Harry Potter decided that he quite liked trains.

He'd spent the first week of the holidays wandering around Little Whinging in a daze. Because of Mad-Eye's threats, Vernon and Petunia hadn't assigned him any chores this summer – in fact, they'd spoken to him as little as possible, leaving him terse notes and shrinkwrapped food rather than speak a word to Harry's face. For the first few days Dudley had avoided Harry as well, but then stopped – instead, Dudley sometimes ate breakfast at the same time. Harry often caught his cousin staring at him with a strangely confused expression. Even more perplexing, one morning Harry had come down to find a cup of tea and buttered toast waiting for him, with Dudley nowhere to be found. Harry hadn't really thought about it; he'd given up trying to understand the Dursleys years ago.

On the second Monday in Surrey, Harry had walked away from Privet Drive, just moving without any thought of a destination. He had wandered past the train station and suddenly decided to buy a ticket, a round trip to the other side of the city. It had been peaceful, sitting and watching the city roll by. The rattle and sway of the train reminded him of the Hogwarts Express, of happy trips to school and morose trips back to the Dursleys, always spent in the company of his friends. Harry had simply sat on the train, empty of thought, until it reached the end of the line. Then he had transferred, and taken the train back. Now he took trains most days, using up the money the Dursleys left for him in the morning on tickets and meals from train station food courts.

Today was a Thursday, and Harry was sitting on the 5:28 to Surrey, watching streetlights flicker in and out of view. The train slowed, pulling into a station, and Harry watched the flow of people off and into the compartment. None of them knew, he thought dully. A war was coming, the greatest dark wizard of all time had been reborn, and none of them would know until someone in a skull mask walked in the door. Voldemort had a history of attacking the Muggle world, Remus had said – large-scale attacks that were difficult for the Ministry to cover up, draining resources from the fight against Voldemort himself. Harry could imagine Voldemort thinking that way. He ran his eyes over the crowd of Muggles, wondering what the chances were that one of them would be killed. Probably very low. There were lots of Muggles, after all, and very few Death Eaters. It would be a while before Voldemort worked his way around to Surrey.

Harry jerked his gaze away from the oblivious strangers and stared out the window at the cracked tiles on the wall of the station. He knew he was in a dark mood, the kind that Ron or Hermione usually pulled him out of, but without them he didn't know what to do. He contemplated a crack that run almost the full height of the tiles, turning one way and then the other. Harry traced it with his eyes, only vaguely aware of someone sitting next to him. His gaze reached the ceiling, and he stopped to look at the crack as a whole. It looked rather like a lightning bolt.

Or perhaps he was just being paranoid again. Harry sighed, very quietly, then jumped in his seat as someone spoke to him.

"Bad day, was it?" The speaker was a professional-looking woman dressed in a jacket and skirt. Harry had seen hundreds of them over the last week, but few of them had been wearing such a friendly smile. He blinked owlishly, and frowned.

"What makes you think that?" he said carefully, easing one hand into his jumper pocket and curling his fingers around his wand.

"Well, you sitting there like your dog died was a clue," she replied, and Harry narrowed his eyes. Was that a reference to Sirius? Was she a Death Eater? Harry couldn't imagine a Death Eater deigning to dress in Muggle clothes, but the sudden conversation seemed suspicious.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said flatly, and turned away from her, keeping her in edge of his vision. The woman huffed, and Harry felt a little embarrassed. He'd been horribly rude, but better safe than sorry. He was still tense, worked up and waiting for something to happen; but nothing did. The woman sat in stony silence all the way to Harry's stop, where they both got off. Harry kept his wand ready, watching her go, but she left the station without glancing back. Harry waited for a few minutes until the stream of people leaving the station died down, then began to walk back to Privet Drive.

Harry wandered past a series of shops, then cut through a small park: swings, bench, slide. The light from the street distorted the swing set, casting weird shadows on the summer-yellowed grass. It was strangely grim, matching Harry's mood precisely. The thought made him smile. On an impulse, Harry took a seat on the swing, and pushed off with his heels. The back and forth motion, rather like the swaying of the train, was calming. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a breath. He thought about the woman from the train. He'd been so rude, but he had honestly been afraid she was a Death Eater. He leaned his head against one of the swing's chains. So stupid. The blood protection was still working, there was no chance that Voldemort could find him.

There was a sudden crack, a noise Harry recognised after a moment as apparition. He froze, cheek pressed against the chain. Was it someone from the Order? Harry eased himself out of the swing seat, and moved over to the bench, as quietly as he could. He crouched behind the bench, trying to figure out where the echoing noise had come from. He sat there for what seemed a long time, listening to the faint sounds of nearby cars. Harry was just starting to wonder if it had been some other noise, a car backfiring or something, when he heard voices from across the park.

"Is it working?" The voice was male, rough with age.

"I'm trying," said a second voice, younger than the first, and female. "The damn thing gives me a location, then goes all red and shakes like it's going to break."

"Well, keep trying. The wards are probably interfering again."

"Interfering, right," the woman snarled. "It's working – oh, Merlin's beard, it's just giving me this garden, over and over." Harry tensed at the curse; these were definitely wizards, but what kind? He peered between the bench's slats, and saw two hooded shapes under a tree. Harry drew his wand and held it in trembling fingers. Where was the Order? Dumbledore had said he'd have guards this summer – if the two were Death Eaters, Harry was in trouble. And how had they found him?

"The cursed thing's useless," the woman muttered. "It didn't work yesterday, and it won't work now."

"He gave us a task," the man said calmly. "I suggest we try for more than half an hour. His temper's been chancy, ever since the raid on the Ministry; and Lestrange hasn't helped any." They were Death Eaters after all, talking about Lestrange that way. Harry stayed still behind his paltry cover. Where was the Order? They were supposed to be guarding him, although Harry hadn't noticed them yet.

"We've made, what, two dozen attempts? And every time we ended up in Muggle London. And always near, what are they, trem tracks! I think the bloody thing's broken!"

"And will you tell our Lord that?" The man said. There was a pause.

"Oh, fine," said the woman. "Let's look around. This is the first place that hasn't had great big metal things rushing past."

Damn. Harry thought his options through as the two Death Eaters lit their wands and began to circle the park. If the Order was going to help, they would have already intervened – so Harry was on his own. If he tried to run, they would hex him in the back. If he stayed still, they would probably find him eventually. His best option was to fight. Harry felt sick at the idea. He was no match for one Death Eater, let alone two. Would they be trying to capture him, or kill him? Harry couldn't decide which would be worse.

One of the Death Eaters was coming towards him, ambling between the slide and the swing set. Harry could see a little of the skull-mask, behind the harsh glare of the light charm. He took a slow, deep breath. Now was the time to attack, when he had a chance at catching one of them by surprise. His legs felt stiff, as if he'd been crouched for hours rather than a minute or two. Harry swallowed against the bad taste in his mouth, trying to remember everything he'd practiced with the D.A., and jumped to his feet in one desperate motion.

"Stupefy! Stupefy!" Harry threw a pair of quick stunners at the nearby Death Eater, and one of them struck, slamming the hooded figure back against the slide. Harry turned to the clump of trees where the other Death Eater was, and hastily threw up a barrier at the flash of purple light. The air shivered as a curse splintered apart against Harry's shield. The Death Eater cast something else, aimed at the bench this time. Harry saw the woods glowing with an ugly orange light, and threw himself to the ground as it exploded.

Something stung Harry's back as he hit the ground. He twisted around, the grass coold and wet against his belly, and threw a blasting hex in the general direction of the Death Eater. Hearing a muffled curse, Harry scrambled to his feet and aimed at the bobbing light of the Death Eater's wand. "Confringo. Percutio. Percutio." The exploding curse struck a tree with a dull crumptt, throwing dust and splinters around Harry's opponent. Harry had no idea if his piercing hexes had hit or not, and he threw another exploding curse into the dust. A pulse of blue light shot out of the trees in response, the edge of it catching the side of Harry's left thigh before he could shield.

Red-hot pain seared through his leg, and Harry collapsed to his knees as he threw a desperate blasting hex at the Death Eater. Harry clenched his teeth, breathing quick and shallow, and tried to stand. His thigh felt covered in fire, every nerve protesting the movement with jolts of agony. Harry fell down again with a low cry. He landed with his weight on his left forearm, and for some reason that sent a stabbing pain through his back. Harry couldn't believe it. This wasn't nearly as bad as the Cruciatus, or Voldemort's possession spell. How dare his body do this now! Shoving with his elbows, Harry managed to rise to his knees. He raised his wand, ready to block the next curse.

Nothing came. The park was silent, save for the wind in the trees.

Harry stood up, and this time kept his feet. Wand up, he walked over to the pool of light still cast by the second Death Eater's wand. The hooded figure was lying against a tree a few feet away from the wand, and looked unconscious. Harry stunned them just in case, and limped back to the first Death Eater. Their mask had come off, but Harry didn't know the blonde woman sprawled against the weathered metal slide. She was holding something. Harry lowered himself to the ground with one hand on the edge of the slide, putting his weight against the metal rather than his injured leg. He reached out with his left hand, but the stabbing pain shot across his back again and Harry had to bite back a curse.

Harry stuck his wand back in his jumper pocket and pulled the object out of the woman's grasp. It was made of metal, round and cool in his hand. Harry lit his own wand for a better look. It was a pocket watch, but when Harry popped it open, instead of hands its face showed elegant cursive writing: Harry Potter – Larkin Park, Surrey. Something to track him, Harry assumed. But why was it working? Shouldn't the blood wards…Harry grimaced as he tucked the watch away in his jeans pocket. The blood wards would be working, unless…weren't they bound to Aunt Petunia? Harry's eyes went wide. He had to get back to Privet Drive, had to check on the Dursleys – and get Mrs Figg to send a message to Dumbledore.

Harry went to walk out of the park, only for his leg to throb with pain again. He lowered the end of his wand to look at where the curse had hit, and winced. His jeans were charred black, burnt away from his leg in a rough half-circle four or five inches across; the exposed skin was a livid red. "Aguamenti," Harry murmured, and sighed in relief as water flowed from his wand and ran across his wound. It felt a little better, more of an ache than a burning pain. Not a healing spell, but good enough. He had to hurry.

"Accio wands," he said before he left, and had tostick his own wand in his mouth to catch the Death Eaters' wands with his one working hand. He pocketed them as well, and began to limp out of the park, holding his left arm as still as possible against his stomach. Harry knew he wouldn't be able to get to Privet Drive like this. As much as the idea stung, he needed to hide until the Order, or maybe the Ministry, showed up. Hadn't he just violated the Restriction of Under-Age Sorcery about a dozen times? They would be here soon. Harry clung to that thought as he staggered out of the park, back past the row of shops.

After ten or twenty paces – time and distance seemed to blur for Harry – he stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a dingy public telephone stall. The rush of terrified energy was leaving him; without it, Harry felt battered. Exhausted. What was he supposed to do now, send up red sparks and wait for Dumbledore to come save him? As if that had ever worked before. God, he was tired. But he needed to get help, needed to warn the Dursleys-

Harry would have slapped himself, but it was too much effort. Holding onto the top of the telephone stall, he stepped around so he was in front of it. He belatedly canceled the light charm on his wand, and placed it on top of the decaying phone book inside the phone stall. Putting coins into the phone and dialling was a little awkward when only one arm was working, but Harry managed it. He dialed the Dursleys' number, and was surprised when Dudley answered it right away.

"Harry? Is that you?" Harry blinked at the desperation in Dudley's voice.

"Er, yeah," he replied hoarsely, a bit surprised at how rough his own voice was. "Dudley, are you alright?"

"Harry, you've got to come home," Dudley said, his voice quavering. It wasn't the fake-distress that Harry remembered from Dudley's temper tantrums, it was a voice close to tears.

"Dudley, what's happened?"

"Mum's dead, Harry," Dudley said brokenly. "She's dead. She was driving and someone hit her."

Harry took a moment to realise what Dudley was saying. He had thought Aunt Petunia had something to do with the blood wards going down, but…he had never really considered that she might be dead. It seemed wrong, somehow. Harry had fought for his life, had seen people die – but always far away from Privet Drive and the Dursleys. The idea that something as chaotic as death could intrude upon the Dursleys…it was hard to grasp.

"Dudley," Harry said, as calmy as possible. He was feeling something now: fear now that the wards were down, grief for an aunt he'd never liked, sadness that he wasn't more sorry for her death. But he knew that this wasn't the time for emotion. Sirius had taught him that. "Is Vernon there?"

"No," said Dudley, and he sniffed. Harry realised with a start that Dudley was crying. "He's at the hospital, they needed him to identify Mum."

"Dudley, I'm sorry Petunia's dead." And he was, or a part of him was. "But you're in danger. You've got to get out of the house. Go to Mrs Figg, tell her to get Dumbledore and the Order, and to tell them that the wards are down."

"What?" Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

"There was magic protecting me – us. It's broken now that Petunia's dead. They're going to come for you. Dudley, you've got to get to Mrs Figg."

"Is it Vuh, Voldermart?"

"Yes. Please, get to Mrs Figg. Tell her to get Dumbledore. Tell her that the wards are down. Don't go back to Privet Drive!" Harry said urgently, then had to stop to take a few deep breaths.

"Okay." Dudley's voice was a little stronger now. "I'll tell her." There was an uncertain pause. "Are you all right?"

Harry leaned against the side of the stall, wincing as the movement made his back flare with pain once more. What had happened to it? He couldn't remember being hit by a curse there.

"'m fine. Tell Mrs Figg. I'm going now." He hung up, and looked up and down the quiet line of shopfronts. He couldn't walk far, so he'd have to hide. Looking across the street at a line of houses, he saw that one had a nice garden with a tall, neatly-trimmed hedge. There were no lights on in the house. Picking up his wand from the phone book, Harry limped across the street and fumbled the wrought-iron gate open. Setting his right shoulder against the hedge, he slid downwards and to the right, keeping his left leg straight. His thigh was still throbbing with every motion he made, and the occasional searing pain across his back seemed to have spread. Harry faced the gate and kept his wand in hand. He wouldn't be able to stop any Death Eaters that turned up, but he would at least fight.

He would go down fighting. Like Sirius. Perhaps he would see him again. Harry could barely keep his eyes open now. The gate seemed impossibly far away. Time was passing, there were car noises somewhere close by (or was that very distant? Harry couldn't remember how he judged the distance of sound) but he wasn't part of that world, so it didn't matter. Was that how it worked? Aunt Petunia wasn't magic, so she died by car, but Harry was a wizard so he died by curse. That would make a weird kind of sense, he supposed.

There was a loud crack somewhere very far away, which Harry knew because it was so loud and clear. He knew he should raise his wand, because someone (Ron? Hermione? Hagrid?) would be coming in the gate soon. Harry tried to lift his right arm, but it was very heavy. Perhaps he should use a charm to make it lighter. Oh, but he'd need to move his wrist for that. Were all problems this circular, Harry thought muzzily?

The gate creaked. Something tall moved into the garden, outlined against the yellow glow of the streetlights. Harry squinted at it. A Dementor? The figure leaned down towards Harry.

"Harry!" it said urgently. "How badly are you injured?" The voice seemed somehow familiar, but Harry couldn't place it until the streetlight glinted off the side of the figure's golden spectacles.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry said cheerfully. "You're here." And he fell into a lovely whirl of pitch-black colour that seemed very like sleep.