Harry's trousers, overly large castoffs from Dudley, were slowly sliding down his legs. He was finally getting his breath back and beginning to try to struggle a bit when the man dragging him stopped and punched him in the solar plexus again.
He went out like a light. When he awoke, it was late in the afternoon, and starting to get dark. He hurt everywhere, especially his groin and backside. The man must have kicked him several times just for fun.
He looked around blearily. There, beside his head, were his broken glasses. At least the tape had held. The man must have brought them along, figuring that someone finding just the glasses might report it to the constables.
Getting to his feet was a major accomplishment and took much longer than it should. He wasn't sure where he was, but it had to be close to the Little Whinging Playground and Park. He couldn't stay here, though. He pulled his trousers and trousers back up and pulled the belt as tight as he could.
At the very least he had to make it to the Durleys'. Even if they hated him, if he was hurt bad enough, they would take him to the hospital. At least this time he wouldn't have to lie too much, he could truthfully say a gang had beaten him up instead of saying he had tripped going down the stairs. He just wouldn't say which gang.
Besides, he couldn't stay out here all night, even if he might prefer it. His . . . relatives . . . got upset if he stayed out too late. It reflected badly on them if anyone saw him out late alone. And that man might come back.
One side of the sky was lighter than the other, so he headed towards the sun, figuring that must be west and the park was on the east side of the Durlseys' house.
A few times he considered just collapsing where he was and waiting to die. Then, at least, he would be with his parents. They may have been drunkards, but he was sure they loved him.
He wasn't making fast progress as he staggered from tree to tree while trying to keep to the same direction. Fallen tree limbs and trunks that blocked his path made that difficult. He stopped frequently as pain wracked his body. He fell repeatedly, and each time it was harder to get up.
He just wished there was somewhere else besides the Dursleys' he could go. Miss Figg, his sometimes babysitter was right out. She'd just take him straight to the Dursleys. He wanted somewhere where he didn't sleep in a cupboard under the stairs, somewhere where he wasn't punished for things he didn't understand or for getting a better grade than his lazy cousin. Somewhere where he was safe — or at least as safe as everyone else. Somewhere where he could belong. Somewhere where he was considered normal.
He lurched from the current tree supporting him towards the next but somehow missed it. That was particularly painful for some reason, and he rolled across the forest floor. He could no longer stand upright and had to push forward on his hands and knees. Funny that, he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. Actually, it felt more like he was crawling on only his middle fingers.
Vaguely, he knew something was wrong. He should have crossed a street by now. Even if he had gone in the wrong direction, he still should have stumbled onto a street or path of some kind. But the light was getting brighter ahead. Eventually he found himself on the edge of a field. He must have gone the wrong direction and had stumbled into one of the farms in the area. And hadn't it been dark a few minutes ago? Or had the forest fooled him into thinking it was later than it really was?
He collapsed as he reached the edge of the forest. Standing again was right out. In fact, he couldn't even push himself up enough to crawl on his hands and knees. He started dragging himself forward, pushing, kicking, with his legs. If he got into the field, out from under the trees, maybe someone would see him — the grass didn't seem to be all that high, he could almost see over it.
He didn't notice the new scratches and cuts he accumulated doing this. Their additional pain was lost in the blaze of everything else complaining about his treatment.
Finally, he stopped and just lay there in the grass with the sun on his back.
He could go no farther. His legs stretched out behind him and his arms in front.
Oddly, he couldn't feel his hands or feet anymore. Wasn't that a symptom of blood loss? Losing feeling in your extremities? Huh, maybe he was dying. Small loss. He wondered if his mother looked like his aunt. He hoped not. Well, he would find out soon enough. At least he would be back with his mother and father. No more Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, or Cousin Dudley to torture him.
He expected to fall asleep, but now that he wasn't trying to move the pain wouldn't let him. Rolling onto his side helped only fractionally. Breathing in short gasps helped keep his chest pains down. But everything below his chest was just solid pain. Breathe in, breathe out, not too fast, not too slow. That was all he could think. Nothing else mattered. Breathe in, breathe out, not too fast, not too slow.
It smelled like spring — moist soil and crushed grass. It reminded him of working on Aunt Petunia's agapanthi, roses, and pansies in front of the house and in the back garden. A good, earthy smell. Funny the things you thought about when you were dying.
Sometime later, whether minutes or hours he couldn't tell, he heard voices. From the pitch he thought they sounded like girls.