YAY! Another plot tribble! This one is actually even less developed than the others, if that's even possible. You see, the way I write is basically to put all of the characters in a big box, and see how they interact with each other. This means that I have no plan for where I'm going to go with it. If I had a plan, I would have to force the characters to go along with it. I prefer to let them come up with their own solutions to problems. Anyway, this is actually one of the first fanfic ideas I ever thought of, but it never really got off the ground. It wasn't until recently that I decided to give it another go.

This isn't the same quality as my normal work (which I'm aware isn't exactly great in the first place) but it's as good as I can get it. If you can come up with explanations for any of the numerous flaws, please PM me.

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"Kaf lo shoph ciz burl mon..."

Sweat dripped down Lily's forehead as she chanted rapidly, waving her wand in complicated runic patterns. She knew she had only a few more moments- even James, as skilled a fighter as he was, couldn't hold off the Dark Lord himself for very long.

"Purlipo ciz fir boa montinasto zof byrdno ..."

"Avada Kedavra!" she heard from downstairs, followed by an erie silence. Her husband had fallen- the Dark Lord was coming. She continued to chant and activated the runic circle she'd drawn around her son's bed, even as she heard the slow, quiet footsteps coming up the stairs.

"mochila qiristico zif- Ah!" She gasped as she heard the door handle turn as she finished the ritual, and then felt the blood drain from her face as she realized what she'd said. By adding the suffix "a" to the word "zif," she had changed it's meaning from "from" to "with." The final line of the ritual now translated to "protect him with death," instead of "protect him from death." But it was too late to change anything. The ritual only had one more step. With trembling hands, she pointed her wand at her forehead.

"Avada Kedavra!"

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Lord Voldemort, the most feared Dark Lord in wizarding history, opened the door to find Lily Potter already dead on the floor, her wand in her hand. While this was curious, it was of no real concern to him- the boy was why he was here, not his mudblood of a mother. Voldemort turned to see the child that was prophesied to be his equal, and sneered at what he saw- just a little child. To think that he, the most powerful wizard ever to walk the earth, had been afraid of a little child.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A green flash of light, searing pain, a high, wailing scream, and an enormous explosion. The body of Lord Voldemort was incinerated, what was left of his soul was flung out, and the heart of Harry Potter stopped beating.

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Fourteen Years Later

Harry strained, focusing all of his magic on one single goal- escape. It had taken four years for his magic to get strong enough that he was willing to risk teleportation. He'd spent the entirity of the past four years manipulating the chains that had once bound his arms and legs until he was exhausted, then allowing his magic to restore fully before he tried once more.

There was a loud crack, and Harry abruptly found himself on the grass outside Number Four, Privet Drive. He stared at the starry sky above him, and began laughing hysterically. Freedom! After four fucking years, he was finally free! And now... now, he would have his revenge.

He lay there on the grass, contemplating the events that had led to him being buried in a footlocker for the bast four years.

He had been cutting up an onion for his aunt's casserole when his hand slipped, cutting off his index finger.

"Crap," Harry swore quietly. Unfortunately for him, Dudley was in the room to plunder the fridge and heard his curse.

"MOM!" Dudley called. "Harry sai..." the would-be tattle-tale froze as he saw the finger lying on the ground, then screamed and ran out of the room.

A few moments later, Aunt Petunia came into the kitchen. "What have you done to my Dudders? What have you done?"

"Nothing, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, knowing she wouldn't believe him.

"LIAR! Diddykums just came to me screaming about...your...finger..." Petunia said, trailing off as she saw Harry's missing finger.

Now, in another universe, a universe in which his mother had performed the ritual properly, Petunia wouldn't have cared in the slightest. She would have taken the boy to the hospital, yes, but she would have secretly been glad that the little brat was in pain. However, this was not that universe.

"FREAK!" she called as she saw the lack of blood coming from the stump of Harry's finger. "Get into your cupboard, NOW, you little monster!"

"But Aunt..."

"NOW, DAMMIT!"

Harry immediately went to his cupboard without a word. He'd never heard Aunt Petunia swear before, so she must have been really mad.

It was three days before he was allowed outside of his cupboard, during which he was extremely glad that he had no need to eat. He had learned long ago that he was apparently some sort of undead (he got the term from a fantasy book he'd read when he was younger)- he had no blood or heartbeat, his wounds didn't heal, his senses of touch, taste, and smell were dulled, and he had no need to eat, sleep, or breathe. In fact, he hadn't known what sleeping and breathing were until he was six (that's another story). He had also deduced that magic existed easily enough- after all, without magic, how could he exist as an undead? He had assumed, from his relatives' rants about his "freakishness" that they were aware of this nature. He had assumed wrong. As soon as they heard him say the words "undead" and "magic," he had been locked back in his cupboard. He knew now that he never should have tried to explain himself to the Dursleys, but he'd only been ten at the time.

A week after the Dursleys found out about his undeath, Uncle Vernon had let him out of his cupboard again. Harry's hand strayed to the hole Vernon's shotgun had left in his chest on that occasion.

The day after his uncle had shot him, Harry was dragged out to the backyard of the Dursleys home. It was pitch black outside, and waiting for them was a deep hole, a large footlocker, and several sets of chains.

"Hold still, freak." Uncle Vernon said, then grabbed one of the chains and used it to bind Harry's arms to his chest. Harry, in his shock, didn't fight back at first. By the time he started struggling, the chain was already around him, and it was a simple matter for Vernon to lock them. Another chain went around his legs, and a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. A screaming Harry was then pushed into the footlocker, and the lid was closed. He heard the sound of more chains being dragged across the footlocker and locks being closed. A few moments later, he tumbled around as the locker was pushed into the hole.

Harry stood up, still giggling to himself. Had anyone been present to witness him, they would have assumed (correctly, mind you) that the boy was at least slightly unhinged- wearing clothes far too small for him and giggling like a maniac as he walked towards the back door of Number Four.