Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all connections to the name belong to JK Rowling and her various publishing houses, as well as Warner Bros. Since I'm not a part of Warner Bros. or any of her publishing houses, I don't own even a fraction of the rights to the Chosen Boy.
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It was 11:55 at night.
A window-rattling explosion woke Harry with a start, just as it woke the Dursleys and every other family living on Privet Drive. In a flash, his glasses were on his face and his feet were in his well-worn shoes. He snatched his wand from its resting place on his bedside table
The deafening explosion so late at night on the thirtieth of July only meant one thing in the seventeen year old's mind – Death Eaters.
Bolting out of his room, he nearly ran into his baseball bat wielding cousin, who looked terrified and wide awake. His aunt and uncle stumbled out of their own room seconds after he had exited his own. It was dark in the hallway, but he saw as their expressions went from anxious but annoyed to startled and frightened when they saw him, wand in hand and obviously looking ready to fight.
It was 11:56 at night.
Another explosion ripped through the cool summer air and, somewhere, one of their neighbours let out a horrified scream, then quieted far too quickly. The Death Eater – undoubtedly with
Voldemort himself at their head – were trying to draw him out of the house's failing wards. He was sure of it.
Adjusting his grip on his wand, he glanced at the terrified Dursleys before quickly heading downstairs, thinking hard, wincing as another explosion shook the house and the dying shriek of a woman sounding above it. He needed to alert the Order if there did not already know; he needed to get the Dursleys to someplace safe; he needed to stop the Death Eaters, or at least lure them away from innocent Muggles.
Hearing his relatives cautiously follow him down the stairs, he began to pace the sitting room, thinking, considering, contemplating his actions. He had to do the right thing and he did not want to know what would happen if he chose the wrong course of action.
It was 11:57 at night.
He glanced out of the sitting room window, knowing that the Death Eaters would not be able to see him; the black hooded figures swarmed the street, laughing as they pointing their wands at gardens, fences, lampposts and mail boxes… A third, thunderous explosion and another car joined the SUV and house that were already burning angrily, spreading a sinister orange glow over the street, cracking shadows of monsters, terrifying enough to give anyone nightmares for weeks.
Beyond his sadistically joyous minions, laughing just as cruelly as he carelessly threw curses at the now battered woman who lived across street, stood Voldemort. He was nothing more than a black, skeletal silhouette against the roaring fire that had once been his victim's house. In the distance, Harry could already head the wailing sirens of emergency crews as they rushed to the scene – more bodies for Voldemort and his followers to play with.
They could not reach this place; he knew this too well. But his mind was clouded with indecision, and did nothing more than cringe when his neighbour's agony filled screams finally ended.
It was 11:58 at night.
Tearing himself away from the scene, he found the Dursleys watching him, pale and shaking in their fear, but somehow expectant of him. But, of course; even they knew that he was famous for defeating the chaos that rages outside some sixteen years ago, and it could not be clearer that they would want above everything else that he somehow manage to do that again.
What they wanted, though, did not concern him right now; if they did not get away from this mess, this pandemonium, they would die in a fashion much like that of their neighbours, a few more which had been chased from their homes by fear, to be caught by demons they could have never imagined. As another wail was silenced, he come to know that, to them to be toyed with before being quickly killed was the most they could hope for – in all likelihood, the Dark Lord would have something planned for the three Muggles, just as they would for him.
His left hand kneaded his forehead, willing himself to find some loophole or unwritten trick that would let them find safety. He could not use side-along Apparation to get them out; the wards around the house would not break until it was truly the last day of the month. He could not send them away by Portkey; he simply did not know how to make one.
A low growl found its way from his throat. He grasped desperately at anything he could conjure up in his mind, discarding each option quickly, marked as impossible.
It was 11:59 at night.
The growl was quickly cut off; the left hand dropped from his head; his pacing steps froze. There was nothing for it – there would only be one way to get away from here alive to warn the Order. It was the only way, and it was inconceivably dangerous on one's own, let alone with three Muggles in tow.
Green eyes dark with determination met the wide ones of his last remaining family, unflinching even when another explosion screamed through the air, pelting the dark house with debris. As calmly as he could, he did his best to explain to the three magically ignorant people the one way they would possibly escape from this.
Three pairs of trembling, clammy, shaking hands held on to him tightly, but his ignored the sensation of decreased blood flow to his arms as he stared at the time on his watch intently, focussing in his mind's eyes on one of the few places where he would find safety now…
He tightened his grip on his wand and took a breath; the pairs of hands on his arms and shoulders redoubled their grips.
His watch beeped once and he quickly spun on his heel. Fire and curses ruthlessly ripped apart the mayhem of flames and smoke and twisted metal that had once been a well-kept house known as number four, Privet Drive.
It was 12:00 in the morning.
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And so, that's the end of Privet Drive as we know it. Thanks for reading.
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