A/n: The story is my first foray into the 1st person POV writing. It's more of an exercise than anything else.

1.) The story takes place in an alternate universe where Voldemort and the rest of the cast did not exist.
2.) Harry is an orphan, and he has no friends. Boo-fucking-hoo.
3.) Don't take the story too seriously and don't spend hours looking for plotholes or things that makes sense. It's supposed to be badly written comedy, nothing more.
4.) Will include casts and references from Harry Potter, Avengers, Thor and Agents of Shield.
5.) Language warning.
6.) Don't be fooled by the first few paragraphs, ain't nobody got time to maintain that level of writing.

I love how Sif refers to Phil Coulson as "Son of Coul," which is a patronymic surname. So, in the story, I'll have Harry's name be changed into "Harry Potterson," for the whole "Son of Pot" to happen, which I think, is hilarious.

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Chapter: 1

London is beautiful this time of year.

The city felt alive, even in the unending crowds of zigzagging pedestrians rushing home for Christmas; the hustling of noise and traffic; the thousands of slow moving cars stuck in the winter commute. Embedded in Christmas cheer, and with the wondrous and thrilling possibilities of the coming New Year, the city could not have beamed more effervescent, and merrily vibrant. Shoppers and dreamers roamed her streets, those who sought comfort in the fulfillment of their superficial needs, and those that sought comfort in one day discovering whatever it was that brought them to this city in the very first place.

Coruscating brilliantly underneath the city's artificial lighting, London was smothered underneath a smooth layer of glowing white. Nothing seemed to be spared from the suffocating, yet unthreatening presence of snow, from London's alluring architecture to her endlessly walkable streets, even the multitude of tiny stores that littered the side of her roads, resembling valiant little fireflies, trying all they can do in order to stop the world from falling into darkness. But even underneath the arguably harsh winter conditions, hundreds of neon signs still flashed vividly, attracting flocks of customers to the variety, and the diversity of services that they were providing; from Christmas trinkets, all the way to drinks and to entertainment. (With a holiday discount, of course.)

The fresh blankets of white resembled the yearly resolutions and hopes of a common Londoner; to usher in the start of a new and hopefully better year, while leaving behind all they have failed in the previous; their mistakes, their past negligence, submerged underneath a beautiful tarp of white, erased and forgotten, in the "spirit" of a better New Year.

Thousands of Londoners flocked the congested streets like tiny ants discovering a sweetened treat left out in the open. Some were visibly excited by the falling flakes of snow, the spirit of Christmas surging excitedly through their warmly clad frames. Others rushed their way through the bustling crowds, wanting nothing more than to get out of the freezing weather, to return to the comfort of their homes, the night's meaning nothing more than a customary gesture for them to get through each year.

From where I stood, I was granted an amazing view of the decorated buildings that towered dominantly across the city skyline, I could hear the Christmas countdowns and experience the expensive fireworks. It wasn't all that bad, at least of all things considered. The alleyway behind Starbucks' employee entrance had a direct path of sight towards the gigantic tree they've erected in the middle of Piccadilly Circus - with its many enormous commercial video displays and gigantic neon mounted signs, it was somewhat considered the Times Square of London; and due to the countless notably famous buildings, landmarks and ease of access to the London subway, it was a hectic swarm of both tourists and Londoners.

Sliding the ends of the lit cigarette between my lips, I felt a warm rush of heat enveloping my chest, a stark and somewhat comfortable contrast to the chilly exterior temperature. Inhaling all of its unhealthy substances, I tilted my head towards the darkened skies and exhaled, watching as clouds of grey dispersed into the visible stars above, like a faraway nebula, galaxies away from where I stood.

I hated the occasion, the weather, the incessant crowds of sweaty jostling people. I hated the pretentious ceremonies, the ostentatious decorations, the pompous act of Christmas itself. I couldn't wait for the day to be over, for everyone else to wake up the next morning, sober from the night's cheer and realizing that it was nothing more than a mere distraction, that their poor miserable lives were still exactly the same as before.

I wasn't always this cynical and detestable, at least I chose to think so. Christmas used to be my favorite time of the year, from the magically enhanced snowball skirmishes, to the obscene amount of butterbeer that accompanied the celebrations at Hogwarts, I loved everything about Christmas.

But it was also on a Christmas night very much like this when I first learned of my inherited prophecy. Due to how preposterous, and how ridiculous it was, I initially questioned the authenticity of the seer, but I was quickly assured otherwise, that there were no mistakes, that the legitimacy of the prophecy was absolute.

I would soon learn of its grave significance, and the weight of its importance as they brought me deep into the Department of Mysteries, into the Hall of Prophecies. A day I would never forget, hearing the clamorous ministry mob outside of the room muted in a single instance as the heavyset doors slammed shut behind us. I remembered the silence, the ominous stillness of the room, facing a path that seemingly stretched endlessly into the horizons, a room without markings as to where it began, or where it ended – if, it even had one.

When they handed the orb to me afterwards, it seemed so harmless, like a mere trinket, a tiny glowing ball of contained wisp that rested mildly in my palms. I was more afraid of shattering it with my touch than of its ability to shatter my entire world. I remember it glowing brightly as I neared, and with it…

The darkest of lords descends upon us. Like the bolt of lightning scarred across his forehead, his actions are of equal devastation. He will become responsible for the destruction of our world, he will lay waste to all that stands in his way; he will bring ruin, desolation. His own selfishness will become the ends… of our world and the next.

The voice was female, haggardly, old. I could hear the fear, the frightened tone of which she spoke, she was afraid, horrified… of me, someone whom she had never met.

Even though the prophecies could only be heard by the ones whom they spoke of, I did not believe with absolute certainty that the seer was referring to me. There could be a chance of simple mistaken identity, that there was another being with the same lightning scar across his own forehead. I've never intentionally harmed an insect in my life, much less another living person. It was impractical, unfeasible, yet a part of me will always doubt its validity, and the accuracy of the prophecy.

Could I one day become the person she spoke of? The same that would become responsible for the destruction of my world?

Albus Dumbledore seemed to have believed so, or at least appeared to think that way; he wasn't exactly a man of many words. As a student of Hogwarts, I obviously knew of our own headmaster, but until that very day, there were no reasons for us to have previously crossed paths.

I was but a frightened child that night, looking towards his furrowing brows with a hopeful gaze, knowing that if anyone could get me out of this terrifying situation, it was him - Albus Dumbledore - one of, if not, the strongest wizard of our time, I practically worshiped him.

Yet instead of being comforted and told otherwise, that I could somehow avoid the prophecy under his guidance, he instead looked off into the distance and spoke with a tired voice, telling me that there were certain things, "that were just inevitable."

He removed me from most of the school's curriculum that day - Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, even subjects like Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. I understood their reasoning, that if I were to one day fulfill my prophecy, to become the very evil I sought to prevent; those could be the subjects that become the might of my powers. Along with those, I was also prevented from taking informative classes such as History of Magic, and the Study of Ancient Runes, they were terrified of the things I could learn, they wanted me weak, uninformed.

A part of me always wondered if I was trapped in a self-fulfilling prophecy of some sort, like the tragic story of Oedipus, and like him, our actions and decisions were the causes and results that would someday turn me into this very evil that the seer saw. I believed they thought of that too, but it seemed safer to just deny me of every opportunity, every possibility.

At least I wasn't suspended or expelled; the six years of my life spent in Hogwarts would have been an utter waste of my time. But in order to still graduate, I had to pick up other classes in order to fulfill the minimum graduation credits, so I partook in the only remaining subjects that were unrestricted to me, ones that were mostly deemed useless to the wizarding world - Muggle Studies, Magical Healing, and most ironically, since there were no other available options, Divination.

When I graduated the next year, it was with a bunch of useless diplomas I had zero interest in furthering, certificates that were of no use, that were unable to land me a proper job or to further my education. A year before, I was on fast tracks to becoming a trainee Auror, I've had almost perfect scores in all of its prerequisite classes, I've finished my internship at the ministry with high praise, I was on the path towards my dream job.

Now, well, no one in the government would ever hire someone with a, "prophesized to end the world," in their resumé to become an Auror. That dream was over. The upside to the subjects I was forced into taking, was that I did a pretty damn well job in magical healing. It ended up as something I've found renewed interest in at one point, along with how opposite it was to the prophecy, placing me in a position to save lives instead of taking them.

But then again, the same thing happened. No hospital, no clinic, no matter how small, would hire someone like me. No one would trust their lives to a person prophesied to end the world. Divination was as useless as one would believe, way worse than an actual arts degree. Muggle studies were… well, let's just say the only use for a degree in Muggles study, was to become a teacher teaching… muggles studies. A vicious, vicious cycle.

The muffled shouting of my name from behind the closed doors was a clear indication of my ending break. Dropping the little cancer stick into the snow covered floors, its embers were soon put out like the dreams I once had. I took out a tiny can of deodorant and sprayed it along the underside of my arms and my neck, trying to mask whatever unpleasant odors remained. Then I placed it back into the pockets by the side of the green Starbucks attire I wore, next to the tiny zippo lighter I used minutes before.

Unlike the rest of the Wizarding world, the Trace Charm was never removed from me, even upon my seventeenth birthday a decade ago. A precaution, they told me. A warning as well, clear as day, of their intentions to monitor me for the rest of my life, that a suspiciously casted spell was all it would take for an entire team of fully-equipped, trigger-happy Aurors to break down my door, wands at the ready.

The trace charm ended up greatly limiting the things I could do, but it wasn't entirely hard adapting to muggle standards, their abilities and their gifts for advancing technology was not something to be looked down upon. I could now send a text (or an emoticon) across the world in mere seconds, compared to the weeks it once took for an owl to deliver hand written messages back during my days in Hogwarts.

Brushing the bottom of my shoes against the steps that led into the coffee store, I made sure that there were no traces of snow or wet imprints following me before heading into its warmer interior. I made that mistake once; I never thought the torturous reprimandation would end. As manager, Miss Granger ruled over the store with an ironclad fist devoid of mercy. Given the chance, those who have wronged the store would be executed and strung up as warnings, a precautionary tale for the newer employees to behold.

Most of them had requested to be transferred to another outlet by the end of a month, I've lasted more than a year, and I'm still bravely counting onward. I like this little store, from its cozy, warm ambiance, to even Miss Granger, whom I've won over with daily peace offerings of those baked pastries I knew she loved.

Situated at the edge of the city district, we don't get as many customers as those located in the busier sectors, but we still had our share of interesting characters each day, like that idiot browsing porn at the corner, thinking that the rest of us didn't notice.

We can see you, you bloody idiot.

Making minimal wage working the overnight shift at Starbucks wasn't exactly where I've envisioned myself to be when I was younger, but I couldn't exactly complain. Finding a proper job in the wizarding industry was simply impossible for someone like me, in Muggle terms, it would be to show up at a government job interview with, "links to terrorist cells" widely plastered across my forehead. While I've done nothing remotely of note since the discovery of my prophecy, the stigma that it left, was to remain forever.

The other advantage to this job was the lack of interaction with members of the wizarding community. As close to my heart as the store was, it held zero competition against the establishments owned by magical users, who could easily infuse and charm their drinks to an entirely different level. Only Muggles frequented the store, and their lack of recognition and realization was something I thoroughly appreciated. It was easy to tell the differences between both, most Muggles wouldn't give me a second glance, while the looks of apprehension, the uneasiness of those in the wizarding society that recognized me for who I was, those were slightly more noticeable.

We did not have online gossip sites nor social platforms in our society, but news do travel equally as fast. It did not take long at all for news of my prophecy to spread, to become outcasted by those whom I've once called friends, to turn me into the imagined villain they feared.

I could see the change even in the way my neighbors looked at me, even Mrs Weasley, whom I've used to mow her lawn for free. It was too much. So I moved, away from my tiny hometown where everyone knew the other. I headed into the city, where lives revolved around a much quicker pace, where I could hide amongst the millions of Londoners that pass by me each day, without noticing the ones that slipped between their midst.

The tiny chime atop the entrance jingled softly, signaling the arrival of another patron. I watched as a young female escaped from the chilly outside conditions, the darkened locks that tumbled down her shoulders were still covered with tiny pieces of ice, like glitters of white upon a contrasted canvas, hauntingly beautiful. Other than our newest customer, the shop was mostly left unoccupied, less than a dozen patrons hung around its cozy interior. An elderly couple that seemed to be avoiding the snow, a bunch of students with their eyes glued to their books, and judging from their flashier clothing, a group of late night party goers, sobering up before their ride home, or perhaps, a short rest for the morning ahead, a tiny pause before seeking their next thrill.

Like dying candles late into the night, they started to disperse with each passing hour, their numbers slowly dwindling like a losing army, their strength, their will to stay awake weakening as the night drags steadily onward, as the interminable winter persisted defiantly outside.

As my shift neared its conclusion, the numbers eventually dwindled down to four - me, my manager and the two elderly Muggles by the window-side seats.

Noticing my manager indicating towards the broom that leaned lonelily by the side of the store, I tried to politely decline her request with persistent puppy eyes. I failed miserably. A few minutes later, I was slowly moving across the store, the broom tiredly in hand, a pile of gathering dirt as I moved along the seats. I remembered the days when I could magically charm the broom (not with my looks) into sweeping entire buildings by itself, but instead, I was now reduced to manual laborer, how far have I fallen. To be exposed to the harsh and unforgiving world, to have to use my own… hands.

My sarcastic thoughts were interrupted briefly as I neared the elderly couple, but they did not appear to have noticed my presence. Instead, they were caught in a world of their own. They stared out into the night; the condensation that coated the store's window was almost like a catalyst of some sort, further accentuating the fireworks that never seemed to end. They looked upon the mesmerizing sight like delighted children, their fingers entwining the other's. The entire scene was beguiling, and I was only interrupted when I felt a smack across the back of my head.

A rough transition back into reality, as I was returned under Miss Granger's tough and unfair rule, as she once again reminded me of her authority, her ability to execute (fire) me as she saw fit. But I knew she wouldn't, who else would buy her those delicious bear shaped muffins before the early morning shift? She needed me, like a drug addict and her fix. I was probably exaggerating, but I wasn't willing to test her bluff, I needed the job.

So, another hour passed before I swept the remaining parts of the store clean.

It was slightly before five in the morning when the elderly couple finally left. It was also the end of my shift. While the franchise was advertised as a 24 hour coffee stop, our particular store was the exception. We were closed for two hours a day, from five in the morning until seven, before the morning shift's arrival.

Why was it this way? I honestly have no bloody idea. If you came to me asking for the inner workings and hierarchy of the Starbucks Empire, I would have probably looked at you all funny before calling you a fucking idiot.

But I won't, because I'm nice like that.

I prefer avoiding direct confrontations, my useless superpower is my sarcastic inner thoughts.

Miss Granger had already left before I closed up the store, no doubt returning to her lair of cats. Knowing her, she probably named them all. Locking the doors and shutting the binds, I made sure the cash register was properly emptied before heading into the back, where I could change into warmer clothing before heading home. Removing the required apron, I took an exaggeratedly long sniff before deciding that it could endure a few more days before needing a wash. I stuffed it into the locket after removing my bag.

It was only when I was searching through my bag, when I realized Miss Granger stole my fucking coat. No wonder she asked if I had worn adequate clothing for the ongoing snow. From the way she had constantly pestered me, wanting to know what I've worn to work, I thought she was concerned about my well-being, apparently fucking not.

This was a betrayal of the highest order, she needs to be taught a lesson, someone won't be getting her fucking muffins come tomorrow's shift.

Heading back into the store, I decided to look around and see if I could find something of use, eventually ending up at the Lost & Found section. Digging through the box, I eventually found an old blanket that smelled weirdly of mushrooms. Perhaps someone died on top of it and rotted away, their decomposing corpse returning life to Gaia in the form of fungus, our Earth renewed once more. A beautiful miracle of lif- Nah who was I fucking kidding, someone probably took a shit in it and threw it away because of the stains.

I see the stains. They scared me a lot more than I cared to admit. Recently, I saw a movie of the horror genre, one of the characters unsuspectingly grazed his arm across a stain of bacteria culture, I remembered cringing extremely hard as the flesh eating virus necrotized his entire arm before spreading to the rest of his body. It was a shitty fucking movie and I wanted my ten dollars back, but then again, I learned a valuable life lesson, don't trust random stains.

Making sure that the darkened spot was on the outside, I wrapped the fabric around myself before heading out of the employee's exit. I looked like the mixture of a hobo and a complete idiot, but at least I wasn't freezing. The temperature fell drastically in the last few hours or so, nothing remained of the once soft cushions of snow, as only hardened ice laid in its wake. Slowly shuffling my way down the alleyway as to not slip and accidentally kill myself, I was halfway from the exit when a shimmering blur caught my eye.

Like gathering ghosts, wisps of light appeared in the skies above me, a circular shaped object of scintillating blue. It grew larger with each passing second, as energy of some sort crackled in the air around it. It wasn't magic, it felt nothing like it. I was rooted to the ground, I couldn't move but watch as it grew larger in size. In the next moment, the portal opened, like an anus ridding itself of vile contents, a warm flush of heat rained downwards, melting the ice around where I stood, entirely soaking through my shoes. I instinctively raised my arms up to protect myself as pieces of solid rock hailed from the skies above, yet they were unlike any I've ever seen.

As they smashed against my arm, they disintegrated into tiny pieces of silken sand. Now I've got both sand and water in my shoes, fucking perfect.

It was then I noticed a growing shadow, and as I looked back up, it was all I saw before something knocked me off my feet.

We tumbled across the icy floor, painfully crashing to a halt by the side of an overturned garbage can. I was lying on my back, my eyelids fluttering as I tried focusing onto the visible moon above. As I regained my composure, I realized that I was staring at a fucking streetlamp all along.

I tried to move, but something held me down, a heavy object had toppled over me, I was stuck. Something brushed over my face, sending me into a fit of heavy sneezing, I hope it wasn't a gigantic alien crab, I was allergic to crabs. It was only after a while did I realize that it was hair from another human being.

A woman, clad in heavy metallic armor. It wasn't her weight by itself, but as I assumed, her enhanced armor that I was unable to move. I tried pushing her, then pulling onto her, then slipping my fingers underneath the front of her armor and lifting her, but none seemed to work.

The woman was otherwise unresponsive.

I wasn't giving up, if I were to freeze to death in this situation, it would be like drowning in a puddle of water, it was fucking stupid, pathetic and embarrassing mix into one.

Sticking my arms into the warm mess of stinking overturned garbage beside me, I was about to retrieve something that could work as a lever when I felt the person stirring. Her head lifted off my chest, her eyes, ones that were of a brilliant hazel, glanced around her, before noticing my presence beneath her. Almost immediately, she rolled herself off me, her weapon drawn, the sharpened tip of her metallic blade pressed to my throat.

"You."

Her voice was filled with menace, an air of undeniable hostility. "A perversed creature that violated me in my weakened state. I can still feel your touch upon my skin. You will pay for your wicked deeds, you foul being."

What, the, actual, bloody, fuck.

"No!" I shouted, my voice unusually an octave higher than the usual, "it was a misunderstanding! You fell from whatever it was that brought you here! You landed on me and I was trapped underneath your armor, I was just trying to get free!"

She seemed to be contemplating what I've just said, but that was before I noticed the glazed look in her eyes. Before I could do anything else, I saw the blade falling limply to her side, moments before it clattered noisily onto the floor. She followed suit, falling onto her knees as her arms pressed against her side. It was then I saw blood, a ton of it that spilled out of her armor, turning the ice beneath us a crimson red.

She was injured, badly so. She needed help, so when she fell, I got up to my feet… and fucking ran as fast as I could.

I wasn't a goddamn hero remember? I was prophesied to become the villain! Running away from a dying person that just threatened me with death moments ago? It was undoubtedly the most logical thing to do.

Yet…

I skidded to a stop inches away from the alley's exit, turning towards the prone figure behind. I could see the fallen woman struggling to breathe, the erratic movements of her chest indicating lungs filling up with blood. An ambulance wouldn't be able to make it on time. If I were to leave her, she was likely to drown in her own blood.

So I left.

And returned minutes later with a bag of purchased items from 7-11. As I slid down beside her, her eyes instantly locked onto mine; pleading and afraid. I could tell she was terrified. The day their bodies betrayed them, even the strongest of warriors would crumble. Looking for the entry wound, I quickly realized that it wasn't something I could reach without first removing her armor.

That enhanced, heavy as shit armor.

But I was prepared, I reached into the bag I brought along and removed a tiny portable drill, courtesy of seven fucking eleven, they really do have everything. But before I could press its tip against the metallic plates, I felt her fingers grazing across mine.

I stopped, and watched as she feebly reached for the front of her armor. At her touch, her sheathing retracted like a wounded window, sliding behind her, out of sight. I hope seven-eleven issues refunds, because that was a complete fucking waste of my forty nine pounds and ninety nine pence.

Underneath her armor, she was dressed in a skintight one piece suit, I noticed the laceration along her ribs immediately (along with some other features, but those are for another time.)

Taking out the towels, I pressed them against the puncture wound, quickly cleaning the blood and finding a visible entry point. I removed the syringe that I bought next, and fashioned it into something resembling a chest tube, then I prayed to whichever god or unicorn that might be listening and stuck the tube directly into the wound, moving it around and ignoring her squirms until I found the pleural space.

Moving her upright, there was an almost immediate effect, as blood spurted out from the exposed end of the tube, along with escaped air. If she were to die, I hoped that she would haunt the ones responsible for stopping my progression in Medical healing, instead of me, of course.

Fortunately, I could see that it was working, as the woman started to breathe more naturally, as the intruding fluids slowly drained out of her lungs.

"Thank you…" she whispered, her voice on a completely different tone than before. When she eventually found her strength to speak once more, she said, "I would have perished without your intervention." She paused for a moment, as though searching for the correct words, "I am Lady Sif, warrior of Asgard, protector of all realms. What is your name?"

"I am… Harry Potterson," I started, then paused for a moment, "of Godric's Hollow and umm, barista of Starbucks?"

"I owe you my life, son of Pot." She said with a straight face.

What the flying fuck. I am not even going to attempt salvaging that.

Anyway, I knew it wasn't over, I still had to remove the tube, clean the wound, then sew her back up. There was also the problem of transporting someone covered in blood to the tiny apartment I rented, I wasn't going to fix her up in the middle of an abandoned alleyway. That's usually where the black guy dies first in slasher movie. Fucking-no.

I heard someone shouting Christmas greetings from beyond the alleyway.

Fuck him too, I hope he has a shitty day.

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