Harry's boots slammed unevenly against the forest floor as he ran. Every step jarred his body, every breath tore at his lungs, and still he held onto his father's weight with everything he had left.
Or tried to.
Harold's arm kept slipping from his grasp, his body heavier now in a way that had nothing to do with size. Dead weight. That was the term. Harry had heard it before. He just never thought it would apply to his own father.
"Keep moving!" someone barked.
"I am— I am!" Harry shot back, his voice cracking as his grip faltered again.
Branches whipped against his face. Twigs snapped under boots. Behind them, something else moved faster. Sloppier. Hungrier.
The red glow cut through the dark like scattered embers.
They were close.
Too close.
"Shit, shit, shit," one of the men muttered, breath ragged.
"Hold him firm, damn it!" another snapped.
