AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, to those who most likely read and reviewed this already and wonder what's going on... THIS FIC GOT REPORTED AND TAKEN DOWN ON THE GROUNDS OF IMPROPER CATEGORIZATION. Apparently, in one of the chapters, my use of the f-word offended someone. Welp, I'm reposting it. And, it's now M. So, yay? I never understand why this happens to me. Read and review again. Enjoy?

Amidst the flying battle involving seven Potters, one just so happens to disappear; and it's the original. By some stroke of madness, Harry finds himself drenching wet from the river Thames and face-to-face with a man wearing an eyepatch. Demands are made. A strange new world is thrown in a wary young man's face. Nothing is left untouched.

Chapter One: Out of the Cold River, Thames

Possibly, and without much doubt, one of the most unwavering features in Harry James Potter's life since he had received his letter from Hogwarts would be chaos.

As soon as the words, "You're a wizard, Harry," fell from the part-giant Hagrid's lips, the youth had been plunged into a hidden world built entirely on the maddening quirks of people who could use magic. Magic itself seemed to dictate the wild state of the magical realm within the real world; the vibrant yet wacky outfits, the strange sense of dangerous humor, the haphazard education system that could very easily leave a young twelve-year old dead for wandering into a library. And somehow, beyond all that bizarrely controlled mayhem, little Harry Potter was a miraculous celebrity. The-Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the positive yang to the Dark Lord's negative yin. It was his supposed destiny to always stop the extremely evil wizard named Voldemort from ever rising again; him, nothing but a boy who only had his wits and a stick of magic-bound wood. Harry did pretty well on that task for a number of years, until his fifth year at Hogwarts. The Tri-Wizard tournament had been rigged, and from his blood as well as a very dark ritual, Voldemort rose, snake-like yet hauntingly humanoid. Chaos was truly unleashed upon his young life, and it all lead to the present conglomerate of madness.

Thick clouds above London's great sprawl flashed and roared, destructive malice rolling within against defensive good. Spells clashed like thunder, booming against Harry's eardrums and howling around the air. The young wizard clung to his sidecar, trusting heavily in Hagrid's motorcycle skills as they flew through the airborne havoc. The part-giant's large figure immediately drew the gazes of numerous Death Eaters, brooms shooting after them through the cloud cover.

Adrenaline abruptly rushed through Potter's veins. Everything came into focus; dull in coloration and weak in vibrancy, deep shadows tracing clouds and wisps of fog. The spellwork rushing through the sky were spatters of bright hues. Harry's mind jumped, his wand suddenly bursting with an eagerness under his fingers to act. Color association and raw instinct had the young man in startling overdrive. Harry turned sharply in the sidecar, bellowing out against the wind as his wrist snapped out.

"Stupefy! Stupefy!"

Brooms veered off, rounding ominously over the teen's head, boomeranging around to rocket straight at them. Black robes flapped in the high wind like a dementor's ragged cloak, skeletal masks eerily reflecting the light from ignited magic. Harry could barely hear Hagrid's booming warning of hold on! with the pounding of his heart so inexcusably loud in his ears. The wand in his grip responded immediately to his wishes, though the spells he had in mind that split second were ridiculous despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Avis Accipitres!" he shouted, watching as the spell Ollivander had once used form, though with some decent modification.

Potter's wand sputtered blue, feathers exploding from its tip and rearranging into relentless raptors. Hawks, falcons, a few angry-faced horned owls… and with a quick mutter of Oppugno in the Death Eaters' direction, the summoned birds were all but fierce claws and furiously sharp beaks. Harry had somehow, in his sudden desperation, remembered that strange spell of Avis, and with what general magical schooling he had with Latin, figured the word Accipitres would make it a little bit more threatening. He was desperately thanking Hermione in his mind for helping him on that parchment assignment not too long ago.

The dark-serving wizards lost control of their brooms shortly after being assaulted by pissed off predatory birds, spinning out in the strong air currents and dropping to the world below the clouds as dead weight. Hagrid gave Harry a confused yet appreciative look behind his riding goggles, barreling their flying transportation ever forward through the deadly turmoil. Potter's green eyes caught flashes of his friends, some transformed in his mirror image, others maneuvering their flying mounts away from stray spells.

Another group of Death Eaters took their former comrades' place, this time more aggressive and not so overly confident. Spells rained down on the motorcycle, and the teenager riding in the sidecar bravely shot counterspells and quick deflects against the barrage. A few glimpses of Mad-Eye gave Harry a reprieve of seconds, the elder Auror easily sending the enemy packing until he flew off to aid the others. The aerial battle was becoming a game of tug o' war, one side pushing and the other shoving back. A number of Potter's summoned raptors were still kicking, snatching at any passing Death Eater and causing some focus to be lost. Either way, the flashy battle was lurching closer and closer towards the river Thames.

It was when their irate skirmish was directly over said river that everything became a bit more unclear. Potter remembered Hagrid activating his fiery boost of magic out the motorcycle's tailpipe, the sudden attack of speed forcing him back into his stiff leather seat. He awkwardly gripped the sides of the sidecar, eyes widened slightly from surprise. Their group fell back in time with them, trailing after with a hail of defense against the following enemies. It seemed as though the Death Eaters were falling back, and the air ahead unopposed. In that second of good fortune, Harry Potter believed it was over.

But in the next second the sidecar was not attached to Hagrid's motorcycle, Harry was spinning backwards, and like ice in water, slipping out from the seat and falling away with the undeniable strength of the harsh air against him. Hagrid's bellowing voice echoed above, the explosions of colliding spells ringing as phantoms in the ear. A splash of snow-white bloomed in Potter's vision, slapping into his chest and digging deep. He gasped at the incited pain, until he realized the attack of white mass was in fact a frantic Hedwig, her yellow eyes full and wings flailing. Without another thought, he hugged his faithful companion to his torso, ignoring the talons biting deeper into his flesh, and took one last gasping breath. The dark water of the Thames met him shortly after, swallowing Potter and his pet into watery darkness.

What was only seconds under the surface felt like hours to Harry Potter. The vicious bite of the chilling water temperature stung his skin, and his poor owl spasmed hysterically in his arms. Pain had taken his mind for a few moments, and the shocking impact with the freezing water numbed Harry quickly. Millions of air bubbles rushed around the young wizard's figure, escaping to the surface hurriedly. With their disappearance, light broke through. Why? It had been the middle of the night when he left Surrey. It was not daytime, not by any means. Yet with a sudden need, Potter shoved his questioning thoughts aside for the world above.

Head thrown back, mouth gasping in the open air, Potter kicked rapidly with his frozen limbs to keep his upper body out of water. Hedwig was able to breathe as well, but shivers violently racked through the snow-white raptor. Owls didn't exactly have waterproof feathers like their fellow birds of prey, and not even an owl that lived in snowy, wet climates could escape that looming fact. Harry couldn't help but mutter a few dark curses at his luck, seeing as all he had at that moment in the Thames was his wand, his charmed-small trunk in a jacket pocket, the clothes on his body, and the soaked avian clinging to his front. At least his trunk had also been charmed to be weather proof in every sense of the word, many thanks to Hermione yet again.

Glancing around with droplet-covered glasses, Harry tried to ascertain the level of trouble he was truly in. Compared to the dour conditions of the aerial battle he'd just fallen from, London appeared brighter. It always seemed brighter to Potter, seeing as his pitiful Little Whinging, Surrey was an all-too-quiet and subdued suburbia. But London was even more vibrant than he remembered, which was quite strange. The young wizard had an exceptional visual memory for things, and he didn't remember there being a muggle named Stark plastered on a stacked bus as an advertisement. Harry spotted the vehicle in question driving by the Thames, rolling off down the street parallel to the river toward some unknown location. The very air Potter breathed felt, or should he say tasted, different.

Hermione went off on an academic tangent once about magicals having a certain sensitivity for changes in the natural magic; something to do with a wizard or witch's magical core attuning to the surroundings. Harry couldn't recall the exact details at the moment, but he had a hunch his weird feelings of unfamiliarity about a place he'd visited for seven years had something to do with that.

Which, in his very serious state of mind, was not in the least bit good.

But instead of pulling a Ron Weasley and freaking out, Harry let out a very uncharacteristic sigh. The young man never did get a break, honestly. For once Potter would like to not have to worry about something dangerous or displaced. But NO, he had to be suffocating from prophecies, destiny, apparent obligations to the Wizarding World, dark lords-

A careening screech from Hedwig cut off his thoughts. Her wings, though wet, flopped around. Harry immediately focused on his precious companion.

"Hedwig, it's alright! Calm down, girl!"

He wrestled his arms around her, folding her soaking appendages to her vibrating body and gripping the owl tight. The avian's yellow eyes were trained above them, and her screeching continued to heighten in volume. Finally Harry bothered to look up, only to instantly regret it.

A jet, shaped and sculpted in a form that looked to be something straight out of Dudley's bizarre science fiction films, was flying directly in their extremely wet direction. Potter couldn't help but let a few select swears to slip from his mouth. The muggles saw him, they're driving a ridiculous yet intimidating plane, and he'd probably just broke the Statute of Secrecy yet again! Ron and Hermione were going to be right-pissed for sure. And, despite having gotten E's for most of his OWLS, proving he was actually a good and smart Hogwarts student after all, the young wizard had no idea how to react in this situation, either as a muggle or as a wizard.

Harry stroked the wet down atop Hedwig's little head, quelling most of her screeching to the point she was only insistently crooning. The river water lapped at his shoulders, droplets splatting against the young man's jaw. Closer the jet came, and in little to no time, it hovered above the wizard. Waves pushed angrily at him, stirred by the air currents the plane created. A hatch opened, rope lines were lowered, and rough hands grabbed at his biceps. Hedwig released an ear-ripping trill, causing the faceless men to flinch as they pulled the poor, soaked wizard from the Thames. Potter was literally thrown aboard as soon as he was close enough to the hatch, back slamming into the hard metal of the flying beast with Hedwig crying out defensively.

Wiggling free from Harry's arms, the snow owl squealed and flailed. The wizard stiffly sat up, extending out his right arm for the owl to perch on. Quickly she scuttled up his outstretched appendage, firmly digging her talons into his shoulder. His eye twitched minutely at the pain, but ignored it. The hatch, or perhaps the ramp, closed sharply after he slammed into the floor. Potter found himself sitting in a growing puddle of river water, surrounded by men who pulled away black face masks and armed with guns. Muggle weapons, Harry thought tensely. The wizard did nothing but stare back.

Behind him, heavy footsteps resounded in the compartment. Hedwig swiveled her head faster than Harry could turn, giving a loud screech in warning despite her scruffy, wet appearance. The steps halted. Potter finally turned, taking in the sight of the new stranger.

It was a man, that much was obvious. His arms were bare, bound in a level of muscle that seemed excessive. A heavy, purple-black vest covered his upper torso. Militaristic pants and boots clad his lower torso. The man's hair was cut very military, with some sort of vambrace clasped to his right wrist. His pale eyes, however, were eerily sharp. They peered at Harry with a light of deep thought, but seemed hesitant in the face of Hedwig's presence.

"I'm really fucking skeptical on whether or not you'll tell me, and I'm doubting a kid like you could have been the cause of it, despite being right where the whole damn thing originated, but… Are you the cause of the power flux in London?"

Potter blinked. The man was American; a blunt-speaking, harsh-language-using American. "Excuse me?" he said, feeling extremely out of his depth.

The American sighed dramatically, then tried again. "Power surge, kid. The source was tracked, and you were right where it started. Don't play games."

"I honestly don't understand what you're getting at, sir," Harry responded, attempting to sound sincere. He really didn't know about any sort of power surge. And, as far as he knew, magic was untraceable to Muggles. Was he wrong in thinking he broke the Statute?

His questioner's expression dashed his hopes of freedom. He turned on his heels towards the pilot of the jet, their short, blazing red hair reminding Harry heavily of the Weasleys. "Gettin' no cooperation out of this kid, 'Tasha."

"Just secure him then, Clint. The helicarrier is not far off, and Fury will want answers."

'Clint' nodded, "Right."

The American turned on his heels; in seconds Harry was roughly shoved, buckled, and secured on the hard metal of a bench. Hedwig had fallen off the poor wizard's shoulder, screeching angrily and shooting straight at the rough-handed men. Her beak tore away a large chunk of flesh from a nose, each claw ripped one cheek per person, and a severely unlucky man nearly lost his left eye. Wisely they backed off, staring in morbid wonder at the white-feathered owl. Hedwig returned to Harry's shoulder, glaring all the agents down. 'Clint' was impressed in a backwards sort of way.

After a while, the men settled down. The sharp-eyed male didn't choose to sit, standing at somewhat of a distance, but did continue to question Potter.

"Well," he said, "If you're apparently none the wiser on the power surge issue, what's your name?"

Harry just stared. "You can't seriously believe I will give you my name, sir."

The American smirked, "Don't talk to strangers then?"

"If that's how Yankee kids are, then no."

"At least you're not lacking in sarcasm," the man mused. "Where'd the owl come from anyway?"

"Her name is Hedwig," Potter emphasized.

"What, like the saint?"

"Yes, like the saint."

"Hmph," Clint huffed. The agent was running out of questions. "Ever been to juvie?"

"Juvie?"

"You know, Juvenile Hall. Some place they put underaged kids when they break the law."

"You mean youth prison? No, I haven't ever broken any mu-legal law."

'Clint' eyed the teen, "Uh-huh. Okay then, what about mutants? You know one, you are one, what?"

Harry blinked bewilderedly, "What are mutants?"

Another huff escaped the American, "I'm starting to think you've lived under a rock."

Potter couldn't help but spit back angrily at the man. He was just about out of patience, and the young man's nerves were fried.

"Actually, it was a staircase."

The agent stilled completely. What?

"Like shit," he said immediately.

"Uh, no," Harry answered, forgetting himself. With a level of sass only a brit could pull off, "I literally lived under a staircase for the early years of my childhood until I was eleven."

Clint wisely went silent after Potter's last comment, leaving the ride to wherever they were going silent the rest of the way. Hedwig watched anyone and everyone diligently, head swiveling around at the slightest movement. Harry, on the other hand, dozed. The young wizard was wet, sore, and bleeding sluggishly from where Hedwig's talons had dug into him. The minor injuries were just that, minor. So, without fear of falling into a blood-deprived coma, Potter lightly napped. It wasn't as if he could rightfully attack the muggles with his wand. Flashes of the aerial battle drifted behind his eyelids, tiredness making them all the more vivid, alongside the brief moments of free-falling and submergence. The nagging questions still hovered in Harry's mind: why did the air feel so different? How could the muggles find him, track him, and possibly suspect him of using magic? Did they even track him, or had they apprehended the wrong person (being Harry) instead? Why was he flying in a peculiar muggle contraption that seemed fresh from a science fiction movie?

A squeak from Hedwig, directly into his ear, shocked Potter out of his idle dosing. The young wizard's body immediately tensed, eyes sharply staring at 'Clint' and a very beautiful red-headed woman.

"C'mon, kid, time to meet Fury."

Harry glowered, but said nothing. He really wished they were magical; at least then he could give them a piece of his mind. Man-handling wasn't his favorite thing.

The woman strolled forward, her hips moving with a definite sureness, releasing all the restraints and hauling Potter up by his free shoulder. Hedwig chittered in warning at the alien female. She simply stared, managing to quiet the owl with the sheer will of her gaze. Harry found himself reluctantly astonished.

The pair lead him out of the jet, a stern grip on each bicep, sunlight briefly blinding the wizard. Blinking it rapidly away, Harry almost stumbled at the scene presented.

They were in the middle of the ocean. Churning water framed the foreign concrete island on all sides, waiting planes dotting his sight and marching squads of personnel stomping by. Harry's green eyes tried to identify the patches on their shoulders, the geometric eagle encircled by an abbreviated title, but found his memory lacking in information. England didn't have anything like that around, at least in the small scope Potter's muggle life provided. It was definitely a militaristic operation though, and judging by the black-clad team that had snatched him up from the Thames, the operation could easily be something covert. Maybe Dudley's ridiculous spy television shows were useful for something after all, he thought.

Clint slid a card, and with a push, Potter was lead further into the strange concrete ship he'd been whisked off to. Clint and the redhead shoved him along through a maze of metal-lined hallways, eventually stopping before a set of heavy blast doors. Yet again Clint slid a card, and with another shove, Harry was standing awkwardly before a vintage mahogany desk with a black man sitting sternly in a fine leather office chair. Hedwig crooned, adjusting her grip on Potter's shoulder while shaking out her feathers.

Wordlessly, the dark-skinned man gestured at the open chair in front of his desktop. Harry glanced unsurely between the stranger and the seat, rather eyeing the unknown individual than following polite decorum. A black leather eyepatch covered the stranger's left eye, opposite to Moody's right all-seeing glass eye. His clothing assemble included more black leather, such as a long, black leather trenchcoat and matching combat boots. Underneath was a plain charcoal turtleneck, accompanied by slim grey cargo pants. Angry scars peaked out from the eyepatch, crawling further up his bald head.

"Are you going to keep staring, or will you sit down?"

Harry considered him a second more, then decided to carefully sit. Hedwig flapped her wings, drawing the man's one dark eye for a moment before returning his singular gaze on Potter.

"Now, why were you in the Thames, kid? Decided to take a swim?" he said rhetorically.

"No, sir. I technically fell into the River Thames, with Hedwig in my arms."

"Hedwig? You mean the owl on your shoulder?" He pointed at the snowy raptor.

Harry nodded, saying nothing. The man narrowed his singular eye.

"Will you answer my question, son? Or do I have to say please?"

"I can't, sir, not without breaking a Statute that I already broke once today. If I break it twice, I will probably be thoroughly sacked."

"What statute?"

"A Statute of Secrecy. I can't exactly go against it without losing rights to certain belongings of mine."

"I've never heard of it, so I don't see why you should attempt to withhold pertinent information."

"What would be the point of a Statute of Secrecy, sir, if you knew it existed? It's secret," Harry answered sarcastically.

"Kid, I'm big brother; government in every way, shape, and form. If that damn Statute ever existed on this green Earth in any capacity, I would be aware of it. So you better start sayin' something useful before I rip it out of you."

Potter glared. The elder man returned it thrice-fold. Five minutes passed until Harry sighed with weariness. He was honestly tired of arguing and trying to uphold the propriety of the Wizarding World. The rules never seemed to do anything against him anyway. So...

"I was traveling to my godfather's home in London with a number of my friends and members of an anti-Voldemort group known as the Order of the Phoenix by broom and various flying creatures or vehicles," Harry said officially. He remembered how the Ministry often liked their formal speech, so he assumed this man would as well. "Death Eaters came out of nowhere and attacked us. We nearly escaped them when one well-aimed bombarda damaged the side carriage of my friend's motorcycle, sending me free-falling into the Thames. Hedwig flew with me as I descended."

The eyepatched man, despite displaying himself as an unmovable personality, appeared for once at loss for words.

"Explain this, and any other details that will help me clarify, again."

And it was like that, with awkward explanations, sharp interruptions, and a very long story later, Harry came to realize that maybe he wasn't where he was supposed to be. The man's questions, which varied from mutants to gamma radiation (whatever that was), also offered plenty of hints. Something about his fall was incidental, and obviously magical. How else could he have such a wild problem like this? Only issue, glaring impatiently in the chair across from him, was who the stranger was and where he currently sat in retrospect to reality.

"So, lemme get this straight: You're a wizard, an apparently famous one, who was chosen by some wild prophecy as the Messiah for an entire society of magically-gifted human beings? And, just to add, you're only seventeen with a pet owl, your parents' inheritance, and a measly stick of carved wood to your name."

Potter grimaced. When someone put it that way, he felt like a puffed-up idiot. "Yessir."

"Can you prove to me your… status as a wizard? 'Cause some hocus-pocus with your wooden stick?"

Obligingly, Harry pulled free his wand, pausing to show the eyepatched man across him. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the young man said aloud, "Defodio."

A large chunk of oak was gouged out of the desk, peeling away to reveal the very pale wood underneath its polish. The chunk plopped plainly before the other man, who stared at it with a mixture of interest and displeasure. Harry repeated his movements, muttering, "Reparo."

The hunk flipped right back into place, cementing itself into the desk without a single indication it was ever carved out. It was apparent on Fury's face that the demonstration convinced him.

"I've been a part of this organization for an uncountable number of years; in that time, I've never seen someone using magic."

One dark eye looked up to meet two emeralds. "Kid, what you've just described to me isn't something that exactly exists here. That fall you took dumped you in the wrong place; that much I can tell you. I wasn't kidding when I said I'd know of Statutes from any sort of government. Your Wizarding World is not here, not on this Earth. We've got just about every possible extraordinary thing but magic, which is either a damn good thing or a shame.

"As for you personally… I can give you secure housing, a basic account balance for living, an identity, and a car. Beyond that, I won't do anything else. It's clear, with the way you're glaring at me, you don't trust me; the feeling's mutual, kid. It's not everyday a massive power surge disturbs the United Kingdom and my agents bring back a soaked teenager from the Thames who can use magic."

Harry scowled. "Just who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Nick Fury, director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division; better known to numerous officials and organizations as S.H.I.E.L.D. We deal with the extraordinary, would-be international threats, and any extraterrestrial interaction that happens on Earth. So, you're not the first wierdo to walk through those blast doors," Fury said with a smirk.

"So I'm a threat then?" Potter said darkly. The comment reminded him too much of Fudge.

"For all I know, you could be," retorted the director, "I don't know. This is a give-take situation, kid. You have to cooperate with me if you want to get anywhere in this world."

The young wizard felt cornered. New world, new rules, and an entirely new chess game. And, to top it all off, Harry wasn't the best at chess. Ron was, he his best mate was not there with him. He desperately wished, in that moment, Ron and Hermione had indeed fallen into the Thames with him. At least one of them would have had some kind of idea on what to do. But he was alone, seemingly stranded in a foreign world so much yet so unlike his own. Harry tiredly sighed. He'd have to accept this Nick Fury's offer, most likely. Being who he was, a wizard and would-be Savior of another world, he counted as an extraordinary person and a possible threat. Muggles never did stand a chance against Magicals, and Fury apparently realized that on his own.

Harry looked up to the dark-skinned man's single eye. "I'll accept your offer, sir," he said stiffly.

"Good," Fury said shortly, standing from his chair. "You're going to have a roommate in your apartment, just to warn you, since we don't exactly have lots of free S.H.I.E.L.D. housing with teenagers in it. You'll be shipped off to New York in a few hours. Try and get along with your new roomie; I really don't want to have to make special accommodations."

The director offered a hand. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Harry James Potter."

The-Boy-Who-Lived only felt sick and uncertain at the idea.