He lay on his bed, watching the light outside his window dissolve slowly into darkness. He did not bother to get up, to turn on the lights. Instead he took solace in the quiet emptiness, and he let himself sink into deep thought. He felt very mature and brave in his isolation, ashamedly so, shocked by this instant of self-appraisal. He was brave; he had faced more than anyone his age had or even ought to. He was proud of his seclusion, his uniqueness. He, Harry Potter, was the only one who could face and defeat Lord Voldemort, the most powerful living wizard.
Scraaaatttchh…
Harry was snatched from his reverie. He heard it again, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, moving sinuously through the house. A timid sound, yet one that brought with it a sense of dread. Harry sat up on his bed, and reached for his wand on the bedside table. Underage magic be damned he thought, as he ignited the tip of his wand with a silent spell. The scratching had grown louder, pervading the emptiness like a noxious gas. Harry carefully moved towards the door of his room, wand held high and ready.
He peered into the deserted hallway, his heart beginning to race. The scratching had evolved into a swishing sound, like a cloak being trailed behind a feeble body. Suddenly, Harry remembered that inside this house, until the day of his seventeenth birthday, he was protected by strong magic. The sound, then, must be coming from outside. In his curiosity, that dangerous trait that he had exercised throughout his years at Hogwarts, he approached the front door, unbolted it, and proceeded to open it. His mouth dropped in horror at the sight, so close to home, much closer than on the news.
Privet Drive was crawling. Literally, the paved streets were alive with writhing movement. Harry directed his wand at the ground, and grew faint with comprehension. All of his neighbors, hundreds of muggles, were lying on the ground, bloody and disheveled. The doors to their houses all stood open, as though they had been dragged from their slumber into a hellish reality. Harry ran to the nearest human form. It was Mr. Sanders, of number 5, and it looked as though his arms had been broken. Harry felt his pulse—it was still beating, feebly however. A sense of utter futility swept over him, as he realized that it would take a dozen Madam Pomfreys to rectify such a dire situation. And as he knelt, gazing into the pale face of his neighbor, Harry was suddenly knocked over by a powerful force. He recovered himself, and turned to look at what had hit him. He grasped his wand tightly, and thought, so it begins.