I unfortunately own nothing that you recognize. Almost everything in here belongs to JK Rowling.

A few stray leaves danced across the darkened street, breaking the silence of the night as a few last-minute trick-or-treaters hurried home. Further down the lane, the weak overhead lights of a small shop flickered and died as a shopkeeper at last stowed his wire broom away and scurried upstairs to his tiny flat. Two skeleton-clad figures disappeared at the end of the street, and an elderly man removed his bowl of candy from the porch with a last look into the darkness.

"Rabble rousers," he mutters angrily, recalling what had once been a finely carved pumpkin before it had met its untimely fate. One street over, a baby's shrieks shatter the quiet, and a young woman rushed to comfort it with a sleepy smile.

The leaves pick up in tempo, dancing to a song only they knew the rhythm to. Whoosh. Faster now. Whoooooosh. Desperately, they circle, twirl, defending their territory. Whoooooooooosh. Silence.

In the last house on the row, another young couple settled down for bed. A pretty woman turned down the blankets in her young son's crib, and one room over, her husband swept aside his messy black hair and sat down to finish writing a letter to someone named Sirius Black.

Whoooosh. Out of the darkness, twenty cloaked figures appeared, blocking out what little moonlight had made it through the cloudy night. Their pale white masks oddly appropriate for the holiday, the strange group glided down the street unmolested. The tallest figure emerged from the group, his cloak slithering along the cobblestone. His eyes narrowed as he approached the house, highlighting the snakelike features of his blurred features. He gestured casually as he went, and each hooded figure dutifully assumed their position. Finally, he spoke, in a cold drawl. "Bellatrix, Malfoy, the door. And Snape, Wormtail. You will have the honor of accompanying me into the house. It was on your information, after all, that we are finally triumphant." With a mock bow, Lord Voldemort knocked on the Potters' door.

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James Potter had been writing a letter when he heard the knock. It wasn't a particularly interesting letter; it wasn't as though Sirius could relate to the unceasing ennui that followed him about the house like a shadow. No, his friend would be engaged in life-threatening combat this very moment, perhaps with his own cousins. God, how Sirius hated them! The whole lot of them! Always had, always would. James smiled to himself as he remembered the summer Sirius had run away to his house. What a summer that had been, playing Quiddich in the orchards, chasing girls down in the village, himself, only half-heartedly, never quite able to rid his mind of one Lily Evans. Lost in the memories, James resolved to talk to Dumbledore after he returned from the latest in a line of mysterious trips; perhaps a good go under his trusty Cloak was all he needed. With a start, he remembered the knock, and quickly got up to greet his late callers. James approached the door. He hadn't been expecting visitors, but surely Sirius had dropped by on his way to some business for the Order, unaware of the late hour. They would sit and talk for hours, laughing about the miniature broomstick Sirius had sent for Harry's first birthday. Or perhaps Dumbledore himself, come to return his Invisibility Cloak…? He threw the door open wide, an expectant grin on his face….

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Voldemort enjoyed himself immensely watching the foolish grin slide off James Potter's face. That one look of horror made his months of searching worth the effort. And now, finally, he would take what he had come for. James recovered and reached for his wand. One second too late.

"Lily, Death Eat—" Voldemort's curse cut off his pointless yelling. Two floors above, a scream echoed. Lily Potter was expecting them. Voldemort glided up the stairs, paying no attention to what he was sure was a very thoughtfully chosen decor. Fashionable. A mirthless laugh escaped his throat. He carefully kicked over a precariously stacked pile of books. Soon, it wouldn't matter. Soon….he was tired of waiting. He entered the first room on his right, the disgustingly cheerful yellow paint infuriating him, as if by some reverse effect. The woman inside turned around. She stood in front of a baby cradle. An unfortunate obstacle.

"Out of my way, you silly girl."

"Please," she begged, silent tears rolling down her face, "please, do with me as you like. I will do anything, I will die, just don't hurt my son." Voldemort crossed the room in two strides, until he was mere inches away, her pretty face marred by tears. He relished the absolute power, the power of life or death. This was the moment he had waited for his entire life, the moment he became invincible. But he was a merciful Lord. He would make her a handsome offer, one she could not refuse.

"You need not die. You can live, live to have another family, just leave me the child." Lightning fast, Lily reacted, reaching for the wand behind her back. Voldemort was faster. Lily Potter fell, more gracefully than her husband had, a fierce, determination to protect her child etched on her face. But now, the child had no one. His parents could not protect him anymore. Harry Potter opened his eyes and stared into the face of his parents' murderer. Unwilling to break the expectant stillness of the house, whispered the fatal curse. "Avada Kedavra.

All hell broke loose.

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Bellatrix guarded the door, eagerly awaiting for her master's successful return. She tilted her hoodless head up toward the moon and breathed in deeply. This was truly a night to be remembered. The night that her Lord finally killed the Potters, as he wanted so badly.

She stopped. Something was wrong. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up, and for one peaceful moment, all was still. Then the explosion ripped through the night. Fire erupted from the opposite side of the house and she was flying, soaring into darkness.

When she woke, a second, or an hour later, she barely recognized her surroundings; the scene was chaos, and she noted with disgust that several Disapparated on the spot, Malfoy included. Coward. She got to her feet, wincing at her broken ribs. "Episki," she muttered, weaving her shattered rib cage back into recognizable human anatomy.

Grimly she noticed some of her friends lying very still, now just part of the night; the woman must have put up a fight. She dashed inside, barely registering James Potter's corpse, thrown into a corner, his body bent at an impossible angle. Up the stairs, she entered the ruined bedroom, expecting to find her master awaiting her, calm, with traces of contempt as he watched his chosen few scatter across the lawn. But this was not the scene that greeted Bellatrix Lestrange when she strode into Harry Potter's much-abused bedroom, as her master had done only minutes before. Ignoring the crying child in the corner, dangerously close to being consumed by the flames that now claimed his entire house, Bellatrix bent to examine the fallen robes on the ground.

With sharp intake of breath, she realized that something had gone wrong—horribly wrong. Furiously, she turned on the cradle. How dare it lay there, crying, while her Lord was missing? The child would suffer. Somehow, it was responsible, for this night, for everything.

But how to do it? There were so many delicious options. Let the child burn alive, perhaps, or slowly sever its limbs until its poor little heart gave out. She favored the second approach. But Bellatrix hesitated. Surely the Aurors would be on their way. One glance out the window told her that she was alone now, save Wormtail, who had just blundered into a tree. And the Dark Lord had so wanted to kill the child in person – he would not be happy with her. With a crack her cousin appeared and a second later, Wormtail disappeared. The child would have to wait. For the first time in her life, Bellatrix fled, baby in hand.

She reappeared a second later, on a street called Privet Drive. All she needed was to find her master and to destroy whatever magic bound him. He would not have left her there of his own free will, she was sure. But first, Harry Potter would have to be hidden. Hands slightly trembling, she cast a simple Transfiguration spell. Harry's hair shrunk into neat blonde wisps, his eyes reshaped themselves, his scar disappeared. Even the youngest witch or wizard would be able to detect the rudimentary magic. Which was why the person she needed was neither.

Bellatrix knocked once on the door, its peeling green paint speaking to the nature of its inhabitant. Mrs. Figg opened the door. "Why, Miss Bellatrix, such a surprise, such an honor!"

"Here." Bellatrix thrust Harry in her face. "The Malfoys' son. His mother is needed. I will return for him soon." Bellatrix assumed an expression suitable to having been assigned to play babysitter for her nephew. Warily, Mrs. Figg took the child. "Soon…?"

But Bellatrix had disappeared into the night.