Baby harry sat on the doorstep of number 4 privet drive. He was tired out of his tiny baby mind. Who knew being smart in a child's body could be so exhausting. Quietly, he glanced around, making sure Dumbledore was gone.
Slowly, he let a feral grin inch onto his face. Oh, this was going to be good. Harry got up, dusted himself off, and promptly apparated, the explanation letter, basket, and blanket gripped in his small hand.
His lungs constricted for a moment, before leaving him at his new destination with a small 'pop'. Now, harry was outside a small orphanage. It was dreary, cold, and made of a material that seemed to be slowly disintegrating. The sign in front of the doors looked old and worn. Harry could barely make out the letters. Squinting, he managed to read the sign. 'Wools Orphanage', it said.
Harry promptly looked down at the letter still in his hand and lit it on fire. The bluebell flames burned the parchment, letting the ash tickle his skin. After the parchment had been cremated the flames disappeared. Satisfied, harry layed the basket and blanket down on the doorstep. Quickly, he snuggled into the small piece of warmth, letting it melt the ice feeling laying on his skin.
Once he was comfortable harry flicked his hand once letting the knocker bang on the wooden door.
The entrance creaked open and an old lady walked out.
"Oh, a child this sweet needs to come inside," the older woman cooed, bringing in the baby.
Harry gurgled happily. It was only when he was tucked into a small bed that he started to laugh maniacally. Nobody in the wizarding world could sleep that night, not even death.
'Godammit' Death thought, 'What has that child done now?'