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The technician squints against the dying sunset, shifting the toolbox in her left hand.
“Hello?” she repeats, raising her other fist. Knock knock knock. “I’m Ginny.” She gestures at the logo on the pocket of his jumpsuit. “From SONN? I’m here to install the new streaming service.”
His hand freezes on the doorknob. He’s not typically the sort to extend automatic disgust towards how someone earns a living. Getting laid off and moving back in with your horrific aunt and uncle is the sort of thing that humbles your sense of superiority. But when it comes to SONN, or Source One News Network, he’ll always make an exception.
So he cracks the door, just enough for her to hear him. “This isn’t my house, and I don’t know anything about a streaming service.”
“It’s right here in the contract!” A white paper flutters into the view against the crack in the door. “You can read it, if you want, but it’s already been signed by a Mrs, uh…” She’s trying to interpret Aunt Petunia’s signature. Good luck.
He swings the door open with a pained sigh, revealing Ginny, in the flesh. If he were the type to binge-watch crime dramas during his unemployment (guilty), he’d probably assert that this Ginny character belongs in one. She carries herself with a shrewd beauty, her thick red hair pulled into a ponytail. Well-defined muscles threaten to burst from the shoulders of her jumpsuit, and he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she’s the sort of woman who could…
He swallows, ripping his gaze away. He can’t even entertain the thought while knowing about her employer. Still, he pities anyone who has to endure his aunt, if only via signature.
“Mrs Dursley,” he finally allows.
Ginny flicks the paper in relief. “Dursley! Sorry, that was a tough one.” She rolls up the contract and shoves it in her jumpsuit pocket. “Anyway, like I said, I’m here from SONN. Your parents wanted me to install their newest feature— SONNShine! 24/7 streaming access to all of our old broadcasts.”
Her feet give a hopeful bounce. This is one of those moments where he has to weigh the options. What’s the best course of action— an outright lie, or a trauma-dump? He’s just decided upon the elusive third option, ignoring the assumption of parentage and addressing the actual content, when she takes the reins.
“I take it you’re… not a fan of SONN?” Ginny hedges, a twinkle in her eye.
Oh. He swallows again. Honestly, he’d been thinking more about how her thighs crushing his neck would probably be the best way to go out, but he thinks he recovers well enough.
“Uh, no,” he says curtly. It’s also the truth. He’s convinced that Vernon and Petunia Dursley were born deeply unpleasant people, but SONN made everything worse. Absolutely everything. It’s amplified the worst parts of them. If he thought they were hateful before, it’s nothing compared to now.
Ginny casts a furtive look into the house behind him. “If it helps,” she murmurs, dropping her voice, “I’m not either. But bills don’t pay themselves, you know?” She pulls a pained grimace. “If you let me in, I’ll install this, and get out of your hair. I promise.”
Part of him wants to refuse with a stern lecture about sacrificing morals for money.
But just yesterday, Aunt Petunia spent hours reminding him of his relative uselessness. As he filled out job applications from his laptop, which only gets signal from the living room, she’d bustled around the kitchen to “clean.” Except for people like Petunia, there’s no such thing as simple cleaning. Every act of would-be benevolence is a weapon. On this occasion, it was a golden opportunity to loudly complain about “feeding the homeless” and “missing her chance to be canonized for her efforts,” while Vernon added commentary from his chair, SONN blaring in the background.
What truly stung the worst was that they had a point. He was homeless. His options were sleeping outside during a cold front, or living beneath their roof until he could get an apartment somewhere— anywhere. Dudley’d long since gone no-contact with any of them or he might’ve reached out to him, too. As was, he had no choice but to swallow his pride and listen. Same as always.
So when Ginny stands on the doorstep now, her toolbox heavy in one hand as she waits for him to decide, something in his brain misfires. She just peers at him with a firm sense of resolution, her deep brown doe eyes reflecting the setting sun. He knows that if he doesn’t move, she’ll move him… and to be honest, they’re both compelling options. Shit.
His Adam’s apple bobs. He’s fully aware of how ridiculous he’s being, of course. Even apart from the weird fantasies, she could easily be lying. But even if this were some crime-show mistake where he let the wrong person in, at least it would be different from being berated to death by his aunt and uncle.
So he blinks at Ginny again. Even if he asked Petunia, she’d probably scold him for doubting that more SONN could ever be a bad thing.
“C’mon in,” he mutters, holding the door open.
Ginny smiles. “Thanks, Harry. I’ll move fast.”
He stiffens. She strides past him in the small foyer, smelling like something floral. Something lovely. It’s almost enough to distract him from— “Er,” he manages, “h-how did you know my name?”
“I must’ve seen it on the contract!” she says cheerfully, taking an immediate left turn… past the living room?
The giant TV, blaring SONN 24/7, remains untouched. He hates that thing with every fiber of my soul. It’s a cursed object. One that didn’t change my aunt and uncle so much as give them permission to be worse.
So why isn’t Ginny, the streaming technician, going towards it?
She hangs left and answers his silent question. “I’m starting with the kitchen! Main hub of the house, lots of electricity moving through it!”
That makes no sense, but it’s not why a chill shoots through him. The warm interior lighting catches her properly now, and he notices details he missed at the door. A thin scar disappears beneath the collar of her jumpsuit. Another, older one cuts across the back of her knuckles. These are the kinds of marks you get from fights. Or work that doesn’t come with HR videos. Or tattoos that didn’t take the first time.
She looks used to being handled roughly and doing the same in return.
Harry’s pulse stutters before he forces himself to breathe. He needs to stop letting his brain spin stories. This isn’t a crime drama. Plenty of people have scars. Plenty of people look tough and still fix cable boxes for a living. Hell, maybe it’s one of the few jobs she can get. He even ponders the possibility that SONN offers some sort of program aimed at hiring ex-cons until he realizes they’d never touch anything even remotely philanthropic. Right.
At any rate, he drifts toward the kitchen under the pretense of curiosity. And also to be closer to the knife block— even though he knows that’s a lie as soon as he thinks it, because truthfully, what’s going to do against muscles like those? Still, he assumes there’s no harm in watching a technician work the job they’re alleged to have.
When he reaches the kitchen, though, she isn’t checking outlets or tracing wires; she’s opening cabinets. One after another, efficient and purposeful, like she already knows what she’s looking for. He’d probably have more questions about it if he weren’t desperately trying to avoid admiring the shape of her backside as she leans over to open the cabinet doors above the cooker. Ah, the supplements. That’s where Petunia stores them. Since moving back, he’s discovered that Petunia’s fixation on health has morphed into an obsession. Harry lived away from them for two whole years, and he reckons she purchased a SONN product each day that entire time. Hateful programming isn’t enough of a grift for SONN, see. They also hawk powders, pills, supplements, meal replacements… basically anything they can sell, under the guise of “health,” all while working to destroy any foundations of public health that already exist.
Ginny removes a deep red canister from the cabinet and studies it like evidence. He can read the large lettering from here: SONN RENEWAL FORMULA. ORIGINAL FAMILY RECIPE.
Suddenly, the weirdness of the whole thing catches up to him.
“Why are you in the cabinets?” he asks, edging toward the knife block. It’s an odd feeling, seeking to defend yourself while knowing you’d already be dead if she wanted you that way.
“I need to confirm something before we start,” she mutters, eyes narrowed on the canister.
Luckily, the knife block’s inches away from now. Just beyond reach. So close. His fingers graze the cool metal, his hand closing on the handle, when quick as a flash, Ginny notices. Dammit.
“Whoa!” She spreads her palms, dropping the supplement. “Calm down, okay?”
But panic rises in his throat… because that woman definitely doesn’t know customer service if he’s telling him to calm down. And as someone who just put in a job application at McDonald’s, he’d know.
He still harbors a fantasy he’ll escape as he bolts from the kitchen, chef’s knife in his fist. His feet pound the hallway, the open door beckoning him, just feet away! YES! He’s going to—
Darkness shrouds his path. He lets out a roar as Ginny towers over him, deftly seizing his wrist. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she growls.
“Get away from me!” he bellows, struggling against her hands. Somehow, he knows the whole thing is even less manly than he thinks.
Ginny just sighs, exasperated. “Where are your parents?”
“They aren’t my parents!” he manages, more offended at the assumption than he thought he’d be, “but they’re d-downstairs! My aunt’s crafting! She’s always—”
He slams his mouth shut. Why was he giving her information?
“And your… uncle? I’m guessing?” Ginny’s grip doesn’t budge, but he keeps wriggling anyway.
“I… don’t know!” His head spins. “Sleeps all day. Drinks all night. Does it matter?”
A sad smile tilts Ginny’s lip. “When’s the last time you saw them during the day?”
The question stops him cold.
When did he last see them in daylight?
Petunia’s been quilting the basement for weeks, curtains drawn. Vernon either sleeps or watches TV from the cave of the living room, then leaves after dark to return before sunrise. That’s… normal for retirement. Right?
“Listen,” Ginny commands, her eyes meeting his. “Your aunt and uncle are not who you think they are.”
There’s no way she’s right. And what the hell does she even mean, anyway? This is his family. Awful, yes, but familiar!
But Ginny isn’t lying. He sees it in her eyes, the way they thrum with firm sincerity.
“You’re the one who didn’t come in until I invited you!” Harry says, the words tumbling out. He doesn’t have the good sense to be embarrassed before he plows on. “And you have all these weird sexy scars, and muscles, and tattoos! If anyone’s acting strange, it’s you!”
She pauses, the corner of her lip lifting, as the weight of what he actually said crests over him. Good God… if he hadn’t wanted to die before, he’ll now welcome the sweet release of death with a warm hug. “Harry,” Ginny says slowly, as though she’s fighting a laugh, “I’m allowed to be odd. I don’t live here. The people who really should scare you are the ones who do.”
The implication hangs there, heavy.
“And the rest of it?” she continues quietly. “The way they avoid daylight. The locked rooms. The deliveries. You think all of that’s normal?”
Harry opens his mouth, then stops. He doesn’t have an answer that isn’t a deflection. And for the first time, the thought settles in that she’s telling him something he’s worked very hard not to see. Because the Dursleys took him in. It was literally his only option. What was he going to do? Object to their sudden obsession with health?
The basement door opens.
They both turn as Petunia squints against the light. “Who the hell is this?” she demands, voice raspy and worn.
Ginny finally releases Harry’s wrists and turns, her grin customer-service bright. “I’m here to install your SONN streaming service!”
“We didn’t order a streaming service.” Petunia’s eyes narrow.
Vernon appears behind her on the stairs… and that’s when he sees it. Really sees it. The way they move together, synchronized. The way their eyes catch the light and reflect it back, translucent.
Petunia takes a step toward Jared. “You’re not from SONN!”
“No,” Ginny agrees, her hand sliding into her pocket. “I’m not.”
Petunia moves so fast she blurs, but Ginny’s faster. The wooden stake’s in her hand before Petunia sees it coming, and then it’s driven into her chest, piercing her heart. Petunia screams, her eyes finding Harry’s.
Even now, in her dying moments, she regards him with disappointment. “You…couldn’t… even…open the door… right!” she gasps.
Then she’s a pile of ash. She disintegrates in Ginny’s arms, falling like gray snow on the hardwood floor.
Vernon roars in rage, the sound echoing and inhuman. He lunges at Ginny— a blur of limbs and fangs and… fangs?!
Harry grasp the chef’s knife as Vernon pins Ginny against the wall, those impossible fangs inches from her throat— but even when he know he’s a fucking vampire, he can only bring himself to hit the handle against the base of his skull. He regrets this almost instantly/ Vernon staggers back, furious and snarling… and Harry knows, beyond a doubt, that if Ginny hadn’t used his distraction to drive a stake through his heart, his uncle would’ve killed him.
Instead, Vernon crumbles like Petunia. Ash on ash. Dust to dust.
The silence is deafening.
Harry’s knife drops to the carpet with a dull thud. Ginny’s bleeding and pale, but standing steady.
“You’re not—” he can’t finish.
“No.” She wipes blood from her cheek. “I’m not like them.”
“B-but you moved so fast. You knew where the kitchen was. And about—” he gestures vaguely.
“It’s my job.” She brushes the ash that used to be his aunt off her arm. “They send us to platinum SONN Family Recipe subscribers. That’s what this contract is.”
She pulls it from his pocket, and Harry grabs it. Sure enough, there’s Petunia’s signature— but not for a streaming service. She willingly spent… he squints at the paper. A recurring ten thousand dollars a month on supplements?!
He’s dizzy with memories of her lectures on wastefulness. A month could’ve paid for an apartment, ten times over…
“The SONN programming comes first,” Ginny says softly. “The TV shows, the constant stream of anger and fear. I don’t know if these people fully understand everything— who expects to be a vampire?— but SONN gets them primed to fight. The formula just… finishes the job.”
“What’s in it for SONN?”
“SONN’s run by vampires too.” She shrugs like this is casual knowledge. “Hence the family recipe. They figured out, long ago, that immortal customers are more profitable. They buy shit forever.”
It makes the sickest sense. “And my aunt and uncle bought into it.” After all this time and all this abuse, they’re dead. And he still feels the stupidest pang of remorse.
Ginny’s eyes are warm as she studies him. “If it’s any consolation, by the time they started drinking, the people you knew were already gone.”
He thinks about the past month. The never-ending criticisms. The people who’d become lifeless and joyless, even by the Durselys’ standards. Parroting hateful quips from the TV that never turned off. The way they regarded him as the enemy.
Maybe all of that combined is why he follows Ginny through the front door. It’s the only thing to do. Behind them, the house is silent except for the TV, still playing for viewers who will never come.
Ginny pauses when they reach her van. “Not to be… weird about this, but my system did flag you as a possible employment acquisition.” She bounces on her toes again, uncomfortable. “We know you’re unemployed, see. And you’re not in the vampire demo. You’d probably be good at—”
“—That’s how you knew my name,” he whispers.
She has the decency to look pained. “Yeah. Super weird, I know. Forget I said anything. They just make me ask if—”
She rambles on as he glances back at his childhood home. The place where the Dursleys died, long before tonight.
“Does it pay?” he hears myself asking.
“Oh!” Her eyes brighten. “Pretty well, yeah. And there’s free housing.”
Shit. “Alright, then.”
She opens the passenger door, looking as surprised as he feels. He climbs into the van and buckles in, spying a sticker on the dash. LYCAN INDUSTRIES. If he weren’t numb, he’d give a delirious laugh.
“Who exactly… runs your company?”
The engine starts with a low growl that seems to echo in Ginny’s chest. “Let’s just say that we don’t do house calls on full moons.”