all our younger years (l.s.)

4: 3 weeks until the end

Nick Grimshaw was, arguably, one of the worst people in the history of the entire universe.

He was so unbelievably stupid that, at nineteen years of age, he was still in Harry's grade in school; not only was he one of the most daft and idiotic people to ever walk the face of the planet, but he was also an absolute arse. He wasn't civilized in the slightest; he was the classic spoiled brat of a kid that got anything he wanted simply because people couldn't be bothered to care about him. And, where most people would hate that, he used it to his utmost advantage, asking for anything and everything and throwing a fit if he didn't get what he demanded instantaneously. Harry, unfortunately, knew from experience that the boy's tantrums were the kind found in nightmares.

Mm. It would be quite lovely if he was the one to be responsible for putting an end to the insufferable madness of Nicholas Grimshaw and his wrath at school.

All that was left to do, really, was find out what Louis' plan entailed, and it should be easy as pie.

After all, it couldn't be too bad, right? Louis wasn't a bad person and he would never willingly cause an innocent person major bodily harm.

The two key words being innocent and major, the former as the exact opposite of their target, and the latter as what their course of action would most certainly result in.

Louis drew a map, for starters. An incredibly detailed map of Nick's house, from the garden path to the mailbox all the way around to the yard and the back patio (his house was one of the more high-end ones in the town), and though Harry had no idea why such excessive specificity was necessary, he wasn't complaining because he was, in fact, intrigued by the absolute detail of it all.

They were hunched over Harry's desk at five in the evening, about two hours before they had been told dinner was to be prepared. There were five puppies curled up in a laundry basket underneath the old, shitty piece of furniture, shifting every once in awhile with adorable snorts, the five others in a plastic storage bin insulated with blankets that had been tucked discreetly underneath his bed. The summer had been pretty epic so far. And they were gonna be utilizing the puppies that they had rescued as weapons of mass destruction, which, frankly, made Harry really fucking excited.

Louis hummed lightly under his breath as he worked. The sun was setting behind them and the room was pleasantly warm but not hot. Harry would've been bored, but he instead just felt a nice, pleasant sense of calm. This was nice.

Nice, now, really served as a reminder of what was to come. Which then felt pretty shitty.

"How are we supposed to get inside his window?" he curiously inspected the small lines of arrows that Louis had carefully drawn.

"My dad kept a ladder in the basement," he chimed casually. "Might as well use it!"

"What do the red lines mean?"

"That's our course."

"What do the blue lines mean?"

"That's where the puppies go."

Harry quirked an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. "How do the puppies know where to go?"

Louis capped his marker, running a hand through his already tousled hair and balancing on the back legs of his chair.

"Alright, so you know how dogs herd sheep, right?" he explained, a frank and serious expression on his face, "It's like that. Except instead of sheep it's puppies, and instead of dogs it's Nick Grimshaw, screaming as he escapes his bedroom after we release one of those gnarly stink bombs in there, yeah? He runs from the room, chases the puppies. He won't be able to get to his lovely parents' room because not only are we using the dogs but we're using their shit as well! And then he'll run downstairs, which is where we'll be waiting. With water guns." He grinned, holding out his fist in a bragging invitation.