Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yeah, someone has a twisted sense of humour, because this little book turned up on his nightstand. It is laid over an uncomfortably familiar wand on top of his neatly folded cloak. Sitting atop the whole pile is the ugly ring with a cracked stone which he is absolutely certain is supposed to be lost in the Forbidden Forest, and good riddance. The Deathly Hallows are innocently sitting on his nightstand accompanied by a little black book with a ridiculous title that he refuses to think about at all.

In aid of this, he scoops the pile up, stuffs it in the nightstand drawer and turns away. Then he stops, spins back, and casts every locking, warding, and alarm spell he can think of, with a high powered Notice-Me-Not on top. Nodding, he turns away again and gets on with his bedtime routine.

When he goes to bed the next night, the Hallows are resting on his nightstand, along with the book that he still does not want to think about. When he moves to stuff it all back in the drawer, he is thwarted by the fact that his nightstand has no drawer. He is certain it had a drawer last night, but the nightstand he is looking at — and it is definitely his — has no drawer. It is not missing a drawer, it was clearly built without one. He looks over at his dresser, and decides he needs all of those drawers, so does not try to stow the Hallows in one of them.

He dumps his unwanted pile of Deathly Whatzits in an empty shoe box and sets it on the shelf of his closet. Then he thinks better of it, takes the box downstairs, and puts it in the storage closet under the stairs (not a cupboard, thanks ever so, never again). Then he locks it, wards it, and hides it, and does his best to forget about all of it. He is good at it, he practically never remembers he has that particular closet at all.

The next morning, he doesn’t. He is ok with that, really. The curio shelves that now nestle under the stairs as if they have always been there, rather less so. There is a lovely long glass case containing a bobbly wand resting on a velvet stand. There is a line of hourglasses with names on them and sand pouring through. A particularly small knobby one says “Kreature.” It is cracked and sand no longer flows. Kreature died some time ago, while he was still finishing up classes that focused heavily on building, cleaning, repairing, and warding that year. He does not read any other names, just turns the hourglasses to face the wall. There is a triangular glass-faced box holding his oddly folded Cloak. There is a mounted collection of small rodent skulls. There is a sturdy trinket box with the sign of the Deathly Hallows inlaid on the top, which he deliberately does not open so that he does not confirm that it contains a certain ring. There is a tiny silver scythe that could be a letter opener, but probably isn’t. There are also books stacked haphazardly on the shelves. Quite a few, really, a couple hundred at his best guess. They are all identical upon examination, small, black, and bearing the title that claims they hold the secrets of mastering death.

He decides that the curio shelves are not so bad on consideration, but this might be enough mystical redecoration for one house. He does not try to hide the Hallows again, since they have been so attractively displayed. Best hidden in plain sight, right? It may be worth a try.

The Hallows themselves remain in place happily enough. They are not hidden, they are seen daily, and they do not go wandering. The little black book, however, is persistent in its attentions, and not a day goes by that it does not pop up somewhere unexpected and extremely noticeable. Such as his dinner plate when he goes to dish up even though it was not there when he set the table. In the bread box, propped up against the loaf of bread that he promptly throws out. In the refrigerator, laid on top of the dish of leftovers he had planned to eat. He bins those, too. In the ice box, right beside the ice cream which he eats anyway. But that night he burns the books, all of them. There were actually only one hundred and thirty-three of them on the shelves, and he burns every one. He falls asleep in front of a fireplace full of papery ash.

When he goes up to change the next morning, there is one book on his bed, pristine and unburnt. The bed, apart from that one spot, is covered in soot. He grinds his teeth and goes to the shops to replace his destroyed bedding, and takes the hint. He sets the book on his drawerless nightstand with a paperweight on top. He glances to where his nightstand drawer no longer exists, and trades the paperweight for a half-brick from the back garden.

In the morning, the half-brick is gone and the book is resting on a pile of fine red sand. Good save on the paperweight then, he quite likes it. It is a Hungarian Horntail all curled up, sleeping. Occasionally it still moves around, spits a spark or two, and nips at his fingers but the animation magic has worn thin over time. Of course he kept it. So few things have been given to him that even this, drawn from a nearly empty bag, has become a keepsake.

He gives up and reads the book. It is quite interesting.

Shortly thereafter he has several serious conversations with Hermione and one bewildering yet enlightening conversation with Luna. He has two very expensive appointments with the goblins as well, culminating with an uncomfortable and complicated ritual that would be fascinating if he was not the subject. No one will ever track him again, not by spell or scrying, electronic record or photographic image, nor any left-behind physical trace, not even scent.

He also receives a set of documentation that will identify him as a local citizen and definitely not a person of interest, regardless of his current location. Anyone looking further into his identity will decide that everything is both valid and satisfactory and think no more of it, quite literally, it seems. It positively drips with magic when it is handed to him, so he figures it will probably work as promised.

Within a month, he packs up, prepares his house for his absence, and seeks obscurity in the bustle of non-magical New York City. It is not as if he is going to be able to stay in magical England any longer, so a clean break suits him best. If he were anyone else he could perhaps pull it off with makeup and glamours, but he is not just anybody and will never be free of far too much close scrutiny. (He once idly considered introducing a certain beetle to Aragog’s kin, but set the thought aside. He does not wish anyone dead and it is quite fortunate for everyone, really, because there is a chance it would not be at all healthy for them if he did.) Instead, he left his homeland because non-magical England is not far enough to escape the unlimited supply of busybodies with cameras and hyperactive quills.

He does not bring the curio shelves. The Hallows can clearly take care of themselves. If he is very lucky, they will stay put. He does not believe that he will be that lucky but it is worth a try. However, he does take a mobile phone in a very special case with runes covering the inside that Hermione spent weeks working on. She promises the phone will not break even if he apparates with it, and when he needs a new phone the case will fit it as well. There are not many numbers in the contacts list, but they are each precious. Only Hermione knows what to expect in the long term, and one of the runic sequences will lead his other friends to hear and see him as they expect him to be. They will not, cannot, see him in person again, but they do not know that yet. With continued contact they will not feel a need to search him out. Best all around, really, but it aches if he thinks about it for long.

He does not have to leave his Ginny behind, because by the time the war ended she was happily wrapped up in Neville’s arms and no longer his at all. In the end his heart is only a bit bruised, not left behind with a lover, so that’s alright.

The first morning he wakes up in his new house, he finds the curio shelves on his way to the kitchen. He does not even pause, just rolls his eyes as he passes by.

Chapter Text

He picks up the other black book in New York. It reminds him a bit of finding a diary once upon a time, although there is thankfully no toilet involved this time. No obsessively staring red-faced redhead, either, which is another improvement in his estimation. No, instead there is a black-clad man who is yelling at his phone as he stomps out of an automatic door and down the sidewalk. He finishes up with a colourful expletive and shoves his phone into the pocket of his slightly-rumpled suit. He snatches out a small black book, tries and fails to rip it in half, and throws it at a trash bin. He does not seem to care that it bounces off as he storms past.

It is not an urge towards public service or simple tidiness that drives him to pick up the small, battered book; it is his irrepressible curiosity. He no longer fears his curiosity may lead him to his death, so sees little need to refrain from indulging it.

The book is worn, dog-eared, stained with several substances both identifiable and not, and, most unusually, hand-written. The cover is untitled, but the first page informs him that it is a guide to dealing with one Tony Stark without losing your patience, temper, or sanity. It actually says “Without Committing Justifiable Homicide,” but he thinks he has the right idea. Based on its condition and the circumstances of his finding it, he rather thinks that it has passed through enough hands to have failed utterly in its purpose. On reflection, however, he reckons that since Tony Stark is still breathing there may be something to it after all.

The foreword says that according to Director Fury, Stark should come with a user manual and thus Agent Coulson has been ordered to write one so that in case of his unscheduled demise another agent can step in and deal with “that motherfucker” so that Fury will not have to. It instructs that the book should be eyes only and never put on any electronic media or even read within range of a camera, because nothing is safe from Stark or his creepy AI. The foreword concludes with, “To the unlucky bastard who is assigned Stark duty in future: remember that you are not allowed to kill him. Good luck with that.”

As he reads through it over dinner that evening, he learns quite a bit about the policies and methods of this unnamed agency, and quite a bit more about innumerable ways to “deal with” Tony Stark. They apparently believe him to be both an uncontrollable, immature asset to be ruthlessly used and an inevitable up-and-coming supervillain to be watched with paranoid suspicion at all times. He squirms uncomfortably at the realisation, because the parallels are not lost on him.

The book is filled with Agent Coulson’s take on how to handle Tony Stark, his concept of whom is clearly based on his flashy media persona and the only slightly less flamboyant assholery that is his usual public persona. It’s obvious that if this agent ever thought there might be more to Tony Stark than the way he presents himself in public, he has since decided otherwise. Honestly, the ploys range from manipulation to gaslighting to threats to outright abuse. There is plan after plan, each followed by results and speculations about effectiveness of the tactic and suggestions going forward.

At some point, someone presumably NOT belonging to the nameless agency got their hands on this book and edited it extensively. They used an unusual dark red colour of ink reminiscent of… Never mind, no need to wonder what exactly was used for ink. The neat red annotations on each and every attempt to manage Tony Stark according to the agency’s interests consist of scathing commentary on why each tactic is demonstrably stupid and didn’t work the way the agency believes.

The very first annotation is actually to the title, where “Justifiable Homicide” has been crossed out in favour of “Suicide, because if you hurt him, I will end you.” Further annotations demonstrate knowledge of Tony Stark as an actual person and a fond regard for him as revealed by the massive protective streak laid out in red ink. Reading between the lines isn’t even necessary — the comments are… explicit. As in, “Don’t EVER try to control Mr. Stark with threats to his well-being, company, loved ones or anything else your twisted little minds might think up, because I will find out and then I will slowly and excruciatingly remove your brain through your nose with a large paper clip. Plus, regardless of Agent Coulson’s opinion, threatening Tony never works, even if it seems that it did. Just wait for it, explosions WILL follow.”

At the end of the annotated text is a note in dark red ink addressed to Agent Coulson. It is disappointed and disgusted in turns, and is signed by V. Potts. Scrawled in sparkly purple ink at the very bottom of the page is written, “Agent is an idiot. Listen to Pepper. Pepper is always right. —TS.”

The final pages of the book hold several notes to different people, each of which he finds hilarious. The first reads:

“Barton: due to angry muttering, hateful glares, and overheard death threats you are no longer safe on base when Black Widow is in the field. I am assigning you elsewhere until the mind control episode blows over and you can once again walk our halls without Romanov to watch your sorry ass. Therefore, you’re taking Stark up on moving into his massive tribute to overcompensation. You are now assigned officially to Stark watch and management detail. This book is issued in hopes of you not repeating previous mistakes or pissing Stark off enough that he cuts off access to his tech. He’s an asshole, but he’s a useful asshole who is providing us with state-of-the-art upgrades, plus housing you for free. Don’t screw this up. —Fury”

He sniggers as he reads the next note:

“Nat, here’s the book Fury gave me when I moved in here. Coulson wrote it, so it’s worth a read just for that. My best guess is that Potts found it sometime around the Vanko fiasco and hit the roof. I’d love to have been a fly on that wall, if she left any standing. She must have made some good points, though, because Coulson kept the book as-is instead of rewriting one that isn’t dripping red ink. Actually, after Vanko, Coulson and Stark got along way better, or maybe just avoided each other, hard to tell which. Plus Coulson never crossed Potts again after that, not ever. That’s probably the best advice in the whole book, come to think of it. I’m passing it to you so you’ll stop bitching about how manipulating Stark never works right. He’s an arrogant man-ho with the maturity of a two-year-old, so you can totally handle him. You got this. —Clint”

The last note reads:

“Steve, you asked for any ideas on how to work with Stark without punching him. This book has the best advice we’ve got, for what it’s worth. Return it when you’re done, because it’s issued every time someone is assigned to anything involving Stark. Give up on getting him to shut up, though. It will never happen. —Natasha

“P.S. Don’t bother giving him orders, either. He actually gets more annoying if you try. Not only does he not follow orders, he goes out of his way to demonstrate why they are wrong and his ideas are better. It’s infuriating, so just don’t.”

His curiosity fully engaged, he turns to the wonders of the internet courtesy of Google (and maybe just a little bit of scrying, because not all of the hours in Trelawney’s suspicious-herb-scented classroom were wasted). He finds a staggering amount of information. Being familiar with the vagaries of the tabloid press (cough *Prophet* cough), he disregards any and everything containing speculation or question marks, which turns out to be the vast majority of it. The rest of it tends to paint Tony Stark as brilliant enough to have Hermione all breathy and blushing, the recipient of mercurial changes of fortune that rival the Potter Luck, and potentially the victim of Skeeter-level media hatchet jobs. Also, yes, he is arrogant, sarcastic, and mouthy with questionable social skills. Actually, that last bit reminds him of Hermione, too, though no one will ever hear that from him.

He cannot for the life of him understand why these agency people seem to be afraid that Tony Stark will try to take over the world. It is plain that his attention span is nowhere near long enough and his MO is to perceive a problem, tinker, solve the problem, dump it proudly on Pepper’s desk like a dead mouse (not in the shoes, never in the shoes), PROFIT, and move on, pausing only for fresh coffee.

Besides, Ms. Potts has clearly achieved world domination years ago, but so subtly that literally no one realises that little fact, including the unnamed agency. Tony Stark probably noticed, but since she has been running his life for decades, he likely thinks that is just how the world works. Obviously. Everything is much less hassle for Tony Stark when Ms. Potts is in charge of all the non-inventing and non-superheroing aspects of existence.

He completely understands. Everything has always been less hassle when Hermione is in charge of all the non-angsting and non-archetypal heroing aspects of his own life.

All in all, Tony Stark sounds like his kind of person. His crazy has nothing on Luna and growing up with Hermione has left him with no fear of other people’s intellect. And there is no way Tony Stark could be more irritating than that one day when he had to deal with Colin Creevy, Draco Malfoy, and Lockhart at the same time . Huh, actually, Tony Stark might match up with that particular combination of obnoxious character traits unfortunately well. Still less irritating, though, if only just. Regardless, he could use a new friend or two now that he is so far from his home shores.

He considers the possible outcome of “accidentally” including his own little black book when he sends Stark’s book back to him. He could add a photo of himself, just barely magical enough to wink once in a while. That will get his attention, no doubt. Dancing around the Statute of Secrecy might get a bit tricky, but Stark has run into magic before, so there’s a bit of wiggle room there. It really comes down to the epic match of the all-knowing cyber-stalker vs. the untraceable man. It should be maddeningly frustrating to Tony Stark and hilariously entertaining for him.

Maybe he will get to meet the mildly terrifying V. Potts, too. He will definitely take the book’s message to heart, though, and endeavour to never, ever cross Pepper Potts. After all, he does not have a death wish, not that it would matter if he did.