Not mine. sorry.

John McAlper, aged 27, felt wary. Hell, it was unnatural for him not to feel wary nowadays.

He was walking in Privet Drive's park. Not a rare occurrence, seeing as he found himself doing it more and more often nowadays.

No, what worried him was how quiet it was. Privet Drive, despite its upholding to its standard of a picture perfect neighborhood, was far worse than other surrounding neighborhoods when it came to gangs.

All were composed of fat, spoiled teenage brats who were used to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it. When they didn't, they would do anything to get it. Anything.

Many carried knives and guns, with the instructions from their fathers to "Use it well."

The sort of philosophy that giving weapons to children under 17, without even bothering to teach them how to properly use them, was the perfect example of how Privet Drive's community worked.

The parents gave everything their children wanted to them without their earning it, and then blamed everyone else for the consequences.

A few years ago, a young boy, around 8 or 9 years old, was killed in a gang fight.

The adults didn't care, nor did anything about it. As far as they could see, the child was an outcast, an urchin, and he had obviously done something to deserve it. Their was clearly no fault to be found in their children, who had undoubtedly simply been trying to defend themselves against the violent, and possibly insane, whelp.

The kid's parents, grief stricken, moved away. And all the other members just stuck their bloody noses in the air and said, "Well, it's for the best."

Despite everything, he still came here, to this park. The brats, thankfully, simply ignored him, not even trying to hide the weapons that they held so carelessly.

There was always someone here. Whether it was a group, or a younger kid trying to escape, the park was never empty.

That was why he was so unnerved by the silence that night.

Harry was dying. He knew it. Everyone knew it. So why couldn't he just die? He could feel the life draining out of him, and he was happy. Maybe, there might be people who wanted him, at the place where dead people go.

It had been painful at first. He had felt every slice in his skin, every cut like a red-hot poker. Then, the pain dulled, and the world slowed around him. He couldn't feel the pain, couldn't see their leering faces, couldn't hear their jeers. It took him a while to realize that the bullies were long gone. Harry hated them, hated them for not finishing him off sooner, hated them for leaving him to die slowly.

He sluggishly realized the world was turning dark. His last thought was,

Dieing isn't as bad as everyone makes it out to be.

"Holy bloody shit."

John stared in horror. A kid, maybe seven, was lying on the ground, blood pooling around him as it drained away from his body.

John was reminded of the child who had been killed. This kid was even younger than him.

Selfishly, his first thought was to leave the kid to die. In this neighborhood, death was probably best for a kid who was picked on. It was an escape.

Then an image of the kid who'd died popped in his head. He remembered the parents crushed, devastated faces.

And for the first time, John decided to do something.

He knelt beside the kid, carefully surveying his injuries. Multiple long, deep cuts, most likely from a knife. Or knives, as was more likely.

His blood boiled. To see a kid this young, so cruelly hurt...

He would do whatever it took to keep this kid alive. The problem was, he wasn't a medic, and couldn't handle this kind of wound.

He dimly remember basic health classes.

"Apply pressure to the wound with a piece of cloth," His professor had said.

John did so, pulling off his shirt and gently applying it to some of the more major cuts to staunch the flow of blood.

He glanced around. If he called for an ambulance here, it would attract attention.

"Ah, hell," He grumbled. There was nothing he could do.

He cautiously lifted the boy up, being careful not to jostle him too badly. He knew you weren't supposed to move people who were injured, but what choice did he have?

He began walking to his house, a couple neighborhoods kid didn't even have the strength to move. Not that John blamed him.

He prayed the kid didn't die in his arms. He didn't deserve the honor, nor the guilt it would bring.

He finally reached the house. Entering, he placed the kid on the couch and grabbed his cell phone, which was lying on the counter.

He quickly dialed 9-1-1, tapping his foot impatiently as it seemed to take forever for the operator to pick up.

When she did, he described the situation with urgency. Once he had given the location, the operator promised him that an ambulance was already on the way.

He paced back and forth as he waited. Where the bloody hell were they?

They arrived in a good amount of time, wasting none of it on pleasantries as they brought in a stretcher.

One of the paramedics whistled as he caught sight of the kid.

Taking in his condition, the paramedics set him on the stretcher, and got him into the ambulance with little trouble.

The lead one glanced at John.

"You coming along?" He asked.

John hesitated only for a second. He nodded, and clamored in beside the kid.

They reached the hospital quickly, and wheeled him in, with John following behind.

He immediately went into the ER, where John was barred from the room.

"I'm sorry, sir," A nurse apologized, "But our doctors need total concentration if they want to save him."

With that, he was left in the waiting room, with nothing but a few health pamphlets to amuse himself. Hours went by, taking agonizingly long.

Eventually, a doctor came out, looking exhausted.

"We just barely managed to save him. He was on the brink of death when we got to him. He had lost a lot of blood, and his recovery was slow. We lost count of the stitches we had to use."

He paused. "It's odd, but around halfway through the operation, he started improving, as if he had suddenly found the will to live."

He shook his head in bewilderment, and left.

What have I gotten myself into?, John thought helplessly.