No cares, no worries. No impending death to avoid, or evil life to take. He wasn't chasing after Dark Wizards who put their cocks into snakes and split their souls just for poops and giggles. He was relaxed, carefree. If he wanted to run and play like he was a child again, he could. Not that he'd ever run and played much when he was a child, of course. He had run a lot ... from piggy Dudley Dursley and his gang of bullying bell-ends, and from Uncle Vernon's fists and steel-buckled belt, or from Aunt Petunia's clothes iron, her rolling pin and ... which may have been the worst of the lot ... her acidic, abuse-spouting tongue, and the belittling insults which lingered long after Harry's bruises had faded.