No, I do not own Harry Potter

At the sound of explosions and blasts of green light, the cat screeched and took cover underneath the kitchen table. When all was silent, she crept out from her hiding place, shaking. She mewed, calling for her master and mistress. There was no reply. Padding cautiously into the front hall, she sniffed the air, and hissed at the repulsive smell of death wafting up her nostrils. She stood still, calculating whether it was best to stay under the kitchen table or whether she should go and investigate. She mewed again, piteously. She didn't like what was happening. Something bad had happened to her beloved owners and they weren't responding to her call. She was beginning to feel hungry. She had just made up her mind to explore the house, searching for them, when she heard the Thing wailing. She tensed. She did not like the Thing wailing. In fact, she didn't like the Thing at all. Her master and mistress loved the Thing, and didn't even scold it when it pulled her tail or nearly killed her when it flew on that silly wooden stick. She turned and darted back into the kitchen to search for a box of catnip.