Chapter 3: Llanchetlon

Harry was utterly baffled. Had he hit his head when he had been beaten? That was the only explanation for the bizarre events of the last few days. There was no feasible way that he could be sitting in a field when he had only two minutes ago been asleep in a hollow tree in a forest. Put that way, the latter part also sounded crazy. He must be dreaming. Harry sighed. It had been a good dream until the strange people had arrived. Normally he had nightmares; of his cousin; or Uncle Vernon; or the recurring nightmare he had which he suspected was of the day his parents died. All he would dream was a flash of green light, and a blinding pain on his forehead, which he supposed must be where he hit his head in the car crash.

He sat up cautiously, examining his surroundings. It was strange. He recognized his surroundings vaguely from a postcard he had seen from his Aunt Marge. She had been to a national dog show in Wales once, and written with gifts for the Dursleys and a burst ball for a six year old Harry. He shrugged inwardly, wincing at the pain it brought to his bruises. Spending the night in a tree had not helped, but he had been warm. He scanned himself mentally. His back hurt, and his nose still ached, but other than that, he was fine. He was pleased to see that he still had his bag with him. He riffled through it in search of food. Finding a packet of crisps, he walked towards the edge of the snow-covered field. He could see a narrow road winding alongside it, dotted with a cluster of cottages here and there. He would have to trick someone into telling him where he was, even if it was only a dream. He wanted some proof that the last two days had happened.

At the first house he passed, a woman was adjusting her Christmas lights outside the cottage. They were very pretty. Aunt Petunia had never allowed Christmas lights at Privet Drive; she said that they were common and nasty. He finished his breakfast quickly, then made up his mind. He had always been told never to talk to strangers, but he needed information. He gathered his nerve and approached her.
"Excuse me miss? Could you help me please?"

The woman jumped and almost lost her balance on the stepladder she was standing on. She quickly recovered her composure and smiled at him.

"Hello? What's your name, dear?"

"James," he lied quickly. "I'm travelling with my dad and he's got us lost. I left him back there-" he gestured vaguely. "-so I could find out where we are."

The woman beamed. "Why, of course. You're in Llanchetlon, which is a few miles from- why, my dear, what happened to your nose?"

Damn.Harry had forgotten all about that.

"I tripped over a stone a few days ago. We were on our way to visit my granny when we got lost. I guess I'll be going them; thank you for your help."

He smiled at her and then he turned to leave. The woman's voice called out after him.

"Where does your granny live then? I'll get you a map."

Whydid this woman have to be so nice? It really wasn't helpful right now. All Harry wanted was to be somewhere no one could find

He brushed his hair out of his eyes and tried frantically to think of a place in Wales near Llanchetlon, but as he glanced up, the woman's eyes were riveted to the thin lightning shaped scar on Harry's forehead. With an effort to be casual, she said, "Where did you say you'd left your dad?"
Harry couldn't answer. He wanted to run but was rooted to the spot. The woman suddenly shrieked, "PAUL! Get out here quick!"

A balding man rushed out of the cottage.

"Maria! What's wrong?"

Maria pointed at Harry. "That's Harry Potter! He was on the news a minute ago, he ran away from home! Dumbledore's been going frantic!"

Paul turned to Harry, who paled, briefly wondered who Dumbledore was, then started running. He didn't know where he was running to, but he made only a few meters before Paul tackled him. They hit the snowy ground hard, rolling over and over until Paul was holding Harry to the ground. Harry struggled and screamed and kicked and yelled, until Maria pulled a long thin piece of wood out of her pocket.
Her voice was kind and reasonable, but firm.

"Harry, I would really rather not hurt an eight year old boy, but you have to calm down."

"I'm nine!" yelled Harry in between screams. At the present moment he, at least, felt it necessary to point that out. He tried to push Paul over, but Paul just tightened his grip, unknowingly squeezing a highly bruised area of Harry's shoulder. He howled in pain and desperation.
Maria raised the stick. Harry cowered behind Paul but she didn't hit him with it. Instead, she shouted, "Stupefy!" A flash of light blossomed out of her stick which caused Harry to fall into the blackness of unconsciousness.