Disclaimer: I will do this once, and once only. I do not own Harry Potter or the Avengers. I make no profit from this fanfiction, and I am not J.K. Rowling in disguise (however much I wish I was).

Warnings: this fic will contain violence and dark scenes, some mild language. No sex, though, sorry to dissapoint! :P


The street was dark. The alley was deserted. Once colourful and lively, even a spontaneous - yet broken - sign, (Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!), did nothing to colour the alley, but rather made it seem, if possible, even more depressing. A light breeze made broken doors screech harshly, the wind howling through the deserted corridors. The stench of fear and death was thick.

Worn cobblestones tapped lightly under his feet as he moved swiftly. His eyes darted between the smashed windows, rubble and occasional broken wand, taking in the destruction. He paused as he passed Eyelope's Owl Emporium. The windows were intact; however broken cages littered the floor, dried blood and feathers littered the floor, mixing with the bleached, white bones of the many owls that had fallen victim to the Death Eater's attack.

Swallowing the lump of emotion in his throat, he continued onwards, his gait becoming heavier with depression and sadness. Perhaps he should not have come… but he had to. He had to see what had become of the, once amazing, Diagon Alley.

He grimaced as he stepped in a puddle, the water splashing slightly and wetting his socks. He glanced down at a broken water pump, the cause of the puddle.

"Reparo." He muttered. A trivial thing to fix, yes; however he felt at that time that it was one of the only things he could do. Sighing, he glanced over to Gringotts, the only building in the entire alley that appeared to be untouched. But, perhaps, that was because the Death Eaters needed money from somewhere, and that was where they kept it all. After all; one would be mad to try and rob it. Not that he could talk.

The man continued walking, not in any particular direction, but rather just drifting. A figure caught his eye. A person. Wheeling around, he drew his wand and aimed it straight at the other being, his heart thundering painfully in surprise, only to find that it was merely his reflection in a shard of a broken mirror.

Sighing in relief, he tucked the wand back into his pocket. He stared at his reflection for a moment, taking in the messy, black hair, (once bright) dull, green eyes framed by glasses and dark circles underneath them. At first glance, he was a seventeen-year-old boy, but on second glance… he was a war-hardened warrior.

Perhaps the robes did not help, however; the billowing black reminded him painfully of his late potions master. Hidden beneath the robes was a pair of Ron's jeans, and Charlie's spare t-shirt. Perhaps he should get his own – however he did not yet feel like facing the muggle world, and the wizarding world… well, he was walking through what was left of it, and he could not bring himself to part with his last links.

Most of the Weasleys had been incinerated by an enraged Bellatrix. Ron had been tortured to insanity, and He had been unable to help, merely stand there and watch as his best friend turned around and started killing alongside the Death Eaters, laughing like Bellatrix Lestrange… and Hermione had been torn apart, limb by limb, courtesy of Greyback, until her hoarse screams had broken off into choking, blood-spluttering sobs... He had lost his best friends, who had been there from the start. Fortunately Ginny had survived… Ginny… he supported her decision to be with Neville. Neville was much more suited to her than He was.

But, the majority of the Weasleys and Hermione were not the only ones who had not mad it through the war. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Mad-eye. Dumbledore. Sirius. Dobby. Not to mention hundreds of others.

Before he could stop himself, he had fallen to his knees. For the first time in years, tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision. He could not live like this! Magic was dying! The world was failing, and he had nobody to stand by him! Not to mention the Wizarding world worshiping him like a God… In the dull greys and browns of the alley, his eyes were drawn to something pure. Light. White.

A single flower, sprouting from between the cobblestones. He stared. It was a lily. It was white with a faint golden sheen, shining with an ethereal glow. He blinked. It had a crystalline, sapphire-blue centre, diamond dew-drops glistening off it.

He glanced around for a source of light, trying to find where the glow was coming from. No luck. It seemed to be coming from the flower itself. He slowly raised his hand, fingers outstretched, and reached out to touch it.

He caressed it softly with one finger, marvelling in its beauty. Suddenly, his eardrums seemed to quiver, like there were bees inside his ears. He flinched, pulling back from the flower. But he could not. Like a permanent sticking charm, his fingers simply refused to let go of the flower. Panic rushed through him, and he pulled out his wand with his left hand – even though he knew any spell he cast would be a failure with that hand – and attempted to cast any type of blasting spell possible at the flower. Before he could, however, his vision blanked out, and he felt his limbs become weightless.

"Good luck, Harry Potter." A voice echoed through the boy's head.