Just a little prologue for a story I wrote in an hour. Hope you like it.

The street was dark and gloomy. The full moon was hidden by multiple layers of thick, stormy clouds, hence the darkness. Little snowflakes were falling to the ground, adding to the thick blanket of snow which already lay there. Small, cosy cottages stood on either side of the road, most of them alit with warm lights from within. Music and laughter came from many of them. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of Christmas carols could be heard - probably in the church.

And then in the distance, a man - slightly on the small side - appeared, having rounded the corner leading to said church and the cemetery that abut it. His gait was tired and weary and perhaps under the influence of alcohol. He meandered down the street, seemingly with no proper destination.

A gust of wind blew the clouds covering the moon away, and suddenly moonlight struck that street and the man's profile was thrown into sharp relief. His features were angular, and void of any fat, as though he had been perpetually starved his entire life. His cheeks were hollow, and the cheekbones above them cast a dark shadow.

His eyes were hollow, as though he was severely tired and in mourning. A wine bottle was loosely hanging from his hand and upon realising that it was empty, the man promptly chucked it to the side, and withdrew a small flask from a pocket. He raised it to his lips and tipped the contents straight into his mouth. Some of the liquid dribbled down his several day-old beard.

It was upon this man, that our dear Harry Potter stumbled upon.

Harry stuffed his cold fingers into the pockets of his anorak. The hood (lined with fake fur) that he had drawn over his head earlier tickled his cheeks and he jerked his head slightly to make it fall. The cold instantly assaulted his head again, but he stubbornly refused to raise it again.

Snow crunched under his black army boots and he frowned, realising he would probably have to clean at least five inches of snow off the gravestones of his parents. The snowstorm that had been raging across Europe for the past few days had hit Godric's Hollow very strongly.

Evidently, this had not dampened the mood of the inhabitants of Godric Hollow - this much was obvious from the laughter and sound of christmas carols that could be heard from the surrounding area. In a nearby house, two toddlers ran into the front-yard, wearing onesies. Giggling they started chasing each other around in the snow, while their parents stood by the door beckoning their children towards them. The mother was holding two thick coats in her hands and a pair of scarves.

Harry smiled softly at that and he wondered whether he would have had such a life if his parents hadn't died. He wondered what it was like to have a family; a proper loving family who loved you unconditionally. Would it be anything like Sirius had been to him?

Harry's morose thoughts about the death of his parents and the what-ifs, if they had indeed survived, were cut off brusquely as the clouds parted and a man, less than ten metres away from him was thrown into the light of the moon. Harry blinked rapidly and his eyes quickly adjusted to the sudden change of light. The man tossed a bottle to the side, reached into his trouser pocket and downed another flask of (presumably) hard liquor.

The War Hero stared a the slightly older man, mouth agape, which then suddenly turned into a frown of concern as the man promptly dropped to the ground (joining the first bottle) as if the string he had been hanging on had been cut in two. Harry instantly rushed to his side.

"Alright mate?" Harry asked, concernedly as he patted his cheek, to wake him up from his stupor. The man's eyelids fluttered slightly, but he remained otherwise immobile. Harry bit his lip. Should he call an ambulance? Was this man a muggle?

His state of dress (a thin, very thin, jumper with the letters A-C-D-C printed on it and a pair of slightly torn jeans) indicated that the man was a muggle. Harry briefly wondered what ACDC was but willed that thought away. Currently the man's health was more important. Unzipping his coat, Harry covered the man with it, so as to warm him up.

"HAVE YOU GONE MAD? ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?!" Ron's words echoed back to him and Harry winced, realising he could have cast a warming charm on himself. With a sharp wave of his wand and a whisper, he warmed the man up (and himself - after all, the cold hadn't suddenly decided to skip him).

The man was still frozen stiff and suddenly a wave of horror fell upon Harry. Was he dead? Gritting his teeth, he placed his fingertips on the man's pulse-point on his neck. It was all for nought though, as there was no pulse point to be found. He was dead.

Harry felt bile rise to his throat and he pushed it down. He had seen terrible deaths in the war, many terrible injures - but at least then people had been fighting for a cause. This man… he had just died. Just like that. Just because some higher deity - if one did indeed exist - thought he was unimportant. This man could be a father - or a brother - or a son to someone… and he was dead.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reached into his trouser pockets, searching for some sort of identification. In the left pocket he found a wallet with several credit cards (two of them with cut off corners), a slightly wrinkled black and white picture of an elderly woman (probably his mother or aunt). Oddly, the worn leather wallet was filled with several hundred of dollars. Was this man American? This question was answered when Harry found his ID in the see-through compartment.

Anthony Edward Stark. That was his name. 21 years of age. Son of Howard and Maria Stark.

Glancing at the man, Harry compared him to the picture on the ID which revealed a completely different visage. On the small photograph, Stark was smirking cockily at the camera. He had a well kept Balbo beard, and a well-cut hairstyle. The dead man lying in the snow near him was simply a small tatter of what he had been. This man had an unshaven beard, unbrushed, oily hair and dark shadows under his eyes.

Oddly, Harry could see some of himself in the picture. They had similarly shaped eyes and nose.

In the right pocket Harry found two pieces of paper bunched up together and gently straightened the papers only to find, with shock, that they were death certificates for the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark - his parents! The death certificates were dated a few days ago. Apparently they had died in a car crash.

Harry shot their son a small pitying look. The man must've drunk himself to death after receiving the news of their death. The bluish tingle in his extremities hinted towards the fact that hypothermia could have also been a factor to his death. And then, an idea popped into Harry's head. If his world would have been a cartoon, a lightbulb would have appeared above his head.

The man's parents were dead and the ID showed that he wasn't married to anyone. If he had a girlfriend (or boyfriend for that matter), they would be with him. Besides, the strong cologne which Harry could still smell on him hinted to the fact that this man was a Ladies' man. Ladies' Men didn't have attachments. They were like Mayflies, flittering from one woman to the next.

Anthony Stark didn't have any attachments - not any obvious ones anyway and he seemed unassuming enough. Maybe… maybe Harry could take his place!

Harry winced as that morbid idea popped into his head. It was immoral… No. He couldn't just… take a man's identity! …But… he needed to leave the Wizarding World. Post-war Britain was a joke and everyone seemed to want to turn to Harry for help. He received hundreds of letters per day, requesting his help in some matter. This was the perfect opportunity for that…

He could… Just use a glamour to change his appearance. And then he would be free. Free of all expectations and responsibilities. He could attend University! Regain anonymity!

Glancing down at the body lying at his feet, Harry sincerely hoped that Anthony Stark wasn't famous.

To continue or not to continue?