Harry looked at the glass door to the Dursleys' living room for a moment to see his reflection, and froze, shocked. Before his incarceration, he had been passable as a human. He'd been extremely pale, yes, but he had just looked like he never saw the sun. Now, however, he looked... well, dead. He didn't look like a traditional zombie, but he doubted he could pass as a normal human. His skin was greyed and slightly rotting, his hair had turned stark white, and his teeth and fingernails were yellowing. Put simply, he looked as though he had been dead for a few days.

Though Harry didn't know it, the magic running through his body to connect to the blood wards had also been maintaining the cells in his body, keeping them in a sort of stasis. With them up, his body had been able to remain normal in appearance. With Vernon's final act of hatred- the attempted murder of his nephew- the blood wards had fallen. Since Harry's magic no longer needed to connect to the blood wards, it had retreated into his magical core. There was, of course, some magic running through his body, but not enough to maintain a full stasis, only enough to slow the decay.

Harry stared at his reflection a moment longer before bringing his fist to the door with all of his undead strength. The glass shattered, several shards digging into Harry's hand. He grimaced, and took a moment to pick out most of the larger pieces, thanking his deadened sense of touch as he did so. He was certain that a human would have been in a great deal of pain. As it was, the pain was fairly mild.

He stepped through the shattered door and made his way to the kitchen. Had he not been so focused on his goal, he may have noticed an important detail- the pictures on the wall no longer depicted a walrus, a giraffe, and a whale. They insted showed a rather normal family with a moderately thin man, a slightly overweight woman, and two children.

Once Harry reached the kitchen, he quickly found a large butcher knife, idly noting that the Dursleys had redecorated. He tested the knife against his finger, grinning in satisfaction as it cut through the flesh without difficulty.

Quietly, Harry crept into the living room, once again noting that the Dursleys had redecorated. Carefully, he turned the doorknob into the master bedroom, his eyes on the bed as he stepped inside.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be, he didn't notice the man coming out of the bathroom to the side. The man, however, certainly noticed the small form, knife raised, creeping towards the bed. With a cry, the man charged the stranger and grabbed the hand holding the knife, twisting the intruder's wrist to force him to drop it.

Harry looked up in surprise at the unfamiliar man grabbing onto his wrist, then swore viciously as he realized his mistake. Of course the Dursleys had moved- they wouldn't want to stay anywhere near his prison. He'd been so focused on escaping and taking his revenge that the possibility hadn't even occurred to him. He swung his free arm at the stranger's stomach with superhuman strength (for a thirteen year old, so it came out to being about the force of a relatively strong adult), causing the man to buckle over in pain, but he didn't release his grip on Harry's wrist. Harry grabbed the man's arm with his free hand and twisted as hard as he could until the man gave a cry and let go of Harry's hand.

As soon as he was free, Harry turned and ran- he didn't want to hurt a stranger (well, permanently, in any case), but he really didn't want to be arrested for breaking and entering and attempted murder. Not before he'd killed the Dursleys, anyway.

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"And finally, Thomas Franklin of Privet Drive, Surrey, reports that he was assaulted in his home on Tuesday night by an intruder, armed with a butcher knife from his kitchen," said the reporter. "Mr. Franklin claims that he was unable to see much in the dark, but was able to tell that the perpetrator was male, about five feet tall with black hair and glasses, and, most distinctively, was missing his left index finger. If you have any information regarding this intruder, please call..."

Vernon's tuned out the rest of the news report as the blood drained from his face. Black hair, glasses, and a missing finger? That could only be the freak! But how? How could the monster have escaped? He'd made sure to bury it deep, and there was no way it could have gotten all of those chains off. And the Franklins... that was the family they'd sold Number Four to. Obviously, the freak was out, and after him and his family. If that was true... Vernon shuddered. If the freak was able to escape after being chained up, locked in a trunk, chained again, and buried ten feet under ground, there was no telling what it could do. And if it was after his family, he only had one choice- run. Silently, Vernon Dursley began making plans.

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Harry, clad in jeans, a Piano Man t-shirt, and a leather jacket, hefted his new backpack as he walked through the woods near Privet Drive. Since he'd needed supplies, he'd decided to take a little bit of revenge against one of the members of Dudley's old gang to get them. Making sure that the Polkisses still lived there first, he'd broken into their house and taken some clothes, a nice knife that he'd found on Pierce's bookshelf, 120 pounds, and, for good measure, Pierce's iPod. Thankfully, Pierce had always been fairly skinny, so the clothes weren't too bad a fit, but his shoes were rather loose.

Harry had decided to set up in the woods for a few days while he made plans, and was currently looking for an old house he'd found in the woods when he was younger. It was night again, and he was about to give up when a low growling behind him caught his attention. Fearfully, Harry turned to find himself faced with... himself. Or, more accurately, another undead. Unfortunately, this undead was slightly less intelligent than Harry was. Growling, it lunged forward, clawing at Harry's face with its rotting fingers.

Harry screamed as the zombie's finger dug into his left eye, and grabbed the monster's wrist, trying to pull it off of him. The creature dug its hand into his eye socket to improve its grip, forcing Harry to pry its fingers out of his eye. Grabbbing the zombie by its decayed wrist, he threw its arm to the side and pushed the corpse away from himself as hard as he possibly could. As soon as it was off of him, Harry turned tail and ran. He ran as fast as he could, dodging between trees and rocks to make it harder for the zombie to chase after him. The zombie gave chase, moving at a surprisingly high speed for a rotted corpse.

After a few minutes of running, the still screaming Harry saw a nearby clearing. The house! He'd found it! If he could just get inside, he could barricade the door, and the monster wouldn't be able to get to him. Harry put on a burst of speed as he veered towards the clearing. Unfortunately, his sharp turn took him closer to the zombie, who lunged after him again, narrowly missing. Harry put on another burst of speed and burst out of the clearing, leaves and bits of grass flying in the air behind him. A few moments later, the zombie came out as well, stumbling over the underbrush.

"God dammit," came a voice, shortly followed by the sound of a gunshot. The zombie's head exploded, and its body fell to the ground.

Harry sighed and sagged in relief as he turned to thank his savior.

It was a man in his mid twenties, extremely well built and with reddish brown hair. He was wearing a grey robe, and in his hands was a high-powered hunting rifle.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said gratefully.

"No problem, kid. Now, let's get you back home, shall we? Or are you running away?" the man asked.

"No, sir. My parents are dead, and my relatives..." Harry hesitated. What should he say? That his relatives locked him in a buried trunk for three years? "My relatives threw me out," he eventually said.

The man lookd at him thoughtfully for a moment, then abruptly said "What's your name, kid?"

"Harry, sir. Harry Potter."

The man's jaw fell open, and he dropped his rifle to the ground, where it went off with a loud bang. Harry staggered as he felt the bullet hit him in the chest, and the stranger swore viciously.

"Fuck! I just shot Harry Potter!" he said, pulling out a long, polished stick as he rushed to Harry's side.

"It's okay, sir. It's not that bad, really," Harry tried to push the man away, not wanting him to learn of his undead nature.

"Don't be stupid, kid," the man said, followed by "lumos." As soon as he said the word, his stick lit up the area in front of it and he shined it on Harry's chest. "Now where'd you get hit? Wait, what the hell? I know it hit you," the man asked when he saw the distinct lack of blood on Harry's shirt. Ignoring Harry's protests, he drew up Harry's shirt to look at the wound. Unfortunately for Harry, this exposed the wound his uncle's shotgun had left before he'd been put in the footlocker.

"What the fuck?" the man asked, looking Harry in the eyes.

"It's a long story, sir," Harry explained.

The stranger looked at him carefully. "You swear you're Harry Potter?"

"What? What do you mean?" Harry was confused. Who else would he be?

"You aren't just some jackass kid trying to be funny with me? You're really Harry Potter?" the man repeated.

"Of course I am. Why? Do I know you?" Harry asked, then his eyes sharpened and he asked somewhat eagerly, "Do you know where I can find the Dursleys?"

"The what? What's a dursley?" the man asked.

"They're my relatives. If you don't know them, how come you know who I am?"

The man looked at Harry and exploded into laughter. It was several minutes before he calmed down again.

"Kid, we've got a lot to talk about."

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