Harry Potter sat tensely in the paisley patterned love seat in the living room of Number 4, Privet Drive. He had been watching the television for three hours, hypnotized by the horror unfolding on the large screen. The news reporter grasped his microphone, shouting into it over the noise and madness bursting forth from behind him. Crowds of muggles were running through the streets, caught on video by a helicopter camera. Hysteria, chaos. Every now and then a trampled person could be seen on the video footage, struggling for safety. Finally, the television showed what they were all running from. Harry was not surprised.
Harry Potter was in a precarious position. Stuck in the Dursley's house until he turned seventeen, fortunately only two days away, he had nothing to do but stare at the television, and silently plot his course for once he came of age. Of course, the Dursley's would never had allowed Harry to watch the news, as they believed it would only aggravate his "condition." However, the Dursley's were not able to shunt him from the room as they once had, for they had frantically left town the week before out of fear for what was being done to the muggles they had seen in the newspapers and on the news. This terror overrode their abhorrence for Harry and the thought of leaving him alone in their house.
They had not invited him to come along, even. With the trunk of the station wagon packed to the brim, Dudley with his portable DVD player clutched to his chest, Aunt Petunia with her horsy grimace, and Uncle Vernon with his unnaturally purple and worried face, the Dursley's sped down Privet Drive, without looking back even once. Harry thought he would have been relieved by their absence; in fact, it had been a dream of his since he could remember. Nevertheless, the house was extremely silent and lonely now, and he could only count down the days until he would be free to leave for good, free to use magic to defend himself, free to follow Voldemort and avenge himself upon the destroyer of his happiness.
Harry sat glued to the program, listening to the cacophony of screams and crying. Then it came. He knew it would. There was no need to hide any more, to work under cover. The giant foot crashed down upon the hurrying people, like a child attacking an ant hill. The broad foot, as big as a boat, fell without discrimination, trampling cars, buildings, and people alike. The giants had been let loose. The city of London was under siege by enemies that it didn't even know existed. Voldemort's efforts, in effect since his weak return six years ago, were no longer covert. His minions, his gathered armies of grotesque beasts and maniacal wizards, tramped through the streets, destroying at will. The video footage was unedited, the action was live. Harry sat bolt upright, as he recognized a figure coming up behind the news reporter. He wanted to scream, to warn the man of what was going to happen. The horrible face of Fenrir Greyback emerged, the snout covered in blood. The reporter turned around only to encounter the werewolf's open mouth. Then the live feed died.
Harry looked down at his hands, clenched and shaking violently. Two more days. Just two more.