Nobody ever really survives the killing curse. Really, you think that'd be more obvious, considering it's name; it's a curse literally made with one purpose in mind. To kill. It wasn't even a painful death; quick, painless. One flash of fear as a bolt of green light up the world, and then the victim was dead; no gradual process, no bleeding out. Just soul-rending death. Much preferrable to some ways.

It was Halloween. If nothing else, the carved pumpkins lit from within by a stationary lumos should've given it away; that, or the multitudes of decorations, or perhaps the legions of undead searching for one thing and one thing only. That thing happened to be candy, and the legions of undead are mostly small children dressed as the dead. Mostly. After all, on a night light this, with the moon high in the sky and everybody so thoroughly costumed, who would notice the stray Vampire, or Hag, or Ghoul? Who would notice a passing Dark Lord, cloaked and shrouded in black, intent on the death of a small child?

Certainly not one Albus Dumbledore, the current headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, who currently stood in the doorway to the house at Godric's hollow, currently occupied by a nice, young wizarding couple and their son. Their son, who just so happened to be the aforementioned small child. Besides the esteemed headmaster stood a snivelling young sprout who had yet to grow into his ratlike looks (although some doubted he ever would. Make that most). Sadly, the looks weren't the only attributes Peter Pettigrew had taken from his animagus form.

As the rat waved off the headmaster, assuring the old man of his competency to care for young Harry Potter, the Dark Lord watched, waiting. With a crack, the headmaster disappeared; yet the rat-man did not close the door. From the darkness, a snake-like wizard stepped forwards, revealing himself to his subordinate. The children trick-or-treating did not stir, completely unreactive to his appearance; it was halloween, after all, everyone looked like a horribly disfigured mass-murderer! You were more likely to get funny looks if you didn't.

With a lipless smirk, he strode within the building, passing the rat who, task complete, decided it was probably in his best interest to leave. If only he'd known of the coming happenings; perhaps he would have stayed?...

No, unlikely. He had a streed of muggles to blow up and a godfather to frame, after all.

The downstairs of the house was completely empty of sound, sans an old clock slowly ticking away at the foot of the stairs, the wood of it worn and the numbers faded. The dark lord's lip curled in disgust. How utterly domestic. Upstairs, a light shone. The megalomanical sorcerer ascended the stairs in a manner that was far from quiet or quick; no, he took his time, making as much of a mess of the house as he could. He might as well have some fun.

At the top of the stairs, three rooms were available. Only one was lit; logically, the evil megalomaniac chose that one to enter, stepping across the hardboard floor and avoiding the discarded toys strewn across the hallway. Clearly, the little monster in the room beyond had become displeased at some point, and nobody had cleaned up after his tiff yet.

The room was painted in bright colours, a cacophony of red skies and blue trees with magenta leaves, white animals strewn across the walls. The dark lord sneered (something he appeared to be very good at; he must practice endlessly in the mirror, to perfect it as he had) at his surroundings, his crimson orbs finally stopping when they spotted a small child standing alone in his crib, a stuffed owl equally as white as the animals on the walls clutched in his grasp. The child's raven locks spilled from his head in thick, curly locks, framing his face and bringing attention to the bright, killing-curse green depths of his eyes.

The next few events happened in quick succession, almost as if they were planned. They probably were.

The wizard raised his wand in a graceful motion, a bolt of green matching the child's eyes shooting out of the tip.

A small, sleeping grub was packed into an equally small, red ship and set on a direct course to a blue planet.

A child died, the corpse dissapearing into paradox space.

The sorcerer fell, equally dead.

The parents died.

The grub lands.

An old man returns, the blood of a certain child's parents on his old, wrinkled hands, and a terrified expression on his face, so very out of place.

Moments later, an orphan is left under the eaves of a certain house located at number four, privet drive.