J.K Rowling owns all things in this story. Except for the plot elements that belong to us. Those belong to us. However, if she so pleased, she would be welcome to borrow them. If she offered to give us hugs.
It was a dark night, the 31st of October. While many muggle children, and even some magical ones, were busy trick-or-treating and stuffing their faces with candy, Voldemort was busy plotting. He knew the prophecy that his most faithful servant, Snivellus (Snivvles as he called him when they were alone.. just the two of them...), had overhead could involve one of two children. Harry Potter, or Neville Longbottom. A little known fact, however, made Voldemort sure that Neville couldn't be the boy of legend. He was simply too ugly. Therefore, it left only the dashing Potter boy.
He was nearly ready to move, his death eaters were in their costumes and he had just done his hair and nails. His legs were freshly shaved, and his hair had been curled to its bounciest. He pulled on his robes, figuring that he wouldn't look very threatening with only his pink thong on, and woke the already-stirring Snivvles.
"My servant.. Snivvles... Snivellus... It is time," Voldemort murmured into his ear.
"Ugh.. I'm so emo... just.. like.. don't hurt the ginger.. Before she dies, I must know the secret of how she does her hair. No matter what, mine is always greasy!" the hobo in Voldemort's bed replied.
Voldemort assured Snape that he would at least steal the redhead's hair products. He summoned his minions and they quickly apparated to Godric's Hollow.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whatchu think you doing, my man?" A cry echoed out of the alley they had appeared in. Voldemort spun, raising his wand, and was confronted by a large group of African-Americans accompanied by one small, ghetto white girl. Voldemort quickly thought 'What's going on!' as the group approached the death eaters. The group pulled out their ghetto weapons, including a smattering of guns and chains and bats. Voldemort stood there, stunned. He wanted to know why these muggles were wasting his time. He pulled out his wand, but was shocked when the small white girl beat it out of his hands with her stick.
"Fool, you want a fight? I got a stick too, skank!" she exclaimed.
The group of death eaters rushed to his aid, just barely managing to contain the savage attack led by the ghetto children. The kids fled, realizing that they were dealing with some crazy LARPers and not wanting any part of it.
Voldemort and the group of death eaters continued traveling to the intended house, that of the Potters. When they arrived, the death eaters surrounded the house, putting up an anti-apparation field around the house. They giggled amongst themselves, wondering just how badly their hero would destroy the Potters.
Voldemort walked up to the door and rang the bell, figuring that it was worth a try. However, as he rang it, a pot of burning hot oil fell from the top of the porch roof, scalding his left foot that he had been unable to move. Thinking he was safe from the Potters' attempts, he rang the bell again. He was right, the door opened on its own, emitting only an eerie squeaking noise as he entered. Voldemort heard this, and realized something: if he was going to be a douche and kill them all, he might as well oil the door. He opened his pocket and pulled out the oil that he always carried (just in case Snivvles' hair decided to become normal). He applied it to the hinges and continued on his way. All of a sudden, James Potter burst out of a passageway and smacked him over the head with a lamp. He had forgotten his wand, and had nothing else at hand. Voldemort stumbled, feeling the searing pain that spread from the back of his head.
By the time Voldie had recovered, James was gone. He had left through a door, and this, Voldemort noticed. He followed, anger coursing through his body with every step. As he passed through the doorway, however, a string was tightened at his feet. Voldemort stumbled, but managed to keep his footing. He continued walking, and suddenly found himself on the ground. A toy. A simple children's toy, perhaps a broom that Sirius had bought for the infant, had thwarted him! Voldemort was angry. Very angry. He had been tripped by a childen's toy. He shook his head, and got up. He decided that he had to persevere in order to stop the prophecy. He simply had to be more careful, right?
He continued his mission, walking carefully through the house. As he passed through the next door, the one he hoped would be the last, a spell flew at him. He blocked it with ease, laughing at the attempt, but as he moved his arm up it knocked into a trip wire. The wire unleashed yet another trap. This one unleashed simultaneous buckets upon him. One was full of tar and another of feathers. Voldemort was livid. He had been tarred and feathered, like witches of old times. He decided that another approach might better serve him. He left the house, and pulled something out of his pocket. It was a remote with a big red button. He warned his death eaters, and pushed it without a second thought. The button activated, and summoned a nuclear bomb. The bomb fell on the Potter house, instantly killing James and Lily. However, unknown to Voldemort, the Potter boy was part cockroach, and easily survived the attack. The cockroach\boy ran out of the house, and as he scurried past Voldemort, he stumbled backwards. He tripped over a Halloween decoration, and as he fell, he hit his head on a rock. Voldemort was no more, and the cockroach\boy was forevermore known as the Boy\Cockroach Who Lived.
Fin. A one-shot by Pespi and Mt. Dew.