The man who had materialized gave the barest hint of a smile.  "Yes, Harry, I'm your father. James.  You'll have to save your questions, though; we have to get out of here."

"Get out—" Harry repeated.

"As quickly as possible," James said.  "We have to go before the muggle authorities arrive."

Harry wanted to ask what a muggle was, but he'd been taught long ago not to ask questions. He knew what authorities were, in any case.  Cops. Harry quickly surveyed the scene in front of him—his uncle stabbed to death on the floor, his aunt burned to a cinder… Yeah, definitely they needed to get out of here before any cops showed up.  But where could they go?

"Get your uncle's wallet," James said. "It's in his back pocket."

Harry stared at his uncle. There was blood everywhere. How was Harry supposed to get into the man's back pocket?  He'd have to touch him, and all that blood…  Harry cast an imploring look at his father, but James just waved a hand as if to say 'get on with it.'  Harry took in a deep breath and then he crept forward on his hands and knees. He pushed his uncle's massive form, his stomach lurching into his throat at the thought of touching a corpse. Eventually the man rolled and Harry fished into his back pocket for the wallet.  He let out a slow breath and pocketed it, and then he got away from his uncle as quickly as possible.

"Good," James said. "You're doing well, Harry, you really are. Now, your aunt's purse is on the steps. Go get the cash out of that and add it to your uncle's wallet."

Harry moved mutely to do as he was instructed.  He thought that he must be going insane. Hearing voices… They'd read a book one time about a woman who heard voices. She wound up killing her baby.  Is that what Harry had done?  Had he killed his aunt and uncle because he was hearing voices?  But that didn't make any sense… He'd only started hearing the voice after his aunt and uncle had died.

It took almost no time to get the money out of his aunt's purse.  He slipped the cash into Uncle Vernon's wallet and put the wallet back into his trouser pocket, and then he went back to the kitchen.  Harry's father was now crouched down beside Dudley, and while Harry's cousin had yet to move, the look in his eyes was less glazed than it had been.  Harry wondered what his father could be saying to make that happen…  If nothing else, it proved that Harry hadn't gone entirely crazy. Not if Dudley could hear the voice, too, and see the man.  Harry's father.  Funny. Over the years, Harry had dreamt many times of his father coming to rescue him. The dreams had always included lots of hugging and crying. The dreams had not, however, included his relatives being dead, his cousin crying on the floor, or Harry stealing money out of his relatives' wallets.

Harry stepped close enough to hear what his father was saying to Dudley.

"—need to go get a change of clothes for you and Harry," James was saying. "Just that, nothing else. There's no time."

Dudley still had a rather vacant expression on his pudgy little face, but he clambered uncertainly to his feet and staggered away from the kitchen. Harry stared after his cousin for a moment, and then, feeling defeated, he allowed his shoulders to slump.  He could feel his father's eyes upon him and he glanced up to see an almost sympathetic look in the man's blue eyes, but the look disappeared as soon as Harry looked at him. Harry had a hundred questions for the man, but he couldn't bring himself to ask any of them. Not now. A few minutes passed, and Dudley came back down the stairs with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Good," James said.  "Now, you two need to change into the clothes that Dudley just brought down. Stuff the ones that you're wearing into the backpack."

Harry started to strip his clothing off without a word. He was used to doing things—even unpalatable things—without a word of complaint.  He was surprised, however, to see Dudley do the same thing—Dudley, who never did anything that he didn't want to do.  Harry wondered what was making Dudley behave so.  Was he feeling as frozen inside as Harry did?

Dudley opened the backpack.  He threw a set of clothes to Harry and yanked the other set on himself.  Harry stared at the clothes Dudley had thrown him for a moment.  They weren't the sorts of rags Harry usually received from Dudley.  When Harry pulled them on, they were every bit as baggy on him as Dudley's castoffs usually were, but the material was soft and there weren't any holes.  A pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt…  Harry almost never got sweatshirts.   

"We have to go," James said gently. 

Harry passed his bloodied clothes to Dudley, who stuffed them into the backpack.  When both sets of soiled clothing had been concealed in the backpack, Harry and Dudley both turned empty eyes towards James.

"Slip out through the back," James said.

Slip was too graceful a word to use for Dudley, Harry thought bitterly.  His cousin didn't have a stealthy bone in his body: he ambled out the back door of the house, making more noise than Harry would have thought possible.  Or maybe he was just on edge. He was almost silent as he left the house, but before he could follow his cousin across the garden, he was halted by his father's hand on his shoulder.  The touch felt wholly unusually to Harry—not comforting, as he'd thought it would be, but cold.  Dead. It felt like he was being touched by death.

James pulled his hand away as if he realized how the touch had affected Harry.  He looked as if he were in pain—anguish, almost.  He said, "Throw a rock through the window, Harry."

The request, more than any other request, was so strange to Harry that he couldn't help but ask, "What? Why?"  He cringed back as soon as the questions were out of his mouth, as if his father would slap him for asking them.

"It has to look like someone broke in," James said.

Harry nodded.  He took a brick that lined the wall of the house and smashed it through the window, and then without his father even urging him to, he used another rock to smash out all the little pieces. If someone had broken in, they'd have done that, right? Otherwise they'd have cut themselves on the glass.

"Well done," James said. He reached out as if he were going to touch Harry again, but pulled back at the last moment, apparently thinking better of it. "We must catch up with your cousin."

Harry nodded jerkily and jogged to catch up with Dudley, who was by now halfway through the neighbor's back garden.  Dudley spared the barest glance for Harry when he caught up but didn't slow down.  The boys walked like that for a while in silence.  Harry didn't know where they were going. He wasn't sure if his father had given directions to Dudley or if they really were walking aimlessly, but it didn't matter.  How could they have an aim, anyway? Where was there to go?

James had Dudley throw the backpack in a dumpster behind a supermarket, but he wouldn't let them stop there for food. He said that it was too dangerous to do so, so close to home. Harry didn't mind—he'd gone without food before—but Dudley's face paled at the prospect of missing a meal. Harry thought that Dudley would finally open his mouth and protest—he opened his mouth as if he were about to—but after a moment his jaw shut, his teeth clicking together audibly and the three of them trudged onward.

They spoke very little. Harry kept waiting for his father to say something—anything—about why he was here or what he was doing or why he hadn't come for Harry before now, but aside from the odd instruction or two, James was silent.  He looked tired, as if it were much more difficult for him to walk than it was for Harry or Dudley.  Harry thought that was strange: his father wasn't particularly old or fat and Harry couldn't see why he wouldn't be able to walk with them.

When night fell, whatever had kept Dudley silent for so long seemed to dissipate.  He let out a whimper, and in the voice of a child much younger than he, whispered, "I'm scared."

Harry waited for James to say something comforting. When nothing was forthcoming, Harry heard himself say, "It'll be alright, Dud."

"I'm tired," Dudley said. "I wanna go home. I want…"

His mother, no doubt.  Harry didn't point out why it was a bad idea to go home.  Dudley, he was sure, knew what had transpired at the house at least as well as Harry did.  All Harry said was, "I'm tired, too, Dudley."

James, who was walking in stride with them, said, "Just a bit farther, boys, and you can stop for the night."

Harry wanted to ask where James thought they could stay for the night, two primary school children. Harry had stolen a little bit of money, true, but he felt sure that it wasn't enough for a hotel room, and besides, if James wasn't letting them buy food for fear that someone would think it suspicious, he certainly wasn't going to let them buy a room.  Once again, however, Harry held his tongue. If James had been a bit more fatherly, Harry might have gotten over his fear of asking questions: instead, however, the man had been cold from the moment that he had appeared in the kitchen. He hadn't even given Harry a hug, though Harry felt sure that hugging was the least of what fathers were supposed to do when they saw their sons for the first time in eight years.

After a while, James said that they could stop.  They were in a dilapidated neighborhood, and James directed them to an abandoned house on the corner. The two boys broke in through a half-boarded up window. Dudley collapsed on a moth-eaten couch and was snoring within minutes.  Harry sat on the floor in the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, and stared dully ahead.

"Harry," James said gently, "You need your sleep."

For what? Harry thought. He scratched at a scab on his wrist and gave his father a pained look.

James sighed and sat down on the floor across from Harry. He hesitated a moment, then said, "You should not let your relatives' deaths upset you, Harry."

"It's not upsetting me," Harry said.

"Harry—"

"It's not!" Harry said.  "It's not like I killed them, and even if I had, they were out to get me."

"You're clearly upset."

"Yeah," Harry snapped, "about you!"

James froze.  He looked as if Harry had struck him.  He said, "Me?"

"You leave me with them for eight years," Harry said coldly.  "I thought you were dead, but that's obviously crap, so you abandoned me.  It takes their death for you to show up again, and then without so much of a by-your-leave, you're leading Dudley and I through the country. No food, no real shelter. Thanks a lot for the help, Dad, but I think I could have done this well for myself without you!"

Harry didn't care if the man struck him for speaking so rudely.  What did it matter? Things couldn't get much worse than they already were.

James didn't look angry, though.  He looked sad.  He said, "But Harry, I am dead."

The statement was so outrageous that Harry let out a bitter laugh.

"I am," James insisted.  "I've been given a body, but only for a short amount of time.  Only long enough to lead you to someplace safe. Someone safe."

Harry dwelled on that thought for just a moment.  "But if that's true—if you don't hate me—then why do you act like you don't want to be around me?  You didn't even give me a hug when you saw me."

James sighed.  "It would only hurt you if I had, Harry.  The rules under which I'm here… I'm really not supposed to be interacting with the world around me, at least not any more than I have to.  You felt what it was like just for me to touch your shoulder?  Imagine if I'd embraced you…  And too, you must understand that it's hard for me to be here, knowing how little I can do to help you.

Harry noticed that James's eyes were moist.  He turned his own head away and stared at a crack in the wall.  After a moment, he closed his eyes and slumped against the wall.

"Harry—" James said.

"I'm tired," Harry said quietly.