A/N: All riiight. So, I've been thinking about what it'd be like if Harry Potter & the gang met Anakin Skywalker & Co.

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars or Harry Potter. I make no profit from these. Except my own happiness. But I won't let anyone take that away from me. D:

Anyways, Star Wars isn't mentioned in this chapter nor will it be in the next. It'll happen though.

Eventually.

Enjoy! ~

Harry was not like other fifteen-year-old boys. Not to derive from the fact he was incredibly scrawny for a boy his age, Harry was known around the world as the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, Saint Potter, the Mudblood's friend, wee Potty, et cetera, et cetera.

Despite his soft, boyish-like features, Harry had gone through more in recent years than most had in their entire lives. With a tragic past involving the death of his parents at the age of one, the death of the boy who rivaled him for the affections of his Chinese love interest at the age of fourteen [not the dead guy, he was seventeen], being the reason for the future death of his convict of a godfather, which he knew nothing about because it wouldn't happen until later in the year, and the perks and drawbacks of being a wizard, Harry had managed to build a glorious ball of angst that he buried deep down.

Harry assumed he could later use that to his advantage. His anger, frustration and sorrow usually had a hand in saving him from tricky situations. Or maybe it was luck. Who knew. Regardless, whenever he happened to barely cheat death, he was angry or sad about it, so why not?

As most people who knew his parents liked to tell Harry, he looked like his father's reanimated corpse. His brilliant green eyes, which, coincidentally, always reminded said folks of his dead mother, were all that kept him from looking like his dad, James. Just like James, his hair was really, really black and stuck up in the back. He sported round glasses. And just because he wouldn't be Harry Potter without it, slapped across his forehead was the infamous lightning bolt scar.

Actually, it was all the way on his right temple. Not the middle of his forehead. Oh, and his eyes weren't that brilliant shade of green anymore. They were electric blue, much unlike his father or mother. But like Albus Dumbledore.

"Oy, captain, my captain!" One of the twins, Fred or George, shouted to the boy. Harry chose not to respond, but grinned, in spite of himself. They had confided in him that they thought he was a better choice for the position of Quidditch Team Captain, as opposed to Angelina Johnson.

Neither of the boys wanted to come out and say it to her face, fearing her wrath. Nevertheless, that tidbit definitely would not boost his ego. He did not have an ego.

Harry entered the Great Hall of their magical school, Hogwarts, for breakfast. He was well-aware of the eyes on him.

"Mornin', mate." Ron, the red-head yawned as Harry joined them at the table . Ron was doomed to live in Harry's shadow for all of eternity. After many nights of silently sobbing into his pillow in the boys' dormitory, Ron Weasley had finally come to terms with it and settled for being Potter's faithful side-kick. He was the Robin to Harry's Batman, although he would probably never comply to wearing green tights. Again.

"What's on the menu?"

"The usual house-elf porridge bullshit," Ron mumbled.

"Ronald!" Hermione Granger exclaimed, quite loudly, as she approached the duo. Her high-pitched voice startled many of the sleepy students in the Great Hall. They looked at each other, bewildered at that awful noise. Hermione took no notice as she firmly planted her hands on her hips.

"Are you still going on about spew, Hermione? Really.. give it a rest, won't you?"

"It is not spew, Ronald! It is S.P.E.W., Society for the Promotion of—" She was interrupted by dismissive wave of Ron's hand.

"Balderdash, Hermione, you've obviously mistaken us for people who give a crap."

"Harry!" Hermione squeaked and rounded on the other boy, who was trying to hide behind a bowl of porridge, "You care, don't you?"

"Not particularly, Hermione."

"Thanks, mate—"

"Shut up, Ron, I wasn't doing it for you!" Harry suddenly snapped, basking in his teenage angst

"Whoa, Harry—"

"Don't you patronize me, Ron Weasley!"

"I wasn't—"

"Dammit," Harry exploded, "I spend all summer at the Dursleys, putting up with their grade-A bullshit, I don't get any letters about Voldemort from my two, supposedly best friends, I get attacked by two Dementors, I almost get expelled, and Professor Dumbledore refuses to talk to me! And then I come to this hell hole and discover Hagrid has gone missing, the damn toad lady is trolling my pride, and everyone thinks I'm crazy because of the Ministry of Magic! I mean, what the hell, man?"

Ron and Hermione both gaped at their friend, "Harry," Hermione ventured, slowly, "We've gone over this—"

"Shut up, Hermione, you don't understand!"

"Quit acting like such a drama queen, mate." Ron grumbled, quietly. Harry glowered at him. Ron's eyes widened at the livid stare he received, "I-I didn't mean it!"

"I hate you!" Harry exclaimed before making a theatrical exit, resulting in thunderous applause from the occupants of the Great Hall, including the few teachers who were seated at the head of the hall. Ron and Hermione shared a look.

"It's your turn, Hermione."

"Oh, for the love of Merlin's beard.."

"Language, Hermione! There are children present!"

"Shut up, Ron."