Prologue
Hey there, Marvel maniacs and Potterheads! It’s your ol’ pal Deadpool, ready to unravel the twisted threads of fate that bind together a certain magical universe with our beloved world of high-tech suits and smarmy billionaires. Grab your chimichangas, because this is gonna be a wild ride. Today, we’re kicking things off in Little Whinging, Surrey—a place so dull, it makes the DMV seem like Disneyland. But tonight, things are about to get as crazy as a cosmic cube on acid!
On the 1st of November, 1996, the evening sky over Little Whinging was painted in shades of deep blue and indigo, setting the scene for a story that’s more twisted than Loki’s lies. The Dursleys—our award-winning champs of dreariness—were rolling back into their driveway after a vacation as thrilling as watching your laundry dry. Vernon Dursley, the poster boy for all things dull and dreadful, emerged from their gloomy car, grumbling under his breath about the trials of his oh-so-tedious life. Picture a walrus in a polyester suit, and you’ve got Vernon pegged. His wife, Petunia, was fiddling with the house keys, her floral-patterned dress looking like it was made from your grandma’s couch. Dudley, their bloated little angel, was clinging to her like a lost koala.
As they trudged towards their front door, Petunia’s hawk-like eyes spotted something on the porch—a tiny bundle, wrapped in a blanket. Her heart skipped a beat, not out of compassion, but out of sheer terror that her mundane existence was about to get a shot of supernatural weirdness. With the precision of a robot vacuum, she leaned down and pulled back the blanket to reveal a baby boy. His hair was a mess that would put any rock star to shame, and—brace yourselves—there was a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
“Son of a biscuit-eating bulldog!” Petunia probably thought. “Not this little freak again!” Yup, it was Harry Potter, the kid with a scar more famous than my mercenary antics.
Beside the baby was a letter, sealed with a wax stamp. No, it wasn’t an invitation to Hogwarts, or an eviction notice from the Ministry of Magic. It was from good ol’ Albus Dumbledore himself, the head honcho of all things magical. Petunia, with fingers trembling like a scared Chihuahua, snatched up the letter and skimmed its contents. It was a reminder of her sister Lily, whose magical shenanigans had always been a stain on Petunia’s perfectly pruned life.
Enter Vernon, stomping over like a grumpy rhino who just found out his favorite all-you-can-eat buffet was now salad-only. He glared at the baby, then at the letter, his face turning a delightful shade of purple. “What’s this all about, Petunia?” he barked, with the kind of enthusiasm one reserves for stepping in dog poop.
“It’s Harry Potter,” Petunia whispered, her voice filled with a mix of horror and disdain. “James and Lily are dead. This child is... our only family.”
Vernon’s reaction was priceless. His face contorted in an expression that screamed, “I’d rather eat glass!”—a look you’d expect from someone who just found out they’re getting audited by the IRS. “We will not have that... that freak in our house!” he roared, as if declaring it to the entire block. “We have our own son, perfectly normal, perfectly Dursley!”
And there it is, folks. A wizard baby, a letter of doom, and a couple of suburban sticklers for normalcy. Petunia nodded, her resolve hardening like the crust on a week-old pizza. “We can’t keep him,” she said coldly. “We’ll take him to an orphanage. It’s the only reasonable thing to do.”
“Yeah, real reasonable, Petunia. Because nothing says ‘we care’ like dropping a baby off on a stranger’s doorstep in the middle of the night,” I chimed in, not that anyone was listening.
So, the Dursleys, in their infinite wisdom and compassion, bundled up the baby and loaded him into the car. The street was dark, and the flickering streetlights cast an eerie glow on their little act of abandonment. As they drove off, leaving Harry behind, the headlights of their car briefly illuminated the forlorn bundle on the porch—a tiny hero left to fend for himself.
The Dursleys eventually arrived at a dreary-looking orphanage, the kind of place that would make even Scrooge McDuck shudder. They walked up the path, the gravel crunching under their feet like the sound of their own hearts hardening. They placed the baby and the letter on the doorstep and then practically sprinted back to their car, eager to wash their hands of any connection to the magical world.
As the Dursleys sped off into the night, the door of the orphanage creaked open. A weary-looking woman appeared, her face etched with years of caring for the unwanted and forgotten. She picked up the baby and the letter, her heart heavy with the weight of her new responsibility. Little did she know, the child she held would soon be at the center of a story so epic, it would make the Avengers’ battles look like playground scuffles.
Somewhere out there, in a world where wizards and superheroes coexist, a new chapter was beginning. A chapter that would lead this little boy into the arms of someone far more capable of handling his extraordinary destiny. But hey, that’s a tale for another time. For now, let’s just say this kid’s future is about to get as bright as a photon blast from Captain Marvel herself. Stay tuned, true believers, because this story’s just heating up!