Don't Be Predictable

He'd always been afraid. Since he could remember, he'd been afraid of bruises and broken bones. Later, when he finally was free, he was afraid of being sent back, and was even more afraid of losing everything he'd come to know in this new world, because he had the audacity to complain. He was afraid of being the reason the girl with red hair would die. He was afraid of reliving his mother's death, and of losing his soul, and of losing his new father godfather. He was afraid for his friends and his schoolmates and his family.

It appeared that they had miscalculated as well. Muggle militarization was far more efficient than they had thought. When about one fiftieth of British muggles had died, they entered into a rapid militarization process, making what used to be easy, casualty free missions into some of the most hair raising.

He didn't have anything to fear now. It had all been taken away, relieving him of his worry as his heart ached. Eventually, all he had left were burnt out landmarks, old pictures, and broken wands. He shed his humanity and killed, killed, killed. Never stopping, never caring, never showing mercy.

As time went on, the muggles slowly got closer and closer to the truth, culminating in the eventual exposure of wizards. The ICW had done nothing but threaten Voldemort, preferring to deal with him like they would any other government leader, rather than a violently insane psychopath that needed to be contained.

When the Muggle governments got wind of this, they overtook the magical ones quickly, and anyone not obeying their laws was named a criminal, to be apprehended and put to trial in a muggle court.

And so, Harry Potter, outlaw extraordinaire, sprang to second place of the most wanted list, for the purpose of 'protection and containment.' Entirely different than Voldemort's coveted first place of 'destruction by any means.'

The acrid flavor of the potion almost made him hurl, but he soldiered on (Poppy would be proud), and had soon drunk every drop.

His body ached as it elongated, his bones growing thin and light, and something webbed sprouting from his back. He dropped the flask into the grass as his fingers turned to claws. 'Here comes the airplane!' he muttered in parseltongue, his mouth now being unsuitable for human speech as he jumped up into the nearest tree, immediately using it as a launch pad.

As he soared through the sky, he saw with his draconic eyes the encampments he'd spent the last few weeks searching for. As he'd assumed, while they were completely impervious to human vision, it was not so for animals. He traced the magical blockers, which had the typical 'tripwires,' however, the 'net' blocking out physical attacks had no such precautions. Standard practice as magical and non magical counterterrorism units tended to work independently.

Using his wand, he cut out sections of the physical net, being careful to not use any that would discharge enough magical energy to trigger the tripwires.

It would take about half an hour for someone to notice the holes, but there wouldn't be anyone left at that point.