Harry Potter was sitting on a swing in a play park not far from Number Four, Privet Drive, where Harry had stayed with his aunt and uncle for the past two months. Ever since the previous school year had ended at Hogwarts. Ever since…

…but Harry did not want to think about that.

Harry idly pushed himself back and forth on the swing, using the tip of one foot. The rusty chains squeaked as the links rubbed together. The playground was one of the few things in Little Whinging that was allowed to fall into any state of disrepair. Little Whinging was a land of perfectly trimmed lawns and meticulously weeded gardens. There was not a single lawn ornament to be seen, and every home was painted in tasteful shades of beige and gray.

The tidy and well-ordered appearance of Little Whinging was not enforced by any ordinance of local government, or the rule of any neighborhood association. The uniformly immaculate houses were the result of a long-standing but unspoken agreement among the denizens of Little Winging. Although keeping your home and grounds tidy was not a mandatory requirement of residency in Little Whinging, it was the sort of thing that one did, if one had a desire to be on speaking terms with one's neighbors.

The playground, however, was different. Despite paying for the construction of the playground from their own taxes, the residents of Little Whinging looked upon the playground with disdain. This was largely the doing of Harry's Uncle Vernon. Vernon was willing to tell anybody with ears that playgrounds promoted laziness in the young, and undermined a parent's proper attempts to instill work ethic in a child. (This conversation always made Harry wonder if Uncle Vernon had ever actually looked at, spoken with, or thought about his son, Dudley. Evidence suggested that Vernon had not.) Vernon's outspoken opposition to the playground had led the local primary school to cancel recesses. During the summer, any parent who allowed a child to play upon the playground was promptly chastised. If the behavior did not change, the parent and child were shunned.

This knowledge played a great part in Harry's decision to hang about the playground.

The chains on the swingset squeaked, as Harry moved back and forth. It was, in fact, the only swing which had not been broken—the other four hung pathetically from one chain. The metal of the slide was warped and dented, and the paint upon the steps had begun to chip and flake.

Across the play park, the wooden supports of the jungle gym bore the scars of teenagers with knives. A few carvings attempted to make some form of political statement—from where he was sitting, Harry could see the clearly written words, "I wanna be anarchy," and "No Future! No Future!" (Harry could also see that even the most imaginative of Little Whinging's burgeoning rebels could do little more than quote twenty year old songs by The Sex Pistols.) The less creative hooligans had carved standard declarations of everlasting teenage love, sometimes surrounded by a crude and angular heart. At the bottom of the barrel were the vandals who carved only a single word, usually a name ("DUDLEY") or a curse ("FUCK"). The most daring vandals would combine a name with a curse ("FUCK VERNON"). Those who thought themselves amusing would add a curse above or below a previously-carved name. ("PEIRS is an ASS").

Harry sighed. Reading the graffiti was depressing. The play park equipment had become nothing more than a canvas the small-minded stupidity of Dudley and his gang of friends. They had taken something delightful, and had corrupted it. It reminded Harry of…

…things he didn't want to think about.

Harry planted both his feet upon the ground and pushed back firmly. The rusty chains of the swing howled in protest as they began to move. Harry moved his feet back and forth under his body, propelling the swing higher and higher. Harry knew that he was too old to be playing in a play park, but the wind blowing through his hair reminded him of time spent on a broom playing quidditch. It brought pleasant memories to mind—flying through the crisp, fall air at Hogwarts; catching his first snitch and winning a quidditch match for his house; casually throwing a quaffle with Draco.

Harry winced and closed his eyes. Draco. He hadn't received a letter from him all summer.

But Harry wasn't thinking about bad things. He wasn't thinking about the way that everything in his life had been ruined. Harry was riding a swing, and he was having fun, Dark Lords be damned.

Harry kicked his legs back and forth with greater force. The motion had loosened the swing's rusty chains, and Harry was able to propel himself to greater and greater heights. The top of Harry's swinging arc was slightly above the crossbar of the swing set, and as Harry looked up at the sky he felt the chain go slack. For a moment, just before he began his descent, it really did feel as if he were flying.

Then gravity asserted its hold, and Harry felt himself being pulled back toward the ground. Harry tucked his legs, preparing for the backward sweep of his swing. The chains jerked tight as they caught Harry's weight and there was a horrible shriek of metal as one of the rusted chain links popped open. Suddenly untethered, Harry's body began to twist in the air as he hurtled toward the ground. Harry landed roughly on his left side; he felt his arm go numb, and then a burning sensation from his fingertips to his shoulder.

Harry groaned and rolled onto his back. He knew what it felt like to break his arm—he had done it before, during second year, when the Malfoy's house elf had sent a rogue bludger after Harry during a quidditch match—and this feeling was different. It reminded Harry of the cruciatus curse that Voldemort had used upon him. It was as if every nerve in his arm was on fire. Harry rubbed his left arm with his right hand, and the pain began to slowly fade.

"Didja see that? Potty just fell off the swing!"

Harry grimaced. That was the voice of Piers Polkiss, one of Dudley's friends. Of course, they just had to be walking past theplay park when Harry did something stupid. Because good things didn't happen to Harry any more.

Harry used his good arm to push himself to his feet, wincing with pain as he did so. As Harry slowly stood, Dudley and his friends moved closer, laughing and taunting Harry all the way. Their taunts were as inane as their graffiti—Draco could teach this lot a lesson or two about the true nature of cutting remarks.

Dudley laughed with his friends, but did not offer any barbs of his own. Dudley was afraid of Harry, because Dudley knew that Harry was a wizard. Dudley also had some conception that Harry's godfather was a mass-murderer, but clearly Dudley hadn't worked through all the implications. Dudley had gotten far enough along, however, to realize that Harry was no longer a prime target for bullying. Dudley had shifted his attentions to the younger neighborhood children, who were easier targets and who did not have psychotic godfathers running loose.

Peirs had not been notified of Dudley's change of heart, however.

"Did you hurt your ickle arm?" Piers asked, baby-talking to Harry. "Are you going to run to your Auntie and cry about your boo-boo?"

Harry dusted his hands off on his pants, using the motion to surreptitiously check that his wand had not fallen out of his pocket. "What's that, Piers? I couldn't understand you. You sound like an idiot child."

Piers frowned, and another one of Dudley's friends, Malcolm, stepped forward. "Haven't seen you 'round this summer, Potty. Finally discovered tossin' off, yeah?"

Harry rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe that he was going to say this. "I discovered your mum, Malcolm, so I don't need to toss off. Why don't you ask her where I've been?"

Malcolm clenched his fists. "Don't you talk about my mum."

"Why not? She's a wonderful lady."

Malcolm stepped forward, threateningly. Piers moved out to Harry's left, and Gordon to Harry's right. Dudley's gang was familiar with the beginnings of a fight. First, you taunted the target. Next, if the target didn't submit, you threatened. Finally, if the target continued to resist, you attacked from all sides. Harry had quickly managed to escalate from Stage One to Stage Three.

Dudley still had not moved.

"You think you're clever, don't you, Potty?" asked Gordon.

"Rather clever, yes," Harry said. His wand was close at hand, and Harry knew that he had nothing to fear. In fact, he welcomed this fight. It would give him something to do. Something to distract himself. Harry even suspected that the physical pain of the fight would be a blessing, an anchor to this world, and welcome distraction from the hurt in his heart.

"Why don't we show him what we think of clever tossers, right Big D?" Gordon asked.

Dudley said nothing.

"Big D?" Gordon's voice was now uncertain. Dudley was the reigning Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of the Southeast—over the past year, the softness had disappeared from Dudley's physique. He was as vast as ever, but he had managed to replace most of his paunch with muscle. Without Dudley to back him up, Gordon was suddenly uncomfortable, even though the odds were still three against one.

"He's not worth it," Dudley said simply.

"Didn't you hear what he said about my mum?" Malcolm cried.

"Yeah," said Dudley.

Malcolm turned back to Dudley, incredulous. "Are we going to let him get away with it?"

Dudley shrugged. "I dunno. Are you?"

Harry grinned a little. Dudley had managed that well. The Dursleys knew that Harry could only cast spells in emergencies, and for self-defense. If Dudley didn't attack Harry, then he was safe from Harry's magic.

Malcolm turned back to Harry. "No, I'm not. So take it back, Potty. Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry your mum is so good in the bedroom," Harry said.

Malcolm snarled and raised his fists. Harry saw Piers and Gordon begin to ready themselves, as well. The fight was on.

As Harry reached toward his pocket, he felt a surge of guilt. Before Harry and Sirius had parted at Hogwarts, his godfather's last request had been for Harry to stay out of trouble. Lay low. Don't call attention to yourself. Stay out of trouble. And this… was not accomplishing that goal. And Harry already had been warned for underage magic use. Another incident could

result in his suspension from Hogwarts.

Harry reluctantly moved his hand away from his wand. He was going to have to get himself out of this situation without magic.

"Come on, Potty," Malcolm said. "Are you s-"

Harry darted forward and smashed his fist into Malcolm's throat. The taller boy was unprepared for Harry's attack, and he fell backwards, making gagging noises.

There was motion in the corner of Harry's eye. Gordon. Harry lashed out with his foot, catching Gordon in the side of the knee. Harry heard a popping noise, and Gordon dropped to the ground, howling and grabbing at his leg.

"Maybe I should help, after all," Dudley said, cracking his knuckles. Harry realized that the only thing that had kept Dudley from joining the fight was Harry's willingness to use magic. If Harry wasn't going to use magic, Dudley wasn't afraid. Why stay out of a good fight? Harry knew that he would never win a standing fight against Piers and Dudley.

So Harry ran.

"Get him!" Dudley yelled to Piers. Harry could barely hear his cousin's voice over the sound of his own heavy breathing and the slap of his shoes on the pavement. Harry was almost certain that he could outdistance Dudley and his friends; Harry's quidditch conditioning hadn't totally left him in the last year, and nothing about Dudley could be called quick.

Harry glanced over his shoulder as he neared the edge of the play park. Dudley was lumbering after him, and Malcolm had gotten to his feet. Gordon was still on the ground, holding his knee. Piers, though, was surprisingly close, only twenty or so yards behind Harry. Harry looked forward and lowered his head, forcing his legs to move even faster than before.

Harry left the play park and ran onto the sidewalk, turning toward the local shopping district. Residents of Little Whinging tended to ignore problems and let people go about their business, even if their business was several large boys pounding one smaller boy into oblivion. Homeowners "didn't want to get involved." If Piers managed to catch Harry on a residential street, Harry was in for a beating. But if Harry could make it to the shopping district, he might be safe. Even Piers wouldn't be so brazen as to attack Harry in front of dozens of witnesses

Harry skidded around a corner and turned onto Main Street. On a Saturday afternoon, the shops would be open and people would be bustling about, window shopping and eating at sidewalk cafés. Unfortunately for Harry, it was Sunday evening, and nearly all the shops were closed. Only the ice cream parlor was open, and that was several blocks away.

Harry glanced behind him again. Piers rounded the corner at a sprint, closing the gap between himself and Harry. Harry would be caught long before he could reach any sort of safety.

Harry made another turn, cutting around a building at the next street corner. As soon as he was around the building and out of Piers's sight, Harry slammed to a halt. He crept back to the corner and struggled to calm his breathing, so that he could listen for the sound of Piers's footsteps pounding on the pavement…

Now.

Harry stepped out from around the corner and raised his elbow. Just as he had previously, Piers was cutting the corner close, chasing after Harry at full sprint. Piers's face crashed into Harry's elbow at top speed, and Harry could hear the snap of cartilage breaking in Piers's nose. Piers's feet went out from under him, and he fell to the ground with a shout. The impact knocked Harry off balance, and set Harry's elbow throbbing once again.

Harry looked up. Dudley and Malcolm were a block behind, rounding the corner. Malcolm pointed and yelled, and they began to run toward Harry. Harry took flight once again, running down the side street.

With only Malcolm and Dudley behind him, Harry was certain that his escape was imminent. He could turn down the next alley, cutting across to Crouchway Drive and then to Privet Drive two blocks down. If Dudley and Malcolm hadn't given up by then, Harry could lock himself safely in his room. And although Vernon and Petunia disliked Harry with every fiber of their being, they would allow no physical violence in the house, lest Sirius be forced to visit.

As Harry plunged into the alley, he once again glanced behind him. Dudley and Malcolm were just passing Piers. They saw where Harry had gone, but not for long. Just one more turn, and Harry would be out of their sight and home free.

Harry smashed into a fence. His vision blurred and white spots flashed before his eyes. Fire-like pain ignited in Harry's arm, which was throbbing from its third violent impact in less than ten minutes. Harry fell backward and landed hard on the alley floor.

Harry put a hand to his head and looked up. That fence shouldn't be there. That enormous, solid, wooden, unclimbable fence SHOULD NOT BE THERE. It hadn't been there last month, when Harry had cut through the alley. It hadn't been there last week, when Harry cut through the alley. It had no right to be exactly where it was, blocking Harry's escape!

Harry's eyes were drawn down. There was a sign hanging from the fence. "Due to recent vandalism and thefts, the rear of Tidkey's Clothiers has been fenced. Deliveries, see manager for key. Sincerely, Tidkey's." Fenced because of vandalism? It seemed that Dudley and his hoodlums had managed to catch Harry, after all.

Harry clambered to his feet. He had to get out of the alley before…

"There you are."

…Dudley arrived.

Harry turned slowly. Dudley and Malcolm were standing at the front of the alley, blocking Harry's escape. In the darkness of the alley, Dudley's shadow was enormous—far larger than it should have been. A chill ran down Harry's spine as he drew his wand out of his pocket.

"What are you doing?" asked Dudley.

"Nobody's around to watch, now," Harry said. "Did you really think I wasn't going to fight back?" Harry tried to force confidence into his voice, despite his deepening feeling of dread.

Malcolm had begun moving his head back and forth, frantically looking around the alley and surrounding street. "I don't like this, Big D," Malcolm said.

"Stop it," Dudley said to Harry. There was a quaver in his voice. "You're not allowed."

Harry drew his eyebrows together in confusion. What was Dudley talking about? Harry wasn't doing anything—not yet, anyway. So why were Dudley and Malcolm acting afraid? It was two against one, and Dudley was the only one who knew what Harry could do with his wand. To Malcolm, Harry's wand would just look like a stick. It should be funny, not frightening.

"Stop it!" Dudley shouted. Malcolm, startled by Dudley's loud voice, turned and ran. Harry and Dudley were alone in the alley.

"I'm not doing anything!" Harry shouted back. Harry's breath turned into a light mist and rose in the air in front of his eyes. And suddenly, Harry knew.

"Dudley, get over here," Harry said. He raised his wand and started glancing around. Where was it?

"No! You stop what you're doing or I'll tell mum and dad!"

Harry sighed. Dudley would never listen to him.

There was a flicker of motion behind Dudley. A ripple across the street, like fabric in the wind. But there was no wind, today. The motion was a dementor, slowly emerging from the alley across the street.

Harry beckoned at his cousin. "Dudley, I promise, I'm not doing anything. This is something else, and it's very dangerous. Get over here so I can protect you!"

"This is all a trick!" Dudley shouted. He was beginning to panic, and the dementor was getting closer. Harry saw the creature raise its hand and grasp the sides of its hood. Was the dementor preparing to give Dudley the dementor's kiss? What in Merlin's name was going on?

Harry had to do something, so he pointed behind Dudley and screamed. "Dudley, behind you!"

Dudley shrieked in fear and spun on his heel. He began backing down the alley toward Harry. "What? What is it?"

Couldn't Dudley see the dementor? It was less than a dozen feet away, and closing the distance fast. Maybe muggles couldn't see them.

Harry walked forward, placing himself between his cousin and the dark creature. He called to mind the image of Pettigrew, lying on the floor of Harry's childhood nursery, bleeding from the neck, growing paler and paler by the second. Harry felt a cool satisfaction seep through his heart. He raised his wand and confidently incanted, "Expecto patronum!"

A wisp of white came out of Harry's wand and dissipated immediately in the air.

"Expecto patronum! Expecto patronum!" Harry repeated the incantation, and each time the results were the same. Harry could not produce a patronus.

"What are you doing?" Dudley asked. "What is it?"

"Shut up," Harry growled. There was something wrong. What was it? Why wasn't his patronus working? Pettigrew was his patronus thought. It should make him happy.

Except that killing Pettigrew hadn't made Harry happy. It had made him satisfied. Harry had his revenge, but there was no happiness in that moment. Harry had already resigned himself to death when he killed Pettigrew; his revenge had given him only grim satisfaction.

Harry needed to be happy.

Behind Harry, Dudley gave a shout, and there was a crash and rumble of garbage cans. Harry turned and saw that a second dementor had appeared behind them. The second dementor had pushed Dudley into a pile of trash, and was now looming over the large boy, drawing back its hood.

Harry thought furiously. Happy. Happy. What had he learned with Lupin that made him happy?

Right. Happy meant Ginny. Hugging Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets. Dancing with Ginny at the Yule Ball. Watching her smile as The Weird Sisters played songs by The Beatles. Watching her smile at him. Kissing Ginny in the gardens. That was what it meant to be happy. Ginny was happy.

Harry fixed an image of Ginny in his mind, the feeling of Ginny's lips against his, and raised his arm. He pointed his wand at the second dementor. "Expecto patronum!"

A blue-white light burst from the wand and formed a solid shield between Dudley and the dementor. The dark creature hissed and drew back from Dudley. Harry stepped forward, driving the creature away with his patronus shield. Harry advanced until he was next to Dudley, then turned around quickly. The first dementor was almost upon them; Harry swung his shield toward the entrance of the alley and pushed it away.

"Get up," Harry commanded Dudley.

"What was that?" Dudley asked. "What pushed me?"

"Get up, now," Harry said. The two dementors were trying to attack Harry from both sides. It was all he could do to swing the shield back and forth, keeping them at bay. Dudley stood, hauling his bulk off the ground.

"Follow me," Harry said. Harry began to walk deeper into the alley.

"Why are we going that way?" Dudley asked.

"Don't ask questions," Harry said curtly. The dementors were still on either side of them, but Harry was getting closer and closer to the fence. Just one or two more steps, and then…

Harry brought his shield to bear on the second dementor and lunged toward the back of the alley, trapping the dementor between his patronus shield and the wooden fence. As the shield touched the dementor, it emitted an ear-piercing shriek. The rags began to churn and roil, attempting to escape, but Harry pushed forward determinately. After a moment more there was a whooshing noise, and the dementor dissolved into the air, completely annihilated by contact with Harry's patronus shield.

Harry spun immediately. There was no time to enjoy his victory—he had to focus on the other dementor. The dark creature was close, only a foot or two away, and Harry used his shield to push it back. The dementor rose up and away, hissing at Harry.

"Are you ready?" Harry asked Dudley.

"Ready to what?"

"RUN!"

As Harry began to jog out of the alley, the dementor rose upward, shying away from Harry's shield. Dudley followed at a lumbering run.

"Where are we going?" Dudley asked.

"Home," Harry said. Number Four, Privet Drive would be protected against dark creatures… probably.

As Harry ran out of the alley, he plowed into a pedestrian—a woman who smelled of cats. Both Harry and the woman fell to the ground. Harry's patronus shield dissipated as he lost track of his happy thought. He looked upward, but the dementor was nowhere to be seen.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, as he stood. He glanced around, but could not locate the dementor. The darkness of the alley seemed to be receding, and Harry wasn't feeling quite as cold. It seemed that the creature was leaving, rather than pursuing Harry and Dudley. Mindful of the statute of secrecy, Harry began to tuck his wand into his pocket.

"Don't put it away, you fool!" the woman shouted from the ground. "It might come back!"

Harry looked down, and discovered that he had collided with Mrs. Figg, his neighbor from down the street. "You can see them?" Harry asked.

"Of course I can," Mrs. Figg snapped. "Now, wand out, until you're safe at home."

*!*!*!*

A/N: Book Five has begun! Thanks to all my readers for sticking with me while I adjusted my update schedule. Be sure to check out Harry Potter and the Tri-Wizard Tournament for a secret bonus preview chapter!