightmares made flesh.

Zayn jerked Louis from the ground and stood protectively in front of him, his posture defensive and ready for battle. "Go make trouble elsewhere, mate. I have a schedule to keep." Zayn snapped, realizing he should have made sure the demon wasn't around when he decided to visit Allure, the oversight potentially costly.

"Who is this bloke?" Louis demanded, eyeing the teenage-looking demon with growing horror and disgust.

"I'm Ned. Ned Norman, and Louis, it is such a pleasure to finally eat you." The demon, Ned, said with growing sharp teeth that would make Louis go running if his legs would cooperate.

"Any chance of getting Harry on your ghost mobile channel? I know who to call when I have a ghost problem, but who do ghosts call when they have a demon problem?" Louis asked, backing away from where Ned stood next to Allure, who sat unblinking on the bench, her stare wordlessly fixed on the ground like a hypnotized zombie, completely under the demon's influence.

Zayn chose to ignore Louis's stupid query and instead instructed him to do something useful for a change. "Louis? I need you to run and find someone. When you find them—punch them. It will break the invisible shield around you. I'll come find you when I've settled this." Zayn balled his hands into fists and reached out to strike the demon, his movements swift and decisive.

Louis wasted no time in backing away and running like a naked chicken down the street, his terror overriding his dignity and common sense.

He called Harry's name, figuring maybe he would somehow hear Louis and come to his distress, or if anything, help Zayn out with the demon situation.

"I always seem to attract the wrong kinds of things in my life; I never thought one of those would be a demon," Louis muttered, trying to find someone in the streets, but since it was 1AM on Christmas morning—well, Louis had a better chance of seeing the Easter Bunny coming out pissed off his rabbit tail from a bar than any sane, rational, normal person wandering the dead streets.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: A Handprint to Recall

Louis looked around, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as he took in his surroundings, each inhale feeling like shards of ice scraping against his raw throat. The London streets stretched before him like a twisted dreamscape, transformed by the supernatural forces that had torn him from the sanctuary of his mansion. He was only a few blocks from the children's hospital, and yet that very fact filled him with a dread so profound it made his bones ache, a cold certainty settling over him that something terrible had transpired within those sterile walls, something that bore his mark, his signature destruction. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, heavy with unspoken tragedies and the metallic scent of supernatural interference that clung to everything like a malignant fog.

However, that was precisely the problem – the core issue that had his heart hammering against his ribs with frantic desperation. It was a little after 1 AM on Christmas Eve morning, and he didn't know where he could possibly go to 'become invisible,' to melt into the shadows that seemed to have teeth and claws of their own. He didn't see a single soul on the streets, not even the usual late-night revelers or early morning workers that might be expected during the holiday season. The absence of life was somehow more terrifying than any overt supernatural presence he had encountered thus far, as if the entire city had been evacuated in anticipation of some catastrophic event that only he could perceive coming. Each building seemed to hold its breath behind darkened windows, their familiar facades warped by the unnatural energies that saturated the atmosphere.

Instead of trying to become invisible or find shelter from the invisible forces hunting him, he stopped dead in his tracks, his head swiveling from side to side as he took in his surroundings, his heart racing with a mixture of fear and confusion that left him feeling dizzy and disoriented. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him like physical force – Allure's desperate face flashed through his mind, her eyes filled with that horrifying mixture of hope and despair that he couldn't bear to witness but couldn't look away from. What had happened to her? What was that mark he'd seen burning into her skin, that dark energy that seemed to consume her from within like some voracious parasite?

"Okay, Allure didn't look good—what happened? What's going on?!" he called out into the oppressive silence, his voice sounding unnaturally loud as it echoed against the empty streets and brick buildings that lined them, the sound bouncing back at him in distorted fragments that only heightened his sense of isolation. He blinked in surprise and nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened his eyes after rubbing them with the back of his hand, only to see Niall standing before him as if materialized from the very shadows that clung to the buildings around them.

Niall's appearance was as sudden and inexplicable as always, his presence defying all natural laws as he simply stepped into existence from the absolute darkness between two streetlights. The reaper's ancient eyes held depths that Louis couldn't even begin to comprehend – centuries upon centuries of death and judgment, of souls collected and destinies fulfilled, all contained within that unnervally calm gaze. He simply looked at him, his expression unreadable, pointed in the direction he had just come from with a gesture economical yet precise, and then disappeared once more into the shadows that had birthed him, leaving Louis alone again with his spiraling thoughts and mounting fears.

"HELPFUL! Thanks a lot, stupid spook!" Louis shouted, his voice cracking with frustration as it echoed through the empty streets, each syllable bouncing back at him like accusations. The anger felt good, at least – it was better than the crushing fear that threatened to overwhelm him, better than the helplessness that made him want to curl into a ball and wait for whatever came next. He jumped again, his heart nearly stopping in his chest when Niall reappeared as suddenly as he had vanished, this time with an unmistakable expression of annoyance etched onto his normally impassive features. The reaper's annoyance was somehow more terrifying than any overt display of anger – it suggested that Louis was failing some test he didn't even know he was taking, that his inability to understand was somehow a personal affront to the ancient being before him. He pointed again in the same direction, his movements more insistent this time, as if trying to communicate an urgency that words could not convey.

With a groan that was equal parts frustration and resignation, Louis turned back, heading in the direction he had just come from, feeling the weight of uncertainty settle over him like a heavy cloak made of shadows and doubt. Each step felt like walking through quicksand, the air thick with supernatural energies that made his skin tingle and his hair stand on end. The further he went, the more he felt the pull of something dark and powerful drawing him forward, an invisible current of supernatural force that seemed to have its own consciousness and purpose. The demon was near – he could feel it like a physical presence, a cold spot in the warm night that promised suffering and despair.

"Louis?" Harry called, suddenly appearing in front of him with that characteristic displacement of air that always accompanied supernatural arrivals. The ghost looked much paler than Louis had seen before, his normally translucent form seeming somehow faded, almost sickly in appearance. His voice carried a slightly different tone too—thinner, weaker, as if something was draining his essential energy. He seemed almost ill, and Louis felt a shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold December air. The sight of Harry looking so vulnerable was somehow more terrifying than seeing him strong – it suggested that even the supernatural protectors were in danger, that the forces arrayed against them were beyond anything they had faced before. "You won't be able to stop Ned. He's got her. You're meant to finish your journey; you can't stop what's already meant to be." Harry stepped in front of him, placing a surprisingly warm hand on Louis's shoulder that seemed to burn through the fabric of his shirt.

Something felt fundamentally wrong, dangerously off in a way that set every instinct Louis possessed screaming in warning. Harry's hand was burning to the touch, the heat unnatural and supernatural in its intensity, and Louis's fear heightened exponentially as he realized that the energy surrounding Harry wasn't the same as before—it was tainted, corrupted somehow. It was like drinking water that had been poisoned – the basic substance was recognizable but the corruption made it deadly, made it dangerous in ways that Louis couldn't even begin to process. His worst suspicions were confirmed when he blinked, and in Harry's place stood the teenage demon with those pitch-black eyes that seemed to absorb all light around them, promising endless suffering and eternal damnation.

"Louis! For heaven's sake, RUN!" Zayn yelled, suddenly appearing from nowhere and physically pulling Louis away from the demon's grasp with supernatural strength that sent them both stumbling backward. The sudden movement sent them careening into the side of a building, Louis's shoulder hitting brick with enough force to make him see stars. He glanced at Louis's shoulder, his eyes widening when he noticed a burn print beginning to form on the fabric, the material smoking slightly as if it had been touched by something impossibly hot. "Damn it! When I TELL you to RUN, I expect you to do it!" Zayn shouted, shaking Louis's shoulders roughly, his voice filled with a mixture of fear and frustration that Louis had never heard from him before. The normally controlled spirit was clearly terrified, his composure shattered by the close call and the implications of what had almost happened. Just then, Niall materialized again, his scythe already visible and glowing with supernatural energy, ready for action.

The demon hissed and vanished before Niall could make contact, leaving behind an unsettling silence that felt heavy and oppressive, as if the very air had been poisoned by its presence. Louis felt faint, his body dropping from Zayn's grasp to the ground as the burn on his shoulder intensified, feeling as if it was searing through his skin, through muscle and bone, the pain so intense it made his vision blur and his stomach churn. The mark seemed to pulse with dark energy, each beat sending fresh waves of agony through his body that left him gasping and trembling.

"Was that you pointing before? Why is that thing after me?" Louis asked softly, his voice hoarse with pain as he lifted his head to look up at Niall, who now seemed more like a phantom of hope than a spectral figure, his ancient eyes holding depths of understanding that went beyond mere judgment.

Niall shook his head but shot a questioning glance at Zayn, his expression conveying that this was not his doing, that someone else had been guiding Louis, someone else had been pointing the way.

"Because he senses an all-you-can-eat misery buffet when he's near you. You're more miserable than an unmarried cat lady in her seventies," Zayn replied with a hint of humor, trying to lighten the dark mood that had settled over them like a physical weight. "Don't worry about it; you're going to be fine." He turned back to Niall, his expression growing serious as he lowered his voice. "Damn demon marked him," Zayn hissed lowly, hoping to keep Louis from panicking, but Louis heard anyway, each word striking him like a physical blow. They exchanged silent glances, years of communication passing between them in that single look, and Zayn bent down, helping Louis to his feet with a gentleness that seemed out of character for the normally brash spirit.

"We have to press on, mate. Our second stop is Zayla, and then our last is Allure. You'll be fine. Just walk it off—the burn will only affect you if you focus on negative things. Try to press on and get into a more positive headspace," the World War II ghost suggested, managing to pull Louis up from the ground despite the younger man's dead weight. His grip was surprisingly strong, his touch grounding in a sea of supernatural chaos.

"I don't have any happy memories," Louis snapped, feeling as though his shoulder was literally on fire, the agony making it hard to think straight, hard to focus on anything beyond the immediate pain. He cried out, grasping his shoulder with his other hand, his knuckles white with the force of his grip, but he chose to do what Zayn suggested, desperation overriding his natural inclination to wallow in his misery. He tried to focus on when he was younger; the happiest memory he could think of was with Eleanor. He recalled that night at the hospital when he first met her at the charity ball, the way she'd smiled at him across the crowded room, the way her eyes had lit up when he'd approached her, the feeling of connection that had sparked between them like electricity.

As he concentrated on the memory, letting the details wash over him – the soft music, the twinkling lights, her perfume, the sound of her laugh – he felt the fire begin to lessen, a cool relief washing over him like a balm on his wounded soul. The pain didn't disappear entirely, but it receded enough that he could breathe again, enough that he could think past the agony.

"Good," Zayn praised, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder before transporting them to another flat. The transition was disorienting, as always, the world spinning and reforming around them in a dizzying blur of light and color. When Louis looked around, he almost smiled. There she was, sitting on her couch, completely absorbed in a book, her face soft with concentration. She should have been in bed asleep, but instead, she was lost in the story, her fingers gently turning pages as if they were precious treasures.

"Always reading. That lass is always reading—even when we were going to grief counseling and meetings. She always had a book at her side," Louis chuckled, walking a little closer, noticing it was a book he had given her, the cover familiar even from this distance.

Strip Naked: Skip the Grief by Aldridge Skyback.

"I got her that book after I read it. Didn't do much for me, but it helped her tremendously," Louis recalled, placing his hands on the couch to get a better look at the woman who had been such a constant presence in his life, even when he hadn't deserved it. She had always been there for him, no matter the hour of day or night, no matter how badly he'd behaved or how much he'd pushed her away.

Zayn observed her, walking next to Louis to stare at the mortal woman who seemed completely unaware of their supernatural presence. She was beautiful indeed—a hundred years too young for Zayn, but she would be perfect for Louis if only he could let go of the past that held him captive like chains forged in the fires of his own making.

"You should ask her out on a date, mate. We only have so much time before we have none at all. It grows shorter by the day, especially now," Zayn murmured, tilting his head when the girl suddenly laughed, her joy echoing in the empty room like music, the sound so pure and beautiful that it made Louis's heart ache with longing.

Louis shook his head, although he felt a wave of relief wash over him at her recovery, at the evidence that his gift, however small, had helped her find some measure of peace.

"Nah. I'm no good for her, Zayn," Louis sighed wistfully, his voice thick with emotion, but his eyes betrayed him, glistening with unspoken feelings that he could no longer suppress. "I'm no good for anyone. I already messed up my chance." He reached his hand out to touch her face, wanting to feel the warmth of her skin, to connect with this woman who meant so much to him, but pulled back just as he made contact, letting his arm drop to his side as the shame of his own unworthiness washed over him.

"How could you mess it up? She still served you coffee and a pastry when you visited the shop," Zayn tilted his head, genuinely curious about how Louis had arrived at such a devastating conclusion.

"I pulled away from everyone years ago. Zayla, I dunno. She never pressured me into visiting her, but I always popped by because she's a good person. I suppose I just wanted to feel normal, and she never treated me differently. She just saw me as Louis, not as the celebrity, not as the damaged soul, just... Louis. I just didn't want to get close, so I stopped visiting as often. I guess I was ashamed? If you could call it that," Louis frowned, feeling as though his heart was tugging itself in opposite directions, one wanting to reach out, the other pushing away with self-destructive force.

"I doubt it's shame. No offense, but I very much doubt it's that. You're not the type," Zayn half-joked, but he could see Louis was still infatuated with thoughts about Zayla, his expression softening in a way that made him look years younger, vulnerable.

"I stopped coming around a lot because I was still hurting. She had seemingly gotten better, and I hadn't—at least, I thought she did. She needed me one night, years ago, but I never came. She had the sense to call another friend, and they helped her, but I didn't. I tried to apologize to her after, but she simply kissed me on the temple, smiled, and told me not to worry about it or her," Louis recalled, feeling the fire flare up on his arm again, the memory of his failure feeding the demon's mark. He grasped it with his other hand, flinching at the burn, and focused on another memory—this time, when he and Liam had stolen farm animals to let loose in the school, the memory so ridiculous and happy that it made him smile even through the pain.

Zayn grasped Louis's hand, moving it away from the burn and flinching at the blackened handprint beneath, the mark looking more sinister in the dim light of the flat. He patted the other male between his shoulder blades, his touch surprisingly comforting. "We'll see what Harry thinks after this whole thing. I've never had this happen before, but the burn is less painful when you think happy thoughts. Keep thinking of as many of them as you can," Zayn suggested, his voice steady and reassuring.

"I don't have many, but I'll give it a go anyhow," Louis agreed, wishing that if his life had turned out differently, he'd have a chance with someone nearly as kind as Zayla, someone who could see past the darkness to the light he desperately wanted to believe still existed within him.

"You keep trying to have her model—quite insistently, in fact. I noticed earlier today you were practically forcing her to agree. Why? Do you get a commission if you recruit?" Zayn asked, recalling their earlier conversation and the intensity with which Louis had pushed the modeling idea.

Louis shook his head, his eyes widening in disbelief at the suggestion.

"No! Never! I just think she's breathtaking. She has this natural beauty; her skin is a perfect shade of cream, and her eyes turn into a stormy sea when she gets upset. Her hair, her height…her voice. Everything about her is perfect, and I want her to succeed. Modeling would put her on the map, but I can't give her what she doesn't desire. She wants simplicity—normalcy. I can't give her that. I can only offer her glitter and a spotlight, because that's all I know," Louis admitted with a flinch, feeling the weight of his errors becoming more evident by the minute, the chasm between what she wanted and what he could offer seeming impossible to cross.

"It's why she would never date someone like me. I can't give her that," Louis trailed off, turning his head to face Zayn, his vulnerability showing in his eyes. "I just don't know how to change. I have this anger; it's deeply embedded in my soul, and I find myself lost. I don't know what to do." He admitted, glancing at Zayn, who smiled gently. This time, it was more kind than mischievous. Although he still didn't trust Zayn, especially after that fridge incident, he felt a flicker of hope, a tiny spark of possibility that maybe, just maybe, change wasn't entirely impossible.

"Not everything you have to give needs to be expensive. That book wasn't expensive. Your time that night outside the hospital wasn't expensive. Not everything you give is gold, Louis. Sometimes, it's much more personal and special," Zayn explained, gesturing toward Zayla. "What you could give is worth much more than material things. It's up to you to find that answer. However, time grows short, and you're going to need to find it before it's too late," he warned cryptically, his expression growing serious as the weight of their mission settled over them once more.

Louis didn't fully understand, but his mind was a whirl of thoughts and emotions. Most of them revolved around the decisions he had made in his life, the paths he'd taken, the people he'd hurt along the way, but he found that every time he thought negatively, the pain intensified where the burn was, as if the mark was feeding on his despair, growing stronger with each dark thought.

"I fear it might already be too late," Louis murmured, feeling drained just standing there, the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him like a physical burden. He hated this feeling, but he didn't have much energy left to keep it locked inside, to maintain the facade of strength that had protected him for so many years.

"If you find the answer, then it's never too late. I still think you should shoot your shot, mate. Zayla seems like she could keep you in line," Zayn chuckled, not offering Louis any false reassurance. That wasn't his job, and he wasn't into lying to mortals, no matter how much they might want to hear it. He didn't know what lay in store for Louis—that was Niall's jurisdiction, and the reaper kept his own counsel.

He did know that he had to bring Louis into the here and now, to focus on the mission at hand rather than getting lost in what-ifs and might-have-beens.

"I think you should introduce Allure to Zayla. Allure could use someone, especially now," Zayn suggested. Both of them paused a moment to watch Zayla snort and close the book in her lap, her expression soft and content as she stretched.

"Too funny; Lou always did know how to make me laugh. I just didn't think this book would do it, but he always knows," Zayla stretched, walking toward a short hallway, disappearing momentarily before returning with a small wrapped present. "I sure hope he likes this," she murmured, her tone unsure as she placed it under a small decorated four-foot tree that glowed with warm, inviting light.

"She got something for me?" Louis asked in disbelief, his heart swelling with emotion as he walked over toward the tree. Zayn rushed over, grabbing his arm, and in the blink of an eye, they were back outside, the sudden change in temperature making Louis shiver.

"Our time together grows shorter. I have two very important things that must be seen—things you must understand before having any hope of changing," Zayn told him, pointing toward Allure as she sat outside, her face blank and body shivering in the cold, looking utterly broken and alone.

Louis took a harder look at her, realizing she looked utterly exhausted, her shoulders slumped with a weight that seemed too heavy for one person to carry.

"She just lost her child," Zayn explained, watching Louis carefully. The only reaction he could see was the slight dropping of Louis's shoulders, a subtle indication of the guilt and regret that must be churning inside him. "He had a rare disease. Hardly any research can be done because it's so rare. However, you knew about that," he accused, knowing Louis was aware that Allure had a sick child. He decided to turn his earlier words back on him, to make him face the consequences of his callousness.

"Then again, why don't they all just die, right?" Zayn goaded, causing Louis to open his mouth slightly in shock, shaking his head; a glare crossing his face as the injustice of the accusation hit him.

"I never said that, and you know it!" Louis exclaimed, shock resonating in his deep cerulean eyes at even the audacity to suggest those words came from his mouth, his pain and anger mixing into a potent cocktail of emotion.

Zayn was ready for such a rebuttal, had in fact been counting on it.

"No, but you did say your time is valuable and would only be wasted. You hold a deep hatred over what happened to Alexander, and I don't fault you, but those other kids—they didn't do anything to you. You don't have to donate to the hospital; you could go and see the kids and parents directly to see what they needed. If you had given the lass a chance, she would have explained that," Zayn chastised, disappointment evident in his tone. "However, your heart is as closed as the silver casket that you will eventually end up in. I don't see a chance—for you or for us. I don't see how what we say or do will help."

Zayn's words echoed in Louis's mind like they were trapped in a long, winding tunnel, each accusation striking home with painful accuracy. It became almost dizzying, the weight of his failures pressing down on him until he could barely breathe. He didn't say anything, seeming lost in thought, so Zayn continued, relentless in his pursuit of truth.

"You could care less that many children will die before the New Year, and many more after. The hospital is underfunded and overcapacity. The patients need help; just like if they had it, your son might have gotten the care needed."

Louis let Zayn's words hang in the air, contemplating them for a few moments, the truth of them settling over him like a shroud.

"Would he have survived?" Louis asked, defeated, looking at Zayn, desperate for an answer that would either absolve or condemn him. "If money was an issue, I'd have given all of it to them to help my son. I'm not a bad person—I'm not a bad father," he defended, but let the statement trail off into the silence of the night, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.

"Doesn't matter, right? Coulda, woulda, shoulda. No sense in wondering that now, Louis. Why regret it? To hell with the past; we can't do anything about it. The present and future, however, can be changed. You just have to want it," Zayn huffed, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with practiced ease. He took a puff, throwing it on the ground and watching it dematerialize before it could even touch the pavement. He took another one from the pack, repeating the same action, before doing it three more times, each one disappearing into nothingness with a soft hiss.

Louis watched him quietly, standing in his light clothing but unable to feel the freezing cold that should have been seeping into his bones. He didn't say anything, but kept an eye on Allure, his heart aching with the knowledge of her pain.

"I'm sorry," Louis murmured, feeling the hot fire flare up again where the demon had touched him, but his insides were too numb to bring himself to care. He felt the familiarity of the night he saw Zayla sitting outside the same hospital, wishing he was visible to get her out of the cold, to offer her some comfort in her time of need.

She reminded him of Zayla in many ways, and he thought Zayn's suggestion wasn't bad after all.

"I'm not the one you should apologize to. There are plenty you do owe apologies to. Liam's cat is at the top of the list, but Allure and Liam are a close second," he chuckled, watching Louis's gaze turn scornful at the mention of the cat.

"Are you ever not sarcastic?" Louis asked, vexed, watching Allure get up and start to walk away, her movements slow and heavy with grief. He noticed a dark orb hovering above her, following the distraught singer like a malevolent shadow.

Zayn noticed it too, his expression growing grim.

"On occasion, yes. However, there's nothing we can do about her—not right now, at least. It shouldn't matter anyhow. If she is so inclined, perhaps the local church can help, hm? Perform a miracle where lame beggars walk and blind sinners see?" He tilted his head, noticing Louis looked annoyed at the mockery.

"I was wrong. It's obvious I was. Why do you continue to push this and mock my words?" Louis asked desperately, his thoughts drifting to Alexander before Liam's son entered his thoughts, the weight of all his losses pressing down on him.

"Because you aren't getting it! It's staring you in the bloody face, and you're just not seeing! You can still change what doesn't have to happen. It's not too late—until it is, and it nearly is, Louis. WAKE THE HELL UP!" Zayn's voice echoed across the void, dying in the cold of the night around them, snow falling softly, but all Louis felt was the hot surge of fire from the mark on his shoulder.

He fell to his knees, the pain in his arm becoming too much to bear, the agony finally overwhelming his defenses. He closed his eyes, feeling the darkness surround him like an impending storm, threatening to consume him entirely.

"There's one more thing I need to show you," Zayn sighed, picking Louis up from the ground with surprising gentleness. "It's life and death."

Louis tried to focus on something else, but his mind was a blur of chaos and pain, each thought feeding the demon's mark and intensifying his suffering.

Zayn sighed, taking pity on the mortal. He rubbed Louis's shoulder encouragingly. "Your dad. Tell me the happiest memory you can think of," Zayn tried, knowing Louis was running out of happy memories, that this was his last resort.

The mention of his dad caused a flood of emotions to surface, but one memory stood out—one that involved his mum too, a memory so pure and perfect it still hurt to think about even after all these years.

"It seems like forever ago now, but the fair was in town, and I had come home from school upset. I suppose Mum had made a call to Dad at his work because he showed up to the house with takeaway," Louis recalled, remembering it as though it were yesterday, the details still crystal clear in his mind. "He had gotten my favorite—Pizza Hut. He didn't let on, but we sat down to eat, and then after, he told Mum and me to get dressed appropriately because we were going to a fête."

He felt his arm start to cool again, the memory's warmth pushing back against the demon's fire. He opened his eyes to watch Allure, but she was turning the corner before Louis noticed, disappearing from sight.

"Shouldn't we go after her?" he pointed, noticing Zayn didn't even bother to follow where he was pointing.

"What's a fête?" Zayn asked, keeping him focused on his memory. He knew what it was, but he also knew they could not help Allure. Her fate was out of their hands, determined by choices already made.

"A fair. It had rides, food stalls, vendors of all kinds. Dad won me this small stuffed otter. I dunno where it is; I think it's still at Mum's," Louis shrugged, feeling stronger as he remembered that day, the joy and simplicity of it a stark contrast to his current situation. "Dad and Mum went on the swings; they were in love. I can still see their faces clearly. I sat behind them, watching as they behaved like teenagers, and for a fleeting moment, I wished I could live in that moment forever. I would do anything to stay there."

Zayn whispered something, but Louis didn't quite catch what it was.

"Pardon?" he asked, seeking clarity, but Zayn merely shrugged, his expression enigmatic.

"A wish is a powerful thing, Louis. Be careful what you ask for," he cautioned, his brows furrowing slightly as he placed his hand on Louis's shoulder, the contact seeming to seal some kind of pact between them.

When Louis blinked again, he found himself in a part of London that looked extremely run down. Not too far down an alley, he spotted a man sitting on the ground; no older than thirty-five, but the wear of his life made him appear much older, his face ravaged by time and hardship.

"Why are we here?" Louis swallowed hard, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut, a sense of foreboding that made his stomach clench. He approached the man on the ground, his heart heavy as he recognized the familiar face, the ghost of someone he once knew.

"That's…oh wow. I had wondered what he got up to after I released him from his contract," Louis murmured, recalling a conversation he'd had earlier with another corporate suit. The guy had mentioned that Allen was in a rough spot, but Louis had failed to see how this was his problem, had dismissed it as not his concern.

"Allen Whitefield; he was a former musician signed to your company. He was signed a few months after you. Simon had you collaborate with him. Walsh didn't think the sound would sell," Zayn explained, his voice steady as he watched Louis's reaction. He could hear echoes of Harry's earlier words in his mind, suggesting that Harry was nearby, keeping watch over them all.

"How would you know? Harry said you can't see the past," Louis shot back, a mix of disbelief and concern swirling inside him as he looked at the man huddled on the cold ground with a needle in his arm, the sight so heartbreaking it made Louis's chest ache.

"Harry's present; or at least giving me a rundown. We try to help one another, given that we've been stuck together for a long time," Zayn shrugged, his tone casual, but Louis could see the seriousness in his eyes, the weight of responsibility they all carried.

"Why would this matter?" Louis asked, feeling a pang of guilt for the other male. He looked cold and seemed to need help, given that he appeared half-conscious, lost in his own private hell.

"This man is going to play a huge part in your life, Louis. You just don't know why yet. You will, though; but it might not be one you're going to like," Zayn forewarned, sensing that their time together was coming to a close, the three bells of the clock signaling that his allotted time was nearly up.

Instead of leaving him alone, Zayn took hold of Louis's wrist, and in the blink of an eye, Louis was back in the safety of his mansion, the sudden transition leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

"Beware the things you ask for, Louis. You might find that what you wanted isn't what you will get. Deceptive forces are at work, and they deceive those who are already weak. So, keep a wary eye out for something that seems too good to be true. If you should fall for their tricks, then your soul is damned, and you will have a much worse fate than Simon's," Zayn warned, backing away as the three rings of the clock signaled the end of his time, each chime resonating with finality.

Louis swallowed hard, knowing he had been shown a glimpse of his potential future, a warning of what awaited him if he continued down his current path. He felt the chain sutured into his back, a constant reminder of the pain he had endured and the agony that still awaited him. If Simon was truthful about that only being one percent of the agony, then he couldn't imagine what the other ninety-nine percent felt like, the thought alone enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

"I'm going to go and help Harry; he calls. Good luck, Louis. Remember what I said," Zayn waved before disappearing into thin air as the last of the three rings faded into silence, leaving Louis alone once more.

When Louis blinked again, Zayn was gone, and in his place stood Niall, his presence somehow both comforting and intimidating, the ancient reaper exuding an aura of absolute authority.

"Let me guess, you're the future?" Louis asked, trying to make sense of this new apparition, but Niall shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, an expression Louis had never seen on the normally stoic reaper.

This only perplexed Louis further, recalling something Harry had mentioned earlier. "Okay, so what are you then? The ghost of what is and what could become?"

Niall snapped his fingers with a smile, nodding affirmatively, the gesture somehow both playful and profoundly significant.

"You're also Death…" Louis trailed off, realizing the implication, knowing Harry had said Niall was with Eleanor the night she had leapt from London Bridge, the memory still sharp and painful even after all these years.

Niall nodded once, his expression somber yet understanding, his ancient eyes holding depths of compassion that Louis had never expected to see in the personification of death itself.

Louis felt that familiar pang of desperation for answers, emotions swirling inside him like a tempest, each one demanding attention, each one pulling him in different directions.

"I know you can't speak, but Eleanor—did she suffer? Or was it quick? My son—did he go fast? I've wanted answers for so long," Louis felt the weight of his words, his eyes almost watering, but something held the tears at bay, some last vestige of pride that refused to let him break completely. He felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, and yet he couldn't express it, couldn't give voice to the storm raging inside him.

Niall shook his head, his expression conveying a deep empathy that transcended words, that spoke of understanding beyond what any mortal could comprehend.

Fast. No pain.

He mouthed silently, reaching his hand over to place it on Louis's shoulder, much like what Zayn had done, but the touch was different – lighter, somehow more spiritual, carrying with it a sense of peace that Louis hadn't realized he was desperate for.

When Louis blinked again, he found himself standing in front of a familiar church—the very one where Simon's funeral had been held, the place where this entire nightmare had begun.

Niall pointed at the entrance, looking unblinkingly ahead, patiently waiting for Louis to follow his unspoken instructions, his presence a silent command that Louis knew he must obey.

Louis swallowed, a bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, a sense of dread that seemed to permeate the very air around him. He steeled himself and made his way up the steps and into the church, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and resignation. The air felt thick, heavy with memories and something else – something ancient and powerful that made his skin tingle with supernatural awareness. As he stepped inside, he was enveloped by an unsettling silence, a quiet that felt wrong, somehow.

The interior was dimly lit, candles flickering in the darkness like trapped stars, and as Louis walked further in, he spotted familiar faces gathered, their expressions somber. They were here to pay their respects, but he felt an overwhelming sense of dread grip him, a certainty that whatever happened next would change everything, that this was where his journey would either end or truly begin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Time Warp Skip

Louis looked at the small group of mourners who stood up at the front of the church; seven figures total, their somber forms silhouetted against the flickering candlelight that cast dancing shadows across the ancient stone walls. They stood near a copper-colored coffin that gleamed with an almost unnatural warmth in the dim interior, its metallic surface reflecting the sorrowful faces gathered around it like a distorted mirror of their grief. The air in the church was thick with the weight of unspoken memories, the scent of old incense and dying flowers mingling with something else entirely – the coppery tang of regret that seemed to hang in the very air they breathed.

A priest stood at the side, his robes a deep black that seemed to absorb the light around him, his expression carefully neutral as if he had presided over too many such gatherings to allow any single tragedy to penetrate his professional composure. Liam stood next to him, his shoulders slumped with a burden that went beyond mere friendship, his eyes shadowed with a pain that spoke of sleepless nights and impossible choices. Four other women huddled close to one another, each one in a state of depression and some more solemn, their faces pale and drawn in the funeral gloom, their bodies leaning against each other as if without the physical support they might simply dissolve into the very air that held so much sorrow.

"Not much of a turn out." Louis remarked in disappointment, his voice barely above a whisper as he scanned the nearly empty pews, noticing not even the music executives or his grey suits bothered coming to pay their respects to someone who had been part of their world, part of their success story. "You would think one of the grey suits like Walsh would show up to see if I were actually dead." He sounded almost disappointed, as if he had somehow expected better from people he had spent years dismissing as soulless corporate drones, people whose loyalty he had never earned but somehow still felt entitled to.

Niall was next to him, his ancient eyes holding a depth of understanding that went beyond mere observation, the reaper's presence a constant reminder that there were forces at work far beyond Louis's comprehension. He rolled his eyes in that characteristic way of his, a gesture that seemed to say "you mortals and your petty concerns" before pointing toward the front, his finger moving with a purpose that suggested this wasn't merely a suggestion but rather a command that Louis would do well to obey.

Louis did, walking with Niall up the long rows, each step echoing in the cavernous space like the beat of a funeral drum. The wooden pews stretched before him like the bars of a cage, each one holding memories of services he had attended, people he had mourned, and now – somehow – a service for someone he had somehow failed without even realizing how badly he had failed until it was too late.

When he reached the coffin, he noticed Liam kept looking at his watch before sighing with disappointment and checking his phone, his fingers moving with an urgency that suggested he was waiting for something – or someone – who wasn't coming. His face dropped before hurrying to put the device away, as if the message it contained was too painful to contemplate for more than a moment.

"Mr. Tomlinson won't be joining after all," Liam remarked, his tone laced with disappointment but he didn't sound surprised, as if this was just another betrayal in a long line of betrayals he had come to expect from the man who was supposed to be his best friend. "You may start, reverend."

Louis's expression turned almost insulted, his pride wounded by the casual way Liam spoke about him, as if he were some unreliable celebrity who couldn't be bothered to show up for important moments, some flake who put his own comfort ahead of the people who mattered.

"I'm right here! And who the hell's died that's so bloody damn important?" He demanded, his voice rising with frustration and confusion, noticing the coffin was closed. It was obvious that whoever laid inside was not meant to be seen one final time, their final state too terrible for public viewing, too painful for even those who loved them to witness.

Niall touched Louis's shoulder blades, the contact barely left for a moment before the sharp pain of an image flashed through his mind, making his body drop forward onto one knee as the force of the vision overwhelmed him completely. The world spun around him, the church dissolving into a swirl of colors and emotions that left him gasping for breath.

"How?" Louis demanded, grabbing the sides of his head to stop the pain caused by Niall's vision, his fingers digging into his temples as if he could physically force the images to make sense, to arrange themselves into some coherent narrative that his mind could process and understand.

It was of Allure, the very image of when Louis saw her last – her face pale and haunted, her eyes holding that mixture of despair and determination that had haunted his dreams since he'd seen her standing outside the hospital. That wasn't too far off; if this was the other night then, perhaps he could still help prevent this? Perhaps there was still time to change the outcome, to rewrite the ending that seemed to be racing toward them with terrifying speed.

"Her son died –" Louis realized, looking longingly at the coffin, the realization hitting him like a physical blow to the chest. "How did Allure? I don't understand." He shook his head, unable to connect the dots, unable to understand how the vibrant, talented woman he had worked with could end up in this copper coffin, how her dreams could end so tragically, so completely.

His mind unremembering of London Bridge, of the terrible image of the demon with the smirking face – the one standing beside Allure and whispering into her ear. The handprint was muddling his thoughts, making him forget what lead up to this moment.

Niall bent down and helped Louis back to his feet; also remaining silent, his ancient eyes holding a compassion that somehow made everything worse, made Louis feel even more guilty for not understanding, for not seeing what was so painfully obvious to everyone else.

"I wish you could talk. This game of charades you insist on is growing tiresome." Louis grumbled, seeing Niall's attention catch the figures at the head of the coffin, their whispered conversations carrying through the quiet church like fragments of a story he desperately needed to understand.

"Shame she felt like she had no other choice." Nevaeh Pendleton murmured, her words loud enough for the priest to hear, her voice thick with tears and something else – a thread of anger that suggested this wasn't just a tragedy but an injustice, something that could have been prevented if only someone had cared enough to intervene. He seemed to silently be judging the girl laying in her grave, but did not voice his own opinions aloud; least they be disagreed with, lest he provoke more pain in people who were already suffering beyond measure.

Instead, he offered a much more appropriate response, his words carrying the weight of someone who had seen too many such tragedies to be anything but philosophical about the human condition.

"Many choices are available to us, but in our moment of grief, we do not always choose the one most beneficial. Sadness is a powerful emotion." The priest replied almost emotionless, his tone suggesting that he had said these words countless times, that they had become rote through repetition, losing none of their truth but gaining a certain hollow quality that came from witnessing the same patterns of human suffering repeated over and over again.

"This is all Mr. Tomlinson's fault! He pushed her and when he forced her to come to set –" Alicia Blackwood stopped, sucking in a sob before Liam grabbed hold of the young girl and hugged her to him, his body a shield against the words that were too painful to speak aloud, too terrible to give voice to.

"I beg your pardon! I was being TORTURED by the local graveyard spirits until all hours this Christmas eve! I'm being pursued by a demon and frankly, I did no such thing to deserve to be involved in this monkey circus!" Louis exclaimed, his voice raising to echo around the large space, but only Niall was unfortunate enough to hear him, the reaper's expression suggesting that he had heard this kind of defense before, that it was just another excuse from another soul trying to avoid taking responsibility for their actions.

Niall arched a brow, folding his arms over his chest in almost disbelief at his statements, the gesture somehow conveying a universe of judgment and disappointment that Louis felt in his very bones.

Louis noticed and flipped him off, his anger rising like a tide, desperate to lash out at someone, anyone, for the injustice of being blamed for something he didn't understand, something he couldn't control.

"Oh, go blow it out your arse, mate. You aren't perfect." Louis waved him off, making the ghost smirk, the expression somehow both infuriating and reassuring in equal measure. Louis continued to observe as Eileen Danger spoke, her voice almost inaudible, as if she had somehow absorbed part of the silence that surrounded them, become part of the grief that permeated the very air.

She always was softspoken. Louis tried to hire a dialect and motivational speaker for her, but she remained the quiet one of the group, her silence a form of protection against a world that was too loud, too demanding for someone as sensitive as she was.

"I went by her apartment the other night; she had just adopted a kitten. Found the poor thing coming out practically starved. I brought it home, but with the tour starting next week…" Eileen trailed off, eyeing the reverend, her words hanging in the air like an unfinished thought, a story without an ending.

"Not another cat." Louis groaned, earning a hard slap in the head by Niall. He pointed to Liam, urging Louis to pay attention, the contact somehow sharper than usual, as if the reaper was trying to impress upon him the importance of what was about to be said, the significance of the connection between cats and grief, between small acts of kindness and the larger patterns of their lives.

"My one ex -wife had mine euthanized. I lost my apartment the beginning of this year and asked my son's mum to watch her for a few weeks. Next thing I know, my son calls me crying asking why I had Mittens put to sleep. Now he won't speak to me. Louis was right, I sure know how to pick them." Liam murmured sadly with a sigh, making Louis blanch, the casual revelation hitting him like a physical blow, as if he had somehow been personally responsible for this particular tragedy.

"WHAT?! The witch did, what?" Louis exclaimed, eyeing Niall disdainfully, his anger rising on behalf of his friend, on behalf of the innocent cat who had been so senselessly destroyed. "You reap the cat's soul too, a-hole?"

Niall rolled his eyes and shook his head, the gesture conveying volumes – that the reaper dealt with souls, not animals, that Louis was missing the point entirely, that he was focusing on the wrong tragedy, the wrong loss.

"So, where are you living now?" Renee Havoc asked passively, the last one to join in the conversation. She didn't have any emotion in her eyes. They were dead calm – but that was Renee, no matter the situation. She had learned long ago that emotion was a luxury she couldn't afford, that feeling too much would break her completely.

"Safe house; about a mile up the road from the office. Will need to ask Louis for an advancement to see if I can borrow some money to get some documents out of storage. He knows I'm good for it." Liam insisted, making Neveah sniff, the sound somehow more poignant than tears, more heartbreaking than open weeping.

"He seems more unreasonable these days. A skinflint I shouldn't say. Why are you still friends with someone who is such a selfish ass?" Renee demanded, hearing the reverend clear his throat. She quickly apologized, but saw Liam let go of the other girl, rubbing her back in comfort as he did so, his touch gentle and reassuring.

"Hey! I'm not unreasonable, I'm practical damn it! Stop stirring crap, luvvy. I can have you shit-canned faster than setting a pensioner's pants on fire." Louis threatened, anger smoldering in his dark aura-filled eyes, his pride stung by the casual way they discussed him, as if he weren't even there, as if his character were a topic for public debate.

"Because, he's my friend." Liam defended, his voice soft but firm, his loyalty absolute and unquestioning, a testament to a friendship that had survived things that would have destroyed lesser bonds.

Renee disagreed with a click of her tongue, the sound sharp and dismissive in the quiet church.

"Allure and I were friends; I hated her, but loved her enough to tell the B what for. You've done everything for Louis and I've never once seen him say thank you." Renee pointed out, making Liam smile, the expression somehow sad rather than happy, tinged with the knowledge that Renee spoke the truth, that Louis was terrible at showing gratitude, terrible at acknowledging the people who cared about him.

He looked down with a shrug almost thoughtfully, as if considering her words from all angles, seeing them with the clarity that only distance and time could provide.

"When you've known Louis as long as I have, you know that he appreciates it, even if he doesn't verbalize the words. We go way back. We were school mates together; stuck by him all these years and I don't see it changing. No one knows Louis like I do; he's been through things and he's my friend. I don't want him to thank me. I just want him to be happy." Liam continued to defend Louis, hearing the reverend clear his throat, the sound a gentle reminder that they were there for a funeral, not to debate Louis's character.

"I'm sorry to interrupt but, are we ready to get started?" The reverend asked at the same time Liam's phone buzzed, the electronic sound jarring in the sacred space, a sudden intrusion of the modern world into the timeless ritual of mourning.

Another buzz sounded, followed by a few more. All of them immediately took their phones out; a news story just breaking, the blue light of their screens casting eerie shadows across their faces.

"No…" Liam trailed off, panic crossing over his face before his breath trapped itself inside his throat, his eyes widening with horror as he read whatever was on his screen. "No!" He shook his head running toward the front entrance, leaving the four girls alone, their confusion and fear palpable in the suddenly tense atmosphere.

Louis was confused, guilt making his frown more prominent, his mind racing to understand what could cause such a reaction, what fresh horror had been unleashed upon them.

"What's going on? What's happening?" Louis asked, feeling Niall grab his arm, the reaper's touch urgent and insistent.

He blinked and found himself outside, the sudden transition leaving him disoriented and breathless.

"What the smurf cookies is going on?!" Louis yelled, breaking away from the spirit, turning his head and feeling cold wind blow against him, the temperature dropping suddenly as if they had moved from one climate to another. He didn't feel it before, but now he was standing at the children's hospital, the building looming above them like a monument to all the suffering he had somehow contributed to, all the lives he had failed to save.

All seemed quiet; almost unnaturally so, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.

"Niall?" Louis called, noticing he had disappeared, but when he blinked, Niall reappeared, pointing down the walkway, his expression more serious than Louis had ever seen it, the urgency in his gesture suggesting that time was running out, that every second mattered.

At this point, Louis had enough. He glared and crossed his arms over his chest, his frustration boiling over into defiance, his pride refusing to allow himself to be led around like a child, like someone who couldn't understand, who needed constant guidance.

"No. You're going to talk and tell me what is going on! I'm not playing pointy-pointy-walk-walk no more! Open that damn gob of yours and start spilling tea, mate or let me pull my trousers down so you can kiss my bloody ar –"

"LOUIS!" Harry exclaimed, he and Zayn running from where Niall was pointing, their sudden appearance both a relief and a confirmation that whatever was happening was far worse than he had imagined.

Relief washed through him and he met the other two ghosts at the road, Niall leisurely walking behind without any urgency, the reaper's calm somehow more terrifying than the others' panic.

"Thank God! People who can speak! Praise the Heavens!" Louis cheered sarcastically, noticing panic was evident across both spirits, their faces pale even for ghosts, their eyes holding a terror that went beyond their usual supernatural concerns.

Niall seemed unconcerned, his ancient face composed, his eyes holding depths that suggested he understood things they couldn't begin to comprehend, that this was all part of some larger pattern that would unfold exactly as it was meant to.

"What's going on?" Louis asked, concerned when Zayn grabbed his wrist. When he blinked, he found himself in front of London Bridge; the river Thames directly below, its dark waters reflecting the city lights like shattered glass, the wind howling across the bridge with a mournful sound that seemed to echo with all the lost souls who had met their end in these waters.

"Allure." Harry pointed, seeing the same dark ball of energy following directly above her, the malevolent force that had somehow attached itself to her, that was feeding on her despair. Niall shook his head, almost as if telling the two others that what they were doing was against protocol, that there were rules about interfering, about changing things that were meant to be.

This was confirmed when Zayn turned toward the silent spirit, his voice sharp with frustration.

"No one gives a damn, Niall. You're what can be, not what bloody is. Besides, he needs to grow a pair and fix this! You’re not on a time constraint, not like Harry and I." Zayn snapped, watching Niall shake his head, the reaper's expression suggesting that Zayn was playing with forces he didn't understand, that there were consequences for interfering with fate.

"He can still make it right." Harry insisted, obviously seeing something no one did, some possibility that the others couldn't perceive, some thread of hope that still remained to be pulled.

Louis headed after Allure, having seen her short funeral, he figured he'd try and see what he could do, but it was obvious there was still some concern because Harry stopped Louis from running to catch up with the girl, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who was technically incorporeal.

Niall's eyes widened in a small realization, bringing out his scythe, the weapon appearing in his hand with a suddenness that spoke of immediate danger, of a threat that required immediate intervention.

Harry started laughing, his eyes blackening and shadowing over his usual bright green eyes, the transformation so sudden and complete that Louis felt his blood run cold. Louis's burn started radiating pain again, causing him to grab his arm, the familiar agony returning with a vengeance.

Zayn stood there, confused at first but a smile slowly formed over his face; darker than normal, more predatory, as if something inside him had been awakened, something that enjoyed the chaos, the destruction.

Louis groaned, the heat becoming unbearable again, his skin feeling like it was being peeled away layer by layer, each nerve ending screaming with a pain that went beyond physical sensation.

"What's going on?!" Louis yelled, his eyes glancing up to see himself reflected in the blacks of the demon's eyes, his own face twisted with agony and confusion. "And what's with you having the hots for the ghost of a-hole's past? He was probably a heartbreaker for his time, but come on – this is the second ti –" The demon seized the music executive's mouth with his hand, his hold strong and brutal, cutting off Louis's sarcastic remarks with a violence that was both terrifying and somehow appropriate for the situation.

"I'm going to eat your soul and make you wish you were never a thought to be born!" The demon declared, his lips stretching over sharp and pointed teeth that gave Harry a more unnerved image, the transformation so complete that Louis could barely recognize his friend beneath the monster that wore his face.

Louis jerked his face sideways, freeing his mouth with a desperate movement that sent pain shooting through his jaw. He looked almost numb; if not bored from the constant threats, the endless stream of dramatic declarations that had become the soundtrack to his supernatural nightmare.

"No need, mate. I've been wishing that longer than you've probably existed." Louis replied, feeling the burn practically bring him to his knees, the agony so intense that he could barely focus, barely think past the overwhelming sensation of being consumed by fire from within.

Niall had Zayn up against a pillar with his scythe, unnerved from the expression on his face, the reaper's movements swift and decisive as he dealt with the immediate threat.

"I gave Zayn an attitude adjustment, Niall. He'll be fine. You can't corrupt those whom are already dead." Demon Harry chuckled, the sound like grinding glass and tearing metal, a symphony of agony that made Louis's teeth ache and his stomach turn.

Louis groaned, bringing his hand up and punching demon Harry in the face, the movement desperate and clumsy but driven by a fury that transcended his physical limitations.

Almost instantly, the ghost flew back; a look of surprise in his eyes. They glowed blue, before the color of his greens appeared, the transformation reversing as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Harry looking dazed and confused.

Niall copied Louis's action, seeing the dark look in Zayn's, right before the same honey brows reappeared, the possession ending as abruptly as it had started.

"The hell?" Harry groaned, looking around, knowing when he tried getting close to Allure, the demon influencing her had managed to take hold; although he was confused how, as if there were gaps in his memory, moments he couldn't account for.

"We can't get anywhere near her." Harry realized, watching Allure stop and turn in their direction with a blank-stare wave, her movements somehow unnatural, puppet-like, as if she were being controlled by forces beyond her understanding or consent.

Louis groaned, trying to hold on to a few happy memories; the pain again unbearable, his mind desperately searching for something positive to focus on, something to counteract the darkness that threatened to consume him completely.

Harry moved Louis's hand from his arm, realizing he had been marked. A look of agitation crossed over his dead-like features, his expression tightening with concern.

"Wonderful, Louis. You keep getting yourself into crap. What's next?" Harry asked sarcastically with a sigh, watching Allure disappear out of sight, her form becoming smaller and smaller until she was just a distant silhouette against the London skyline. "You need to play this smart and think!" He chastised, his stare going to Niall. "We're going to need to call him. We don't have a choice now; this has all gotten out of control." Harry relented, knowing they had failed at their mission, that the situation had escalated beyond their ability to handle.

"I thought he was you! He showed up and next thing I know, he's in your form and grabbing hold of me like a horny cowboy wanting to tenderize his rack of cow and guess what, mate? Unfortunately, he sees me as this delicious A cut grade fabulous beef. I'm not someone who asked for this! I'm barely able to keep up now, because ya know – Niall doesn't talk and you ran after us and –"

Harry cut him off with a wave of his hand, ghosting his feet to the floor. He didn't have to be told twice to shut up, Zayn didn't even have to ghost him into silence, he simply knew that no matter what, it would always be his fault. Everything was always his fault anyhow; he didn't expect anything different in this situation, the weight of his failures settling over him like a physical cloak made of lead and regret.

"I don't think why I ever hoped you'd learn anything from this situation. Call it misplaced optimism. I mean, go ahead and f around, Louis. Have your fun, because once you're in our world and damned to this eternal Hell of being unable to feel what the love of your family or friends feels like; what the feel of their hugs or embraces were," Harry responded deadpanned, standing in front of him calmly, his finger pressing forcefully into Louis's chest, the touch somehow solid enough to make him stumble backward. "I miss my sister. I miss my mum and everyone I care about. I want to go back to them and here I am, given an impossible task. Given this task to try and change someone who doesn't want to change, try and show him the good things in life that can still be salvaged."

Louis tried to pull his feet free, but Harry grabbed his shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong, unyielding.

"You have a chain so deep in your back, Louis. Its weight is so heavy. What you felt was only a percentage of the agony you're going to feel. You will try and tear it from you, but it's not going to move. It can't be removed when it is so deeply embedded and apart of you. Your fate is so much worse than Simon. His skin is simply sutured – but yours is attached so far deep that it will encase and wrap around you. It was heavy ten Christmas's ago. It's grown in length and ties you; it bounds you and all you'll be able to do is lay in that coffin, chains wrapped in and over your face, your body. You won't have the luxury of a safe." Harry looked Louis in the eye to make sure his message was getting through. He could see a bit of fear overcome the music executive's eyes, but Harry wasn't done. Zayn was beside Harry, touching his shoulder.

"Louis gets it, mate. I think we've done enough. Let's call him. He can help get this cleared up." Zayn reasoned, unnerved he had been possessed. Whatever Louis had attracted was powerful and they didn't expect the interruption, the violation of their very beings.

Niall shook his head walking over, seeing Louis sweat from the pain in his arm. He lifted his hand and allowed his scythe to become visible, looking at Zayn and nodding toward Louis. He seemed to understand and took hold of Louis's arm, the touch sending a strange energy through Louis's body, something ancient and powerful that seemed to recognize the mark, to understand its nature.

Harry steadied his other side, but looked beyond agitated, his expression tight with frustration and worry.

"These marks can disappear, but you have to think of your biggest regret. Think how you would change it, what you would say? This burn mark was placed by the demon to feed off your hopelessness and it feeds off your regrets. It's your chance to fix this; if not, we're going to have to admit we failed and that's it. Our mission is over. You wake up without any memory of us or this ever happening and we get reassigned or terminated." Harry told him, touching his shoulder, his touch conveying the seriousness of their situation, the stakes that were higher than Louis could possibly comprehend. "I'm going to help guide you into this alternative place and then back here again when it's over. If done, the mark should be gone when we transport back, but because this is potentially Niall's territory, he will come with."

Louis was much more concerned about Allure, but the pain was crippling him; he couldn't focus his complete attention on her until getting rid of the mark, the constant agony making it impossible to think clearly, to form coherent thoughts beyond the overwhelming need for it to stop.

"I'm ready, Harry. T-take me back." Louis pleaded, his throat struggling to speak under pressure, the words catching in his throat as if the very air had become thick with resistance. "Please?" He forced out, thinking back to one of the worst nights of his life. He had just been told a few hours previous that he was being shipped off to a boarding school.

It went about as well as one would think.

Grown up Louis stood at the door of his childhood home; his feet bounding into the room at breakneck speed. He looked relaxed; which wasn't what could have been said earlier when his parents relayed the message of him going to boarding school.

Now he was calm and wanted to talk about this in a more rational matter, his mind having processed the initial shock and moved into a phase of negotiation, of trying to find some alternative solution that wouldn't involve him being sent away, that wouldn't mean leaving everything and everyone he knew behind.

Louis was willing to listen, but all just the same, he would pluck his eye lids off and eat them before going to a preppy academy, his pride and stubbornness warring with the rational part of him that understood his parents' concerns.

"Dad –" Young Louis began, but his father's reaction left the next words in Louis's mouth to stay glued there, his mouth suddenly dry as he recognized the look in his father's eyes – the look of a man who had reached his limit, who had no more patience left for dealing with a rebellious young preteen son.

"Not another word, Louis. You're going and that's final." Mr. Tomlinson growled, signaling the end of what would have been a less constructive conversation for them both, his voice leaving no room for argument or negotiation.

"Why?! I didn't do anything! It's not that big of a deal, dad. Why are you acting like I just mugged nan? It wasn't that serious!" Louis insisted, making his point further by folding his arms across his chest – much like what older Louis was doing now, the gesture somehow genetic, somehow passed down through the generations, a physical manifestation of Tomlinson stubbornness.

Older Louis watched, remembering his parents warning him that if he was brought home by the police again, it would be an unwanted consequence for him, the memory as clear as if it had happened yesterday rather than decades ago.

"It is serious, Louis William! Very serious! You could have gotten yourself hurt or worse! Had hurt someone else. Unintentional as it may have been, you and those other hooligans were throwing stones onto oncoming traffic and we already warned you that if you were brought home by police again, that would be it and we meant it." Louis's father, Troy, stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of a father who loved his son but was terrified of what might happen if he didn't intervene, if he didn't do something to change the path he was on.

Louis watched on, the very memory replaying itself as Harry and Niall stood next to Louis, watching the scene with expressions of compassionate understanding, their presence a silent acknowledgment of the pain and regret that still haunted Louis after all these years.

"I regret what I said next. I never meant to say what I did. He died and I never got to tell him I cared. I never got to tell him I loved him or that I was sorry for saying that to him. I wish my mom and I had a chance to start over, but I have so much anger towards her that I can't just forgive it." Louis reasoned, remembering how she remarried and didn't even bring him home for his father's funeral, going on to have more kids by his step father and only reaching out years later once he was in the spotlight. He didn’t know if that had been the only reason, but he refused the connection purely because she had given up on him first. The betrayal with the whole situation was still fresh even after all these years, the wound still raw and bleeding.

Although, he didn't hold any grudges against his stepfather. He met him once; he had ade an appointment to try and convince Louis to meet with his mum, that she regretted the way she handled things, but he hadn't spoken to his mother since he was young and he didn't see that changing anytime soon, the distance between them having grown too vast to bridge with simple words.

"She wishes you would reach out and you should; because time doesn't stop and we always wait until it's too late." Harry replied, watching younger Louis turn, grab the small lamp off the small coffee table and hurl it at the wall in rage, the ceramic shattering against the plaster with a sound that seemed to echo through the years.

"LOUIS!" Troy exclaimed, pointing toward where the bedrooms were, his expression a mixture of anger and disappointment and something else – a deep weariness that suggested he was tired of fighting, tired of this endless cycle of rebellion and punishment. "Go. I don't want to see you the rest of the night." He ordered Louis, suggesting he had enough of the young rebel, enough of the fighting and the drama and the constant worry.

In a fit of rage, Louis's blue eyes narrowed coldly, his pre-teen anger overwhelming any sense of reason or perspective.

"I hate you! I hope you die!" Young Louis spat, while older Louis felt the pain of his words reflect deeply inside his chest, the memory still capable of hurting him decades later, still capable of making him feel the shame and regret as if it had happened yesterday.

"No, I didn’t; and I wish I never would have said that." Older Louis murmured softly, stepping over toward his father. The scene seemed to pause, although the man sitting in the chair was looking curiously at the older version of himself, as if somehow sensing his presence, somehow hearing the words that were meant to be spoken across time.

Niall tilted his head and Harry simply listened, their presence a silent acknowledgment of the significance of this moment, of the power of regret and the possibility of redemption.

"I was wrong. Mum and you did the best you could; you sent me somewhere to focus my attention on more positive things. You gave me a choice and I blew the chances I had been given and instead of owning that, I blamed you for not understanding." Louis spoke, his words true and genuine, coming from a place of deep introspection and self-awareness that had taken him decades to achieve. "I was a child and I have to live with those choice of words, but I'd give almost anything for you to know how much I could take those words back."

He saw the man in the chair smile; like he could hear the older man in front of him, but that was impossible. This was a mere memory of regret, but he could feel the burn on his arm start to cool away until he felt it go completely, the relief so profound that it brought tears to his eyes.

Louis didn't understand why this moment was so significant, but his mind felt unburdened for a small moment and he longed for the moment such as this, for the feeling of peace that came with acceptance and forgiveness.

"I was wrong. I do love you and if I am given the chance, I will try and make things right." Louis promised, looking at Harry. "I'll try and make everything alright. I just don't understand how to fix any of this. I can't fix what happened to dad and mum I haven't spoken to in years. Can you help me? Ya know, point me in the right direction? Give me a clue?" He asked, watching Niall reach forward and gently touch Louis's arm, the reaper's touch somehow both comforting and final, as if sealing this moment, making it permanent.

When he blinked, he was back near the children's hospital, the pain in his arm now gone; although he didn't understand how, his mind still processing the emotional journey he had just undertaken, the weight of years of regret somehow lighter, the burden somehow easier to carry.

"Maybe I had missed it before?" Louis pondered softly to himself, wondering how many other moments of clarity he had missed, how many opportunities for redemption he had overlooked in his anger and pride.

Sirens suddenly blared in the distance and his instincts told him to follow, the sound triggering a sense of urgency that went beyond mere curiosity, a certainty that something terrible was happening, that time was running out.

"Harry? Zayn?" He called, but didn't see the three spirits that had been helping him all night. He didn't know if they had left or if they were still stuck where he just was in another time of existence; he assumed so since they weren't around. A small panic made his heart dance a little more erratically, seeing someone up top of the high bridge. Louis knew without a doubt that it was Allure and ran towards the sound of the sirens, his feet moving with a desperation that came from a place deeper than conscious thought.

He still didn't see Niall, as he knew his hour wasn't even up. They hadn't gone more than ten minutes; unbeknownst to Louis, the watchful spirit was close by and not so subtly waiting, his ancient eyes missing nothing, his presence a silent guardian in the chaos of Louis's supernatural nightmare.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Sacrifice

The deep darkness of 2AM enveloped London Bridge in shadows and the city's ambient glow, the ironwork skeleton stretching across the churning waters of the Thames like the ribcage of some ancient beast.

Below, emergency vehicles created a carnival of light and sound, their flashing red and blue pulses staining the wet pavement in hypnotic rhythms that spoke of urgency and despair. The air carried the sharp scent of river water mixed with diesel exhaust and something else entirely – the coppery tang of supernatural energy that made the hairs on Louis's arms stand erect even from this distance.

The woman above was little more than a silhouette against the oppressive sky, her form seeming to shimmer and distort as if reality itself were struggling to contain her grief.

Harry and Zayn shouldn't be there – their job was done, their time in this world had passed. But they'd stayed, drawn by some force or concern that Louis couldn't comprehend. The sickly white glow surrounding them matched the physical appearance of death itself, and Louis realized with a jolt of horror that they were staying past their designated time, that each moment they remained anchored to this world was costing them dearly, draining their spiritual energy like water through cupped hands.

Louis ran toward them, dodging behind the police barricade to get closer to the other side of the bridge. He stopped in front of the two spirits, his eyes swinging back and forth between their fading forms. "I'm sorry," He apologized, worry building like a storm in his chest. "I should have stayed with Allure and I accept that, but I don't understand what I'm supposed to do now. The police aren't going to let me anywhere near that bridge." Louis defended himself, noting that both spirits looked more troubled than he'd ever seen them.

"Niall just got another log," Harry ignored his apology, pointing upward with a trembling finger. "He has no choice. If a reaper does not complete their transport, the spirit meant to be reaped will roam, forever lost. If they stay too long..." He trailed off, his gaze flicking toward Zayn with an implication that sent ice coursing through Louis's veins.

The meaning hung in the air between them, heavy and terrifying – Allure wasn't just in danger of jumping, she was in danger of becoming something far worse, something that would never find peace, never find release.

"They will turn into literal demons," Zayn clarified, his voice grim with certainty. "We're thinking that's why this particular one wants you so bad. It can do a lot of damage." The casual way he delivered this information, the matter-of-fact tone he used when discussing something so horrific, sent a chill down Louis's spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air.

He'd heard about demons in movies and books, had even encountered something that claimed to be one earlier tonight, but the reality of what Zayn was describing – the slow, agonizing transformation of a lost soul into something truly evil – was more terrifying than any horror story he'd ever imagined.

Louis glanced upward toward the bridge, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Allure is the next for transportation, isn't she?" He demanded, noting how the spirits once again spared a glance at one another, neither answering. Their silence was answer enough, confirmation of his worst fears.

Allure was meant to die tonight, meant to be collected by Niall and escorted to whatever came next. But something had gone terribly wrong, something had interfered with the natural order of things, and now she was trapped in that terrible state between life and death, vulnerable to corruption by the very darkness that had been hunting Louis all night.

"What would you change about your past? If you could?" Harry asked suddenly, the question seeming to come from nowhere. But the desperation lacing his curiosity told Louis this wasn't just a casual inquiry – there was something important riding on his answer, something that went beyond mere philosophical curiosity.

Still... He took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in the eerie atmosphere that seemed to pulse with supernatural energy. "My past... my past doesn't have to be my future. I've made terrible mistakes, hurt people I cared about, destroyed things that mattered. But I'm learning that the past doesn't have to define me – it's what I do now, today, that matters. I can't change what I've done, but I can change what I do next. I finally understand that." He replied, watching in horror as Harry aged with sickness every time he blinked.

As he spoke the words, he realized they were true – not just something he was saying to sound profound, but a genuine realization that settled deep in his soul. All the pain, all the mistakes, all the losses had shaped him, yes, but they didn't have to break him. They had brought him to this moment, to this understanding – that he could be better, that he could choose differently, that he could become someone who could stand here and face this darkness, someone who could even contemplate trying to save another soul from the fate that nearly claimed him.

Harry smiled gently, his ghostly image already beginning to fade, his soul becoming more transparent with each passing second. "Then that's your answer," he said softly, his voice filled with a warmth that seemed to defy his spectral nature.

Louis looked at him, confused. "What answer? I don't understand."

Harry's smile widened slightly, even as his form grew more insubstantial. "You just said it yourself. The past doesn't have to define you. It's what you do now that matters." He turned to Zayn, who was watching them both with an unreadable expression. "I'll save you a seat, mate. Hopefully it's not somewhere hot."

With those final words, Harry's soul completely faded away into the night air. The ghost of the past was gone; to Louis, he wasn't forgotten. Harry's departure left a void in the air around them, a sudden absence of warmth and presence that made the night feel colder, darker than before. But his words lingered, his faith in Louis hanging in the air like a challenge, like a responsibility that Louis couldn't ignore even if he wanted to.

Louis swallowed, not sure how he would get Allure to listen, but he knew he only had one shot. "Yeah, thanks mate." Louis replied, swallowing again nervously. "I'll keep in mind what you said, bout Liam. I'm starting to realize things I didn't t before." He admitted, not wasting anymore time and darting up the winding stairs up onto London's bridge.

The admission felt important, a recognition of the growth he'd experienced tonight, of the painful but necessary lessons he'd been forced to learn about himself and about the people who had tried to love him despite his best efforts to push them away.

"Allure!" Louis yelled, his voice carrying up as he ran alongside the barrier, careful to stay on the sidewalks and not venture near the cars that had been forced to stop. It was just past 2AM and since Christmas traffic was minimal at this hour, it wasn't super crowded but there were enough witnesses to make things uncomfortable. His voice echoed across the water, carried by the wind that whipped across the bridge, but he couldn't tell if she heard him, couldn't tell if it made any difference at all.

The woman standing at the edge of the bridge was little more than a silhouette against the night sky, her form seeming to shimmer and distort as if reality itself were struggling to contain her grief. She stood precariously close to the edge, her toes hanging over nothing but the long drop to the churning waters below. Even from this distance, Louis could see the tension in her posture, the way her shoulders trembled with either cold or terror or both.

But as Louis approached, he saw something that made his blood run cold. A dark figure stood behind Allure, its form indistinct but undeniably malevolent. It was whispering something in her ear, its movements subtle but relentless, like a snake coiling around its prey. The demon from earlier – it had found her, had been drawn to her despair like a shark to blood in the water.

"Just jump," the demon whispered, its voice carrying on the wind to where Louis stood frozen in horror. "All this pain, all this emptiness – it can end right now. Just one step and you'll be free. You'll see your son again. He's waiting for you." The lies dripped from its tongue like poison, each word carefully crafted to exploit a grieving mother's weakest moments, her most desperate hopes.

"No! Don't listen to it, Allure! It's lying!" Louis screamed, breaking into a run as he saw Allure sway forward, her body responding to the demon's poisonous suggestions even as her mind must have been screaming in protest. He was too far away, he knew he was too far away, but he had to try, had to do something, anything to stop her from making this terrible mistake.

Allure turned at the sound of Louis's voice, her eyes wide with confusion and terror. For a moment, she seemed to waver, the demon's influence momentarily broken by the familiar voice calling her name. But then the dark figure behind her whispered something else, something Louis couldn't hear but saw immediately take effect. Allure's expression hardened, her jaw setting with grim determination.

"It's for Michael," she called out, her voice strained but clear. "I have to be with my baby boy." And with those words, she stepped off the edge.

Louis didn't think, didn't hesitate. He launched himself forward, his body moving with a desperate speed he didn't know he possessed. His fingers closed around Allure's wrist just as her feet left the safety of the bridge, the sudden weight of her body nearly pulling him over the edge as well. His other hand shot out, grabbing desperately at the railing, his knuckles turning white as he struggled to hold them both against gravity's relentless pull. For a heart-stopping moment, they dangled there between life and death, suspended over the dark waters below. Allure screamed, the sound swallowed by the wind and the distance, her eyes wide with the terror of someone who had just changed her mind about dying but now faced the very real possibility of it anyway.

"Hold on! I've got you!" Louis grunted, his muscles screaming in protest as he fought to pull them both back to safety. The demon stood above them, watching with an expression of intense frustration, as if annoyed that its prize had been so rudely interrupted.

But Louis's grip was slipping. The cold metal railing, wet with condensation and the spray from the river below, offered little purchase. His fingers strained, the muscles in his arms and shoulders burning with the effort of holding both their weights. He could feel Allure's hand starting to slip through his, the fabric of her sleeve sliding slowly, inexorably through his grasp.

And then Zayn was there, materializing from nowhere with a speed and grace that defied the laws of physics. The dark-haired ghost didn't hesitate, didn't waste time with questions or explanations. He simply grabbed Louis's arm, his supernatural strength anchoring them both, giving Louis the leverage he needed to haul Allure back onto the relative safety of the bridge walkway.

The demon let out a frustrated scream, its form flickering and distorting with rage. "You ruined everything! She was mine! Her suffering, her despair – it would have fed me for months!" It lunged forward, its shadowy form extending like living darkness toward the three of them.

Zayn positioned himself between the humans and the supernatural threat, his body radiating an intensity that seemed to push back against the demon's corruption. "Go back to whatever hell you crawled out of," he snarled, his voice carrying notes of power that made the air around them vibrate. "These people are under my protection."

The demon laughed, a sound like grinding glass and breaking bones. "Your protection? Ghost of Christmas Present? You're fading fast, spirit. Each moment you remain anchored to this world drains what little power you have left. Soon you'll be nothing but a memory, a whisper in the darkness."

Louis scrambled backward, pulling Allure with him until they were pressed against the opposite railing, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the supernatural battle unfolding before them. Allure was trembling violently, her eyes wide with shock and terror as she tried to process what had just happened – the jump, the rescue, the appearance of the ghostly defender now facing off against the shadowy creature that had been whispering in her ear moments before.

But as Louis watched, he realized Zayn wasn't the one who was going to fight the demon. A new figure was materializing from the shadows – Niall, his scythe already in hand, the blade glowing with that sickly green light that seemed to absorb all other colors. The reaper moved without sound, his presence somehow more overwhelming than Harry or Zayn's had ever been.

"This one is mine," Niall's thoughts flooded Louis's mind without any spoken words. I am the only one who can properly destroy it.

Niall produced a synth from the shadows, the very instrument that contained the demon's essence, the vessel that bound it to this world. The reaper moved with supernatural speed, engaging the demon in a battle that made the air crackle with dark energy. Louis watched in awe as Niall fought with the skill of someone who had been battling supernatural evil for millennia, his movements precise and deadly.

The demon was powerful though, shifting and changing form like smoke and shadow, avoiding Niall's attacks while launching its own assault of dark energy. They battled back and forth across the bridge, the synth glowing brighter as Niall channeled his power through it, preparing to strike the final blow.

But the demon was clever. With a sudden burst of strength, it lunged not at Niall, but at the synth itself, knocking it from the reaper's hands. The heavy instrument clattered to the ground, its glow dimming as the connection to Niall was broken.

"NO!" Niall's eyes seemed to cry out as the demon laughed triumphantly.

The demon turned its attention back to Louis and Allure, seeing its opportunity while Niall was momentarily disarmed. But Zayn was already moving, positioning himself between the humans and the renewed threat.

"Get back!" Zayn yelled to Louis as the demon charged.

Zayn engaged the demon directly, giving Niall time to recover. But the dark-haired ghost was already weakened from staying in this world too long, and the demon was fresh and furious. Zayn managed to hold it off for a few precious moments, but the demon was too strong.

With a final surge of power, Zayn dove for the fallen synth, grabbing it with his remaining strength. He turned to face the advancing demon, the instrument held like a weapon. The demon lunged, thinking Zayn was too weak to properly wield it.

But Zayn wasn't trying to channel power through it – he was using it as a weapon. With a desperate battle cry, he swung the heavy synth with all his remaining strength, catching the demon completely by surprise.

The synth connected with the demon's form, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like shattering glass and tearing metal, the demon exploded in a burst of dark energy and shadow. The force of the destruction sent Zayn flying backward, his form flickering violently as he crashed to the ground several feet away.

"Zayn!" Louis cried out, rushing to the spirit's side.

The dark-haired ghost lay on the pavement, his form barely visible now, more absence than presence. He looked up at Louis, a faint smile touching his lips despite the pain and exhaustion that radiated from him like heat from a fire. "Got him," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Told you I had enough left."

But the effort had cost him everything. Louis could see that Zayn was fading fast, his form becoming more transparent with each passing second, the very substance of his being dissolving like sugar in water. The synth had worked – the demon was gone, destroyed – but Zayn had used up the last of his energy to do it.

"Don't go," Louis pleaded, reaching out to touch the fading spirit, his fingers passing through the insubstantial form. "You saved us. You saved her."

Zayn's smile widened slightly, his eyes glowing with a faint warmth that seemed to intensify even as the rest of him faded away. "That's what we do, isn't it? Save people. Even when it costs us everything." He looked toward Allure, who was watching with tears streaming down her face, her expression a mixture of gratitude and grief. "Take care of her, Louis. She's been through enough."

And with those words, Zayn was gone, his form dissolving completely until nothing remained but the memory of his sacrifice and the faint scent of ozone and peppermint that seemed to linger in the air around them.

Louis knelt there for a moment, stunned and overwhelmed by what had just happened. Zayn was gone – he had saved them from the demon. The weight of that sacrifice settled heavily on Louis's heart, mingling with the relief and gratitude he felt for being alive, for Allure being alive.

The sound of approaching sirens broke through his thoughts, reminding him that they weren't alone, that the real world was still happening around them. Police officers, paramedics, curious onlookers – they were all converging on the scene, their presence a stark contrast to the supernatural battle that had just taken place.

"We need to get you out of here," Louis said, helping Allure to her feet. She was still trembling, her eyes wide with shock and confusion, but she was alive. She was safe. That's what mattered.

The paramedics wanted to take her to the hospital, wanted to check her for injuries and make sure she was psychologically stable after what had happened. But Allure refused, shaking her head vehemently when they suggested it.

"No hospital," she insisted, her voice weak but firm. "I just... I just want to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe."

Louis nodded, understanding completely. Hospitals were places of healing, but they were also places of death and despair, the last thing someone who had just danced with suicide needed to experience. "I know a place," he said softly. "A friend's flat. She'll help you. I promise."

After some convincing – and Louis's promise that he would personally ensure Allure received any medical attention she might need – the authorities finally agreed to let them go, though not before taking their statements and expressing concern about Allure's emotional state.

The drive to Zayla's apartment was quiet, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Louis kept glancing over at Allure, half-expecting her to disappear or fade away like the spirits they had just encountered. But she remained solid, real, her presence in the passenger seat a comforting anchor in the chaos that had become his life.

Zayla was surprised to see them, to say the least. It was nearly 3AM when they arrived at her door, and Louis showing up with a traumatized woman who had just tried to kill herself was not exactly how he imagined this reunion going. But to her credit, Zayla didn't hesitate. She took one look at Allure's pale, trembling form and immediately ushered them inside, making tea and wrapping the grieving mother in a warm blanket without asking any questions.

Louis explained everything – the bridge and what happened before that with her son, knowing that if anyone would understand, it was Zayla. She had lost her son too and there was no better company to leave Allure with than someone he trusted completely. Zayla listened patiently as Louis continued to speak; he left out the supernatural forces, but didn't hesitate to take blame over the cause of the poor singer's mental state, her expression growing more concerned with each detail, her hand never leaving Allure's shoulder the entire time.

It was as he finished speaking, as the last of the words left his lips and the weight of everything that had happened settled over him, that Niall appeared.

The reaper materialized from the shadows of Zayla's living room, his scythe already in hand, the blade glowing with that sickly green light that seemed to absorb all other colors, casting eerie shadows across his angular features. The reaper moved without sound, his presence somehow more overwhelming than Harry or Zayn's had ever been, as if the very air around him had grown heavier, denser with the weight of countless souls he had escorted to their final destinations.

Louis felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air. "What more do you have to show me?" He Asked, noticing the girls seemed almost frozen; almost as though Niall had frozen time itself.

Niall didn't speak, but Louis suddenly understood everything with terrifying clarity—as if the reaper's thoughts were being projected directly into his mind. The communication bypassed words entirely, a wave of understanding that carried the weight of countless centuries, echoing with the voices of countless souls.

There's still time, but not much. The thought formed in Louis's consciousness without being spoken, accompanied by an urgency that made his heart race. Before this ends, you need to see. You need to understand what awaits you if you continue on this path, if you allow the darkness to win. This isn't just about redemption, Louis. This is about your very soul, your eternal existence.

Niall's ancient eyes seemed to pierce through him, seeing all the way to his very essence. Again, thoughts flooded Louis's mind without any spoken words—clear, direct, and absolutely terrifying.

The future. Or rather, one possible future. The one that awaits you if you don't change, if you continue to allow your selfishness and your fear to rule your actions. The chains you wear now – they're nothing compared to what they could become. What they will become if you don't choose differently.

Before Louis could respond, the world shifted around them. The bridge, the river, the sleeping city – all of it dissolved into shadows and light, reforming into a scene that made Louis's blood run cold.

Fifteen years had passed.

The office was opulent in a way that screamed wealth and power – marble floors so polished they reflected the ceiling like black mirrors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a London that had grown even taller and more imposing in the fifteen years since Louis had last seen it. The skyline was dominated by buildings that seemed to defy gravity, their crystalized and steel surfaces gleaming in the artificial lighting that streamed through the expensive polarized glass.

Louis recognized the office immediately – it was his own building, the very music building where he had signed thousands of artists over the years, but it was different now. Changed. Darker. The wealth was still there, the power was still evident, but something was missing, something fundamental had been lost along the way. The air itself felt heavier, thick with the weight of years of bad decisions and broken hearts.

The man standing at the window was older – obviously older, with lines around his eyes that spoke of countless sleepless nights and a hardness to his features that hadn't been there fifteen years ago. But it was unmistakably him, an older, more bitter, more isolated version of the Louis he was today. This man wore his success like armor, like a wall between himself and the world, and judging by the amount of alcohol surrounding him – crystal decanters of expensive spirits, half-empty glasses scattered across every available surface – the wall wasn't holding back the darkness as well as he might have hoped.

Present Louis felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he studied his older self. He looked... empty. The passion, the fire, the creativity that had defined him even at his worst was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating emptiness that was somehow worse than all the anger and bitterness he'd ever displayed.

Jamie Trenton – Louis recognized him instantly despite the changes the years had wrought. The blue eyes were still there, still striking, but they were now shadowed by pain and desperation. The blonde hair had thinned, falling in unkempt strands across a forehead that was permanently creased with worry. He was older, maybe thirty-one or thirty-two, but there was still a natural beauty to him, a remnant of the boy who had captured Louis's attention all those years ago. But the boy was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he'd been chewed up and spit out by life, his clothes worn and frayed, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched a piece of paper like it was his last hope.

Present Louis watched, his heart pounding, as the confrontation began. He wanted to scream, to warn his older self, to somehow stop this from happening, but he was frozen, helpless observer to his own future damnation.

"You ruined my life!" Jamie's voice cracked with the weight of years of resentment, of dreams crushed and opportunities stolen. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be known as the kid who signed away everything? The joke of the industry? I can't get work anywhere. No one will touch me. You took my music, my youth, my future, and you left me with nothing!"

Older Louis didn't even turn around, just took another sip of his expensive scotch as if Jamie's pain was nothing more than background noise, an inconvenience to be endured rather than a human being's suffering to be acknowledged. "That's business, kid. You should have read the contract more carefully. Or hired a better lawyer. Or been born with better instincts. The world doesn't hand out participation trophies for effort."

Present Louis felt sick. He couldn't believe this was him – this cold, heartless bastard who couldn't even be bothered to look at someone whose life he had destroyed. Where was the passion? Where was the music? Where was any trace of the man who had once cared so deeply about art and creativity?

Jamie's hands clenched into fists, the paper crumpling in his grip. "Nothing? You're worth millions because of me! You took my youth, my music, my life and turned it into your fortune! I should have at least fifteen million more – that's not fair what you did to me!"

Older Louis set his glass down, turning his back to Jamie as he stared out the window at the city below. "He signed the contract at sixteen and believed me. That was not my fault a sixteen-year-old dumb kid was taken advantage of, but welcome to the real world, laddie." He raised his glass in a toast to his own reflection, his voice dripping with contempt.

And that's when Present Louis saw them – the chains.

They started as faint outlines, shimmering in the air around his older self like heat haze rising from pavement. Then they solidified, becoming real, substantial, horrifyingly real. Heavy black chains, each link as thick as Louis's wrist, began materializing around his older self's form. They weren't floating – they were part of him, embedded in his very essence, growing directly from his soul like some terrible parasitic growth.

The chains were so much heavier than the ones he currently bore, so thick and substantial that they seemed to absorb all illumination around them, creating a bubble of darkness that even the office's expensive lighting couldn't penetrate. Each link represented hundreds of pounds of supernatural metal in the spirit world, but here, in this vision, their weight was visible, palpable, crushing. Present Louis could actually see his older self's shoulders stooping under the burden, could see the way the chains dragged at his movements, making every gesture an effort.

"No," Present Louis whispered, shaking his head in denial. "That's not me. I would never – I could never –"

But he could, and he had. The chains continued to grow, snaking around his older self's arms and legs, wrapping around his torso like a constrictor, each new link appearing with a soft metallic chime that seemed to echo in the silence of the office. Some links had names etched into them – Jamie's name, Liam's, Eleanor's, Allure's, his mother's, his father's. Every person he had wronged, every heart he had broken, every life he had damaged – they were all there, weighing him down, dragging him toward eternal damnation.

Present Louis fell to his knees, the horror of it overwhelming him. "I'm sorry," he sobbed, though he knew no one could hear him. "I'm so sorry. I never meant – I didn't understand –"

Older Louis seemed to feel the weight of the chains, his movements becoming slower, more deliberate as he fought against their constant drag. He reached for his glass, and Present Louis could see the tremor in his hand, the strain it took just to perform this simple action. The chains around his arm tightened, the links grinding together with a sound like bones breaking.

"This isn't for certain though, right?" Present Louis turned to Niall, his voice trembling with fear. "You're a reaper, but you're only a possibility – not a future, right?" He was begging, pleading with every fiber of his being for this to be some kind of warning rather than a prediction. "I can change, right? I'm already changing – I saved Allure, I'm trying to be better –"

Niall didn't speak, but a wave of absolute certainty washed over Louis's mind—so powerful it nearly buckled his knees. The reaper's message was unmistakable, undeniable, leaving no room for hope or doubt.

This IS certain. This WILL BE unless you change everything. The thought struck Louis with physical force, making him gasp as the truth of it settled into his soul. The man you see before you – this is exactly who you will become. Every cruel word, every selfish choice, every moment you choose your own comfort over someone else's wellbeing – this is the result.

Niall remained silent, his ancient eyes fixed on the scene before them, his expression unreadable as he continued to watch the tragedy unfold.

Present Louis reluctantly turned back to the vision, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he thought it might burst. He saw Jamie reach into his pocket, his hands shaking so badly that he could barely hold what he was pulling out. A gun. Small, dark, and deadly.

"No, Jamie, don't!" Present Louis screamed, knowing it was useless but unable to stop himself. "It's not worth it! He's not worth it!"

"I need money!" Jamie screamed in the vision, his voice breaking with desperation and years of suppressed pain.

Older Louis turned around, his expression completely unafraid despite the weapon pointed directly at his heart. There was no fear in his eyes, no regret, no remorse – only a cold indifference that was somehow more terrifying than any panic would have been. As he faced the gun, the chains around him seemed to grow even larger, expanding until they dwarfed the man they encased, their weight so substantial that Louis could feel it even from this distance, even across the barrier of time and possibility. The chains were glowing now, pulsing with a sickening green light that seemed to feed on the negative energy in the room.

Present Louis watched in horror as his older self actually smiled – a slight, cruel twist of his lips that spoke of complete contempt for the desperate man pointing a gun at his heart. "Go ahead," older Louis said, his voice flat, empty. "See if I care."

"No, no, no," Present Louis sobbed, crawling forward on his hands and knees. "Don't say that. Fight back, apologize, something – anything but this!"

A shot rang out, the sound echoing through the massive office like thunder. Older Louis's scotch dropped from his hand, shattering on the marble floor as his eyes went wide with shock – not fear, but surprise, as if he couldn't believe someone had actually called his bluff. His mouth opened in a silent scream that no one would ever hear, blood forming a dark stain on the expensive fabric of his suit, right over his heart. His body went numb, collapsing to the ground in a heap of expensive cloth and broken dreams.

Present Louis scrambled to where his older self had fallen, reaching out instinctively to help, to comfort, to somehow undo this terrible moment. But his hands passed right through the vision, through the blood pooling on the marble floor, through the body that had so recently contained his future self.

"NO!" Present Louis screamed, the sound tearing from his throat with primal force. "This can't be happening! This isn't me! I would never – I could never –" But he could see it, feel it, know it with a certainty that went beyond thought or reason. This was him. This was who he would become if he didn't change everything, starting right now.

Niall walked over to the fallen man, his movements deliberate and precise. He swiped his scythe across older Louis's form, and Present Louis watched in horror as a black soul detached itself from the living body, the physical form stilled... gone... dead. The soul that rose from the corpse was twisted, corrupted, barely recognizable as human after years of selfish choices and callous disregard for others.

Jamie collapsed onto the floor beside the body, crying in anguish as he realized what he had just done. Present Louis watched as a single chain link materialized around Jamie's neck, the link already heavy with the weight of what he had done, the life he had taken. It was nothing compared to what was coming for Louis's soul, but it was there – a permanent mark on his own spirit.

Present Louis watched in frozen terror as his ghostly soul stood there for a moment, frozen in disbelief. The soul looked almost solid, dark and oily, corrupted by years of bad decisions and selfish actions. Then it began – the chains with barbed wire, ten times the size as they were now, started materializing from nowhere, embedding themselves deep into his older soul.

The first chain struck like lightning, a massive link the size of Louis's head materializing out of thin air and driving itself directly into the soul's chest. The spectral form screamed, a sound of pure agony that echoed across dimensions, a pain so profound it made Present Louis's own soul ache in sympathy. The chain didn't just attach itself – it merged with the soul, becoming part of it, the barbed hooks sinking deep and refusing to let go.

Then came another chain, and another, and another. They erupted from the darkness like terrible metal serpents, each one larger and more terrifying than the last.

Present Louis could only watch in horror as his future self was systematically destroyed, torn apart by the very consequences of his own actions. The chains didn't just weigh the soul down – they actively tormented it, the barbed wire tearing and ripping with every movement, every shift causing fresh waves of agony that made the spectral form convulse in pain.

"Make it stop!" Present Louis screamed, tears streaming down his face as he witnessed his own eternal torment. "Please, make it stop! I'll do anything! I'll change! I swear I'll change!"

Niall continued to watch impassively as chains, different ones, dug themselves into every exposed inch of the spectral flesh, their barbed wires flying around and hooking into the older soul with surgical precision. These weren't just random chains – each one represented a specific sin, a specific act of cruelty, a specific moment when Louis had chosen his own desires over someone else's wellbeing.

Present Louis ran over to try and help, to somehow intervene in this nightmare, but the moment his hands touched the chains, he felt the full weight of his past sins. The crushing burden of every person he had hurt, every life he had destroyed, every dream he had crushed – it all flooded into him at once, a tidal wave of guilt and shame so overwhelming that it nearly drove him mad. He felt Jamie's desperation, Liam's betrayal, Eleanor's heartbreak, Allure's grief – all of it, all at once, tearing at his soul like spiritual acid.

He turned away, sobbing, begging Niall to help him, to make his future soul stop suffering. "Please, I'm begging you! I'll do anything! I'll spend the rest of my life making it right! Just please, not this! Not this forever!"

Niall shook his head and shrugged, and Louis felt the answer in his mind rather than heard it—cold, absolute truth that left no room for argument or hope.

I can't. This is your sins coming full circle, and they are extracting payment. The thought carried the weight of cosmic justice, the inevitability of consequences that could not be avoided or mitigated. Every tear you caused, every heart you broke, every life you damaged – they all demand their price. And the price is eternal.

Present Louis shook his head, feeling physically sick as he watched thousands and thousands of links embed into the spectral form until it looked like a giant ball of rusted chain links instead of anything resembling human. The soul was barely visible through the mass of metal, but his eyes were still there, wide with endless agony, silently screaming for a mercy that would never come. The body was paralyzed on the ground, gagged with chains that wrapped around his mouth and throat, unable to close his mouth as more continued to embed into him, each link bringing fresh waves of torture that would never, ever end.

Then suddenly, a bronze, expensive coffin appeared open beneath his celestial form – ornate, beautifully crafted, the kind of coffin a wealthy man would choose for himself, thinking it would somehow make his death less final, less terrifying. But as Louis watched, paralyzed by horror, something happened. When he blinked – he no longer was witnessing this, he WAS this.

The shift was instantaneous and absolute – one moment he was watching his future soul being tormented, the next he was that soul, trapped in the endless agony himself. He felt himself paralyzed with chains, the thousands of barbed links embedded so deep into his dead flesh that he could feel the shattered bones of how many had latched on. Every movement sent fresh waves of torment through him as the barbs tore at what remained of his spiritual form, each link a separate, specialized form of torture designed to extract maximum payment for his sins.

He could feel the full weight of the misery – not just his own, but the accumulated suffering of every person he had wronged, every heart he had broken, every life he had damaged. Looking up as his body fell further into the large coffin, he saw Niall looking down, not with judgment or anger, but with a terrible, endless sorrow that was somehow worse than hatred. The reaper's face was the last thing he would ever see, the final witness to his eternal damnation.

"I'll change," He tried to beg, screaming it in his mind with a desperation that transcended physical speech. But the chains around his jaw, the barbed hooks embedded in his tongue and throat, made even thought-communication nearly impossible. Each attempt to speak or think caused fresh waves of agony as the barbs tore deeper, the punishment for trying to escape or seek mercy.

His thoughts went to his father, how deeply he had disappointed him, how he had failed to live up to the man's memory, how he had squandered every opportunity and every gift he had been given. He could feel his father's spirit somewhere beyond the darkness, weeping for the son he had loved so much, the son who had been given so many chances and had thrown them all away. Tears, bloody tears, fell from his eyes as he felt the chains constrict, crushing him with a weight that went beyond mere physical pressure, a spiritual burden that tore at his very essence.

He couldn't breathe even though he didn't need to, but the heavy weight was tearing apart his mind, fragmenting his thoughts until there was nothing left but agony and regret. The coffin was lowering now, slowly, agonizingly, giving him time to fully appreciate each fresh wave of torture, each new depth of despair. Every inch downward brought fresh revelations – Jamie's face as he pulled the trigger, Liam's eyes as Louis betrayed him, Eleanor's tears as Louis broke her heart, Allure's grief as Louis dismissed her pain – all of them, all at once, forever.

The sides of the coffin were lined with mirrors, and in them he could see himself not as he was now, but as he had been at his worst – the arrogant young star, the cruel businessman, the heartless lover, the selfish friend. Every bad choice, every cruel word, every moment of weakness played out simultaneously in an endless loop of self-recrimination.

His last thoughts before the coffin slammed shut, Niall's eyes staring down at him with that ancient, impassive gaze as the coffin is lowered and then slammed shut with a final, deafening lock was "I promise. I can change. I will. Please don't leave me in here to rot. I promise." He screams to Niall in his mind, his mind exploding in pain so intense that it felt like his very soul was being torn apart atom by atom.

The darkness that followed was absolute, complete, eternal. No light, no sound, no sensation except the endless grinding of chains, the constant tearing of barbs, the crushing weight of his own accumulated evil. This wasn't death – death would have been mercy. This was awareness, consciousness, trapped forever in the consequences of his own choices, with no hope of release, no possibility of redemption, no end to the suffering except the gradual erosion of his soul until nothing remained but pain and memory.

He would be here forever, or what felt like forever – time worked differently in this place, each moment stretching into eternity, each second of agony lasting lifetimes. He would remember his life, remember the chances he had been given, remember the people he had hurt, and he would regret it all, endlessly, helplessly, until the chains themselves were all that remained of the man he had once been.

The torment became his reality, his existence, his eternity – until suddenly, violently, he jerked up on his own couch, screaming.

The scream that tore from his throat was raw and primal, born from a place beyond conscious thought. He sat bolt upright on the couch, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard that it felt like it was trying to escape his chest, his body drenched in sweat that made his clothes cling to him like a second skin. The room spun around him, the familiar surroundings of his living room taking a moment to resolve into recognizable shapes. His breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhale feeling like he was breathing in shattered glass, each exhale accompanied by the phantom sensation of chains still wrapped around his chest, still pressing down with that impossible weight.

He struggled to get off the couch, his muscles protesting as if he'd been in a fight, his limbs feeling heavy and uncoordinated. The digital clock on the mantelpiece read 3:17 AM, the red numbers seeming to pulse with accusatory brightness in the deep darkness of his luxurious living room.

It took him several moments to realize where he was, his mind still caught between the horror of the vision and the relative safety of his current reality. He looked around, not really registering the expensive furnishings or the panoramic view of London spread out before him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. All he could think about, all he could focus on, was the terrifying certainty of what he had just witnessed.

His memory was fragmented but clear – he remembers being at Zayla's flat, apologizing and explaining to Zayla about Allure's son, trying to make her understand why Allure was in so much pain. He remembers the weight of that conversation, the grief shared between two mothers who had lost children. Then Niall appeared, and everything shifted.

The next thing he remembered was being dragged fifteen years into the future, forced to watch his own damnation unfold in terrifying detail – the chains, the office confrontation, the shooting, the coffin, the eternal torment. Then waking up screaming on his couch in his living room.

That's all he remembered. Just Zayla's flat, then the future vision, then waking up screaming.

But had it been real? The vision Niall had shown him had burned itself into his memory – the chains, the coffin, the eternal suffering – and he knew with absolute certainty that he couldn't go back to being the man he had been. Every action, every decision from this moment forward had to be different.

He first went and picked up a cheap phone at a 24-hour gas station, the fluorescent lighting making him feel exposed and vulnerable as he promised the confused-looking attendant he'd be back. The moment he had the phone in his hands, he started calling in favors – debts owed, strings he could pull, influence he could wield. His mind worked with a clarity and purpose that surprised him, as if the terror of his vision had burned away all the uncertainty and hesitation that had plagued him for years.

The first call was to a car dealer he knew, one who owed him a significant favor from a business deal years ago. Within thirty minutes, Louis had arranged for Liam to get a brand new 2026 Rolls-Royce Phantom – not just any Phantom, but a custom-built model with features that were almost futuristic, including autonomous driving capabilities, a champagne cooler in the back seat, and interior leather sourced from sustainable farms in Italy. But Louis wasn't done there – he also arranged for half a million pounds in cash to be hidden in the boot of the car, money Liam could discover for himself, money that would give him the freedom and security he had never had.

Next, he pulled up his tablet and started researching the latest toys, the ones that would be impossible for most parents to afford, the ones that would make Ember and Jake's eyes light up with wonder. He made dozens of calls, arranging for hundreds of toys to be wrapped and delivered within hours, pulling strings and calling in markers he hadn't even realized he had.

Then came the phone calls that actually mattered – the ones that would start breaking the chains that had been weighing him down for years. He called Jamie Trenton's lawyer first, arranging to meet the next day to completely renegotiate the contract that had ruined a young man's career and life. He called the university he had withdrawn the scholarship from, arranging not just to reinstate it but to create an entire music program in the student's name, complete with full funding for dozens of deserving young musicians.

Each call felt like lifting a physical weight, like breaking a link in the chains that had bound him for so long. He could feel the difference, could sense the subtle shift in his own soul as he made amends, as he tried to undo some of the damage he had done.

Louis didn't just send gifts – he showed up personally, banging on Liam's door at 4AM with a massive six-foot Christmas tree that barely fit through the doorway. When Liam opened the door, bleary-eyed and confused, there was Louis standing there with the tree balanced precariously in his arms, along with several burly men carrying even more presents into the small apartment.

"What the hell is going on?" Liam demanded, his voice thick with sleep as Louis set the enormous tree down next to Liam's sad little beat-up one that looked like it had been rescued from a dumpster. The contrast was almost comical – one tree pathetic and drooping, the other so magnificent it could have been featured in a department store display.

Louis just stood there with a smirk that looked like he was guilty of mugging Liam's nan, his eyes dancing with mischief and something else that Liam hadn't seen in years – genuine joy, unfiltered and unashamed.

As the men continued bringing in presents, piling them up in corners until the small apartment was barely navigable, Ember and Jake emerged from their room, their eyes wide with disbelief. Ember, who was eight, immediately gravitated toward a massive gaming console setup, while six-year-old Jake discovered a pile of action figures that would make any child weep with happiness.

Louis watched with an expression of pure, unadulterated joy as Ember tore into the wrapping paper of a limited edition gaming system, exactly the one she had pointed out in a shop window months ago, the one she had dreamed about but never dared to ask for. Her squeal of delight was music to Louis's ears, a sound so pure and full of happiness that it made his chest ache with emotions he'd kept buried for far too long. Jake was equally ecstatic when he opened the premium action figure collection with accessories that made it extra realistic, complete with light-up features and sound effects.

But Louis hadn't stopped there. Each child got an electric bike in their favorite colors – Ember's in metallic blue with racing stripes, Jake's in sparkly red with tassels on the handlebars. He gave them each top-of-the-line hoverboards with safety features that would make any parent breathe easier, plus enough protective gear to outfit a small army. The sheer volume of gifts was staggering – hundreds, maybe thousands of presents, representing hundreds of thousands of pounds in pure, unadulterated generosity.

Liam sat in stunned silence on his worn-out sofa, watching his children experience a kind of Christmas magic he'd only ever seen in movies, feeling overwhelmed and humbled and slightly terrified that this was all some elaborate prank that would end in heartbreak. Louis, noticing his friend's shell-shocked expression, reached into the massive pile of presents and pulled out a few specifically chosen gifts, handing them to Liam with a soft smile.

"Merry Christmas, mate."

Liam smiled, opening them as Louis just let the peace surrounding them. After the initial shock wore off and the kids were lost in Christmas bliss, Louis pulled Liam aside, his expression serious but hopeful. "Listen, mate... I know this is overwhelming, but there's more. Are you happy with the car, the new house?"

Liam looked at him, confused. "What new house? What are you talking about?"

Louis's smile widened. "The new house I bought you. Fully paid off, five bedrooms, big garden for the kids. It's yours, free and clear. And that's not all."

Liam sank onto his worn-out sofa, his hands trembling slightly. "Louis... I don't understand."

"I've been in touch with a family lawyer," Louis continued, his voice gaining confidence. "I'm calling the council this week to see about you getting full custody of the kids with visitation rights for your two ex-wives. Have to see what the lawyer and council members say. Either way, we'll get you sorted" He paused, letting that sink in. 

Liam stared at him, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I don't know what to say."

"There's more," Louis said softly. "I found a doctor in Switzerland that specifically deals with Jake's deformity. And I already set up an appointment for next Thursday. We'll take my private plane there."

He put his hand on Liam's shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. "Everything will be okay for them. Everything will start going right. I promise."

Liam broke down then, years of stress and worry and helplessness pouring out in tears of relief. He pulled Louis into a hug so tight it knocked the breath out of both of them. "Thank you," he sobbed into Louis's shoulder. "I don't... I really don't know what to say."

Louis held him, patting his back awkwardly, as if unused to such displays of affection. "You don't have to say anything, mate. Just let me help. Let me fix what I broke."

Unbeknownst to Louis, Harry, Zayn, and Niall stood in the corner watching. All three looking much more energized than last time, Zayn having recovered from his sacrifice.

"He certainly knows how to go grand," Harry said softly, smiling as he saw the invisible links around Louis start to shrink slowly. It wasn't a miracle or a fix-all but a beginning. The links were smaller than last time they'd seen them.

Zayn nodded in agreement, his dark eyes warm with approval as he watched Louis awkwardly trying to help Ember with the gaming system. "Who would have thought the ice king had it in him?"

Niall smiled, this time opening his mouth and speaking. "He'll be just fine. Father's proud and the higher council – the powers that be—" He does air quotes on "powers that be" "aren't disappointed either."

Harry looked at Niall, surprised. "You can speak now? I thought reapers couldn't talk until they earned their voice."

Niall nodded. "I had to make the right call. A reaper has to earn his voice – just the same as you needed to understand your own path. We can do a job forever, but it's being willing to do more for someone, regardless of who they are." He paused, taking his scythe out and gently bringing it down onto Harry's shoulder. Bright white light poured around Harry. "This was your last job. You move on."

Harry felt himself lifting, his form becoming weightless as he looked toward a brilliant white light, a tunnel leading to pure peace. "Finally," he whispered, his voice filled with relief as he faded away completely.

Then Niall turned to Zayn, who was watching Harry's departure with a mixture of happiness and apprehension. Niall gently touched his scythe to Zayn's shoulder as well. The same brilliant white light enveloped the dark-haired ghost.

"You earned this too," Niall said softly. "It's time to move on."

Zayn looked at Niall, his expression one of shock and gratitude. "But I thought—" He didn't get to finish as the light lifted him, his form becoming weightless as he joined Harry in that brilliant tunnel toward peace. His final words were a whispered "Thank you" before he faded completely.

Niall stood alone in the corner for a moment, his black hood pulled up against the deep darkness of the early morning hours, with the city outside still wrapped in night's embrace. In the distance, he could feel the summons – another soul was ready to be collected, another life had reached its natural conclusion. But this time was different. This time he could talk. He could offer something other than silence and grim finality. He could offer comfort, or explanation, or even hope if the situation warranted it.

The reaper watched as Louis helped Ember assemble her new gaming system accessories, his movements awkward but genuine, as if he were learning how to be gentle for the first time in his life. He saw Liam sitting on the floor with Jake, patiently helping him figure out the complicated controls of the action figure collection, their heads bent together in concentration and easy companionship. This was what it was all about, wasn't it? This was what made all the suffering worthwhile – these moments of connection, of love, of families being families even when they were broken and imperfect.

Niall thought about the countless souls he had collected over the millennia, the stories he had witnessed, the tragedies he had observed. So many of them ended in regret, in loneliness, in the bitter knowledge of opportunities wasted and love unexpressed. But Louis – Louis had been given a rare gift, a chance to see the consequences of his choices before they became permanent, a chance to rewrite his ending before it was too late.

He thought about Zayn, who had sacrificed himself to destroy the demon, saving Louis and Allure at the cost of his own existence. Unlike Harry, who had completed his final job naturally, Zayn had earned his peace through pure self-sacrifice. Both spirits had now moved on to their final reward, their work with Louis complete and successful.

The reaper felt something strange stirring in his chest – something that might have been pride, or satisfaction, or maybe even something resembling hope. Louis still had a long way to go, so many wrongs to right, so much damage to undo. The chains around his soul were smaller, yes, but they were still there, still binding him to the consequences of his past actions. But he was trying. Really, truly trying. And in Niall's vast experience, that was the rarest and most precious thing of all.

With a final glance at the scene of domestic bliss unfolding before him, Niall turned and stepped into the shadows, his form dissolving as he answered the summons that called him away. He left the mortals to their Christmas, wishing he knew how Louis's story ended – but also knowing, with a certainty that went beyond prophecy or fortune-telling, that Louis was still writing it and was finally, after all these years, on the right path.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Redemption

The Rolls-Royce glided through the countryside, Louis Tomlinson staring out the window at landscapes he hadn't seen in twenty years. Each mile brought him closer to a reunion he'd simultaneously dreaded and desperately wanted – facing his mother after two decades of silence and separation.

Louis's hands trembled slightly in his lap, a rare display of vulnerability from the powerful music executive who commanded boardrooms and recording studios with ease. But this... this was different. This was about mending something broken long before fame and fortune had found him.

"Are you alright, Louis?" Liam asked from the driver's seat, his friendly tone laced with genuine concern.

Louis took a deep breath. "Just... thinking about the last time I saw my mum. The things I said when she finally started reaching out. The way I rejected every call, every letter, every attempt she made to reconnect." He shook his head slowly. "I was so angry for so many years, Liam. So hurt that she'd abandoned me after Dad died. But now... now I understand she was just as broken as I was. Maybe more."

Liam nodded, keeping his focus on the road while giving his friend the space to process these long-buried emotions. "People heal in their own time, mate. Sometimes it takes years to find their way back to each other."

"Twenty years," Louis murmured, watching a field of sheep pass by. "Twenty years she kept trying, even when I gave her every reason to give up. That's... that's real love, isn't it?"

When they finally turned onto a narrow country lane leading to Louis's mother's home, his breath caught in his throat. The car approached a modest but beautifully maintained cottage with a thatched roof, smoke curling gently from its stone chimney. A neatly tended garden burst with winter flowers despite the cold, and warm golden light spilled from mullioned windows. It was the picture of perfect English country charm, so different from Louis's sterile mansion or London's urban sophistication.

"Wow," Louis breathed, his fingers tightening on his door handle as they pulled into the gravel driveway. "It's... it's beautiful, Liam. Really beautiful." Liam nodded with a warm smile. "It is a lovely cottage, Louis. Your mother and stepfather have clearly made it into a wonderful home." The simple acknowledgment of who lived here – his mother and stepfather – made the reality of this reunion hit Louis with full force.

They had left London at around 2PM, giving them plenty of time for the kids to spend the morning opening presents – which, even after hours of frantic unwrapping, still left dozens of gifts waiting to be discovered. The moving team Louis had hired was instructed to gather everything of value from Liam's rented apartment: clothes, toys, the magnificent Christmas tree that Louis had provided, and most importantly, Mittens. The cat was the first to be moved, transported in a luxury carrier to her new home – a five-bedroom house with four bathrooms that Louis had purchased outright, complete with a playroom filled with thousands of cans of tuna and cat food, plus enough toys and climbing structures to keep even the most particular feline entertained for years.

Louis had made it clear to his assistant that if Liam was going to be respected in his new role, he needed to tighten his belt some, expect more. Liam had no idea what his boss was going on about until he handed him a check. The half million pounds in his new car's boot was sure to be a surprise, but this was something else entirely.

"Your new weekly salary." Louis said casually, as if discussing the weather.

Liam felt his vision swim, certain there had to be some mistake. "That's too mu –" Liam gawked, but Louis waved him off with an impatient gesture.

"Pish-posh. It's what top executives are earning these days, and if I want the best – which I do –" He smirked, showing Liam a flash of the old Louis, the one who had always been confident bordering on arrogant, but there was something different about it now. The arrogance was tempered with warmth, with genuine affection. "Then I need to pay a living wage. And not only will you cash that check tomorrow, I also put a bonus in the boot of your new car."

Liam didn't know what to say and said as much, his voice thick with emotion as he stared at the check in his trembling hands. Louis just shrugged with a small smile, seeing the door to his childhood home open and his mother – much older and more worn than he remembered – come out with the children Louis had yet to get to know, and a mother he had to get to know again.

"Don't say anything. Just come with me tomorrow to the children's hospital. I'm going to meet some parents, see what they need; if I can help. I failed Allure and I will spend as long as it takes to make it right...and Zayla. I got a lot to make right with Allure, but she's not going to be alone, I can promise you that. She's due for a raise too – a severance package. One that will set her up for life. If she wants to sing, then I'll make it happen. If she wants something else in life – I'll see she's able to become anything she wants." He said, seeing his mum approach with a warm smile that made his heart ache with memories and regret. "Right now, it's Christmas and I have a lot of work to do – including work on how to forgive. It starts with a discussion and even an apology."

As Louis helped Liam's children out of the backseat, his heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird. The little girl – what was her name? Ember, that was it – clutched a stuffed reindeer to her chest with wide-eyed curiosity, while the boy, Jake, immediately tried to chase a butterfly that wasn't there. Liam emerged from the driver's side, his face lit with a mixture of joy and nerves.

The sight of her hit him like a physical blow – she was so much older than the woman who haunted his memories, her face lined with worry and time, her silver hair caught back in a simple bun that somehow made her look both fragile and incredibly strong. She moved toward them with a tentative smile that grew wider with each step, her eyes fixed on Louis as if afraid he might disappear if she looked away for even a second.

"Mum..." Louis breathed, but his mother was already moving past him, her arms outstretched toward Louis.

The hug caught him completely off guard. His mother wrapped her arms around him with a desperation that spoke of years of regret, pulling him close as if she might never let go. Louis froze for a moment, his body rigid with shock and old hurts, but then something inside him broke free. He returned the embrace, burying his face in her shoulder and inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and soap that had been his childhood comfort. Twenty years fell away in that instant, and he was just a little boy who had missed his mother more than he'd ever been able to admit.

"I'm so sorry, Louis. I'm so, so, sorry. I was wrong to shut you out, wrong to ignore you when you needed me most." She whispered against his hair, her voice thick with tears that soaked through his jacket. "All those years I tried to reach you, and you never answered... I understand why now. But I never stopped loving you. Never stopped hoping this day would come."

"I will spend forever apologizing, Lou. I'm so, sorry. I was wrong to do what I did." She said, tears forming and falling down her face, the tracks they left on her cheeks shining in the afternoon light. "I'm so glad you're here."

Louis felt a pang in his chest that was so sharp it took his breath away. He took a really good look at his mum – a proper look this time, not the casual glance of a distracted teenager, but the careful observation of a man trying to understand the woman who had given him life. He saw pale skin that spoke of too many days spent indoors, tired eyes that carried the weight of years of regret, a thinner body than what he remembered, as if she had been slowly wasting away. He felt a stab in his heart so intense that it made him physically flinch.

His mum smiled when she noticed his scrutiny, but her joy was too high to let tragedy rear its ugly head, so she focused on the more positive things. "I prayed you'd come and it finally came true after all these years. You're here. We can discuss everything later. I know you have lots of questions and I will answer all of them. I've been wishing for this moment. To apologize. To –" She cut her words off, overwhelmed with emotion and looked to see her husband coming up beside her.

Louis's stepfather – Mark, that was his name, he remembered suddenly – emerged from the cottage, wiping his hands on a apron that suggested he'd been helping in the kitchen. The man he'd only met once, in an appointment he barely paid attention in, stood there with an expression of cautious optimism mixed with genuine warmth.

"Mark," Louis said, his voice rough with emotion as he extended his hand.

The older man took it with a firm, friendly grip. "It's wonderful to see you again, Louis. Really wonderful." He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that spoke of genuine kindness. "How about a scotch? It's cold out here and Jo's right – there will be plenty of time for all the heavy conversations later. But for right now, it's Christmas, and you're home. That's worth celebrating." Mark's gaze shifted to the children, his expression softening. "And don't worry about a thing. We want nothing from you except your presence. In fact, you'll find your mum's been cooking for days, overdoing it as usual. She's been waiting for this visit for a very long time."

He chuckled, his eyes twinkling as he nodded toward the cottage door where two more children – clearly twins and around Ember and Jake's age – were peeking out with curious expressions. "These two have been driving us mad with excitement. They've been practicing their Christmas carols all week, determined to impress you." Mark gestured toward the warmly lit cottage, smoke curling peacefully from its chimney. "Come on now – let's get inside before we all freeze out here. Your mum's made enough food to feed an army, and the twins are about to burst with excitement to show you their Christmas presents."

Louis bent down to Jake, who was still determinedly chasing imaginary butterflies through the gravel driveway. "Hey there, mate. Want a ride?" The little boy looked up with wide eyes, then nodded enthusiastically, launching himself into Louis's arms with complete trust. Louis picked him up without a word, settling him on his shoulders with an ease that surprised himself, as if he had been doing this for years instead of minutes. Jake's small hands gripped his hair gently, and the weight of the child felt strangely right, somehow completing a piece of Louis he hadn't even realized was missing.

Liam helped with the bags, maintaining his professional demeanor as Louis watched the children interact. Ember suddenly seemed shy in the presence of new people, hiding slightly behind Liam's legs. "It's alright, sweetheart," Louis said softly, surprised at how natural the gentle tone felt. "These are... these are my family."

The word hit Louis like a physical blow. Family. Something he hadn't truly felt he had in over two decades, and now here he was about to reclaim it.

Everyone made their way inside, the warmth of the cottage enveloping them like a comforting embrace. The house was exactly as Louis remembered it from his teenage years, yet completely different. The same layout – narrow hallway leading to a cozy living room, the kitchen just beyond where his mother had always made the best Sunday roasts – but the atmosphere had transformed completely. The same creaky floorboards were there, but now they sounded like welcome rather than warning. The same worn furniture, but now it spoke of comfort and use rather than neglect and dust.

The smell hit him first – his mother's cooking, unmistakably her signature beef stew with dumplings, mixed with the fresh scent of pine from a beautifully decorated Christmas tree in the corner. But there was something else too, something he couldn't quite name at first. Then it came to him: the scent of peace, of contentment, of a life lived without the constant pressure of success and failure that had defined Louis's existence for so long. This was a home, not just a house. A place where people lived and loved and laughed and cried together.

Once everyone was settled with mugs of hot chocolate and the children were happily occupied with their new Christmas toys in the living room, his mother finally began to explain. Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, but her eyes never left Louis's face, as if she needed to see his reactions, needed to know he was truly hearing her.

"I know I owe you an explanation, Louis. Not just for why I wasn't there, but for why I stayed away for so long, and why I kept trying to reach you even when you wouldn't answer." She clasped her hands together in her lap, her knuckles white with tension. "It took a lot of counseling, years of it actually, for me to understand what I'd done to us. To you. To myself." She paused, taking a deep breath as if gathering courage. "Through that process, I realized how incredibly unfair I had been. Not just to you, but to your father's memory. I let my grief consume me, and in doing so, I lost the one thing that should have mattered most – you. And then when I finally came out of that darkness and tried to make things right... you had every right to reject me. Every right to be angry. But I kept trying because I had to hope that someday you might forgive me."

Louis listened, his heart aching with the weight of her words. He could see the pain in her eyes, the same pain he'd carried for so many years, but now he could see it with adult understanding rather than childhood hurt.

"I want a relationship with you, Louis. A real one. Not just Christmas cards and awkward phone calls. I want to see you more than just once a year, if you'll let me. I don't want anything from you except the chance to be your mother again." Her voice broke on the last words, and Mark reached over to take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of support. "I know I can't make up for twenty years of absence, but I'd like to spend however much time I have left earning back the right to be called your mum."

The conversation stretched well into the night, moving from painful admissions to tentative hopes, from explanations to understandings. As the hours passed and the fire in the hearth burned low, Louis found himself sharing things he'd never told anyone – his fears, his regrets, his deep-seated belief that he was somehow fundamentally broken. His mother listened without judgment, without excuse, simply hearing him in a way she hadn't been capable of when he was a child.

When Liam mentioned the possibility of driving back to London, Louis's mother immediately vetoed the idea. "Absolutely not. It's too late, and the roads will be dangerous. You're all staying here tonight. We have plenty of room, and I want to make my famous Christmas breakfast in the morning." Her insistence was so motherly, so wonderfully normal, that Louis felt tears prick his eyes. For the first time in twenty years, someone was telling him what to do because they cared about his safety, not because they wanted something from him.

The conversation was difficult and painful, stretching late into the night until the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of settling floorboards and the distant sound of a neighbor's dog barking. They sat in the living room, the same room where Louis had spent countless hours as a child – playing with his toys, doing his homework, watching television with his parents. Now he sat here as a man of thirty-two, trying to mend the broken pieces of a relationship that had shattered when he was just a boy left alone to deal with his father's death.

His mother made tea with the same care she had always shown, even when she was at her lowest. She used the same teapot he remembered from his childhood, a floral-patterned thing with a small chip on the spout that she'd refused to replace because it held too many memories. The ritual of preparing tea – warming the pot, measuring the loose leaves, letting it steep exactly three minutes – was so familiar that it brought tears to Louis's eyes.

"I need you to understand something, Louis," his mother said finally, her voice trembling with emotion. "After your father died... I wasn't just grieving. I was broken. Completely and utterly broken. That drunk driver didn't just take your father – he took my ability to function, to be a mother, to be anything at all." She took a shaky sip of tea, her hands trembling so much that the cup rattled in its saucer. "I ignored you because looking at you was like looking at him. Every time I saw your face, I saw his eyes. Every time you spoke, I heard his voice. And it hurt so much that I couldn't breathe. So I shut down. I shut everything down."

Louis listened, his heart aching with understanding he'd never had before. "I was so angry, Mum. So hurt that you left me alone. That you didn't seem to care that I'd just lost my dad too."

"I know, sweetheart. And when I finally started to come out of that dark place, when I finally realized what I'd done to you... I tried to reach you. I called and called. I wrote letters. I sent birthday cards and Christmas presents. And you never answered. Never responded." She reached across and took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "But I never stopped trying. Because I knew I deserved your anger. I knew I had failed you when you needed me most. But I also knew that I loved you, and that someday... someday you might let me back in."

As they talked, Mark moved quietly around the room, adding logs to the fire, occasionally offering a quiet word of support when the conversation became too painful. He was a steady, calming presence – the kind of stepfather Louis had secretly always wanted but never thought he deserved.

The discussion was filled with tears and accusations on both sides, but also with understanding and forgiveness that came slowly, painfully, like wounds being cleaned and dressed. Louis learned things about his mother's struggles that he had never known as a child, things that had been hidden behind her brittle cheerfulness and forced smiles. She told him about her battles with depression that had started long before his father's death, about the feelings of inadequacy that had consumed her after losing her husband, about the fear that had paralyzed her – the terror that she would somehow taint Louis's memory of his father by trying to replace him, by bringing another man into their lives.

"I didn't know how to be a mother to a son who had lost his father," she admitted, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Every time I looked at you, I saw him. I saw his eyes, his smile, his mannerisms. And it hurt so much that I couldn't breathe. But I also felt guilty for feeling that way, for not being strong enough to be both parents to you. So I pulled away. I told myself I was giving you space, but really I was just protecting myself from the pain."

Louis listened, his heart aching with the weight of years of misunderstanding. "I thought you didn't love me anymore. I thought you blamed me for his death, for not being there when he needed me most."

"Never," she said fiercely, reaching across the space between them to grasp his hand. "I never blamed you, Louis. I blamed myself. I blamed God. I blamed the drunk driver who took him from us. But never you. You were the best thing in my life, the only good thing that came from my marriage to your father. And I ruined it. I ruined us because I was too weak, too broken, to be the mother you deserved." In turn, Louis shared his own struggles, his own fears, his own deep-seated belief that he was unlovable, that anyone who got close to him would eventually leave or be destroyed by his darkness.

By the time dawn rolled around, painting the winter sky in shades of pale pink and gold, Louis felt lighter than he had in twenty years. The emotional weight he'd been carrying – the anger, the resentment, the deep-seated belief that he was unlovable – had finally begun to lift, replaced by something fragile but real: hope. The conversation with his mother had been exhausting in every possible way, mentally and emotionally draining him to the point where he could barely form coherent sentences, but it had also been incredibly cathartic, like a deep wound that had been festering for years was finally being properly cleaned and dressed.

They had stayed up until nearly 4 AM, talking about everything and nothing, filling in the gaps in their shared history, acknowledging the pain they had both caused and endured. Louis learned about his mother's second marriage – how she had met Mark at a grief support group, how their friendship had slowly blossomed into love after years of knowing each other, how he had patiently helped her heal without trying to replace Louis's father or erase his memory. In turn, Louis shared his journey – the wild success, the deeper loneliness, the mistakes he'd made, the people he'd hurt.

Through it all, Mark sat with them, a quiet, steady presence who occasionally made tea or brought blankets or simply listened without judgment.

As the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the cottage windows, Louis made a promise to his mother that came from the deepest part of his newly healing heart. "I'll come visit as often as I can, Mum. Every other weekend, if that works for you and Mark. And I'll call – not just at Christmas or birthdays, but regularly. Actually be the son you always wanted and that I've always wanted to be."

This wasn't just an empty promise made in the heat of emotional revelation. Louis was already mentally planning, already thinking about logistics, already making real changes to ensure this promise would be kept. "I've already set up standing appointments in my calendar," he continued, his voice growing stronger with conviction. "Every other Saturday, blocked out for family time. I've arranged for a driver to be available whenever you want to visit London – just give him twenty-four hours' notice and he'll bring you to the city in style." He pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he made changes in real time. "And I'm setting up a trust fund – not because I think you need my money, but because I want you to have the freedom to travel, to pursue any interests you might have, to never have to worry about anything except being happy."

His mother watched him, tears streaming down her face, but these were different tears than the ones from the night before. These were tears of joy, of relief, of hope for a future she thought had been lost forever. "Louis, you don't have to–"

"I want to," he interrupted gently, taking her hand in his. "I need to. This isn't about buying your forgiveness or trying to make up for the past with money. This is about me taking responsibility for being the son you deserve, starting right now and continuing for the rest of our lives."

Chapter Text

Epilogue

The trip back to London was completely different from the journey there. The atmosphere in the car was lighter, filled with the comfortable silence of people who had said everything that needed to be said, who had found a level of peace that had eluded them for decades. Liam's children, who had been quiet and uncertain on the way to Doncaster, now chattered excitedly about the new friends they had met, about when they could go back to visit.

Liam kept glancing over at Louis, seeing the change in his friend with a mixture of awe and relief. "You look different, mate," he said finally, his voice soft with wonder. "I don't know how to explain it. Lighter, somehow. Like you've been carrying around something heavy for years and you finally put it down."

Louis nodded, understanding exactly what Liam meant. "I think I did, Li. I think I finally put down all the anger, all the resentment, all the bitterness. It wasn't serving me, you know? It was just weighing me down, keeping me from being the man I wanted to be, the friend you and others deserve."

The realization was profound – that forgiveness wasn't just for the other person's benefit, but for your own. That holding onto anger and resentment was like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. In forgiving his mother, in letting go of his own righteous indignation, Louis had freed himself in a way that nothing else ever had. Louis, Liam and the kids took off after breakfast the next day, Louis stopping by a phone shop and then Zayla's as he had wanted to the night before to check up on Allure.

She was still distraught but stable, surrounded by people who understood what she was going through. Louis was beginning to act like a different man – kinder, more patient, more present. He apologized to Zayla for all the cruel words and actions, for the years he had treated her as nothing more than a convenient assistant, for the times he had dismissed her concerns and ignored her humanity. He handed her a new, latest pre-released phone.

"For Wobby Wobbles. Since I broke hers." He said with a small smile.

Zayla rolled her eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. "Her name is Mara. Oh Louis – you're always going to be you and that's what I love."

Louis smiles and says "Nah, I'm going to be the best version of me. Doesn't still mean I can't give out nicknames. Yours is Za-Za and I wish you would do one photo shoot with my magazine, because I mean it when I say this; you are the prettiest woman I have ever laid my eyes on. I've thought so for years. I pushed you away and promising I'd be there and when you needed me, I didn't come and – that's why I stopped coming around so much after. After you told me it was alright. You said it with no anger, no frustration. Just acceptance, but I couldn't accept it. Couldn't accept that I was supposed to be your friend and I left you alone when you were hurting the worst and I thank God you had that other friend, because I wouldn't forgive myself if something would have happened. You've come such a long way, Zayla and I never said it before but I'm saying it now. I'm so proud of you. You found your inner peace and someday, I hope I find that too. I'm on that path, but I realized I can't do it alone. So, I want you to come out on a date with me. So I can show you the man who can be your friend and maybe...maybe in the future, something more?"

The proposal hung in the air between them, fragile and hopeful. Zayla's eyes widened in surprise, then softened with emotion. Allure, who had been listening from the couch where she was curled up with a cup of tea, watched them with a small smile despite her grief, seeing that something real had happened to Louis, that the darkness that had surrounded him for so long was finally starting to recede.

Zayla beamed, her smile bright enough to light up the entire room. "Yes, Louis. I'd like that very much."

The acceptance made Louis's day, made him feel like he could actually fly if he wanted to. He called Liam on his new cell phone after he left, feeling like a teenager again. "Mate, you won't believe it – I've got a date with the most beautiful woman in the universe and I'm going to need a refresher course from Mr. Cupid Payne himself."

Liam chuckled, the sound warm and genuinely amused. "I think we can arrange something. Meet me at that coffee shop tomorrow, yeah? We'll figure out how to not mess this up."

Zayla gave Louis the present he had seen under her tree when he was with Niall. It was wrapped simply but elegantly, the paper shimmering in the soft light of her apartment. When Louis opened it, he found a book called "Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People." It was meant as a gag gift, a playful reference to his notorious difficulty in business relationships and his reputation for being impossible to work with.

But something about the book resonated with Louis in a way he hadn't expected. The more Louis read it, the more he took that advice to heart, applying its principles to his business dealings, his relationships, his very approach to life. He learned the power of genuine appreciation, of remembering people's names, of listening more than he spoke. He discovered that influence didn't come from fear or intimidation, but from respect and mutual benefit. He started treating his employees like human beings instead of cogs in his money-making machine, and was surprised to discover that productivity and loyalty increased dramatically when people actually enjoyed working for him.

The book became his bible, his guide to navigating the world of human relationships that had always confused and frustrated him. He carried it with him everywhere, re-reading passages until the wisdom became second nature. His business partners were shocked by the transformation – the Louis Tomlinson who had once ruled his empire through fear and intimidation now led through inspiration and collaboration, bringing out the best in people rather than the worst.

Two years rolled by in a blur of change and growth, the time passing so quickly that Louis sometimes had to stop and remind himself that this was his real life, not some beautiful dream he would eventually wake up from. The transformation in him was so complete, so profound, that people who had known him for years barely recognized the man he had become. The cold, calculating businessman who had built an empire on the broken dreams of others had been replaced by someone who genuinely cared about people, who used his wealth and influence to help rather than harm.

Zayla and Louis were engaged in a small, intimate ceremony that was nevertheless attended by tons of people – friends, family, business associates, people whose lives Louis had touched through his various charitable initiatives. The wedding took place on a beautiful spring day, the gardens of Louis's country estate filled with flowers and laughter, the air thick with the scent of new beginnings and second chances. Louis had wanted to keep it small, but Zayla had gently reminded him that there were so many people who loved them, so many lives they had touched, who wanted to share in their joy.

The ceremony itself was simple but meaningful, with Louis writing his own vows that spoke of redemption, of learning to love, of becoming the man he had always been meant to be. Zayla's vows were equally heartfelt, speaking of patience, of seeing the good in him even when he couldn't see it himself, of the journey they had taken from friends to something much more precious. When they kissed as husband and wife, there wasn't a dry eye in the house – even Louis's hardened business associates were seen discreetly wiping at their eyes. A year after their wedding, Zayla gave birth to a boy; Adam Tomlinson, much to Louis's delight. His gentle and kind nature freed Louis's soul a little more each day, making him a better man, a better father, a better human being.

He made right the wrongs he could, systematically going through his past and attempting to heal the wounds he had inflicted on others. Some things couldn't be fixed, some damage couldn't be undone, but he learned that genuine remorse coupled with meaningful action could go a long way toward healing even the deepest hurts.

He set up the girl whose life he had ruined because she rejected him with a job as his secretary. Instead of being stuck in a dead-end waitress position, struggling to make ends meet while dealing with the trauma of his cruel rejection, she was now making more in one year than she would have made as a doctor. But Louis didn't stop there – he paid for her to go back to school if she wanted, supported her dreams of becoming a songwriter, helped her reclaim the future he had tried to steal from her. She became one of his most trusted employees, her intelligence and creativity finally given the chance to shine, her bitterness gradually replaced by genuine respect and eventually, friendship.

Louis became better than what was expected of him, pouring his resources and energy into causes that mattered. He opened up music programs in disadvantaged communities across the UK, creating safe spaces where young people could explore their creativity, learn instruments, and discover the healing power of music. He hired mentors and counselors, people who had walked similar paths and could offer genuine guidance and support. These programs became models for similar initiatives around the world, helping thousands of kids avoid ending up jailed for years or addicted to drugs or alcohol.

But his charitable work went far beyond music. He funded hospitals and schools, sponsored scholarships for underprivileged students, created foundations to support families dealing with childhood illnesses. He learned that the greatest joy came not from accumulating wealth, but from giving it away strategically, from using his resources to create real, lasting change in the world. He toured again, but this time his family traveled with him, turning the tours into family adventures rather than soul-crushing business obligations. The road became their classroom, each new city an opportunity for learning and growth. His children saw the world in a way most people only dreamed of, but more importantly, they saw their father work – not the cold businessman he had been, but the passionate musician he had always been at heart, the man who genuinely cared about his fans and wanted to give them experiences they would never forget.

The tours were different now. Instead of focusing solely on profit and publicity, Louis designed them around community service and connection. He arranged free concerts in underserved communities, visited hospitals and schools, used his platform to highlight local charities and causes. His band members, who had once been terrified of him, now respected and admired him, inspired by his transformation and eager to be part of something meaningful.

Zayla and the children often joined him on stage during encore performances, creating moments of pure family joy that audiences found incredibly moving. The press wrote about the new Louis Tomlinson – the family man, the philanthropist, the artist who had somehow managed to soften without losing his edge. Critics said his music had deepened, that his performances now carried an emotional weight and authenticity that had been missing before, that he sang not just with his voice but with his soul.

These tours became pilgrimages of sorts, journeys of redemption that took Louis back to places he had once burned bridges, offering apologies where they were due, making amends where possible, and learning that some wounds could indeed heal with time, effort, and genuine remorse.

They added three more kids to the mix beside Adam – two girls and one more boy, making it an even four children: two girls and two boys. Each pregnancy was cherished, each birth celebrated, each child treasured for their unique personality and gifts. All of them were two to three years apart, each one unique and loved beyond measure.

Adam was the oldest, a gentle soul who inherited Louis's musical talent but none of his early arrogance. He played piano with a sensitivity that brought tears to Louis's eyes, composed melodies that spoke of hope and healing. He grew up to be a doctor, following Louis's passion for helping others but choosing medicine instead of business, saying that healing people directly was his calling.

The first daughter, Eleanor – named after his first real love, was fierce and brilliant, a combination of Louis's determination and Zayla's compassion. She became a lawyer, fighting for the underprivileged and advocating for change, using her privilege and education to make the world a more just place.

Thomas, the second boy, was artistic and free-spirited, drawn to visual arts rather than music. He painted murals in disadvantaged communities, taught art therapy to trauma survivors, saw beauty in places others had given up on. His gentle nature and creative vision reminded Louis daily of the power of art to heal and transform.

The youngest, Grace, was the family's heart – empathetic and nurturing, wise beyond her years. She became a teacher, working with special needs children, seeing the potential in every student, believing in the kids that others had labeled as lost causes. Her patience and love inspired not just her students but everyone around her.

Each child was raised knowing their father's story – the darkness of his early years, the transformation that had saved him, the lessons he had learned through pain and redemption. They grew up understanding that everyone deserves a second chance, that wealth came with responsibility, that the greatest success was measured not in what you accumulated but in what you gave away. Louis felt lighter each day, as if with each good deed, each act of kindness, each moment of genuine connection, another link fell away from the chains that had bound him for so long.

As the years rolled by, as he got older, he never forgot the three spirits or Simon, that changed the course of his life. He thanked them every day, often in quiet moments of reflection or in prayers whispered in the dark of night. Every year at Christmas, he and his kids would visit the children's hospital and donate to less fortunate families, keeping the tradition alive and ensuring that the lessons he had learned would be passed down to the next generation. These Christmas visits became legendary in their community – not just for the generous gifts they brought, but for the genuine connection they made with each child, each family, knowing their names and their stories, remembering their progress from year to year.

Louis made it a point to spend time with every child, to listen to their dreams, to encourage their hopes, to see the person behind the illness or disability. His children learned from his example, developing their own relationships with the patients, becoming big brothers and sisters to kids who needed someone to look up to, someone to believe in them.

He kept Christmas with him and lived as though it were Christmas every day, understanding that the good will of man was abundant and that it only took a handful of people doing one act of kindness to make a small difference in the world. His definition of success changed completely – no longer measured in record sales or profit margins, but in the number of lives he had touched, the amount of hope he had inspired, the love he had given and received.

The Louis Tomlinson Foundation, which he established in his forties, became one of the most effective charitable organizations in the world, known for its transparency, its efficiency, and its genuine commitment to creating lasting change rather than just temporary fixes. Louis poured millions into it, but more importantly, he poured his time, his energy, his heart into its work, rolling up his sleeves and getting personally involved in every major initiative.

It was many, many years later that he finally got to see Niall again one final time. The years had passed in a beautiful tapestry of love and loss, of joy and sorrow, of a life lived fully and without regret. Louis had lived long enough to see his children grow up, to watch them become parents themselves, to hold his grandchildren and great-grandchildren in his arms and marvel at the miracle of creation, at the way life continued to renew itself even as his own body began to fail.

He was older – much older, having lost Zayla a year before at the age of 89. Her death had been peaceful, a gentle fading in her sleep after a long and happy life filled with love and purpose. Louis had missed her every single day since, the ache of her absence a constant companion even as he took comfort in the knowledge that they would be together again someday. His stepfather had passed away years before, and his mother had followed not long after, surrounded by family and love, her final years filled with the relationship with Louis that she had always dreamed of having.

His birthday – ironically, was the same day he stood with Niall, at the age of 92, watching the heart monitors on him fail and go flat. The irony wasn't lost on him – that his life should end on Christmas Eve, the same night that had changed everything decades ago. But there was no fear in his heart, only acceptance and a sense of completion, of coming full circle. He was surrounded by family and friends, volunteers, co-workers; grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but there was one person who never left his side. Liam – who had stuck with him through everything and was doing relatively well these days, sat holding his hand, his grip steady and reassuring even as Louis's grip weakened.

Louis's last words before he felt himself released were thanking Liam for being the best friend a bloke could have. It was a testament to their decades-old friendship that had survived through thick and thin, through wealth and poverty, through darkness and light. The friendship had ended in a hospital that thanks to Louis's generosity, was able to give the best care to their end-of-life patients, ensuring that no one had to die alone or in pain.

Louis greeted Niall like an old friend when he saw it was him who would be helping him cross over. There was no fear, no reluctance – only recognition and a sense of coming home. He took the ghost's arm and saw himself in the most beautiful place he had ever seen in his life. His soul was weightless, free from pain and suffering, and he was in his twenties again, strong and healthy and full of life.

His name was being called from a distance. He saw it was his father and mum and stepfather and sisters – who had been waiting for him. A smile crossed his face as he ran to them, hearing another call, this one deeper and unmistakably British. He turned and saw Harry – young as he remembered him, still wearing that ridiculous Christmas sweater but looking happier than Louis had ever seen him. And Zayn – without a cigarette but still had that cocky smirk as he spotted him.

"You didn't end up in Hell after all? Oh man, I owe Harry a fiver." He snickered, knowing no money or currency mattered here where they were – whatever you would call this place, but as long as it had people he knew; Louis would call it Heaven. Both former spirits were hanging out and around, finally at peace after their long service.

Louis waved, continuing toward his father and his mum, waiting for his children and grandchildren to join them, praying that after he was gone they kept the Christmas traditions of helping the less fortunate alive. With any luck, none of his offspring would be getting visited by three spirits any time soon, but if that happened, he hoped they would be as good as Harry, Zayn and Niall.

The ending wasn't really an ending at all, Louis realized as he ran toward his waiting family. It was just a new beginning, another chapter in a story that would continue through his children, his grandchildren, and all the lives he had touched during his time on Earth. The lessons he had learned, the love he had discovered, the redemption he had earned – these things would ripple through time, touching lives he would never know, creating a legacy of kindness and compassion that would far outlast his time on Earth.

And for the first time in his long, complicated life, Louis Tomlinson was finally, truly at peace. The chains that had bound him for so long were gone, replaced by the invisible bonds of love – love for his family, love for his friends, love for the countless strangers whose lives he had touched through his generosity and compassion. He had learned that true wealth wasn't measured in pounds or property, but in the number of lives you had improved, the amount of love you had given and received, the difference you had made in the world.

As he reached his family, his father wrapping him in a hug that felt like coming home, Louis understood the final truth that had eluded him for so long. Heaven wasn't a place you went to after you died – it was something you carried inside you, something you built through a lifetime of choices, of love, of courage, of being willing to change when you needed to change. And Louis Tomlinson, once a man bound by chains of his own making, had finally learned to fly.