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Chapter Text

Sat 23rd May 2015

Grimmauld Place, London 

Three weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter woke to the incredibly disturbing sight of Kreacher’s bulging eyes peering down at him.

It wasn't the first time this had happened. Since moving into Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione two weeks prior, the aged house-elf had taken it upon himself to watch over Harry while he slept. Apparently, this was to “prevent nightmares,” though Harry privately thought Kreacher’s approach was more likely to cause them.

Still, he wasn’t suicidal, so he kept that thought to himself.

“The mad Master is being awake,” Kreacher muttered to no one in particular as he hopped down off the bed and shuffled toward the door. “Kreacher will start with breakfast, or the Master’s pet will be touching the good china and moving Kreacher’s things—”

His muttering cut off abruptly as he passed through the silencing charm he’d installed on the doorframe. Harry exhaled slowly and let his eyes close again, even though he knew he wouldn’t fall back asleep.

A lot had changed since the defeat of Voldemort.

Perhaps the most obvious was Kreacher’s sudden loyalty—still tinged with semi-insults, but earnest nonetheless. Hermione had been deemed Harry’s “pet Mudblood” at first, but they’d worked him down to just “pet.” Progress.

And then there was the fame. He’d thought it had been bad before, but this was something else entirely. Within days of waking up in the Gryffindor dorms, he’d barely managed two quiet meals before Mrs. Weasley had pulled him home to the Burrow, desperate to shield him from the tide of attention. But even there, it hadn’t let up. Reporters camped outside the wards. Owls delivered letters and gifts around the clock. One even dropped a heart-covered envelope on his head during Fred’s funeral.

That had been his breaking point.

The Weasleys had never asked him to leave—Mrs. Weasley in particular had been insistent that he stay—but he hadn’t been able to. Not with the weight of their grief magnified by the chaos he attracted just by existing. They deserved peace, and his presence was the antithesis.

And there was the other thing.

Ginny had tried—Merlin, she’d tried—but things between them had felt... off. Blurred at the edges. He couldn't tell if it was the war, or him, or both. But every time she tried to hold his hand or kiss him, something inside him recoiled—not in fear, just in confusion. Like he was trying to walk a path he’d mapped out in someone else’s handwriting. 

It hadn’t helped that, somewhere amid the noise and funerals and late-night silences, Harry had realised he was watching Bill more than was probably normal.

He hadn’t meant to. But Bill had been steady in a way nothing else was. Quiet. Capable. Older, obviously, and married—and nothing like what Harry thought he was supposed to want. But when Bill handed him a cup of tea without asking questions, or stood beside him on the back step in silence while the rest of the house wept... it had felt like something shifted in his chest.

Something he didn’t know how to name.

Maybe it was just gratitude. Or comfort. Or that Bill was the only one who hadn’t looked at him like a bomb that might still go off. But Harry had found himself thinking about him more than he should—about the way he laughed, the way he didn’t push, the weight of his hand on Harry’s shoulder once, just for a moment.

It didn’t mean anything. Probably.

He was just tired. Confused. Still bleeding in places no spell could reach. And even if his heart began to rush at the thought of him, he was unobtainable.

So he'd left. Thankfully, Ginny'd taken it well.

Ron and Hermione had insisted on joining him at Grimmauld Place, despite Mrs. Weasley’s continued protests.

Hermione had immediately helped him ward the house to the gills—nothing short of a nuclear disaster would get through uninvited now. And while that didn’t stop the dreams or the guilt, at least it gave him quiet.

Mostly.

He couldn’t return to Hogwarts because of his memories. Couldn’t enter Gringotts without possibly starting the next Goblin war, though Bill was helping with this. Couldn’t step into Diagon Alley without starting a riot as people tried to get close to him. He was trapped in a house that didn’t feel like home with the two people he loved most—but even they couldn't touch the part of him still stuck in the Great Hall, staring at bodies.

He didn’t feel like a hero. He just felt tired.

A quiet hoot jolted him upright, wand already half-raised. His heart hammered before his eyes landed on the source: a nondescript tawny owl perched at the foot of the bed, a thick envelope tied to its leg.

Harry stared.

“Where the hell did you come from?” he asked, voice rough from sleep.

The owl blinked, unbothered, though the droppings sliding down the dark carved wood suggested it'd been waiting a while.

He reached for the envelope cautiously. The owl allowed it, then launched itself out through the open window without waiting for a response. Clearly not a social visit.

The parchment was heavier than usual, the handwriting on the front elegant and unfamiliar. Just his name, written in dark blue ink.

Turning it over, he saw the seal of the House of Longbottom. His shoulders relaxed slightly.

Inside was a short letter from Neville, along with a second, much older envelope.

Harry,

I hope you're doing well, all things considered. Hermione said you want me to speak at the memorial at Hogwarts when it reopens—is that true? I’ll think about it if it is… I don't really know what I'd say. I didn't even do anything, really.

Anyway, that’s not why I'm writing. Not sure if you heard—my mum died last week. It wasn't anything sinister. Complications from a new treatment. You're more than welcome at the funeral, but no pressure. I saw that Prophet article from when you went to Diagon last week.

Gran was named executor of her will, and none of the owls could get through your wards. I told her that was probably your doing, so we tried this way. Apparently, my mum was keeping a letter for you—from your mum. I’m so sorry, mate. If we'd known, I would've sent it years ago.

Let me know how you’re doing. Don’t be a stranger.

Cheers,

Neville

Harry went still.

A letter from his mum?

His hands trembled slightly as he picked up the envelope Neville had mentioned. The parchment was soft with age, the ink faded to a deep burgundy. His name had been written with care.

This—this was real. Tangible. A piece of his mother meant just for him, not the world’s idea of him. Not for prophecy. Not for protection.

Just… for him.

He swallowed hard and carefully opened it. Inside were two things: a folded parchment and another sealed envelope.

His fingers hesitated over the letter.

My dearest Harry,

It feels strange writing to you while you're only a few feet away, napping. If all goes to plan, you’ll never read this. But with the way things are… I’d rather not chance it.

And if you are reading this, then I can only hope that Sirius and Alice have given you a loving home. I suppose that’s all a parent ever wants. Still, I’m jealous. They’ll get to see you grow up. They’ll be the ones to see your first steps and hear your first words.

Just know, you are so, so loved.

Harry had to stop reading. He pressed the heel of his hand hard into his eyes. The ache was sharp and immediate and utterly ridiculous, because he’d known—of course he’d known—that his parents had loved him. But knowing wasn’t the same as hearing it. Not like this.

In her own words, not secondhand from Sirius or as a spectre in the graveyard, or a shade in the forest. Alive.

He took a breath and forced himself to continue.

If your father were here, he'd say the same—though probably more dramatically. You are the greatest gift we’ve ever received. We would give anything to keep you safe. I hope that, even reading this, you know that much without question.

There was a pause in the ink. Harry could picture her lifting the quill, hesitating.

But there's something else I need to tell you, and I’m sorry I have to do it this way.

Your father and I… we're not your biological parents.

The words hit like a punch to the ribs. He read them again.

Then again.

The room seemed to shrink around him. The air grew thin.

This may come as a surprise to you. I would understand if it upsets you, or makes you angry with us. Please—please let me explain.

Harry turned his head slightly, squeezing his eyes shut. Something inside him was roaring, No, no, no, but he couldn’t stop. He had to know.

Just after Hogwarts, James and Sirius joined the Aurors. James was cursed on a raid and lost the ability to have children. It was devastating, but at the time, I had just fallen pregnant and we didn’t dwell on it.

But I lost the baby. We were shattered.

Around that time, I’d become close to a woman I met through my Muggle GP. Her name was Sigyn Frejasdottir. She was sharp and beautiful and clever—James adored her, though always said she looked just enough like his nonexistent sister to be disturbing.

She was pregnant. Alone. Her family situation was… complicated. Her father had taken her previous child from her. She was terrified he'd do the same once again.

When I lost the baby, she offered us something unthinkable—she asked if we would take in her child. That child was you.

We didn’t hesitate.

Harry blinked rapidly. The ink blurred before him, but he kept going. The truth felt unreal. It had to be. He was James Potter’s son. He had his father’s hair, didn’t he?

But then—how many people had told him he had his mother’s eyes?

And now, maybe, he didn’t.

Please don't ever think you were a replacement. No one could replace the little girl we lost, just as no one could ever replace you. We loved you instantly. We love you still. You are our son, in every way that matters.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

But Sigyn loved you too. Enough to let you go to keep you safe. She left a letter. Neither James nor I ever read it, though I’m sure he was tempted. I promised her we’d give it to you when you were old enough.

I hope this explains everything.

Just remember that we love you to the stars and back, our miraculous son.

Always,

Your loving mother,

Lily

Harry stared at the final envelope in his lap.

The room was silent except for the distant tick of the old hall clock.

He didn’t move.

The letter from Lily sat limp in his hand, the last few lines burned into his mind like curse scars.

Just remember that we love you to the stars and back, our miraculous son.

Their son.

But actually, he wasn't their son—not in the way everyone had always said. Not by blood.

A wave of nausea hit him.

He dropped the letter onto the bed beside him and pressed both palms against his face, breathing hard through the ache tightening behind his eyes. His stomach churned, his mind spinning in circles with nowhere to land.

It felt like the world had tilted sideways.

The Potters weren’t his parents. At least, not biologically. Which meant… what? That he was someone else entirely? That the stories told about him—“James Potter’s son,” “Lily’s sacrifice”—were lies? Or were they still true, just… bent?

He didn’t feel different.

But now that he knew, it was like a hairline crack running through every memory he had. Every warm thought of his parents, every flicker of comfort he’d ever scraped together in the wreckage of their absence—it all felt just a little unreal.

He rubbed at his eyes until the skin was sore.

And then there was the second letter.

It sat on the bed beside him, its aged envelope staring up at him like it knew he was afraid.

Because he was.

He picked it up, only to set it down again a moment later. The parchment pulsed faintly with magic—old magic. Familiar, and yet not. It tugged at the edge of his senses like the hum of his wand, but… deeper. Thicker.

Harry swallowed.

Did he even want to know?

The answer came immediately—and that was the worst part.

He did.

Even if he hated what he learned. Even if it made everything worse. Even if it shattered the fragile, patchwork identity he’d cobbled together over seventeen years of being shoved from boot cupboard to prophecy.

He wanted to know because he was so tired of the not-knowing. So tired of secrets buried in letters and lies wrapped in caring. Tired of feeling like a chess piece in someone else's endgame.

He stared at the envelope again. It didn’t move. Didn’t glow or whisper or tremble.

It just… waited.

That somehow made it worse.

His fingers hovered over the seal.

He thought of Dumbledore. Of all the times he’d said things like, “I'm sorry, my boy—I hoped to keep this from you,” as if Harry was a cauldron waiting to boil over the moment the truth was spoken aloud. He thought of Sirius, and how the truth about Pettigrew had come too late. He thought of Snape’s memories, handed over in the final minutes of a life steeped in bitterness.

Always secrets. Always coming to light after the damage had been done.

Maybe, this time, he could choose to know before everything went to hell.

He picked up the envelope again. He could feel magic vibrating faintly beneath the envelope’s seal. His magic buzzed in response.

There was no going back, now.

He might not be ready. He might never be ready. But the second letter existed, and it was his.

The truth was his.

Whatever it held—madness, magic, pain, hope—he would face it. Not because he was brave, or noble, or the Chosen One, but because he needed to stop living in the shadow of questions he wasn’t allowed to ask.

Harry inhaled slowly, and broke the seal.

With trembling fingers, he opened it—and a necklace slipped out into his palm. The pendant was heavier than it looked.

At first glance, it appeared abstract—long, winding silver twisted into a subtle, looping shape, studded with tiny green stones. But as Harry tilted it in the light, the shape clarified—a coiled serpent, its head and tail subtly parted.

A constellation.

It wasn’t just decorative. It was designed. Deliberate. The kind of thing someone made for a reason.

He didn’t do particularly well in Astronomy, but something about it pulled at the back of his mind. Not just magic, but recognition.

Serpens.

Harry turned it over in his hand and knew inherently that someone had loved someone else very much to make something like this.

The necklace felt warm in his hand.

Not hot. Not magical in a way he could define. Just warm. Steady. Like a second heartbeat. Or a tether.

Harry set it gently on the blanket beside him and reached for the last letter, the parchment soft and unnaturally smooth beneath his fingers. His name was written in a rich, green ink that shimmered faintly in the light.

Not to Harry.

To Hárekr.

He opened it with deliberate care, his hands no longer shaking—but only because he’d gone slightly numb.

My darling Hárekr,

Now the time has come, and I hardly know what to write. I hope you will forgive the ineloquent nature of this letter, given the circumstances. Nothing I say could make my decision any less painful—for either of us. Though you will not know of my pain for many years to come, I have lived with it every day.

This was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I would choose your safety over my happiness, even now. Even if we never meet—never speak—never share so much as a glance.

Harry swallowed hard. He could feel the difference already, even in just these first lines.

Lily’s letter had been full of warmth and gentleness and the careful hand of someone trying to protect him. This felt… older. Heavier. Like the words had been forged, not written.

If I had chosen the selfish path—the one I still long for with every aching breath—you would not be safe. I made that mistake once before. I watched your sister taken from me and hidden in so dark a place I could not reach her. I could not risk the same fate for you.

Lily and James tell me they will name you Harry. A fine name—derived from Heimrich, the ‘home ruler’. In my tongue, I named you Hárekr from the moment I felt your heart beat. It is a name of power and protection. A name that binds you to our people, even if the threads are invisible for now.

Harry stared at the name again.

He didn’t feel powerful. He felt like a shadow of himself, rattling around an old house with too many memories.

But the name still stirred something in his gut like recognition.

I must confess, I have wronged not only you, but your father as well. I wish I could tell you that we were in love, that your story began in some great, sweeping romance. But the truth is more complicated.

We cared for each other. We shared more than either of us expected. He is a brilliant man, with a sharp mind and a generous heart that he rarely allows the world to see.

He does not know about you.

I hid your existence from everyone—including him.

Harry stopped. He couldn’t quite breathe for a moment.

His father might be alive. He might be alive and he didn’t know.

All this time, all this mess, and the one person who might have answers… didn’t even know he existed.

His eyes flicked down the page again.

The second name I called you is Anthony, for him. A quiet wish, sent to the Norns, that one day you would find your way back to him. He goes by Tony. Stark is his surname. You may have heard of him—he is a Muggle, though an extraordinary one.

The pendant I send with this letter once belonged to your father—it was a gift he gave me after a night spent stargazing on a rooftop in New York, where we debated whether fate was written in the stars or carved by our own hands. I was close to outbidding him for it at an antique auction. This was how we met.

The shape is not arbitrary. It depicts the constellation Serpens—winding, ancient, often divided into head and tail. Fitting, I thought, for both of us. For me. For you.

Your father told me once that serpents never forget. I hope, foolishly perhaps, that this will be enough for him to remember. I pass it now to you in the hopes that he will, and that he will protect you. 

Harry looked at the necklace again.

So that was the weight he'd felt in it—not just magic, or protection.

Memory. Love.

I’ve placed enchantments on it for your safety. It cannot replace a parent’s presence, but it may offer you some small comfort. It is all I can give you for now.

His throat burned. He pushed on.

If you are reading this, you may be wondering whether to seek your father out. I understand if the thought seems impossible. But I would ask only this—do not assume he would reject you. He may surprise you, as he surprised me.

He has homes in both New York and California now, and businesses in both. I cannot tell you more. I can only hope that one day, when you are ready, you might choose to find him.

Harry let out a slow breath. He had no idea if he was ready.

But he realised he wanted to be.

There is one more thing I must tell you, Hárekr—and this, perhaps, is the most dangerous truth in this letter. But in our culture—your culture by birthright—one's family name is a gift from the parent, given to the child. It is more than a name, it is a sign of belonging.

Harry blinked. His magic shifted inside him, sensing something coming.

The name I gave to the Potters was Frejasdottir. It is not false, but it is not complete. Names hold power. Mine, more than others.

Throughout my life I have worn many faces and been given many names. Most know me as a liar, a trickster, a creature of stories. The thing about lying is, to master the art of crafting a lie, one must first wholly and completely acknowledge the truth. So I swear to you—by my magic and my life—that I will never lie to you.

The parchment tingled faintly in his hands. His magic responded with a soft jolt, as though a thread had been plucked inside his chest.

A spell had been woven into those words. No lies. No illusions. Not between them.

He kept reading, even though his hands were now trembling again.

I may withhold truths, if I must. But never to deceive you—only to protect you.

And so I must tell you who I am, truly and completely. I am Loki, Son of Odin. Prince of Asgard. God of Magic and Lies.

It felt like a floor dropped out beneath him.

He stared at the page, mouth dry, heart pounding.

Loki.

Not just some obscure magical bloodline. Not an old wizarding name.

The Norse God of Magic.

History of Magic may not have been his strongest subject, but he couldn't have lasted five years to his OWLs without learning this name. His hand clenched around the pendant, and it flared briefly in response—just a flicker of warmth, but it anchored him.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that before he realised there was more.

I know what this sounds like. I would not blame you if you doubted me. But your magic will know the truth. And now that you know your name—your real name, Hàrekr Anthony Lokisson—it will begin to change you.

Do not be alarmed. This is your birthright. It will settle in time.

As if in response, Harry felt a slow wave of something roll through him—not unpleasant, but strange. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

Like opening a door inside himself and finding a room he’d never known was there.

As I have mentioned, your sister, too, was taken from me. My father, Odin, believes that any child of mine is a threat to his legacy—to the entire realm of Asgard. There is no telling what horrific place he may have taken you to, had he discovered your existence. I have done everything I can to keep you hidden, and safe, until the Odinsleep.

You may face dangers from both the magical and divine realms. But you are not unprepared, Hárekr. You have survived more than most ever will. And you carry power that others only dream of.

The letter began to slope downward, more emotion than logic now. The writing tightened.

I have so many things I want to teach you. So many things I would have told you, if I’d been able. But for now, I leave you with this: you are mine. You are loved. You are not alone.

Harry’s eyes stung again. And as he scanned the final part of the letter, he saw the writing warp on the page.

My beautiful son,

These words will not reach you in the tongue of your adoptive home, but in the speech of our blood—the language that binds thought to meaning and magic to truth. You may not know it with your mind at first, but your soul will understand.

You are mine. You are known. And I have loved you from the moment your heart first stirred beneath mine.

My love for you grows more terrifying and more wondrous with every beat of my heart.

By all the stars of the Nine Realms, and the threads of fate the Norns dare weave—I will find you. Or you, me.

—Móðir

Harry blinked.

He hadn’t known the actual words. Not in any conscious, linguistic way. But as he read them, he understood them—viscerally, completely. Like they’d been written not on parchment, but into the marrow of his bones.

His magic shivered in quiet recognition even as the letter trailed off. There was no signature.

Just that single word. Móðir. Mother.

Harry let the parchment fall into his lap.

The magic in the room felt thicker now. His own magic buzzed under his skin like it was alive.

He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know how to think.

He leaned forward slowly and pressed his forehead to his knees, the pendant cool against his stomach. For the first time in weeks, he felt something more than grief.

He felt unmoored.

And beneath it all, deeper and quieter than the rest, a single question rose to the surface—

Who am I, now?

Chapter Text

Mon 1st June 2015

Grimmauld Place, London

Harry stared at the necklace for the umpteenth time that week.

It sat innocently enough on the end table next to his bed, glinting softly in the mid-morning sun filtering through the dusty windows. Every time he looked at it, his magic stirred—like a cat stretching lazily in his chest, curling around his ribs and yawning against his heart.

He hadn’t touched the letters again. Not yet.

Kreacher, to his credit, had finally stopped hovering. Now he mostly lurked. It was an improvement.

Harry had just talked himself into going downstairs and maybe, finally, attempting to eat something that wasn’t toast, when green flame roared to life in the drawing room fireplace. A second later, Bill’s voice rang out.

“Harry? You there?”

Grimmauld’s Floo hadn’t been connected to the public network since 12 Grimmauld became not technically illegal again, but Hermione had insisted a few family connections should remain. Shell Cottage was one of them.

Harry trudged into the drawing room, ran a hand through his hair, and crouched near the hearth. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Bill’s head spun toward him, half-shadowed by the green fire. His hair was tied back, but even through the flames Harry could see how tired he looked. The scar across his cheek twitched slightly as he spoke.

“Good. You been reading your letters?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Bill smirked a little. “I owled you three days ago.  The new wards are impressive but Gringotts owls are specially charmed so people can't avoid paying potential debts. I know you must've gotten my letter.”

“I—” Harry felt vaguely embarrassed. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what, brooding?” Bill said, then softened. “Never mind. Listen, I wouldn’t bother you unless I had to, but Gringotts is pressing. They want a formal statement from you about the... situation. The dragon. The vault. The, uh, structural collapse.”

“I said I was sorry,” Harry muttered.

“Which is lovely, but Goblins don’t run on apologies. They want restitution.”

Harry flopped into the worn armchair with a sigh. “Let them take it from the Lestrange vault.”

“They already did. And they’re still angry.”

“Oh.”

Bill shifted. “It will be alright. I've done what I can to help, but you’ll need to sign a contract. It’s a weird one—they’re classifying you under a ‘War Circumstance Exemption Clause,’ which they haven’t used since Grindelwald. There’s a chance they’ll offer you unrestricted access again, but only if you come in person. Which I told them you wouldn’t without a guarantee of safety, which they wouldn't give.”

Harry winced. “Thanks for trying.”

“No problem. But even if you want restricted access, they’ll want a magically binding agreement. I’ll draft something simple and drop by tomorrow to go through it with you. I’ll have to bring a Goblin to witness.”

“A Goblin? Here?”

“Don’t worry—it’ll be Ragnok. He’s one of the few who doesn't think the dragon was ‘theirs to begin with’ and doesn't consider the whole thing some kind of karmic debt repayment for every crime Wizards have committed against the Goblin Nation.”

Harry huffed a dry, startled laugh.

“Anyway,” Bill said, leaning slightly closer. “Ron mentioned to George who mentioned to mum that you’ve been… off. You all right?”

Harry swallowed.

The secret of the letters was burning a hole in his chest. He hadn’t even told Ron or Hermione about them—not because he didn’t trust them, but because saying it aloud made it real, and he wasn’t sure he could survive the look on Hermione’s face when she inevitably started theorising, or Ron’s half-horrified confusion.

But Bill…

Bill had been different, after the war. A quietly steady presence of support at the Burrow. When Harry couldn’t stand to be inside with all the grief crowding the walls, it had been Bill who’d handed him a mug of tea and said, “Come help me fix the shed. Or don’t. We can just sit.”

They hadn’t spoken much—just long silences and low conversations about nothing. But Bill hadn’t looked at him like he was about to break. He hadn’t asked for stories or explanations or anything more than what Harry could give. And, most importantly, he trusted Bill not to go slipping the truth to all and sundry.

Bill was safe.

So maybe that was why, now, the words came out easier than expected.

“I got a letter,” he said finally. “From my mum. And another one… from my birth mother.”

Bill blinked.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, awkward and heavy.

“Well, shit,” Bill said eventually. “That… puts Goblin paperwork into perspective.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Harry shook his head.

“All right,” Bill said gently. “And considering you haven't spoken to Ron about it, I'll keep it mum. Anyway, tomorrow then. Noon?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Thanks, Bill.”

Bill gave him a nod, and the fire guttered out.

Harry sat back, staring at the empty fireplace. The house seemed to lean in around him—quiet, waiting.

For a moment, he considered going upstairs. Picking up the letter. Putting on the pendant.

Instead, he turned toward the kitchen.

Maybe if he kept moving, he wouldn’t have to think.

By the time he finished tackling the oven, the clock had just chimed three. He quickly moved on to other tasks—the china cabinet, primarily. He scrubbed plates and bowls and cutlery; scrubbed a tarnished goblet so hard the polishing cloth started to smoke.

He dropped it with a curse and flung the cloth into the sink. Water sloshed up the basin and dampened his jumper, and he stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, dripping slightly, and resisting the urge to break something.

Grimmauld Place creaked softly around him. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just empty.

Ron was at his first day of Auror training. Hermione had taken a Portkey to visit her parents in Sydney for the weekend. Both of them had offered to stay, of course. Harry had lied through his teeth and said he wanted to spend some time catching up on sleep.

His call with Bill had been four hours ago. He hadn’t even sat down.

The letters were still in the drawer in Sirius’—his—second-floor bedroom. Middle drawer, third one down. He hadn’t looked at them since that morning. He hadn’t touched the necklace, either.

Well—he had, just once.

Mid-morning yesterday, he'd gone upstairs with the express intention of reading the letters again, maybe even—maybe—putting on the pendant just to see what would happen. But as soon as he’d opened the drawer and the faint pull of magic had brushed his fingertips, he’d slammed it shut again like a kid caught snooping at Christmas.

Now, he was elbow-deep in nonsense chores. He’d reorganised the pantry. Alphabetised the Black family herb stores. Replaced three corridor sconces. Attempted to fix a squeaky stair that hadn’t squeaked since 1993. Even Kreacher had stopped following him around.

He couldn’t focus.

Every time he passed a reflective surface, he caught his own eye and thought—not your mother’s eyes, after all.

And then, but still hers, somehow.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Or the feeling in his chest that maybe he didn’t really want to know more—that maybe this new truth was more dangerous than the lies had been.

He’d saved the wizarding world. He’d died, he’d come back, he’d buried friends and nearly broken trying to finish what Dumbledore had started. He was trying to figure out who he was without a piece of Voldemort in his head, as it was.

Shouldn’t that have been enough?

Now, even the name on his own birth certificate was a lie—if he even had one to begin with. He was a lie. Or at least a version of himself was, and he didn’t know which version to trust.

The wall clock chimed four.

With a grunt, Harry grabbed a rag and started scrubbing a spot on the floor that definitely wasn’t there.

He scrubbed until the rag was grey and his hands were raw, until his knees ached against the cold stone tiles and his shoulders burned. By the time he looked up again, the shadows had stretched long across the floor, and Kreacher had appeared in the doorway, grumbling about his pets arriving soon and the disgrace of a master who didn't wash properly before supper.

Harry blinked at him, dazed, and muttered an apology.

Just as he was about to finish and clean himself up, Ron stumbled in through the Floo and Hermione appeared through the front door with a bottle of Australian wine. He gave them a grunt and a nod, dragging himself upstairs to splash cold water on his face, change his jumper, and come back down.

During that short period of time, Ron had whipped together a stew that was miraculously already burned and he'd had already knocked over two of Kreacher’s freshly scrubbed goblets—but even though the wine was cheap and the food smelt awful, Harry couldn’t remember the last time dinner had felt this close to normal.

“Well, I think it’s a triumph,” Ron said proudly, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Bit of a smokey flavour. Adds character.”

Hermione looked unimpressed. “You mean ash. That’s ash, Ronald.”

“Still tastes better than what Mum made after the Quidditch World Cup—remember? She was so stressed she put in, what, treacle by accident?”

Harry gave a faint snort, staring into his goblet. It was one of the few things Hermione had taken to from Australia, and despite the dry taste, he didn’t mind it.

Ron, beaming at the win of getting Harry to laugh, pushed the bowl toward him. “Come on, mate. Eat. I promise I didn’t curse this one.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harry mumbled.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “You’ve said that at every meal for the last week.”

“I’ve been busy,” Harry deflected.

Ron snorted. “What, dusting the ceiling with Kreacher? You’re looking thinner than when we were camping.”

Hermione set down her spoon. “Harry.”

He sighed.

“What’s going on?” she asked, voice soft. “You’re more distracted than usual. Not just… post-war stuff. Are you upset about tomorrow? You're more than welcome to come with us to the Burrow—”

Harry glanced at her, then looked quickly away. “I know. It's not…it's not that. It’s nothing. Ron should be there for the anniversary. Don't worry about me.”

She leaned forward, all eyes and quiet intensity. “Don’t give me that. You’ve been acting off since last Saturday. This doesn't have anything to do with Neville doing the memorial speech, does it?”

“No. I want Neville to do the speech. Everything is fine,” Harry said automatically. “I’m fine.”

Ron looked between them and then stuffed another spoonful of stew in his mouth with the practiced grace of someone pretending not to eavesdrop.

Hermione didn’t blink. “You flinched when Kreacher dropped the post this morning.”

“He dropped it on my head.”

She didn’t smile. “And you’ve been locking your bedroom door.”

Harry tensed. “I always lock it.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ron winced. “Er—can confirm.”

Harry glared at both of them. “I just want some bloody privacy. Is that so hard?”

Hermione softened a little. “It’s not. But when you’re hiding something—”

“I’m not hiding anything!”

Ron dropped his spoon with a clatter, an awkward silence settling over the table.

Hermione leaned back, folding her arms. “Okay.”

Harry took a breath, staring at the grain of the table as if it might give him courage. He wanted to tell them. He really did. But the words just wouldn’t come.

“I’m just… tired,” he said finally.

“Of course you are,” Hermione murmured. “We all are.”

Ron nodded. “You don’t have to tell us anything you’re not ready for, mate. But we’re here.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I know.”

He fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth, guilt crawling up his spine like a parasite. The letter felt like a burning coal about to set the house on fire. The pendant upstairs thrummed faintly in the back of his mind.

He was going to have to tell them. Eventually.

Just… not tonight.

Tuesday 2nd June 2015

Drawing Room, 12 Grimmauld Place

Harry had just finished shoving the pendant into a drawer beneath a pile of old Weasley jumpers and a pair of Ron’s tragic dress socks when the Floo flared. Since Ron and Hermione had gone to the Burrow this morning to support Molly and George, he doubted it was them, and groaned when he realised it must be Bill and Ragnok.

He stepped into the drawing room with his hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, only to find Bill already dusting soot from his robes. The Goblin beside him—Ragnok, Harry presumed—stepped out of the fireplace with a grace Harry found vaguely unsettling.

The Goblin’s eyes were sharp, his bronze-colored skin drawn tight over high cheekbones. Unlike Griphook, he wore deep green robes embroidered with silver thread, and a thick torque of platinum around his neck that pulsed faintly with magic.

“Mr Potter,” Ragnok said coolly. “We meet at last.”

“Er… yeah,” Harry said, offering a hand. The Goblin looked at it with something like distaste, then inclined his head instead.

Bill shot him a warning look and gave a subtle shake of the head.

“Let’s move to the dining room,” he said quickly, motioning to the side. “More space to work.”

The table had been cleaned of books and dishes for once, which was just as well because the stack of scrolls Ragnok produced from his robes could have buried a Hippogriff. He laid them out one by one, each one sealed in a different-colored wax with sigils Harry didn’t recognise.

“Standard restitution clauses,” Ragnok explained, “along with one binding addendum.” He tapped a black scroll that thrummed faintly with magic. “This will confirm your formal oath not to repeat any hostile acts toward Gringotts’ holdings or property.”

“Does that include dragons?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Ragnok gave him a look that suggested humor was a currency the Goblins had long ago devalued.

Bill cleared his throat. “We’ve modified the language so it includes a clause about intent. That way it won’t punish you for—well, emergencies.”

Harry reached for the self-inking quill Bill offered and muttered, “Right. Let’s just get this over with.”

But the moment the quill finished scratching across the final scroll’s surface, something went pear-shaped.

The ink hissed.

Magic snapped through the room like a lightning strike—sharp and sudden—and every object on the table jumped as though startled. Ragnok stepped back instantly, his eyes narrowing, and a quiet pulse of power rolled outward from Harry like a slow drumbeat.

The ink turned gold.

The air thickened, causing the chandelier above to rattle. And from the corner of the room, Crookshanks, who'd been snoozing in a sunspot, let out a low, warning growl.

Bill froze. “What the—”

Harry stood up so fast his chair toppled behind him.

“I didn’t do anything!” he snapped, heart pounding.

“I believe you,” Bill said quickly. “Just—relax.”

But Ragnok was staring at him now with a new kind of scrutiny, head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

“Curious,” he murmured. “Your magical signature has… shifted.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. “Shifted how?”

The Goblin’s eyes glittered. “The ink turned gold. Only the bloodlines of ancient power do that. Bloodlines of divine origin, or the eldest of the Old Magics. We haven’t seen that in a thousand years.”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again. “I don’t know what that means.”

Ragnok studied him for a long moment.

“No,” he said slowly. “But your magic does.”

Harry glanced toward Bill, who was still staring at the scroll as though expecting it to catch fire.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Bill said at last, forcing calm back into his voice. “Harry’s not hostile to Gringotts. His magic may be reacting to…recent events. Trauma. The nature of his… of the war. It doesn’t invalidate the contract.”

“No,” Ragnok agreed, slowly rolling up the golden-inked scroll and placing it into a metal case. “But it does raise questions.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I’m not answering any questions.”

“I didn’t ask any.”

The silence that followed felt colder than any draft in the old house.

Ragnok tucked the remaining scrolls into a side pouch. “Our business is concluded. For now. Your vault restrictions will be reviewed. You will receive a formal notice by owl.”

Without waiting for permission, he turned on his heel and walked back to the fireplace in the sitting room. With a flash of green visible from the hall, he vanished.

Bill let out a breath that seemed to come from his soul.

“Well,” he said faintly. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Harry glared at the table. “Could it?”

“He didn’t try to kill you. That’s a win by Goblin standards.”

Harry didn’t smile.

Bill ran a hand through his hair and leaned heavily against a chair. “You want to talk about what just happened?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

They stayed in silence for a moment. A clock ticked.

“I’m never going to have a normal relationship with Gringotts, am I?” Harry asked eventually.

Bill grimaced, pushing himself fully upright. “Honestly? Probably not. But I’ll keep trying.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks, Bill.”

“Anytime.” He said with a wave, clearly letting himself out. He paused at the doorway. “And Harry? Whatever that magic was—it’s still you. Don’t let the Goblins make you afraid of yourself.”

Harry didn’t answer, not that Bill expected him to. Instead he walked away, the sound of his footsteps loud in the echoing hall. The door clicked shut, and Grimmauld Place swallowed the silence like it had been waiting for it.

Harry stood frozen in the dining room for a long time, staring at nothing, his ears still ringing faintly from the residual pulse of magic left behind. He could feel it—coiled deep inside him now, as if signing that scroll had unlocked something that had only been waiting.

Not just magic. Not grief. Something older. Stranger. Like a name whispered in darkness.

Eventually he moved, walking on autopilot until he found himself back in his room. He  rummaged for the pendant before he could talk himself out of it.

It didn’t burn.

He half expected it to. But the moment his fingers brushed the green stones, something inside him exhaled. The tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. His breathing slowed.

He clutched it tightly in one hand and stared down at the floor.

Ragnok had known something. Had felt something.

The gold ink. The surge in his magic. The way the Goblin had looked at him—not with awe, not even fear, but calculation.

Ancient bloodlines. Divine magic. A name that didn’t belong to this world.

“Hárekr Anthony Lokisson.”

He whispered it aloud, and his magic stirred in response. Just a tremor. Just enough to remind him that this wasn’t a dream.

He was the Boy-Who-Lived. The weapon Dumbledore raised. The adopted son of Lily and James. The unwanted nephew in the cupboard. Voldemort's Horcrux. And now, apparently, the child of a literal god and an extraordinary Muggle who didn’t even know he existed.

How the hell was he supposed to be all of those things at once?

He wanted to scream. Or sleep for a week. Or both.

Instead, he slid off the bed and pressed his forehead to the windowpane. The glass was cool against his skin.

He didn’t want to want anything from anyone, anymore. Not after everything.

But he did.

He wanted to know who his father was. What kind of man could’ve loved a god, even if briefly. He wanted to know if the sharp, furious, clever parts of him came from somewhere real and not just the fire forged in war and tales of his adopted parents.

He wanted someone to look at him and say, I see you. Not just the scar. Not just the prophecy. Not the Horcrux. 

Just Harry.

But he was afraid to say it out loud. Even to himself.

Because if it was true—if he really was someone else underneath all the pain of war and prophecy—what did that make Harry Potter?

He didn’t know. And he didn’t want to figure it out alone.

The pendant sat heavy around his neck now.

He hadn’t meant to even put it on.

One moment he’d been pacing, fingers tight around it like a lifeline, and the next it had slipped over his head and settled against his chest like it belonged there. It still hummed quietly—not with power exactly, but with something deeper. Awareness.

He hadn’t been able to take it off.

The Floo flared to life when he called for the Burrow, and almost instantly, Hermione's face flickered into view in the green flames. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun and she looked emotionally exhausted. He knew it was late—knew he shouldn't interrupt them when they'd be back tomorrow, but he was just so anxious. His magic was buzzing under his skin.

She took one look at him and went still.

“Harry?”

He cleared his throat. “Hey. Sorry. I know it’s late.”

“It’s not—are you all right? You look—what's wrong?”

He gave her a watery half-smile. “What isn't?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is it nightmares again?”

“No. Well—maybe. Not really.” He exhaled. “Can you come back for a bit?”

“I—of course I can. Ron can too, do you want—?”

“Yes,” he said, too fast. “Please. Both of you.”

Hermione didn’t ask anything more. “Ten minutes.”

The fire winked out.

Harry sat down on the edge of the rug in front of the hearth, legs pulled up, pendant pressing into his sternum through the thin fabric of his jumper. He rested his forehead on his knees and waited.

Ten minutes, he told himself. Just ten minutes more, and then you don’t have to be alone with this anymore.

The floo flared green in exactly nine minutes and forty seconds.

Hermione stepped out first, brushing soot off her cardigan with quick, efficient motion. She looked around as if assessing the house for structural damage, then her eyes landed on Harry, and softened.

Ron followed, clutching a crooked wicker basket that clinked as he stumbled forward. “We brought supplies,” he said, like it was a tactical operation. “Alcohol and leftovers. Don’t ask what’s what.”

Harry opened his mouth to thank them, but a third figure emerged from the fire, tall and lean with a sardonic tilt to his mouth and eyes too old for his age.

George.

Ron groaned. “George. You were supposed to stay at the Burrow.”

“You were sneaking out of the floo like a pair of dodgy gnomes,” George replied, brushing ash off his sleeves. “I had questions.”

“You followed us?”

“I’m grieving,” George said gravely, reaching for the basket. “You can’t say no to a grieving twin.”

Harry didn’t argue. The idea of George Weasley, ghosting through the Burrow like a shadow, trailing after Ron and Hermione just to not be alone—it hit too close to home.

He stepped aside. “I wouldn't dare.”

An hour later, the sitting room looked like a bottle-strewn blanket fort.

Ron had transfigured the armchairs into floor cushions. Hermione had put on music—celestial-sounding harp jazz from one of Flitwick’s old wizarding records—and George had spent a full ten minutes trying to convince Harry to enchant the wallpaper to blink back at them.

Mrs. Weasley's steak and kidney pie was heated and eaten. The butterbeer was cool. The firewhisky flowed in increasingly reckless rounds.

Harry wasn’t sure when exactly he stopped feeling like he was going to implode—but at some point, Ron leaned against his shoulder, Hermione stole half his cushion, and George started telling stories in Fred’s voice.

They were stupid stories. Some of them made no sense. All of them were funny.

And then they weren’t.

“Y’know,” George said, slumped against a stack of conjured pillows, his words just slightly loose, “he would’ve hated all this.”

Hermione blinked. “The… sitting around on the floor?”

“No. The grief,” George said, smiling faintly. “He’d haunt me for getting sentimental.”

“Then he’s got his work cut out for him,” Ron muttered, eyes glassy but alert.

There was a beat of silence, then George lifted his glass. “To Fred.”

“To Fred,” they all echoed, quiet and uneven. The clink of glass felt soft and final.

They drank in silence after that. Not the uncomfortable kind, just quiet. Mutual. Like the room had settled around them, still but full of memories.

Harry let the firelight blur his vision a little. It was safer that way—easier to pretend the heat in his chest was just the alcohol and not the ache that hadn’t left him since the letters arrived.

He didn’t know how long he sat there before he realised Hermione was watching him. Not pushy, just there. Like she always was.

Ron was blinking sleepily, cheeks pink with heat and whisky. George had begun to chew on a liquorice wand with grim focus.

Harry swallowed hard.

“I, um,” he said, a little too loud. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Hermione straightened. Ron blinked back into awareness. George, as usual, said nothing—but raised an eyebrow like he was bracing for impact.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Neville sent me a letter last week, after his mum died. But… there were two more inside. One from my—from my mum. Lily. And one from…” he hesitated, “from my birth mother.”

The words hit like a dropped stone.

Ron sat up straighter. Hermione’s hand slowly drifted to her glass but didn’t lift it. George finally said, “Wait, what?”

Harry pushed on before he could lose momentum.

“I’m adopted. Lily and James—they took me in after losing their own baby. My birth mum, she was a witch named Sigyn Frejasdottir. She gave me up to keep me safe.”

He reached beneath his jumper and pulled out the pendant. The coiled constellation shimmered in the low light, green stones catching firelight like tiny serpents’ eyes.

“She left this with the letter. Said it was a gift from my birth father.”

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes going wide. “That’s… beautiful.”

“It’s enchanted,” Harry said. “Strongly. And she said his name was Tony. Tony Stark.”

There was a beat of silence.

Ron opened his mouth, brow furrowed. “That sounds familiar—”

“It’s not that uncommon a name,” Hermione said quickly, cutting him off with just a fraction too much cheer. 

Ron blinked at her, then shrugged and let it go. Harry didn’t notice. He was still staring down at the necklace like it might bite him.

“She said he doesn’t know about me—she never told him. And that he’s an American Muggle. But… brilliant and kind and complicated.”

“Fits most people,” George murmured, but there was no heat in it. He was watching Harry like he recognised something in him. Something frayed and too tired to pretend.

Hermione sat very still. “Do you… want to find him?”

Harry hesitated.

“I don’t know. Part of me thinks I should. I mean, if he’s out there, he deserves to know. And part of me is… terrified. What if he wants nothing to do with me?”

“Then he’s an idiot,” Ron said instantly.

“You haven’t even met him.”

“Don’t need to,” Ron said. “If someone told me I had a kid out there, I’d at least want to know. And if I found out the kid was you, well.” He gestured vaguely. “Bonus.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, unexpected and uneven.

Hermione reached for his hand. “Whatever you decide, we’re with you. All of it. Every step.”

Harry looked at them—all of them—warm and exhausted and painfully themselves, even in grief.

Ron was out first, curled awkwardly on top of a pillow pile, one hand still resting protectively on Hermione’s ankle. She followed a few minutes later, her head dropping gently to Ron’s shoulder, breaths evening out.

Harry stayed where he was, cross-legged on a cushion with the pendant cold against his chest, watching the fire burn low.

George didn’t move either.

For a long time, they sat in companionable silence, letting the soft crackle of flames fill the space. Every now and then, one of the lanterns above them bobbed gently, casting shadows on the walls like shifting smoke.

Eventually, George stirred. Not much—just enough to reach for a blanket and toss it loosely over his brother and Hermione.

“You know,” he said, voice softer than Harry was used to from him, “Fred was the first person I ever told.”

Harry blinked. “Told what?”

“That I liked blokes. As well as girls.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him. George’s voice wasn’t defensive or shy—just honest.

“I was fifteen. Figured it out a bit earlier, but it took me a while to say it out loud. Thought he’d laugh, you know? Not in a mean way. Just… Fred.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah. I get it.”

“But he didn’t. Just nodded, asked if I fancied any of our classmates, and then tried to guess who for the next half hour.” George huffed out a laugh, more breath than sound. “I think he was disappointed it wasn’t Lee. Said it would’ve saved us all a lot of dramatic pining.”

Harry laughed before he could help it. It was small. Honest.

George looked at him finally. “He never made me feel weird. Never made it a thing.”

Harry’s throat was tight. “That’s… really nice.”

“It was.” George paused, then added, “He told me once that I’d better not waste my time hiding from people who wouldn’t love me for it.”

Harry looked down at his hands. Then, after another long pause, George asked, “You think they know?”

Harry blinked, heart beginning to beat faster. “What?”

George didn’t look at him. Just kept his eyes on the fire. “About how you look at Bill.”

Harry’s breath caught, body still.

“I—” he started. Stopped. “I don’t—what do you mean?”

Now George looked at him. Not accusing, just seeing.

“It’s not a judgment,” he said, voice quiet. “Just an observation. You look at him like you’re trying not to.”

Harry flushed so hard it felt like his ears might catch fire. He looked down at his hands. “I don’t even know if this is… that,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never really—except maybe—and it’s not like—” He broke off with a frustrated noise. “Sorry. That made no sense.”

George smiled and shrugged. “Made perfect sense to me. Either way, it could be nothing. Could be something. You're allowed to look. Allowed to feel. You don't need a label for feelings to be true.”

Harry risked a glance up. George’s face was soft. Tired. Kind.

“I don’t… I don’t know what I’m feeling,” Harry admitted. “Sometimes I think it’s just that he was the only one who looked at me like I wasn’t going to explode. Like I was just… me. And then sometimes I think I just wanted to crawl into his chest and stay there.”

George made a small, thoughtful sound. “That sounds like something.”

Harry huffed a humorless laugh. “It’s not like I meant to. And I don’t think I’m—I’ve never really liked anyone like that before. Not really. Not like—” He broke off. “I think something’s wrong with me.”

“Harry,” George said gently, “nothing’s wrong with you.”

Harry looked up sharply.

George’s gaze didn’t waver. “Like I said, you’re allowed to feel things. To want things. Even if you don’t have the words for them yet.”

Harry swallowed hard. “You’re not weirded out?”

George snorted softly. “Mate. I'm bi. I grew up in a house with seven kids, one bathroom, and a brother who enchanted my underpants to sing Celestina Warbeck for a laugh. There’s not a lot that weirds me out anymore.”

Harry managed a small, wet laugh. “Fair.”

George nudged him lightly with his foot. “You’re not alone in this. And if you ever want to talk about it—about Bill, or boys, or your parents—either pair—or anything else—you can. With me. I know I'm not… totally myself, right now, but I'm still your friend.”

Harry nodded, throat too tight for words.

They sat together in comfortable silence until the fire died down, the embers a soft red glow behind the grate. The rest of the house was still, deep in that hour where time seemed to pause.

George stood suddenly, stretching stiff joints, and Harry rose with him.

They didn’t speak for a moment—just stood together, shadows dancing low across their faces. Then, quietly, Harry said, “Thank you for… you know… earlier. And I hope you know… if you ever need anything, I’m here. Really. For anything. Always.”

George turned to look at him, eyes a little glassy but steady. He hesitated, like maybe he wasn’t going to say anything at all.

Then he blurted, “Would you sleep in my room tonight?”

Harry blinked.

“It’s just—” George rubbed the back of his neck. “Fred and I always shared a room. A bed, usually. Since we were tiny. Even when we didn’t have to. Mum always said we were like kneazles, climbing into each other’s space until we stopped twitching.”

Harry didn’t move, just listened.

“I’ve been trying to get used to it, but… the room feels too big. Too quiet. And I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not,” Harry said, firm. “It’s not stupid.”

George finally met his gaze.

Harry offered the smallest smile. “I’ve slept next to Ron at the Burrow for, like, seven years straight. Can’t say I’m a stranger to elbows in the ribs.”

George huffed a laugh through his nose. “Ron does sleep like a starfish.”

“Absolute menace,” Harry agreed.

George looked away, jaw working like he might say something else. He didn’t.

Harry just gave a quiet nod. “Come on. Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Wed 3rd June 2015

Grimmauld Place, London

Something was wrong with the light.

That was his first thought, surfacing through the thick fog of sleep. His second thought was that his leg was absolutely dead. Pins-and-needles dead. Possibly hexed.

He shifted with a groan, trying to untangle himself from… whatever this situation was.

Blanket halfway off. Feet near the headboard. Elbow planted somewhere warm—which turned out to be George’s ribs, judging by the squawk of protest.

“Oi—what—mate—my spleen—”

Harry cracked one eye open, squinting against the sunlight that had suddenly invaded the room like it owned the place.

And then he saw her.

Hermione stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, one brow raised to Olympian heights. She looked far too put-together for this hour of the morning after a night of drinking, and entirely unsurprised by what she was seeing.

Harry blinked blearily. “You’re not supposed to be in here yet.”

“Neither are you,” she said crisply, though her mouth twitched. “This is Fred and George’s room.”

Harry tried to sit up, immediately regretted it, and flopped back against the mattress. “He asked me to stay. It wasn’t— I mean—”

Hermione held up a hand. “Harry. Please. You’re both fully dressed and look like you lost a fight with a nest of badgers. I’m not scandalised.”

George groaned into a pillow. “Speak for yourself. My dignity is in tatters.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and summoned a tray from the bedside table. “Tea. Toast. Kreacher says it’s gruel, but it might be porridge if you close your eyes.”

Harry sat up properly this time, rubbing the sleep from his face. His body ached in that dull, pleasant way that came from too much drink and not enough regret. Across the bed, George was trying to de-knot his hair with one hand and giving up halfway.

For a moment, it was quiet. Warm.

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed beside Harry, handed him a mug of tea, and said—gently, like someone cracking the window to let in just a sliver of wind—

“Do you want to meet him?”

Harry groaned and let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk. He didn't dare pretend not to know what she was on about. “Blimey, Hermione, can I finish my tea first?”

She gave him a look. Unapologetic. Expectant.

He sighed, staring into the swirling steam. “I don’t know,” he said. It came out too fast, too sharp, like something that had been waiting behind his teeth all night.

He stared at the mug a little longer, then tried again. “I think… I do. Or I would, if I were someone else. Someone who didn’t screw things up. Someone who could meet their father without making it weird. Without ruining it.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. Didn’t rush in with reassurances. She just waited, calm and quiet and terrifyingly patient.

Harry swallowed. “What if he doesn’t want to know me?”

George, still half-horizontal and tangled in the sheets, muttered, “What if he does?”

Harry blinked.

George yawned and sat up slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Listen, I’ve met a lot of dodgy dads. This one gave your mum a star-serpent necklace and you said your mum admitted she didn't tell him about you. Worst case, he’s a decent bloke with no idea you exist and he liked it that way. At least you'd know. Best case…” George shrugged. “Best case, you get something good. Something you didn’t even think you could have.”

Harry looked over at him. “You think I should go?”

“I think if someone told me Fred was alive somewhere and didn’t remember I existed, I’d drop everything to meet him and do anything it took to get to know him again.”

Harry inhaled slowly, chest tight.

Then exhaled. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

He looked at Hermione, who smiled like she’d known all along that he’d say yes—eventually.

“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll try.”

The moment the words passed his lips, Hermione lit up like someone had just handed her a government mandate and a magical emergency.

“Right,” she said, standing abruptly and nearly spilling her tea, dragging Harry up along with her, out the door, and down the stairs. “You're leaving next Monday. We’ll need to sort international travel permissions, Ministry clearances, currency conversions—oh, I knew I should’ve finished reading Apparating Abroad: A Comprehensive Guide to Magical Border Laws.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, pulling the blanket back over his head, still sprawled on the sitting room floor. “It’s not even noon.”

George, who had followed them down, leaned against the doorframe, arms folded and grinning like a man watching a storm brew from the safety of a broom cupboard. “I assume there’s no option where we don’t let Hermione lead the charge?”

“No,” Harry said with a sigh, and then, “Trust me, it's easier not to get in her way.”

Hermione was already pacing, muttering under her breath and conjuring a notepad out of thin air. “He’ll need a proper disguise for travel—someone will recognise him at customs if he uses his passport. Assuming you have a passport?”

Harry blinked. “I—what?”

She stopped and looked at him. “Do you have a Muggle passport?”

“…no?”

Hermione made a tight sound in her throat that might have been horror. “Right. Okay. That’s fine. We’ll sort it.”

“Should I start packing?” Harry asked, genuinely unsure if he was still part of the conversation.

Ron sat up, yawning. “What’s he even going to do when he gets there? Rock up to some random American bloke and say, ‘Hi, my mum says you guys used to date’?”

George perked up. “Better yet, ‘Hi, I’m your long-lost magical lovechild. Fancy a chat?’”

“Both of you, shut it,” Hermione snapped. “He’s not showing up unprepared. We’re going to do this properly. Kind of.”

She turned back to Harry, expression softening. “I’m going to send a few discreet inquiries through the British Embassy’s magical liaison office. If your birth mother lived in America, MACUSA might have some internal records.”

Harry frowned. “You can do that?”

She gave him a look. 

Ron leaned in to whisper to Harry, “She’s been dying for an excuse to take on international magical law.”

Hermione ignored him. “George, can you get us access to a Portkey? Something off the books, nothing too showy. We want it quiet.”

George saluted. “Illegally understated. My specialty.”

“And Ron—” she turned, considering— “you’re going to handle Gringotts.”

“What?”

“You’re going to talk to Bill,” she said firmly, but slowly, as if talking to Pigwidgeon. “Tell him Harry needs access to American Muggle cash at a good rate. Bill knows he isn't going to get it with our… current relationship with the Goblins, and he can probably get a no-questions-asked exchange at a good rate, since he works for them.”

Ron grumbled something about being the family courier, but nodded.

“And you,” Hermione said to Harry, wagging her quill, “are going to write down every single important detail from your birth mum’s letter. Names, dates, places—anything she mentioned.”

Harry frowned. “I can just give you the letter, you know.”

He offered it before he really thought about what that might mean, and the other information she'd have access to. He wasn't really sure if he wanted her to know everything about… Loki, but he would show her if it was necessary.

“I know,” she said, eyes shining and causing him to give a quiet, relieved sigh, “but it’s private, and you should have something that's just yours.”

George leaned toward Ron. “She’s enjoying this a bit too much, yeah?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Harry shook his head—but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the first time since the letters had arrived, he didn’t feel like he was floundering alone.

Sun 7th June, 2015

Grimmauld Place & Muggle London 

The week passed in a blur of floo powder, parchment, and Hermione’s increasingly complex lists.

Harry had tried to keep up, really he had. But every time he blinked, someone else was handing him a form to sign, a document to initial, or a Goblin ledger to glance at “just in case the conversion rate changes before Thursday.”

Ron was in and out, juggling the start of Auror training with Hermione’s cross-referenced checklist of tasks. He mostly looked exhausted, proud, and vaguely singed.

George, to his credit, had shown up every day without complaint, smuggling in snacks and swearing like it was a team sport. At one point he tried to enchant Hermione’s to-do list to pretend to self-destruct every twenty minutes. It earned him a Stinging Hex and a weirdly fond smile.

And Harry—

Harry stood in the middle of it all, like the quiet eye of a storm that somehow always kept moving.

By Sunday morning, he’d managed to convince himself that maybe things were settling. That he might get an hour to think. Or nap. Or exist.

That illusion was shattered the moment Hermione swept into the kitchen, parchment in hand and fire in her eyes.

“All right,” she said, “we’re going shopping.”

Harry blinked over his tea. “We are?”

“You’re going to meet your father. You need clothes. Presentable ones. Ron’s unavailable—he has overtime with the Department doing spellcasting drills—and I can’t exactly walk into a Muggle shop and start guessing about men’s clothes.”

“Right,” Harry said weakly.

“So we’re bringing George.”

George, seated beside Harry and halfway through a slice of toast with jam, looked up. “Me?”

“Yes,” Hermione said without looking at him. “You’re tall, fashionable-adjacent, and know how shirts are meant to fit. Harry trusts you. You’re coming.”

George leaned back in his chair and gave Harry a long, amused look. “Guess it’s your lucky day, sunshine.”

They ended up in Muggle London by late morning, Hermione armed with a highlighter-marked list of suggested stores and a converted stack of pounds sterling that had made Harry’s eyes bulge.

“I think that’s more cash than I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” he whispered.

Hermione, already halfway down the street, waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a conservative estimate for what we'll need.”

George leaned in. “She’s planning this like a field operation. I think I saw her mutter finite incantatem at a Muggle underground map.”

By the fourth shop, Harry had tried on fifteen pairs of jeans, a dozen trousers, twenty-seven jumpers, and at least twenty button-downs before finally Hermione picked several outfits that she described as “subtly impressive” and George described as “trying not to look impressive but actually looking incredibly impressive.”

Each time he stepped out of the fitting room, he felt like he was walking onto some invisible stage. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were judging him. Mirrors stared back with versions of himself he didn’t quite recognise.

The clothes fit. Some of them even looked… good. But they didn’t feel like his. Nothing did.

He stood awkwardly in a pair of black boots he would never wear on purpose, tugging at the hem of a dark green henley as Hermione circled him like a tailor.

“Perfect,” she declared, adjusting the collar of the sharp black peacoat she’d somehow convinced him to try on despite it edging closer to summer. “You look like someone who’s met a famous person and judged them for their life choices.”

“I look like someone pretending they didn’t live in a cupboard for a decade,” Harry muttered, tugging at the sleeve for the third time.

Hermione gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated—and then swept off to pay.

Harry exhaled. Hard.

George was lounging near the fitting room, pretending to examine a rack of cardigans. “You’re breathing like you just survived a duel.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I feel like I’ve been Apparated into someone else’s life. One minute I’m patching the wallpaper in Grimmauld Place and now—now I’ve got a folder of fake documents, a suit jacket, and a father I haven’t met.”

George raised a brow. “Emotional whiplash?”

“It's relentless,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to do any of this. Everyone’s been incredible, but I feel like I’m just… standing still while Hermione organizes international law and Ron infiltrates the Goblin underworld.”

George tilted his head. “And you’re, what—trying on jumpers too slowly?”

Harry gave a short, humorless laugh. “It just doesn’t feel fair. Like everyone’s doing all this work to help me have something I’m not sure I’m brave enough to go after.”

George’s expression softened. He stepped closer, voice low. “Listen, mate. Nobody’s doing this because they have to. They’re doing it because they want to. Because for once, they’re not fighting off dementors or dodging curses or killing Dark Lords. They’re helping their friend find their dad and maybe a future along with it. It’s the easiest decision any of us have had to make in years.”

Harry looked down, blinking hard.

George added, quieter, “And for what it’s worth—I needed this. Feeling useful. Being included. Having something to fuss over that isn’t just a memory.”

Harry looked up.

“You’re not the only one trying to remember how to live,” George said simply. He watched Harry for a beat, then said, “Do you know the first time I really felt like myself again after the war?”

Harry shook his head.

“A Tuesday,” George said. “About three weeks after the funeral. I was in Diagon Alley and this old wizard started shouting at me for ‘closing early again’ and I told him to stuff a Fanged Frisbee down his trousers. And I laughed. I really laughed.”

Harry blinked. “That’s… specific.”

George shrugged. “Point is, it wasn’t some huge moment. It wasn’t mind healing or a memorial. It was just normal. Stupid. Petty. Annoying. And I needed it.”

He gestured toward the shop full of clothes. “So this? Helping you try on outfits for a life you didn’t think you’d get to have? This feels good. Not because it’s easy, which it is, but because it matters.”

Harry swallowed thickly.

George bumped their shoulders together. “You’re not a burden, Harry. You’re just loved.”

Hermione reappeared then, triumphantly holding up a shopping bag with tissue paper bursting out of the top. “We have what we need. Next stop—luggage!”

George groaned. “This is my punishment for every first year I tested Wheezes on, isn’t it?”

But Harry just smiled, a little shaky, and followed them both out of the shop.

By the end of the day, they were all exhausted. The trip back to Grimmauld was quiet—just the sound of Muggle traffic fading behind them and the occasional rustle of shopping bags. George had insisted on carrying everything, muttering about “future heirlooms” while Hermione updated the packing checklist in her head. Harry mostly kept his eyes on the pavement and tried not to think too hard.

When they finally stepped through the Floo from the Leaky, using the invisibility cloak so Harry could escape attention, the smell of roasted vegetables and something vaguely resembling shepherd’s pie greeted them like a welcome charm.

A second later, the front door banged open and Ron stomped in, dropping his rucksack by the frame with a dramatic thud.

“Someone please tell me there’s food,” he groaned, tugging off his boots. “I nearly got hexed by a trainee who thought I was part of the obstacle course.”

“You are an obstacle,” Hermione said, not unkindly, as she levitated a steaming casserole dish to the center of the table. “You missed shopping.”

“I’ve been running combat drills since sunrise,” Ron said, sliding into the chair beside Harry and immediately reaching for a bread roll. “I think I earned a pass.”

Harry let the noise wash over him—cutlery clinking, chairs scraping, the familiar shuffle of everyone moving around the kitchen like they’d done it a hundred times. Which they had, really.

Eventually, once most plates had at least been poked at, Hermione cleared her throat.

“All right,” she said, looking squarely at Harry. “You're leaving tomorrow, Harry. We should go over the plan.”

Harry set down his fork.

Ron perked up. “Yeah, I’ve barely heard any of it. You lot’ve been running around like you’re planning a heist.”

George grinned. “In a way, we are. A very polite emotional heist. With blazers.”

Hermione ignored them both and summoned a folded piece of parchment to the table. “Okay. So. Tomorrow morning, we leave Grimmauld at nine-thirty. George and I will accompany Harry to the Portkey checkpoint at the Ministry… It leaves at half ten. It's unregistered—thank you, George—but Kingsley’s cleared it. We have special dispensation under the postwar magical reintegration charter.”

“Which is code,” George whispered to Ron, “for ‘nobody wants to argue with Hermione Granger.’”

Hermione went on, ignoring him. “The Portkey will take Harry to a private secure arrival point in New York—disguised as a maintenance closet in the Woolworth Building.”

Ron blinked. “The what?”

“Old wizarding stronghold in Manhattan,” Hermione said. “Very historic. He’ll clear customs there, and then check in at a Muggle hotel I’ve booked under an alias. Four weeks.”

Harry leaned forward. “And then what?”

“Then,” Hermione said, folding her hands, “you go to MACUSA. Ask for any records of your birth mother. Start small. See where that leads.”

“If there’s nothing there?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment. “Then we try something else.”

There was a pause.

Ron reached for another roll. “You think that'll lead us to this Tony bloke?”

Hermione glanced at Harry, then answered carefully. “It might, but… even if it doesn't, we'll keep looking from our end. We’re still figuring out how to approach him, anyway, so more time wouldn't go amiss. For now, the idea is to not show up at his door saying ‘Hi, I’m your surprise magical child from a long-ago liaison.’”

“Shame,” George said. “It’s got dramatic flair.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I think I’m okay with subtle.”

“You’ve got the pendant,” Hermione added, “and your papers. If we find a secure channel, we’ll help you reach out from here. But it has to be your decision. Your pace.”

Harry nodded. “Right.”

Silence settled again for a moment, punctuated only by Kreacher muttering under his breath about “foreign culinary standards” as he cleared away dishes to make room for dessert.

Ron leaned back in his chair. “I still think it’s mad. In a good way. But mad.”

Harry let out a breath that was nearly a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

George clinked his glass against Harry’s and grinned. “To Harry—may your father be less evil than Voldemort, more punctual than Sirius, and only moderately shocked by the magic thing.”

Harry flushed, but he clinked his glass with theirs all the same.

They finished the meal in easy company, full of laughter and second helpings of treacle tart, and for a while, Harry let himself just be—no letters, no pendant, no future looming like a thundercloud. Just friends. Just family.

But eventually the plates were cleared, the warmth of the fire began to fade, and the house quieted.

Upstairs, the fire in Harry’s bedroom was down to glowing embers, casting soft light across the floorboards. He sat on the edge of his bed, the shopping bags Hermione had labeled with meticulous precision resting neatly by the wardrobe. The clothes inside still felt like they belonged to someone else.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled. His chest felt too full. Like every part of him was caught somewhere between now and next.

There was a knock.

“Come in,” he said, not moving.

Hermione slipped through the door and closed it gently behind her, holding two mugs of tea. She handed him one without speaking and sat beside him on the bed, close but not crowding.

“They’re heading to the Burrow,” she said quietly. “George and Ron. Mr. Weasley just Flooed—said Mrs. Weasley’s had a bit of a day.”

Harry nodded, frowning in concern. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” Hermione looked down at her mug. “They’ll be back later.”

Silence stretched between them, companionable and familiar.

Then Hermione shifted a little, drawing her knees up onto the mattress. “There’s something I should probably tell you. I’ve been meaning to for a few days.”

Harry raised a brow. “That sounds foreboding.”

She gave him a thin smile. “I think I know who your father is.”

Harry felt his eyebrows rise. “You—what?”

“I didn't at first,” she said quickly. “Not when you told us. But the name—Tony Stark—it sounded really familiar. So I did some checking, and it turns out… he’s actually quite famous in the Muggle world.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “Famous like… movie star famous?”

Hermione hesitated. “Not exactly. He’s an inventor. A businessman. He runs a company called Stark Industries—they used to build weapons for the government, but in recent years they shifted to clean energy and tech development. Really groundbreaking technology, actually. He’s been in the news a lot.”

She paused, then added with a wry twist to her mouth, “They call him ‘Billionaire, Genius, Playboy, Philanthropist.’”

Harry frowned. “That’s… not intimidating at all.”

“I know how it sounds,” she said, quick to reassure him. “Honestly, some of it reads like Muggle tabloid fiction. But some of it’s real, of course. And I—well, I should’ve told you sooner. I just didn’t want to drop it all on you before you were ready. You’ve had so much to process already.”

Harry stared into his tea, swirling the surface with a small tilt of the cup. “And you still think I should go?”

Hermione’s voice softened. “Yes. I do.”

She leaned forward slightly, meeting his eyes. “You know how awful The Prophet is—well, the Muggle press is just as ridiculous. But don't you see? That's not what this is about. This isn’t about headlines or reputation. It’s about you. And I think… you deserve the chance to meet him as a person. Not an icon. No fame, no pressure—just a man. Just your father.”

Harry didn’t answer at first. His tea was starting to cool in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“Right.”

Hermione reached over and touched his wrist. “I just want you to have the chance to get to know him, first. Before the rest of the world gets involved and Ron gets weird about money. But I didn't know if you'd keep looking if you saw him in the newspaper, or something, so I wanted to warn you.”

He nodded slowly, still absorbing it all. “And you don’t know how to find him?”

“No,” she said. “Not directly. He’s incredibly well-protected—something about an incident with a terrorist bombing his California mansion? So the Muggle side of things is more complicated than I expected. But if you can’t find anything through MACUSA—no address, no contact—then I will. I promise. I’ll keep looking while you’re gone.”

Harry looked at her—really looked. She was tired. He could see it in the way she held her shoulders, in the way her hair had come loose from its bun, but she still made space for him despite everything.

“Thanks,” he said, quiet and honest. “For all of this.”

She smiled at him—tired but warm.

“You’re family, Harry. You’ve always been.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned over and rested his head on her shoulder.

They stayed like that for a long time, watching the fire slowly die down and waiting for Ron and George to return.

The Floo flared sometime past midnight, just as Hermione had gone down to the kitchen for another cuppa for them both. Harry looked up just as Ron stumbled through his bedroom door, followed closely by George, who was holding a paper-wrapped parcel and looking a bit singed around the edges.

“Everything alright?” Harry asked, rising halfway from the bed.

Ron nodded, brushing soot off his jumper. “Yeah. She’s okay now. Just a rough evening.”

George dropped the parcel onto the dresser and flopped dramatically onto the mattress. “We fed her tea and biscuits and made Dad tell that story about the exploding plug again. She’ll be alright. Just… needed her boys.”

Hermione returned from the kitchen then, two steaming mugs in hand, hair tied up, and quill tucked behind her ear. She looked tired, but relieved to see them back.

“I thought I heard the Floo—you all right?” she asked.

“We’re good,” Ron said, then turned to Harry. “All packed?”

Harry opened his mouth to say not yet, but George cut in.

“Excellent. Let’s pack the hell out of that suitcase.”

Harry blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“Mate,” Ron said, already heading for the wardrobe, “if you think we’re letting you leave the country without half the Weasley family personally stuffing socks into your boots, you’re mad.”

Hermione gave him a meaningful look. “Besides, you’ll forget something important if left alone. Like trousers.”

Harry snorted but let himself be pulled along.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said some chaotic minutes later, yanking a third worn, black jumper out of Harry’s new travel bag with a look of offense. “You are not meeting your father looking like a depressed stagehand.”

“They’re just jumpers,” Harry protested.

“They’re identical,” she said. “You’re not brooding your way through international relations. We just bought you some new clothes!”

Ron, sprawled across the bed with a Chocolate Frog half-unwrapped on his stomach, chimed in with his mouth full. “She’s not wrong. All your regular clothes say, ‘I might disappear into the floorboards if you ask me a personal question.’”

Harry flopped into the armchair with a groan. “I like disappearing.”

“Too bad,” George said from the other side of the bed, arms full of newly-purchased items. “Your wardrobe’s getting a redemption arc.”

Behind him, Kreacher hovered like the ghost of disapproval, balancing a tray with precisely folded socks, a neatly labeled tin of tea, and what looked suspiciously like a small pot of salve.

“Master must not forget cream for rashes,” the elf muttered. “The New World has many toxins.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, Kreacher. That’s very thoughtful.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to a radioactive swamp.”

“You’re going to America,” George said solemnly. “No one knows what happens there.”

Ron sat up long enough to toss a folded Chudley Cannons tee he'd pulled from somewhere into the bag. “For luck.”

Harry looked at it. “Ron. You’ve said repeatedly that the Cannons are cursed.”

“Exactly. That shirt’s seen things. Might even protect you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and added a collapsible toiletries kit—complete with a labeled compartment for “emergency essence of Dittany.” George snuck in a pair of dragon-hide boots “just in case you end up in a war zone,” and Ron insisted he pack at least one set of robes “in case the American Ministry tries to get uppity.”

Harry sat there and watched them fuss, argue, fold, and rearrange—surrounded by the low hum of familiar voices and shuffling feet and Kreacher’s quiet grumbles.

It was ridiculous.

It was perfect.

And it made his throat feel tight.

“I can pack on my own, you know,” he said eventually, not quite able to meet their eyes.

Hermione paused in the middle of flattening a shirt. “We know.”

Ron shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”

Harry looked around the room—at his best friends, at the bag slowly filling with pieces of all of them, at George carefully transfiguring one of Dudley’s old shirts into a sleek black travel sack for dirty laundry.

He felt… carried.

And, if only just a little—ready.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

The house had gone quiet again.

Everything was packed. His bag sat by the fireplace like a promise, neat and deceptively small after Hermione’s TARDIS-level expansion charms. His documents were sealed in a protective folder, tucked beside a shrunken bottle of Pepper-Up and a copy of Hogwarts: A History that Hermione insisted might comfort him more than he expected.

Ron had already gone up to bed after muttering something about needing to be conscious enough to say goodbye. Hermione followed shortly after, hugging Harry tight and murmuring, “You’ve got this,” against his shoulder.

Now it was just him and George lingering in the kitchen, sipping tea that had long gone lukewarm.

George tapped his fingers on the side of the mug. “Alright. I should probably let Ron sleep in peace before he starts banging on the wall complaining about my snoring again.”

Harry glanced toward the stairs, then back at George. He hesitated, thumb brushing the side of his cup.

“You don’t… have to go,” he said.

George tilted his head.

“I just mean,” Harry added quickly, “if you wanted to stay. Here. With me. I don’t really feel like being alone tonight.”

George didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Harry for a moment—really looked—then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “But only if I get the side of the bed that doesn’t creak like a banshee.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “Deal.”

They climbed the stairs together, not talking much. The kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward anymore. Just full of things unsaid and understood.

In Harry’s room, they kicked off shoes and jumpers and lay back on top of the covers, fully clothed, like kids at a sleepover who hadn’t quite figured out how to say they were scared of the dark.

George stretched his arms over his head and sighed. “You know, I’m going to miss this place.”

“Grimmauld?”

“No. Well, not exactly. The constant drama. Emotional breakthroughs. Packing montages. It’s like living in a bloody serial novel.”

Harry smiled faintly, eyes on the ceiling. “Thanks for staying.”

George’s voice was quiet when he answered. “Anytime, mate.”

The embers in the hearth cast slow-moving shadows across the floor as their breathing evened out.

The room was dark when Harry blinked his eyes open.

But it wasn't his room, on second look.

The air was thick and cold, dense with mist curling low across a forest floor that shimmered silver under a moonless sky. Trees arched overhead like cathedral vaults, tall and skeletal, their bark white as bone. The silence was absolute—no rustle, no wind. Just stillness.

Harry sat up. He was barefoot on damp moss, wearing the same clothes he'd fallen asleep in—but his wand was gone.

A figure stood some distance ahead.

She was tall—taller than any woman he’d ever seen, dressed in a flowing black gown that moved like smoke. Her long, dark hair was braided back beneath a crown of bone and iron, and her face—her face—was split cleanly in two. One half was more beautiful than any he'd ever seen, her skin almost porcelain in its pale delicacy; the other was skeletal and deathly, skin stretched tight across bone like an old skull come to life.

Her eyes glowed a very familiar green.

“Hárekr,” she said.

The name vibrated in the air like a spell, tugging something deep inside his chest. His magic responded before he did—coiling tighter, sharper, like it knew her.

“You know my name,” he said, his voice quiet.

“I have always known your name,” she replied. “I knew it before it was given to you. I knew it before your first breath.”

Harry swallowed. “Are you… my mother?”

She gave him a slow, solemn smile. “No. I am your sister.”

He stared. “What?”

“I am Hela,” she said. “Daughter of Loki. Keeper of Helheim. Queen of those who do not die in glory.”

The words rang like a gong—Harry felt them more than heard them.

“I don’t… I don't understand,” he said. “Aren't I dreaming?”

“Yes, and no. You are in the space between realms.”

Harry felt his heart begin to beat faster. “Like when I died? I… how is that possible?”

“Because you have found your name,” she answered. “And in doing so, you stirred ancient ties. Blood calls to blood. And I… answer.”

She took a step closer, and the mist recoiled from her feet. Harry didn’t move. He felt frozen in place.

“You were born in the in-between,” she said softly. “Life and death. Mortal and god. The world saw your power, Hárekr, but they did not know what they were seeing.”

She lifted a hand, and for a moment he thought she might touch his face—but her fingers hovered, inches from his cheek.

“I watched you walk into death,” she whispered. “And return.”

Harry flinched.

“I felt your soul split and reforge. You do not yet know what you are. But I do.”

His voice was hoarse when he asked, “Then what am I?”

Hela’s expression darkened—not cruelly, but with terrible knowledge. She lowered her hand.

“You are the Veilwalker,” Hela said, her voice quiet as falling snow. “Half-shadow, half-light. Born of magic, of blood, and of prophecy—but none of those things own you now. You are not a weapon forged by others. You are what you choose to become.”

She held his gaze as the wind stirred the mist around her ankles, and for a moment Harry felt the forest hold its breath.

“And soon,” she said, softer still, “you will be seen.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “By my father?”

She inclined her head with solemn grace. “He will know you when you stand before him. That much is certain. Whether he welcomes you, I cannot say. Hope, but prepare your heart.”

The mist behind her rippled, rising like a wave in slow motion. It didn’t feel threatening—just inevitable, like the tide.

“I do not come to offer comfort, brother,” she said, and something cracked behind the stillness of her voice. “I wish I could. But I am Queen of the dead, not a bearer of peace. I bring truth, and this I offer you freely---you are not alone in your blood. You are not the only child of Loki. And I will not let you suffer as I have.”

Her pale hand lifted again, not quite touching him—just hovering near his chest. The pendant resting against his heart shimmered softly in green light, echoing her eyes.

“I will watch over you, Hárekr. Until you are strong enough to stand without fear.”

Harry looked down, fingers curling around the pendant. The metal was warm.

When he looked up again, Hela was already turning, her form dissolving back into the mist like smoke through fingers.

“Wait—” he called, instinctive, aching.

Her voice answered from the shadows, distant but unshaken. “This is only the beginning.”

And then the forest vanished, like waking from the edge of a dream.

Chapter Text

Mon 8th June, 2015

Grimmauld Place, London

Harry woke to warmth and quiet, which was his first clue that something had gone wrong.

The second clue was the light—bright and golden, far too cheerful for the early hours of a departure day. The pendant pressed against his chest felt warm, steady, and somehow faintly amused.

He sat up with a jolt.

Beside him, George groaned and muttered something about cockroach clusters before rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head.

Harry squinted at the clock on his bedside table.

Ten-oh-three.

“Oh, bollocks.”

From the hallway came a thump, then the unmistakable sound of Hermione’s very panicked voice. “RONALD! HARRY! IT’S TEN O’CLOCK!”

There was another thump. A crash. And then Ron shouting, “I THOUGHT YOU SET AN ALARM!”

“I DID! I SET THREE! I THINK—KREACHER TURNED THEM OFF!”

“TRAITOROUS LITTLE—”

The door burst open before Harry could even swing his legs off the bed.

Hermione stood in the doorway, half dressed, hair wild, socks mismatched, and holding an aggressively annotated checklist in one hand and her wand in the other.

“The Portkey activates in twenty-seven minutes,” she said, already halfway into a panic spiral. “We were supposed to be up hours ago—you need to eat, repack, re-ward your bag, and put on something that isn’t pyjamas, oh Merlin—”

“I’m up, I’m up,” Harry said, pushing the duvet off and scrambling to his feet. “Sorry, we were late getting to bed and—”

“And we’re dead,” George mumbled, still facedown. “Just leave my body and tell Mum I went out like a hero.”

“You’re not dead, you’re helping!” Hermione snapped, marching over to snatch Harry’s clothes from yesterday off the floor and shove it into his arms. “Everyone to the kitchen—now. We’ll eat while we recheck the documents. Ron, get dressed! And shave your face, you look like you’ve been lost in the Forbidden Forest!”

“I look fine!” Ron shouted from down the hall, followed by the frantic stomp of untied shoes and the unmistakable thump and yowl of someone tripping over Crookshanks.

Harry pulled a jumper on over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his still-messy hair, and jammed his glasses on his face. As he adjusted the hem of his shirt, his fingers brushed the pendant through the thin cotton.

It was still warm.

Not just warm from his skin—warm, like it had held onto something that didn’t belong to the waking world.

He hesitated, fingers resting against it.

It had felt real. Too real. The forest, the mist, the soft press of moss against his feet. The way the woman's voice had settled into his bones—not like a dream, but like a fact. Like magic that had been waiting for him to hear it.

He didn’t have time to process it, not really—not with Hermione turning into a one-woman hurricane and George still muttering about cockroach clusters—but the words clung to him like dew.

You are not the only child of Loki. And you will not have to suffer as I have.

He didn’t know what it meant, not yet. He didn’t even know if he believed it.

But when he tried to convince himself it was just a dream, some tangled fantasy born of nerves and late-night thoughts and too much lingering magic, the pendant beneath his shirt pulsed once—gently, as if in quiet disagreement.

Harry looked over at George, who had finally dragged himself upright and was attempting to pull on both socks at once.

“You coming?” Harry asked.

George yawned, stretched like a cat, and gave a groggy thumbs up. “Wouldn’t miss it. Haven’t been shouted at like this since Fred and I enchanted the kettle to play The Weird Sisters when water’s boiling.”

Harry smiled, small but real, and followed him toward the stairs.

The house was a mess of movement—Hermione summoning toast from the rack mid-flight, Ron frantically scribbling down the address for the Portkey terminal in case they needed to re-Floo, Kreacher muttering curses in three languages as he shoved last-minute additions into Harry’s rucksack (“Protein bars, Master—Muggle food, but edible”), and George barely managing to catch a teetering bottle of Pepper-Up before it shattered on the tile.

Hermione nearly bowled them both over on her way to triple-check the departure time.

“Ten-thirty. Ten-thirty, you lot, and if we miss it I swear we are camping outside MACUSA until they let us into their blasted embassy!”

Harry barely had time to breathe before his wand was shoved into one hand, his bag into the other, and Ron was barking, “Right, we’re Flooing, let’s go—George, grab the Floo powder!”

“You grab it, I’m holding the biscuits!”

“You don’t need the biscuits—!”

“I always need biscuits!”

The next few minutes were a blur. Someone flung open the Floo grate, Hermione tossed in an authorization parchment to Floo directly into the Portkey office like a letter to Father Christmas, and the green fire roared to life.

“Ron, first. Harry, second. George, don’t drop the bag again—”

“I tripped!”

“GO!”

Ministry of Magic – Atrium, London, 10:22 a.m.

Portkey Departure Time: 10:30 a.m.

“This is madness,” Hermione muttered as they all stumbled out of the Floo into the Ministry Portkey office in a swirl of soot, paperwork, and Ron’s still-half-laced boots.

“You wanted fast!” George coughed, batting ash from his sleeves. “You didn’t say elegant!”

“I wanted on time!”

“Right, right,” Ron wheezed, rubbing his eyes. “Next time we go for that.”

“Next time?!” Harry said. “You think I’m doing this twice?!”

Hermione whirled on him, eyes blazing, wand already out. “Cloak, now. You cannot be seen—”

“I packed it!” Harry hissed. “It’s in the bottom of the bag under three pairs of pants and a tin of emergency biscuits Kreacher insisted I bring!”

“Oh, for—hold still!”

Before Harry could protest, she flicked her wand. A feeling like water ran down his scalp, and the world shimmered for a moment before fading into that distorted blur of Disillusionment. Harry glanced down and could just barely see the outline of his fancy new boots against the polished floor.

“Is this even legal?” Ron muttered as they took off down the corridor at a half-run, weaving through the crowd.

“We are escorting a classified minor through secure Portkey access,” Hermione snapped. “It’s legal enough!”

“Does Ronnie ever tell you you’re beautiful when you panic?” George asked breezily, dodging a clerk who nearly spilled coffee down the front of Harry’s invisible jumper.

“Don’t encourage him,” Hermione huffed, speed-walking with the ferocity of a field general.

Harry, invisible and jostled between them, clutched the strap of his bag like a lifeline. Every step echoed too loudly. Every swirl of a cloak nearby made him flinch. He’d avoided the Ministry like the plague since the end of the war—half of them still wanted to give him awards or ask if he kept Voldemort’s—Dumbledore's—wand in a display case. They didn't need to know he was using it until he could replace his irreparable holly wand.

They turned a sharp corner and reached the security checkpoint outside the Portkey Department. A witch behind a desk looked up, brows raised.

“Visitors?”

“Portkey authorization,” Hermione said breathlessly, thrusting a paper toward her. “Special international clearance. Authorization code D-5-4-2-G.”

The witch blinked at it. “This is for one traveler.”

“Yes,” Hermione said tightly. “He’s disillusioned. For security.”

There was a long pause. “Is he here?”

“Tell her you’re here,” Ron whispered.

“I’m here,” Harry said, which came out as a slightly disembodied I’m here, and made the witch drop her quill.

“Right,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Er. Proceed to Room Three. They’re waiting.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, dragging both brothers and Harry through the door before the witch could ask for anything else.

They skidded into Room Three at 10:27 a.m. A squat wizard with greying temples and the sour expression of someone who loathed his job looked up from a clipboard.

“You’re late.”

“We’re here,” Hermione said, pulling Harry into place by the elbow. “And he’s going.”

The Portkey—a battered old iron doorknob—sat in the center of a shallow silver pedestal, glowing faintly.

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” the official muttered, consulting a glowing hourglass.

“Any last words?” George asked, grinning despite himself.

Harry reached up to touch the pendant through his shirt in one hand, and the doorknob in the other.

He wasn’t sure what came next. But he was going.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”

The light flared.

And then he was gone.

New York City – Magical Portkey Arrival Station

5:31 a.m. local time

The Portkey landed like a hammer.

Harry hit the ground with a graceless thud, knees knocking into worn tile as his bag flopped forward and clipped him in the ear. His glasses slid halfway down his nose, and just as he'd almost caught himself, his head knocked into a very shiny rubbish bin and he fell down in a rumpled heap.

For a moment, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears and the high whine of magic fizzing out of the air around him.

He blinked, dazed, and took stock.

Right. He was laying on the floor in what appeared to be the magical equivalent of a train station. There were faded signs overhead in crisp blocky serif fonts.

Welcome to the MACUSA Portkey Arrivals Hall

 Please declare all restricted artifacts and magical flora

Below that, in fine print:

We are not responsible for temporal displacement, nausea, or unintentional apparitional inversion

Charming.

Someone cleared their throat above him.

Harry glanced up to find a bored-looking witch in burgundy robes staring down at him over her clipboard. She raised one eyebrow.

“London?” she asked.

Harry nodded, still on the floor. “Bit of a rough landing.”

She made a noncommittal hum. “You’re not the worst I’ve seen this month. One guy came in last week upside down and halfway transfigured into a seagull.”

Harry blinked. “Right. Glad to contribute to the average.”

She scratched something onto her clipboard. “Name?”

“Harry. Potter.”

That got her attention. Her eyes flicked up, mouth parted slightly in recognition, but to her credit, she said nothing. She just clicked her tongue and pointed toward a narrow corridor off to the right.

“Exit’s that way. Customs check, then you’re free to go.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, scrambling to his feet and adjusting the strap of his bag.

He took a few tentative steps into the hallway, the sounds of the arrival room muffling behind him. The air felt different here—sharper, somehow. Louder, even though it was quiet. He could already feel the buzz of Muggle energy bleeding through the magical wards of the building; something electric and fast-paced that prickled at the edges of his magic.

He passed through a minor enchantment scanner, endured a very polite but awkward series of questions about the exact quantity of magical toffee in his bag (“No, sir, I don’t think it’s weaponised”), and was finally waved through the final charmscreen with a stamp in his shiny new passport and a “Welcome to the United States of America.”

And just like that, he was out.

The building opened into what looked like a fairly normal Muggle vestibule tucked between a dry cleaner and a café advertising kombucha on tap. The sidewalk outside shimmered with early summer heat despite the hour, and the sound of traffic roared like an ocean in his ears. Horns honked. Someone on a bicycle swore creatively.

New York City.

Harry stepped out into the pre-dawn light and immediately got jostled by a man carrying a cello case and a woman with six dogs on mismatched leads.

He paused, letting the crowd move around him, and looked up.

The buildings stretched like giants toward a sky that was somehow too light for the time and too wide, and he felt, all at once, like a single note in a song that hadn’t been written yet.

He took a breath, slow and steady.

Right, then. Time to find his hotel.

And maybe a map.

Or… food.

Possibly all three.

The street smelled like rubbish, musty dampness, old tar, cold grease, and something faintly floral that Harry couldn't place. His boots made a dull sound on the pavement—soft and unimpressive against the rhythm of city footsteps already moving with intent.

The hotel was only a few blocks from the Portkey terminal, according to Hermione’s scribbled directions. She’d picked it for its proximity to MACUSA and because the booking site—something to do with the internet, he reckoned—had called it “understated but contemporary.” Harry had no idea what that meant.

What he did know was that New York City had apparently been designed by a committee of mad cartographers and people who’d lost a bet with gravity.

He turned left when he should’ve turned right. Then right again, but ended up back at the same street corner with a pretzel cart that definitely hadn’t been open the first time he passed it. Every third person seemed to be holding some kind of glowing rectangle, and nobody looked particularly open to being stopped.

After the fourth wrong turn, Harry gave in and ducked into the nearest open shop—a tiny café with flickering neon, too many ferns, and a chalkboard sign outside that said We are legally obligated to sell you coffee. We regret this.

The only person behind the counter was a sharp-eyed, tired-looking girl in her twenties wearing a beanie despite the weather and the sort of expression that suggested she was already done with today.

Harry cleared his throat. “Hi—er, sorry, could I ask for directions?”

The girl blinked slowly, like it physically pained her to acknowledge his existence. “To…?”

“The—er, the Andover Hotel? It’s meant to be near the Woolworth Building?”

She squinted at him. “You mean the Andover on Park Row?”

“Maybe? It sounds familiar. I think so, yeah.”

“You're, like… three blocks off,” she said flatly. “And in the wrong direction.”

Harry winced. “Figures.”

She eyed him. “You don’t have a phone?”

“Er… no.”

“No phone.”

“I just flew in.”

“Right,” she said, unimpressed. “From the 1800s?”

Harry flushed. “More or less.”

There was a long pause. A milk steamer hissed like it was judging him.

Finally, the girl grabbed a paper napkin and scribbled down a few simple directions with a blue pen. “You’re gonna want to cut across two blocks, then head south. Not up the stairs at the plaza, that’ll trap you in municipal hell. You’ll see a sign for the R train—ignore it. If you hit a Duane Reade, you’ve gone too far.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, pocketing the napkin. “Seriously.”

“Don’t get run over,” she said, already turning back to the espresso machine. “New Yorkers will hit you and get mad you made them late to therapy.”

Harry pushed the door open with a sheepish smile. “Good to know.”

Back on the pavement, he squinted toward the street signs and muttered, “Two blocks, south, not up the stairs… Duane Reade is too far?”

With Hermione’s itinerary rustling in his jacket and the pendant warm against his chest, he started walking again.

The city was waking up around him—car horns, tired yawns, and the metallic rattle of someone dragging a cart of soda cans down a stairwell. And somewhere in all this noise and commotion was a man he’d never met, whose name he carried, and who might be the first person alive that could look at him and see who he really was.

If he didn’t get flattened by a delivery bike first.

With the napkin crumpled in one fist and his bag thumping against his hip, Harry crossed the street, took a left, then a right, and—miraculously—spotted the hotel sign gleaming under the early sun. The building stood like a quiet sentinel between two louder neighbors, its windows gold-edged and dignified.

He pushed through the glass doors into an air-conditioned lobby that smelled like polished wood, expensive hand soap, and something faintly lemony.

The space was sleek and understated—just as Hermione had described. Smooth tile floors, low velvet armchairs in charcoal grey, a few abstract paintings he couldn't make sense of. It felt… curated. Like a place where people had briefcases and reasons to be here. Not where seventeen-year-olds with magically mended glasses and an expanded carry-all came to collapse.

He shuffled to the front desk, feeling the weight of the Portkey, the coffee shop, and New York itself pressing down on his shoulders.

The receptionist—an impeccably groomed man with the kind of voice that sounded like it had a diploma—looked up as Harry approached.

“Good morning,” he said. “Welcome to the Andover. Do you have a reservation?”

“Er—yes,” Harry said. “Booked under Granger. Harry Granger?”

The man typed something into the computer, eyes scanning the screen. “Yes. One single room, twenty-eight nights. Paid in advance.” He nodded politely. “May I see your ID?”

Harry hesitated, then handed over the fake Muggle one Hermione had had George make through what he’d vaguely referred to as a “favor.” The man didn’t seem to blink at it. Just scanned it, handed it back, and smiled in a way that seemed both professional and very slightly condescending.

“Everything appears to be in order,” he said. “However, I’m afraid check-in isn’t until 3 p.m.”

Harry blinked. “Oh. Right. So… what should I… do?”

The man’s smile widened by about half a millimeter. “You’re welcome to store your luggage with the concierge. There’s complimentary coffee and wi-fi in the lobby, or you may explore the city until your room is ready.”

Harry looked around the lobby like it might offer some alternative.

He didn’t know the city. He didn’t know the country, even. He hadn’t slept much in the last forty-eight hours and wasn’t sure if he was hungry or nauseous or both. His jumper was starting to make him sweat.

“Right,” he said finally. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” the receptionist replied, already turning back to his computer.

Harry wandered off to the farthest armchair and sank into it, defeated. His bag sat on the floor beside him, heavy and awkward. The pendant under his shirt felt warm against his skin, like it was reminding him not to fall asleep in public.

He had no idea what to do for the next eight-ish hours.

He didn’t want to nap in the chair, didn’t want to go exploring in a strange city with no idea where to start, and certainly didn’t want to call attention to himself—especially not as Harry Potter, freshly international and technically underage. Too, there was a 5 hour time difference and he had to figure out a way to get in contact with Hermione before it got too late in London.

He reached for his bag, rummaging past his toothbrush and the emergency snack tin Hermione had packed (“don’t be ridiculous, Harry—American portions are massive, but you can still get peckish”) and found the folded sheet of Hermione’s notes. Names, addresses, facts she thought might help.

Harry leaned his head back and let out a slow breath.

“Great,” he murmured to the ceiling. “Now what?”

The ceiling did not reply. Still, he stared for a good five minutes.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for—divine inspiration, maybe, or a letter to explode out of the coffee machine declaring what he was supposed to do with himself until 3 p.m.

He glanced toward the concierge desk.

The thought of dragging his bag through the city for the next eight hours made his shoulders ache in anticipation. Hermione had put an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, but they hadn't thought of a Featherlight Charm, and he wasn't about to put one on now—not when MACUSA regulations were stricter than Snape had been before exams. He got the feeling that even shrinking charms would be discouraged until he got a sense of what was normal here.

He stood up slowly and walked over.

The concierge, a kindly older man with the kind of posture that said he’d survived at least two major financial crashes, smiled tiredly as Harry approached. “Need help, sir?”

“Yeah—erm, can I leave my bag here? I mean, I know I can, but… is it safe?”

The man nodded. “Absolutely. We’ll tag it and store it in our secure luggage room. You’ll get a claim token, and we’ll return it whenever you’re ready.”

Harry handed over his bag, quickly stuffing his overly warm jumper inside first, and took the token like it might bite him.

Now he was free.

Which was terrifying.

He stepped back outside into the warm morning air and let the wave of smells—pretzels, hot rubber, rubbish, exhaust, damp concrete—wash over him again. The streets were miraculously even busier now. People moved in streams, heads down, clutching iced coffees and talking to themselves like invisible companions were shouting in their ears.

He considered going to MACUSA right away, but the idea of walking in with a sleep-deprived brain and a growling stomach made him wince.

Map, he thought. Food. Then MACUSA.

He set off aimlessly, letting his feet take him away from the hotel, past a bus stop, a wine shop, a place with a rainbow flag and twinkle lights in the window. A dog barked somewhere behind him. Someone whistled.

After fifteen minutes, just as he was starting to debate whether or not it was possible to get heatstroke before 8 a.m., he spotted it.

A faded, narrow diner wedged between a laundromat and what might have once been a bookstore. The neon sign overhead blinked Open in slightly flickering red, and the window paint declared “BREAKFAST ALL DAY” in lettering that had long since begun to chip. The door had a bell. He’d bet his entire vault that the booth cushions were cracked and the inside smelled like burnt coffee and sugar and eggs.

Perfect.

Harry pushed the door open, and the bell jingled overhead with a cheerful noise that made him ache with something he didn’t quite have a name for.

The diner had maybe eight stools at a chrome-trimmed counter. No tables. A lone man with a cap read a paper in the corner. A waitress with a messy bun and glittering eyeshadow was wiping down the counter and humming along to something that sounded suspiciously old fashioned.

She looked up as Harry stepped inside. “Seat yourself, sweetheart.”

He nodded, unsure of the protocol, and slid onto one of the stools. The cushion wheezed beneath him.

A minute later, a chipped mug of coffee appeared in front of him. “You look like you need this,” the waitress said with a smile.

“I might love you,” Harry said, before he could stop himself.

She laughed and nudged a laminated menu toward him. “Just wait ‘til you try the hash browns.”

Harry picked up the menu, grateful and dazed. It was comfortingly ugly—plastic, wrinkled, one corner held together with tape. He made his order—eggs, hash browns, and rye toast at the waitress’ suggestion—and vowed to come back to try the pancakes another day. 

The coffee was strong enough to reanimate the dead.

Harry clutched the mug with both hands, letting the heat soak into his fingers as the city noise softened behind the dingy front windows. A small, ancient radio behind the counter buzzed out something jazzy and crackly, half-swallowed by the sizzle of eggs on a griddle.

The waitress—her name tag read Lena in faded red plastic—reappeared with a steaming plate and a cheery, “Hash browns, over-easy, rye toast, and a bonus pancake. You looked like you needed a bonus pancake.”

Harry blinked at the extra food. “That's… really kind, thank you.”

She snorted and slid the plate in front of him. “Don't worry about it. I know that look—same one I get when I burn myself on the coffee pot or remember I still owe Sallie Mae fifteen grand.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure who Sallie Mae was, but he nodded solemnly in solidarity. “That does sound awful.”

Lena leaned against the counter and studied him for a beat. “You from out of town?”

Harry swallowed a too-hot bite of perfectly buttered toast. “That obvious?”

“Sweetheart, you walked in like you’d never seen laminated menus before.”

“Fair.”

She grabbed a towel and started wiping a clean spot on the counter that didn’t need it. “Let me guess. British, no phone data, no clue where you’re going, and you didn’t pack sunscreen.”

“I did pack biscuits?” Harry offered.

“Biscuits,” she repeated, clearly unimpressed. “Well, welcome to New York, darling. It’ll either chew you up and spit you out or teach you to swear creatively. Maybe both.”

A second door behind the counter swung open and a man with a white apron, sleeve tattoos, and a crooked baseball cap popped his head through. “You telling the tourists horror stories again, Lena?”

“I’m mentoring,” she said loftily.

The man snorted and disappeared again, but not before giving Harry a small, amused nod.

Harry smiled faintly and poked at the pancake. “This place… it’s not like anywhere I’ve ever been. It feels… older. But in a good way.”

Lena’s expression softened. “It is kinda old. Been here since the late ‘80s. My dad ran it before me, his brother before that. We don’t do mobile orders, we don’t have Instagram waffles, and our coffee has been a federal health risk since 1992. But the eggs are hot and nobody stares too hard if someone walks in looking like they’ve had the weight of the world on their shoulders.”

Harry looked up at her. Something in that—something about being seen without being known—landed hard.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

She nodded once and refilled his coffee. “Don’t mention it. You eat, you sit as long as you want, and when you’re ready, I’ll point you toward a place that sells actual paper maps. Just… don’t tell your generation I helped destroy Google’s reign.”

He huffed a laugh even though he didn't know what Google was or what it reigned over and took another bite of pancake.

The syrup stuck sweetly to the roof of his mouth. The hash browns were salty, crispy, golden—the kind of thing that made him wonder if food had always tasted this good, or if he was just finally letting himself feel things again. Now, with a quiet moment to think, he found himself returning to the dream that still clung to him like fog. Hela’s voice echoed faintly behind his thoughts.

It hadn’t felt like a dream. Not exactly. Her words had sunk into him like spellwork, as if they’d taken root somewhere deep in his magic, in that strange new part of himself he was still trying to understand. She had felt real.

But the pancake was real, too. So was the coffee. So was the sound of sizzling bacon and the soft buzz of old music on the radio. 

When he'd finished, Harry wiped his mouth with the paper napkin—one of those cheap brown ones that barely held together under pressure—and slid a few folded bills from Hermione’s stash onto the counter. Lena waved them off with a raised brow.

“You paid already.”

Harry blinked. “I did?”

“You were in la la land when you handed me a twenty with the enthusiasm of a man surrendering to fate. Keep your change.”

He tried to protest, but she gave him a look that brooked no argument and reached for the coffee pot like it was a weapon.

“Fine,” he said, stretching until his back cracked. “You’re terrifying.”

“Flatterer.” She tapped her temple and held out a crisp piece of receipt paper. “Map shop. Two blocks down, take a left at the bookstore with the green awning, then another left at the statue with the eagle. You’ll see a place called Chambers Street Stationery. They sell paper maps. Actual ones. Don’t ask why.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “Thanks again.”

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped out, sunlight brighter now than it had been, casting long shadows between the tall buildings. The city was fully alive—cars honking, bikes zipping past, a man on the corner shouting about end times and real estate in the same breath.

Harry followed Lena’s directions carefully, trying not to get distracted.

He made it past the bookstore, nodded uncertainly at the eagle statue, and was halfway down the next block when something caught his eye—a huge digital advertisement flashing across the side of a building like a full-color hallucination.

The New StarkPhone 7: Smarter. Sleeker. Yours.

The image shifted—now showing a phone as thin as a Chocolate Frog card rotating in midair, voice commands lighting up around it: “NOVA, send message,” “NOVA, call Mom,” “NOVA, open security feed.” All framed in glossy minimalist white and deep red. STARK INDUSTRIES, the tagline read. Innovation Starts Here.

Harry slowed to a stop on the pavement, staring up at it.

Everyone around him—literally everyone—was holding one. Or something close to it. Small glowing rectangles pressed to ears, tapped by thumbs, stared into like they might divine the future. Even the man on the corner mumbling to a flock of pigeons had one tucked into his back pocket.

Harry had never even thought to own a mobile.

For a moment, his mind drifted—not to magic, or war, or prophecy—but to that strange, half-forgotten summer before third year. The one where he'd blown up Aunt Marge—she wasn't even his real Aunt, which was a giddying thought. That same summer, Dudley had whinged endlessly about needing a mobile for emergencies, only to drop it in a storm drain the same week. Harry barely remembered the model—some thick, plasticky black brick—but he remembered Vernon snapping at him, “Don't even think about asking for one! Not when you'll just use it to call those freaks.”

He’d thought then—quietly, bitterly—that he hadn't wanted one, anyway. Who would he have called?

And now here he was, seventeen, practically wizard-raised from the age of eleven, half-Asgardian, and standing on a street corner in New York City trying to remember if you needed a license to buy a mobile in America.

He looked back up at the billboard.

Tony Stark.

It was surreal—seeing his birth father’s name flashing ten feet tall in holographic projection. He was sure everyone else saw a company. A symbol of money and genius and sleek design.

Harry just saw a stranger he might one day call Dad.

He bit his lip and turned away from the billboard.

Maybe he should get one. Not for “selfies” or “social media” like the advert showed—he still didn’t quite understand what “Instagram” was—but to blend in. To reach out if he needed help. To stop feeling like he was watching the world happen from behind glass.

He could almost hear Hermione sighing in relief at the idea of being able to contact him without fire or owl. He could get her one, too.

“Right,” he muttered, glancing around. “Map first. Phone later.”

He kept walking, the advertisement still glowing behind him—faint reflection catching in the store windows, like it was following.

Chapter Text

Mon 8th June, 2015

New York City

The sign above the map shop was so faded it looked like it had been bleached by a century of sun. The display window held an equally bleached globe, a dusty set of compasses, and a crooked rack of postcards that all seemed to depict the Statue of Liberty in various stages of dramatic sunset.

Harry double-checked the hand-written directions on the receipt paper Lena had given him.

Chambers Street Stationery. 

He stepped inside to the ding of an electric bell that sounded like it hadn't been updated since the early 1990s. The shop smelled like paper and warm dust and something faintly metallic. An old-fashioned metal fan whirred on the counter with a noise like a tired sigh. Stacks of notebooks, travel guides, and index cards lined the walls, and behind the counter sat a man with heavy-framed glasses and a crossword puzzle, who looked up when Harry entered but said nothing.

“Hi,” Harry offered. “Erm, I’m looking for a map?”

The man just stared. “Paper or digital?” He asked somewhat gruffly.

“Paper,” Harry said quickly, almost sheepishly.

That seemed to win him some favor, but not much. The man set down his pencil and stood. “What kind? Subway? Street grid? Tourist zones? Neighborhood breakdown? Historical overlay?”

Harry hesitated. “Just… where everything is? In New York?”

That earned a grunt of acknowledgment. The man wandered to a spinning rack and rifled through it. A moment later, he pulled out a folded map printed in soft colours, well-organized, and slightly oversized.

“This one’s got the streets, subway lines, landmarks, and a directory on the back. Manhattan and the boroughs. Laminated. Ten bucks.”

Harry pulled out one of the unfamiliar notes from Hermione's stash, assuming “bucks” was slang for “dollars,” and handed it over. The man gave him a receipt and a small plastic bag like he’d been doing it since the dawn of civilization.

Map in hand, Harry stepped back outside.

He unfolded it right there on the pavement like a proper tourist and squinted at the lines, landmarks, and stations, trying to match names to the places Hermione had mentioned. The city felt marginally less daunting with something tangible in his hands—a piece of the chaos surrounding him flattened and printed in ink. He turned the map sideways, then back again, muttered to himself about cardinal directions, and finally set off with something like purpose.

It took a few wrong turns, one very dramatic argument between two cyclists that he tried not to witness, and a passing pigeon that seemed determined to menace him, but eventually—miraculously—he found himself crossing a narrow street and looking up.

The Woolworth Building loomed above him like something out of a fairy tale dressed in stone and steel—tall, ornate, and oddly regal against the modern glass of its neighbors. Harry checked the map again, even though he was standing directly in front of the place.

MACUSA obviously didn’t advertise.

There was no sign, no wand scanner, no official-looking plaque with a Ministry seal. Just a revolving door that stood out amongst the others, a quiet doorman, and the distinct shimmer in the air that tickled the edges of his magic the way certain Hogwarts staircases used to when they were feeling temperamental.

Harry stepped through the door and into the lobby.

The change was immediate.

Gone was the polished, Muggle-facing marble and brass. Instead, the interior rippled subtly with enchantment—floor tiles shifted hue beneath his feet, runes softly glowing around the archway. There was a front desk, a security desk, and two enormous magical murals high on the walls depicting witches and wizards from across American history, many of them mid-spell or astride broomsticks.

Behind the front desk sat a tired-looking wizard with a pot of coffee that looked like it had been reheated twice too many times. He barely glanced up as Harry approached.

“Name?”

“Harry Potter.”

That got him a glance. Not just recognition, but curiosity. “Visiting?”

“Yeah. I’m—” Harry hesitated. “I’m looking for records.”

The man made a noncommittal noise and gestured vaguely to the left. “Archives and Research is in the lower concourse. Take the elevator to B4. Use your wand to activate it.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Harry turned and headed in the direction indicated. The hallway curved gently and grew quieter with each step. Ahead, a shimmer in the air rippled across a wide archway—a visible magical threshold warded with glowing runes. A pair of security officers flanked it, one witch and one wizard, both in navy robes with a faint silver crest that shimmered like moonlight on water.

“Security screening,” the witch said, raising a hand. 

Harry stopped, straightened. “Erm… okay.”

“Wand, please,” said the wizard. He took it gently, inspecting the wood before placing it tip-down into a crystal holder set into the wall. The runes in the archway pulsed, evaluating him.

“Name?” the witch asked.

“Harry Potter. The person at the front desk told me to go to B4? For archives?”

The runes flared briefly—one red, then all blue. A light chiming sound rang out. The wizard removed the wand and handed it back.

“Registered,” he confirmed. “You’re approved for concourse levels B2 through B5. Spell use is monitored—no defensive or offensive casting beyond threshold unless provoked. Any attempt to Apparate, portkey, or disrupt the trace field will lock you down until we arrive. Understood?”

“Understood.”

The witch gave a brief nod and stepped aside. “Welcome to MACUSA.”

Harry stepped through the magical archway. It felt like walking through a curtain of cold mist, but it didn’t wet his skin—just sent a brief shiver down his spine. Beyond it, the hallway opened into a quieter concourse with gleaming brass signage and a row of softly humming lifts.

The lift he entered was made of dark wood and brass, and unlike the Ministry lifts in London, it didn’t lurch. Harry tapped his wand to a labelled box and pressed the button marked B4, and the doors slid shut with a smooth clatter.

When they reopened, he stepped into a low-ceilinged corridor that smelled like parchment, ink, and ozone. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and shelves of floating folios, and a handful of witches and wizards in brown robes wandered about, muttering to themselves or vanishing into illusory alcoves.

A large sign hung crookedly above the nearest desk:

Magical Archives Division

Including Departmental Oversight, Historical Incantation Logs, Arcane Research Licensing, and Obscurial Events Registry

Harry shuffled forward uncertainly and waited until the woman behind the desk looked up. She was older, pinched, and wore spectacles on a chain that glowed faintly purple.

“Can I help you?” she asked crisply.

“I… I hope so. I’m looking for information on someone who worked here about seventeen years ago. She was a researcher. Her name was Sigyn Frejasdottir.”

The woman raised one eyebrow. “Department?”

“I don’t know exactly, but Her—my friend thought she worked in the American equivalent of—well, the Department of Mysteries.”

The woman blinked at him. “I’m sorry, but if she worked in the Department of Arcane Contingency or any of its subdivisions, that information is classified.”

“Even if she’s dead?”

“Especially if she’s dead.”

Harry deflated slightly. “Is there… anything you can tell me? Even just confirmation she worked here?”

The woman hesitated, then sighed. “Give me a minute.”

She vanished behind a curtain of silencing wards. Harry stood awkwardly, watching a wizard nearby sort glowing vials by color and hum to himself. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

Finally, the woman returned, frowning.

“I can’t release details,” she said. “But I was authorised to tell you that she was a contracted researcher here. Her assignment and all materials related to it are sealed.”

“Sealed?”

“By order of a senior entity,” she said pointedly, “with jurisdiction at the top of MACUSA.”

Harry frowned. “That’s… very specific.”

“I didn’t say who sealed it,” she added primly. “Only that you might want to seek your answers somewhere other than government records.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”

She gave him a thin, not-unfriendly smile. “Sorry I couldn't be of more help.”

Harry left the Research Division with no answers and a lingering sense that he was barking up the wrong tree. He tightened his grip on the plastic handle of his bag and stepped into the lift once more.

If not here, he thought, then where?

The lobby of the Woolworth Building was cooler now, quieter than it had been earlier, though the magical murals still shimmered faintly with movement above. Harry crossed to the front desk again, where the same spectacled receptionist was now drinking from a mug that read Don’t hex me before coffee in fine gold script.

The man glanced up. “Back so soon?”

“Erm, yeah—sorry, I had one more question,” Harry said, unfolding the city map he’d stuffed in his bag. “Is there a… magical shopping district nearby? Like the American version of Diagon Alley?”

The receptionist gave him a look that suggested finally, a reasonable question and tapped a manicured finger on the counter. “You want the Underline,” he said. “It’s cloaked beneath the Market Line on Delancey Street—Lower East Side. Just look for the separate warded entrances and they'll bring you downstairs. You’ll find basic apothecaries, wand servicing, supply vendors, and the occasional illegal Niffler sale if you squint. Don’t buy from anyone in a trenchcoat.”

“Got it. No trenchcoats.”

The man pulled a thin stylus from his breast pocket, murmured a charm over it, and tapped the edge of Harry’s map. A gold circle shimmered into place just south of the river, pulsing faintly like a live ember.

“Thanks,” Harry said, folding the map again.

“Try the bakery near the north entrance,” the receptionist added, returning to his mug. “Best charmed pastries in the city. Makes the wand polish next door smell tolerable.”

With the Underline noted for later, Harry stepped back out into the street, the bright afternoon sun now properly overhead. The city pressed in around him—towering buildings, flashing signs, the distant squeal of a saxophone from the subway stairs. He didn’t really have a destination, and for once, he felt strangely alright with that.

He blamed it on Lena’s coffee and wandered.

Past stone archways and hanging flower baskets, through a shaded park where children zipped by on scooters and someone practiced violin near a fountain. He followed the rhythm of footsteps and coffee carts and the occasional flutter of magic in the air when a cloaked figure slipped into a magically warded alleyway. He paused to watch pigeons chase each other through the shadow of a towering church. A man selling secondhand books tried to haggle with him over a collection of Walt Whitman. He passed on that, but bought a soft pretzel the size of his face from a cart with a glowing blue flame beneath it.

Time blurred, and for a little while, he was just another stranger in the city.

It wasn’t until he passed a glossy electronics storefront with a display wall of StarkPhones and a digital world clock glowing just above that he jolted to a stop.

2:48 p.m.

“Bugger,” he muttered, nearly dropping his pretzel.

He jammed the last bite in his mouth, crammed the map into his plastic bag, and turned on his heel, sprinting back the way he came. The city suddenly seemed to double in size. He dodged a delivery cart, narrowly avoided colliding with a man in a suit shouting into a mobile, and almost cursed out loud when he took the wrong turn and had to double back.

By the time he reached the hotel, his cheeks were flushed, his hair a windblown mess, and his shoelace had come half undone. He skidded through the doors at 2:59 p.m. exactly.

The same receptionist looked up and gave a slow blink. “Welcome back, sir.”

Harry gasped, still catching his breath. “Check-in?”

The man tapped a keycard onto the counter without missing a beat. “Sixth floor, room 615. Elevators to your right. You can pick up your luggage with the concierge. And—” he handed Harry a bottle of water from behind the desk, “—hydrate. You look like someone who got lost in the Mermaid Parade.”

Harry took the bottle with a nod, blinking. “Thanks,” he said, then hesitated. “Is that… an actual thing?”

The man grinned. “Coney Island. Look it up.”

Harry made a vague mental note to ask someone later.

“Feels about right,” he muttered, and headed toward the concierge.

Room 615 smelled like linen spray and polished furniture and something vaguely synthetic, like air freshening charms gone just slightly off. The walls were soft beige, the windows tall and clean, and the bed looked impossibly wide for someone who’d grown up sleeping in a cupboard.

Harry stood in the doorway for a long moment, clutching his keycard and plastic tote in one hand and the strap of his bag in the other.

He dropped both the bags beside the wardrobe, toeing off his shoes and running a hand through his hair. The room was quiet. Not Grimmauld quiet—not the kind of quiet that pressed in around you like haunted wallpaper—but still and bright and impersonal in a way that almost felt like safety.

A folded piece of parchment lay on the dresser with Harry, written in Hermione’s neat hand.

He opened it.

This room was recommended by Ernie Goldstein's cousin who works at MACUSA. Yes, it’s Muggle, but it has a working Floo connection—you’ll find the grate charmed behind the fireplace screen. I included an emergency pouch of Floo powder in your toiletries kit, and yes, I triple-checked it works internationally. Proud of you. Love, Hermione.

Harry let out a breath, half laugh and half sigh. Of course she’d checked. More than once. And it conveniently saved him the trouble of having to find a public Floo he could use.

He wandered into the bathroom—marble, shiny taps, small bottles labeled “luxury conditioner with Argan oil” and “luxury shower gel”—splashed some water on his face, then shucked his socks, changed into a fresh shirt, and made sure the pendant was tucked into place beneath it. It was cool now, resting lightly against his chest like it had always been there.

The clock on the bedside table read 3:37 p.m. He’d been in New York for barely ten hours, and he already felt like he'd run a marathon in someone else’s shoes.

Still barefoot, he padded back into the sitting area, pushed aside the little decorative fire screen, and crouched in front of the fireplace. A soft pulse of magic hummed at the edges of the grate. He had no doubt  Muggles would be unable to open the screen to access it.

He reached into the side zip of his bag and found the small leather pouch Hermione had packed. Inside was a generous quantity of Floo powder, pale green and iridescent.

Harry took a breath, pinched some powder between his fingers, and threw it into the fireplace.

“Grimmauld Place!” he called, tossing in the Floo powder.

The flames flared green, and a second later, Hermione’s face came into view, her curls wild as ever, the sitting room’s faded wallpaper flickering behind her.

“Harry!” she said at once. “You made it!”

“Just barely,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Check-in wasn’t until three, and I had to leg it back to  call before it was too late over there. Might’ve elbowed a tourist.”

“Perfect timing,” Hermione said, smiling. “I was just about to pop out for a curry. Did you manage to visit MACUSA?”

Harry hesitated. “Yeah… it was strange hearing with the accents. The building’s impressive, but I couldn’t find anything useful about my mum. Her records are sealed. Apparently by someone pretty high up.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She straightened in her seat, visibly restraining herself from reaching for a quill. “High up like… how high up?”

“The President. Or someone who works with them. Someone at the top’s all they’d tell me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But at least it confirms she was real. That she worked there. That I didn’t imagine all of this.”

“You didn’t,” Hermione said firmly. “And that’s still a big step, Harry.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment, then asked, “How’s George doing?”

Hermione grinned. “Still nursing a grudge from our shopping trip. He said—and I quote—‘If I have to watch another person try on one more pair of suspiciously well-fitted trousers, I’m setting fire to the displays.’ He told me he snuck a chocolate frog into your bag as revenge.”

Harry blinked. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Hermione shrugged. “You know George—it might be charmed to scream when you open it. Or it might just be chocolate. He didn’t say. Just don't open it in public and you should be fine.”

Harry groaned. “Great.”

Hermione laughed. “And Ron says hi—he’s completely knackered after training, but he made me promise to tell you he’s proud of you.”

Harry bit his lip. “Thanks. That… means a lot.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “Are you all right? Really?”

He stared into the green flames for a moment. “I think so,” he said quietly. “I’m just… tired.”

“I know,” she murmured. “I can't even imagine, really. But you’re not alone, Harry.”

He swallowed hard, throat a little tight. “Yeah. Thanks. Oh, Hermione—do you have a mobile? I saw an advert for one today and thought it might be helpful.”

“No, I don't, but I can look into getting us some of you think it'll help. Harry, I'm sorry but I have to go—Walburga is kicking up a fuss at Crookshanks. I’ll call again tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Okay.”

The hotel room was warm and still. The fire had gone out with a faint pop, and Harry sprawled himself across the bed sideways, one arm flung over his eyes.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

But the hum of the city below had faded into a distant hush, and the softness of the bed—not quite like Grimmauld’s heavy, old magic—lulled him in. The last thing he remembered was the ticking of the bedside clock, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

Then it wasn’t a clock at all.

It was wind, rustling through tall, silver-grassed fields that bent under the weight of stars.

Harry stood barefoot in the center of a clearing. The trees around him were not trees as he knew them—too tall, too thin, their branches coiling like runes in the sky. Mist drifted at knee height, curling around his ankles like familiar fingers.

“Back again,” came a voice behind him, dry and cool as moonlight.

He turned.

Hela stood just at the edge of the clearing, her long black dress moving in a wind he couldn’t feel. A cloak dragged behind her like shadow incarnate, and her crown gleamed faintly in the starlight.

Harry swallowed. “Was this… you?”

She tilted her head. “No. You came of your own accord. That you found me again is only proof that you are listening.”

“I don’t even know what I’m hearing,” he said quietly.

“Not yet,” she agreed. “But you will.”

He looked around. “Is this real?”

“It is as real as prophecy, or grief, or the weight of magic in your blood.” She stepped closer. “You carry something ancient, Hárekr. Not just Loki’s blood, but his legacy. That is no light mantle. But you are not him. You are not me. You are something new.”

Harry looked down at his hands. They didn’t look different, but something inside him had shifted. He could feel it—like the click of a door unlocking in a long hallway he hadn’t noticed before.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You were not meant to be told. You were meant to choose.”

She stopped beside him, and for the first time, her voice softened.

“As I have said, I do not offer comfort, but I offer truth—you are not alone in this. You never were. The paths ahead are shadowed, yes, but not unlit.”

She paused.

“When you find your father,” she finally added, “ask him the question he has never answered aloud. Ask him why he stopped building weapons, and who he was trying to become when he stopped.”

Harry blinked. “What does that mean?”

But the mist was already rising again, cool and thick, curling up around her like a shroud.

She raised a hand—not in farewell, but in warning. “Be careful who claims to know your name.”

And then she was gone.

Harry woke with a start, shirt rucked up and the pendant warm against his chest. Outside the hotel window, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows between the buildings. For the second time, the echo of her voice lingered behind his eyes.

And somehow, he knew he’d see her again.

Night fell heavy over Manhattan, cloaking the sharp angles of the buildings in shadow and glinting light. Streetlamps flickered to life in rows, and somewhere above the noise and steam of the city, sirens wailed and car horns blared in answer.

Harry couldn’t sleep.

Even after his long day, even after lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling for nearly an hour, he couldn’t settle. His magic was too close to the surface—stirred, restless, like an animal pacing a cage.

So he went walking.

It was novel in that he didn’t have to tell anyone, didn’t have to leave a note, didn't have to worry about being mobbed by hundreds of people. He just pulled on a hoodie, slid the pendant under his shirt, and stepped out into the night. He felt free in a way he hadn't felt since the end of fourth year.

The sidewalks were still busy—this city never seemed to stop—but it wasn’t the chaotic rush of midday anymore. Now, it was something different. Couples strolling with takeaway, kids on bikes weaving through the crowd, the occasional busker playing jazz or strings, notes drifting like smoke.

Harry walked without purpose, letting the map in his front pocket bend with every block. He passed glowing diners and window displays full of suits he could probably afford but wouldn't want to wear, bookstores just about to close, bodegas with bells on the door and mismatched neon signs and graffiti. He didn’t know where he was heading, but he liked it better this way—this aimless sort of forward motion. It felt like he was allowed to exist without needing to explain himself.

But after a while, the lights thinned. The shops grew sparser. The foot traffic slowed. He turned down a narrower street—quieter, dimmer, where the buildings pressed a little closer together and the pavement felt older beneath his feet. A wrong turn, maybe, but he realised it too late.

“Hey,” came a voice from the alley mouth beside him.

Harry turned—reflexively polite, automatically wary. A man stood in a heavy coat and a dark knit mask pulled low over his face. In his hand was a knife, not particularly large, but held like he knew how to use it.

“Wallet,” the man said flatly. “And phone. Don’t be stupid.”

Harry froze, brain scrambling.

No cloak. No easy way out without flashing his wand in a city where the Statue of Secrecy likely hung by a thread. He could feel the pendant pulse faintly against his chest, like it wanted to react, but he had no idea what it would make him do.

The man stepped forward, agitated. “Hey —I said—”

And then something thwipped through the air.

A blur of red and blue dropped from the fire escape above, landing between them with a solid, easy crouch that should’ve sounded heavier than it was. The figure was lean, wiry, balanced like a spring mid-coil.

“Okay,” the newcomer said, voice light but edged. “Nobody do anything dramatic. Especially you with the knife. I haven’t had dinner yet, and you really don’t wanna be the reason I miss Thai night.”

The mugger recoiled a step, jerking his knife forward reflexively. “What the fuck—?”

“Language,” the figure chided—definitely a teen, Harry realised now, not much older than him. “Also, wow, do you know how cliché alleyway muggings are? Like, it’s 2015, dude. The internet exists. Go be evil from your sofa.”

The man moved like he was going to bolt—but faked right and lunged left instead, slashing wildly with the knife. Harry’s wand hand twitched by reflex, half-raised to call it.

But he didn’t need it.

In a blink, the stranger twisted out of the way, flipped over the man’s shoulder, and landed behind him with all the grace of an acrobat and none of the sound. A sharp thwip split the air—and a strand of something white and sticky caught the mugger’s wrist mid-swing, yanking the blade from his fingers and pinning it to the alley wall.

“Seriously?” the boy said, tilting his head. “You tried to stab a teenager and you wore off-brand sneakers to do it? What are we doing in our life, man?”

The mugger snarled and reached for a second knife tucked in his boot.

“Behind you!” Harry shouted.

The boy ducked low just as the man slashed upward. He spun and kicked the mugger square in the chest—hard enough to knock the air from him, but not enough to seriously harm. The man hit the wall and sagged, dazed. Another thwip—this one longer, with more tension—and the attacker was webbed up like a caterpillar in a cocoon, mouth open in a groan and arms bound tight to his sides.

Harry stood frozen in place, chest heaving. His fingers still hovered in position to call his wand.

The masked and goggled teen turned to him at last, arms loose at his sides, posture relaxed but alert. “You okay?” he asked. “Not gonna pass out or anything, right? I don’t do well with that. Kind of a one-trauma-at-a-time policy.”

Harry blinked. “You’re—er. Yeah. Fine. I'm fine.” A pause. “That was—thanks.”

“No problem.” The boy—dressed in a blue and red sweatsuit and mask with homemade goggles that looked only slightly ridiculous—gave a little shrug. “Dude picked the wrong night. My pad khee mao is literally getting cold right now.” He turned to survey the bound mugger, and even though Harry couldn't see his expression, he could hear the wrinkled nose of disgust when he said, “Ugh. You even smell like bad decisions.”

Then, he turned to Harry again. “Listen, not trying to like, mom you or anything, but sketchy alleys? After midnight? Even I wouldn’t patrol this one if Google Maps rated neighborhoods. You're just lucky I was around tonight—normally I'm in Queens, so…”

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” Harry said, voice a bit thin.

The boy gave him a mock salute. “Be safe, tourist boy.”

With a flick of his wrist and a hiss of web, he launched upward—legs tucked in, lines taut, vanishing between two brick buildings like he belonged. For a long second, Harry just stood there.

The alley stank like old oil and rubbish, and somewhere behind him, the man still webbed to the wall gave a faint, squelching wriggle. But Harry barely registered it.

He hadn’t even needed his wand.

That was new.

He exhaled slowly, pulse starting to slow. New York was full of surprises. And for once… he wasn’t the one doing the saving. Instead, he had just been saved.

The hotel lobby was dim when Harry stepped back inside, his boots scuffed and damp with alley water, his heart still occasionally thudding in staccato rhythm against his ribs. The doorman gave him a nod but didn’t ask questions. Maybe he saw people come back like this all the time—wide-eyed and a little off-balance, like they’d seen too much of the city in one gulp.

Harry barely remembered the ride up in the lift.

He let himself into Room 615, toeing off his shoes and tossing his jumper onto the edge of the bed. The room hadn’t changed—same tidy edges, same filtered air, same slightly-too-bright lamp by the armchair—but everything inside Harry had. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, one hand still curled faintly as if gripping a wand that hadn’t left his jumper pocket.

He hadn’t used magic.

That was the part he couldn’t stop circling. He hadn’t needed to.

Some random kid had appeared—dropped from the sky like a bloody acrobat in pajamas—and just handled it. No wand, no incantation, no curses whispering through the air. Just quick movements, webs, and that voice—ridiculous and casual and weirdly comforting.

Harry stared at the space where the pendant rested against his sternum beneath his shirt. The boy. The dream. The mist. The name. All of it pressed behind his eyes like an itch he couldn’t reach. There was something waking up inside him. Something old. And yet here—here was someone younger than him, maybe, or his age at most, who made stopping violence look as easy as tying his shoes.

What was he supposed to do with that?

Harry got up and wandered into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face until the redness in his cheeks dulled. He caught his reflection in the mirror—faint bags under his eyes, faint shine to his skin, faint fear still tugging behind his ribs. But something else, too.

A pull. Not toward danger—but toward purpose.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, toweling off his face.

He padded back out into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed again, arms flung wide. His body was exhausted. But his mind was still chasing webs and laughter and the way that boy had landed like a dancer on a stage. His mind replayed the alley in fragments; the flash of silver, the adrenaline spike, the curl of fear—and then that ridiculous, brightly clothed figure dropping out of nowhere with a quip and control.

He’d said it so casually. You okay?

And Harry had said yes. Because for once… he had been. He hadn’t had to raise his wand. Hadn’t had to throw himself between danger and someone else. Hadn’t had to be the first one bleeding, or the last one standing.

He’d just… been helped. And it had felt—strange. Unfamiliar. But good.

Harry turned his head toward the window, where the faint lights of passing cars rippled across the ceiling. He’d spent so long bracing for the next disaster, for the next fight, the next burden someone else would lay at his feet and call destiny. He’d fought a war, buried friends, stood alone in the middle of a forest and let death brush its fingers over his shoulders. And tonight, someone had seen him in danger—and stepped in.

No prophecy. No expectations. No price. Just help .

It felt… like a relief. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever really felt that before. He let out a breath and let the thought settle in beside him, quiet and unexpected and a little sharp around the edges.

Maybe this trip wasn’t just about finding his father. Maybe it was also about finding what it felt like not to carry the whole world alone.

Chapter Text

Fri 19th June, 2015

New York City

The city had stopped feeling like a marvel by the end of the first week.

It still shimmered, still pulsed with sound and life, but the novelty had worn away into something heavier—concrete and cold and uninterested in Harry’s search.

Every day started the same; a quiet breakfast at the diner Lena had taken a shine to him in, followed by hours of walking, circling neighborhoods, tracing names from public directories, MACUSA records, and even old Daily Bugle articles Hermione had stuffed in his itinerary in colour coded fragments.

Every night ended the same, too—no answers, sore feet, and a hotel room that felt increasingly like a box.

He’d gone back to MACUSA three times. The  receptionists at the front desk had started to look apologetic when he saw Harry walk in. Even the ever rotating security just seemed bored to see him. And always he got the same answer.

“No updates. Sealed records are sealed for a reason.”

He’d tried the address attached to one of the older Stark Industries subsidiaries. That building had been demolished four years ago. He’d tried calling the PR office listed on a flyer from the phone in his hotel room—then hung up immediately when the voicemail kicked in. He'd asked a librarian where Stark Industries was headquartered, and camped in the lobby of a massive glass skyscraper she'd directed him to for hours at a time.

He’d even asked a man wearing a vintage I survived Stark Expo shirt if he knew how to get in touch with Tony Stark. The man had laughed and said if Harry was trying to pitch new tech, he was better off applying for a shark tank. Why the man thought he'd want to keep sharks, he had no idea.

Every lead ended in static.

And the strange thing was, Harry couldn’t even tell if he was more disappointed about not finding Tony Stark, or about how easily people dismissed the idea that someone might just want to meet him for reasons other than that he was wealthy or could give him a job.

The pendant remained warm most days. It hummed against his skin when he passed places with strong magic—an enchanted bookstore tucked behind a record shop in Greenwich Village, an odd knotted tree in Central Park, a subway entrance that flickered too much to be electrical.

But it gave him no directions. No names.

Some nights he walked for hours, hoping he'd spot something out of place—something meant for him.

Once, he thought he saw the blur of red and blue ducking over a rooftop near Midtown. His heart had kicked hard in his chest, but by the time he reached the alley, it was empty.

New York didn’t slow down for the lost.

Harry had known that, of course. But it didn’t make it sting less.

He was halfway through a cold sandwich on the steps outside the New York Public Library when he finally admitted it to himself.

He didn’t know what he was doing anymore.

The fire in the hotel room flared green for just a moment before dying down, leaving behind only the faint scent of ash and the flickering silence of early evening.

Harry slumped back on the floor, legs stretched out toward the hearth, the warmth of the flames quickly dissipating across the thin hotel carpet.

Hermione’s voice still echoed in his ears. “I know it’s frustrating, but you’re doing everything right, Harry. It was never going to be easy. Just… don’t lose heart. Please.”

He had nodded, said he wouldn’t. Lied, maybe.

“Take a break,” she’d added. “Go flying. You always think better in the air. Just don’t let anyone see you—wear the cloak, or something. Muggles won't be as chill about flying brooms as MACUSA pretends to be and you don't want to break the Statute.”

Harry stared out the window for a long moment, then got to his feet.

His Firebolt was tucked neatly into an expanded Muggle sports bag, unassuming and charm-locked. The cloak was folded beneath a veritable mountain of biscuits and sweets from home. He took both.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out onto the hotel roof through a maintenance hatch, checking once—twice—for cameras or onlookers. Then he threw the cloak over his shoulders, mounted his broom, and rose into the air.

The moment the city dropped away beneath him, something in his chest loosened.

Below, the buildings gleamed like polished obsidian and glass. The rush of traffic softened into a low hum, and the lights smeared into rivers of gold and white. Steam rose in soft columns from rooftop vents. Yellow cabs dotted the streets like blinking beetles. Pedestrians were little figures made of motion and heat and noise.

From up here, the city was indifferent—not cruel, just vast and impersonal.

He banked gently, soaring between two towers that looked like silver fangs catching the last of the sunlight. He could see the river now—its surface flashing with traffic—and beyond it, the dark quilt of the boroughs, stitched together with bridges and headlights and motion.

No one looked up. No one ever did.

Up here, he wasn’t Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He wasn’t Hárekr Anthony Lokisson, son of prophecy and half-divine.

He was just a boy on a broom.

He tilted into a wide arc and followed the skyline, the cloak streaming behind him, the pendant at his chest beating softly with a pulse that matched the city’s.

It was peaceful.

After an hour or so, Harry landed lightly on a quiet rooftop, boots touching down with the barest scrape of sound against gravel.

He waited for a beat—ten heartbeats, maybe twenty—listening. Nothing but wind between the buildings and the soft, distant sigh of the city below. He’d been flying too long in open air—even under the cloak. Someone might’ve seen. Some Muggle with a long-range lens, or a drone, or one of those high-end security systems that could catch a flicker of boot leather through a gust of wind. This wasn’t the countryside. It wasn’t Hogwarts.

With a flick of his wand, he shrank the broom and tucked it into his pocket. The invisibility cloak slipped from his shoulders with a faint, silken hiss, damp with humidity and faintly static against his fingers. It pooled at his feet in a heap of liquid silver.

He didn’t fold it. Didn’t hide it.

Instead, he walked to the edge of the rooftop and sat, legs dangling into the empty air.

The city stretched out below him, vast and glittering, pulsing with a thousand lights and lives he couldn’t quite touch. It breathed and shimmered, a living thing—too large to understand, too fast to follow.

And still… after eleven days of searching, it didn’t see him.

Harry's fingers curled around the pendant beneath his shirt. It was warm, solid, quietly thrumming with magic. A name no one here knew. A story even he hadn’t finished reading.

When he asked people how to meet Tony Stark, they always assumed he wanted something—a job, a photograph, a shot at the gilded orbit. They didn’t understand. He didn’t care about fame. He didn’t care about money.

He just wanted to know if someone might see him. Not his scar. Not the prophecy. Not the hero.

Just Harry.

He leaned his chin against his knees and stared out over the city. It really was beautiful from up here. The streets unfolded in every direction—restless and radiant, stitched together by headlights and halogen, rising into steel spires and dipping into shadowed alleys. From this height, the chaos softened into something almost gentle. Almost manageable.

It was so easy to feel small.

Harry closed his eyes, the wind tugging at his hair, cool against the heat pressed behind his ribs.

“What am I even doing,” he murmured, not really expecting an answer.

The wind gave none. Just the hush of air and height and silence too big to fill.

He was tired—tired of chasing shadows, of waking each day with hope and ending it with nothing but another circle on the map. Tired of feeling like a question no one could answer. Of waiting—for Hela’s prophecy to unfold, for the battle he was fighting to find his father, for the fallout of their first meeting. 

He just wanted it to be over. To know. To have found Tony, or failed to. To understand the magic in his blood, to have a grip on the strange power rising in him instead of fearing what might happen if he let it slip. To make whatever choice Hela had spoken of, and stop waiting for it to be made for him.

And— Merlin —he wanted to be loved .

Not in the way he’d been before; not in that distant, tragic kind of way. Not just in sacrifice or friendship or loyalty earned by war. Not by figures locked on the other side of the veil where he couldn't reach. But by someone living and breathing and whole who should have loved him the moment he drew his first breath.

By blood.

He’d never thought that mattered much. Everyone had said it didn’t. He’d told himself it didn’t. That the family you chose—Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, Sirius, Hedwig, Remus—that was what mattered.

And it was.

But now, with the truth resting against his chest in the shape of a pendant and a name he still wasn’t used to hearing in his own thoughts—Hárekr—he understood something else.

Just because he’d lived without it didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted it.

He wasn't sure if Hermione or the Weasleys could actually understand how he felt, no matter how much they loved him. They had a family—mothers and fathers and siblings—and even Sirius, who hated his parents and was reviled by them in turn—still had the privilege of knowing.

And now that the possibility existed—now that someone out there might be his father, alive and breathing and might even want to know him—he couldn’t stop the ache. Couldn’t pretend it didn’t sharpen every time he looked in the mirror and wondered if his eyes were actually his.

The city moved on below him, unaware, and Harry sat on the edge of the world, aching for something he couldn’t explain.

Behind him, something shifted on the roof—a faint thud, like rubber on gravel. Harry’s head snapped up just as a voice called out, rushed and nervous. 

“Whoa—hey, hey! Don’t—uh—just come on back, okay? It's not worth it.”

Harry blinked, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder.

A familiar figure in red and blue stood several paces away, slightly crouched, one hand half-raised like he was ready to lunge forward at any second. Big white eyes stared out from his goggles, in a way that felt absurdly expressive for a costume.

Harry frowned. “What?”

“You’re—on the edge of a very tall building. Alone. In the dark.” The figure stood, still hunched, and took a slow, cautious step forward. “I’ve, um—been taught to interpret that as a bad sign.”

It took Harry a beat to understand.

“Oh.” Harry’s brows lifted. “No— no, I wasn’t going to...”

The figure didn’t move right away, still braced like he might have to leap. “You sure?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Promise. I just… like the view.” His voice softened toward the end, and after a beat, he added under his breath, “Not sure I could die, even if I wanted to.”

It wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear. Just a mutter, barely there, bitterness tucked into the spaces between the words. And the figure either didn’t hear or pretended not to.

Instead, he straightened a little and rubbed the back of his head. “Okay. Cool. That’s—cool. Good. Because honestly, I have no idea how I’d web someone mid-fall, cause I already used most of my emergency web cartridges on a guy who tried to rob a laundromat with a plunger and I still have to swing home.”

Harry turned fully toward him now, legs still dangling off the ledge, expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“You’re the one from the alley,” he said slowly. “The… spider guy.”

“Technically, I never said spider anything,” the figure said, pointing a finger at him. “You said that. But yeah. That was me.” He stepped closer now, not exactly casual but no longer trying to intervene. “You’ve got a knack for ending up in trouble.”

Harry snorted. “You’ve got a knack for showing up.”

“Thanks,” the boy said brightly. “I try. Sort of my thing.”

They stood there in the breeze for a moment—Harry sitting, the stranger standing, the silence oddly comfortable now that it wasn’t teetering on the edge of disaster.

“Not gonna lie,” Spider-Guy added after a beat, “you scared me.”

Harry’s smile was tired, but genuine. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Just… thinking.”

“Deep thoughts?”

“Something like that.”

A pause, then the teen said, lightly, “Well, if you’re not up here to dramatically vanish into the night, you want company? I’ve got half a bagel in my pocket and zero plans.”

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then patted the ledge beside him. “Sure. Why not.”

The figure crossed the roof and plopped down next to him with a graceful sprawl.

Harry didn’t know who he was, or what he was doing on this rooftop, or why he kept appearing when Harry least expected it. But it was the first time in days, he didn’t feel quite so alone in New York.

They sat side by side on the roof ledge, the city sprawled out beneath them like a living map. The quiet between them stretched for a minute—windy and weirdly companionable—until the masked figure shifted suddenly and blurted, “So—are you, like, visiting? You’ve got an accent. Unless this is just a weird Borough accent I’ve missed somehow, in which case I’m so sorry.”

Harry blinked. “Uh. Visiting, yeah.”

“Cool, cool,” the boy said quickly. “That’s cool. London, right? Or maybe somewhere fancy that sounds like London? No offense if it’s not fancy. My ear for accents is garbage. It’s like trying to tune a radio with mittens on.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed.

The boy perked up. “Hey, a laugh! That’s good. I was worried I’d used up all my jokes on the laundromat guy.”

“You’re kind of…” Harry tilted his head. “Talkative.”

“Ah. Yes. That’s the polite way of saying it.” The boy nodded sagely. “My aunt calls it ‘nervous energy.’ My best friend calls it ‘a security risk.’ But I like to think of it as ambiance.”

“You remind me of someone I knew,” Harry said, more to himself than anything, thinking back on Colin Creevy. It brought a heavy ache to his chest, guilt weighing down his shoulders.

“Oh no, I’m sorry—unless they were cool? Were they cool?”

Harry smiled sadly. “He was.”

“Okay, phew.” The stranger nudged him gently with an elbow. “So. How’s the trip going?”

Harry hesitated. “It’s… rubbish, actually.”

The response was quiet. Unfiltered.

“Oh,” the boy said, and didn’t immediately follow it up with a joke. “That sucks. I'm sorry. You… you wanna talk about it?”

Harry let the silence hang for a second. The city below them kept moving—cars, buses, blinking lights—but the rooftop felt still. Detached.

And maybe that’s what did it.

Maybe it was the fact that he was a stranger in a strange city, sitting beside a stranger in a strange suit, and for once, there were no expectations, no legacy, no weight of being Harry Potter or Hárekr Lokisson or anyone at all. Because here, with someone who didn’t know his name or his past or what the world expected of him, it felt easier to speak.

So he said, “I came here looking for someone.”

The boy beside him tilted his head. “And you haven’t found them yet?”

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t even know if I’m close. Or if I’m doing it wrong. Or if they’d even want to be found.”

He rubbed his palms together slowly, staring at them like they could provide all the answers if he just looked hard enough. And maybe they could—he'd failed his Divination OWL so it's not like he could really tell.

“It’s this whole thing,” he went on. “I got letters sent 15 years too late and… it had some really life-changing information. About myself. About who I am and... and now it feels like I’m carrying around this massive truth and the only people who know are back in England.  But they couldn't come with me—I mean I'm sure they would've done if I asked them, but I've already asked them for too much already, and… I don't really know where to go from here.”

The boy beside him didn’t say anything at first.

Then, gently: “That sounds like a lot.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, exhaling. 

Another pause. Then the boy leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Well,” he said, voice a little softer now. “If it helps, I think you’re doing pretty good. Like, you’re not actively falling off a building, which is already a step up from earlier, in my opinion. And you’re talking about it, which, trust me, is harder than it sounds.”

Harry looked over at him, then shook his head with a rueful smile.

“You always listen to the problems of strangers on roofs?”

The boy shrugged, playful again. “What can I say? I make a decent emotional support spider.”

Harry laughed, startled and honest.

They sat in silence for a little while, the city humming beneath them—less overwhelming from this height, somehow. It gave Harry the illusion of distance, like all the noise and expectation couldn’t quite reach him up here.

Eventually, curiosity itched its way out of him.

“So,” he said, eyeing his red-and-blue tracksuit getup, “what’s with the suit?”

The boy turned to look at him. “What, this?” He gestured vaguely at himself. “This iconic ensemble?”

“Bit, well… dramatic, isn’t it?”

“I’ll have you know this is cutting-edge poly-blend courtesy of Goodwill.” He leaned back on his hands with mock pride. “You’re looking at New York’s friendly neighborhood superhero—Spider-Man.”

There was a long pause.

Harry blinked. “That’s… not a real thing or anything, is it?”

The boy’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

“You made that up, right? Superheroes don't exist… do they?”

“I—of course we do!” he said, genuinely affronted. “I did not make it up. It’s a thing! I’m a real superhero. Super powers and everything.”

“What, like in comic books?”

The boy stared. “You've gotta be kidding me.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “I’ve never heard of a real superhero.” 

He had memories of Dudley having a phase where he was particularly enamoured of a comic book figure in a dark suit and cape called Batman. He got a costume, once, for Christmas and had spent the entire holiday chasing Harry around Privet Drive claiming Harry was a ‘supervillain’. 

Mostly it was an excuse to pummel him.

The boy sat upright like someone had just insulted his nan. “You’ve never heard of— wait, hang on. Are you serious right now? Captain America? The X-men? The Black Widow? Iron Man?! The Avengers!? I mean, I think New York was the only place affected by the Chitauri, but still—have you been living under a rock?”

Harry hesitated. “Sort of. More like… a castle without electricity, technically.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. “Oh,” he said, “That… actually makes sense.”

Harry gave him a look.

“Sorry, I just— wow. Okay. Right. So, um. Superheroes are, like… people with powers or tech or both who fight crime and try not to get arrested for public damage in the process. There are a lot of us, depending on the month. Some are government-sponsored, some freelance. Some of us are… newer.”

Harry squinted. “And people just… accept you?”

He gave a helpless shrug. “Define ‘accept.’ It’s New York. Someone saw a guy in a flying suit fire lasers at a wormhole once and still left a Yelp review of the city about it being a three-star Tuesday.”

Harry barked a surprised laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Thank you!” he threw his hands up. “But somehow also very true.”

Harry looked down at the city. “So you… just swing around like this? Helping people?”

“When I can,” the boy said, softer now. “I’m still figuring it out, too. Balancing things. Powers, life, school. It’s a mess. But— someone has to try, right?”

Harry watched him for a long moment. “You could get hurt.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. But I’d rather be hurt doing something that matters than staying safe and sitting it out. If something happens and you have the ability to do something to change it but do nothing… then whatever happens is your fault.”

Something sharp and familiar lodged in Harry’s chest at that.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Where I’m from, I’ve had to… stop things before. Dangerous people. It’s never easy, but… when you can do something—when you can stop it—you don’t just walk away.”

The boy tilted his head. “You, uh… you one of us, then?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Kind of. I mean… I have… abilities. There was a… bad guy, back home. He terrorised my… community. Killed and tortured people who he thought were less than—and they aren't —it was based on a principle of blood purity that's completely bullshit. Anyway, he was really powerful, and everyone was scared of him. He—I had to be the one to fight him, in the end.”

The boy didn’t press for more, and Harry was grateful for that. He wasn't sure how open about everything he could be with the Statute, especially in a foreign country.

The wind picked up again, tossing the stranger’s curls where they stuck out beneath the edge of his balaclava. He rummaged around in one of his belt pouches and came up with a slightly squashed brown paper bag.

“I know it’s not much,” he said, opening it and peering in, “but like I said, I’ve got half a bagel left from earlier. Everything. Cream cheese. Possibly the least fancy dinner on the eastern seaboard, but half of it’s yours if you want it.”

Harry blinked. “You… carry snacks while crime-fighting?”

The boy shrugged. “Look, I’ve got a metabolism like a squirrel in a Red Bull factory. And sometimes people in danger don’t want to be saved by a hangry teen. So. Preparedness.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he smiled. “Thanks.”

The teen tore the bagel piece in half and passed it over without ceremony.

They ate in silence for a moment, the boy pulling up the bottom part of his mask to reveal his mouth and chin, chewing thoughtfully and staring out over the city.

Then Harry asked, quietly, “So… Spider-Man, huh?”

His companion groaned softly. “Oh no. You’re going to use the voice now, aren’t you? The ‘I can’t believe that’s what you call yourself’ voice.”

Harry grinned into his bite. “I wasn’t, but now I’m considering it.”

The boy sighed dramatically and flopped back on the ledge like he’d been mortally wounded.

“I’m trying to take it seriously,” Harry said.

“No, you’re not,” the teen said through a mouthful of bagel, “but it’s kind of refreshing.”

Another beat of quiet passed. Harry looked over at him again.

“So… what’s your name? Your real one, I mean.”

His companion hesitated.

It wasn’t a long pause, but it was just long enough for Harry to notice it. Long enough for something like guilt or nerves to flicker across his body language.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry said quickly. “I can understand—secret identities, masks, the danger you put people in if they knew you, all that. It’s fine.”

And he did know. He desperately wished he could have been anonymous, in the Wizarding World. Have some element of normalcy in his life. The boy sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No, it’s not that,” he said. “I mean it is —I don’t usually… some supers reveal their identity, but I'm really new, and I'm still in high school, but… if you're a super, too, I…”

He looked over at Harry, really looked at him. There was something in his expression barely outlined through the balaclava and goggles—not just curiosity now, but the quiet recognition of someone else carrying too much.

“You seem like you could use someone being real with you.”

Before Harry could respond, the boy reached up and peeled the mask off.

He was cute in an innocent, doe-like way. Messy brown curls framed warm, wide brown eyes. His face looked barely older than his own, open and slightly flushed from the wind.

“I’m Peter,” he said. “Peter Parker. What's your name?”

Harry blinked.

“Oh,” he said. Then, quietly, “I'm Harry. Harry Potter.”

Peter gave him a crooked, sheepish smile. “Hi, Harry. Nice to officially meet you.”

They sat together for a while, letting the night roll by in waves of city noise and shifting wind, until Peter swung his legs gently over the edge, gaze tracking a helicopter slicing through the sky above.

“So,” Peter said eventually, voice casual, “you here on your own?”

Harry hesitated. “Yeah.”

Peter looked over at him. “Like— completely on your own?”

“Mm.” Harry nodded, then glanced down. “Came over from England about a week and a half ago.”

Peter blinked. “That’s… kind of wild. You don't look much older than me—how old are you?”

Harry gave a half-smile. How much to tell? Peter had just shared his entire identity with Harry, even if it was meant to be a secret. And he'd already given him something of an outline of his issues. It felt good to open up to someone after years of hoarding secrets like a dragon protecting their eggs. 

“I'm 17. In my… community, you're considered an adult at that age, but I think in England in general I'm still considered a minor. I know it's young to be travelling alone, but… the trip wasn't really planned. I got some letters—the ones I mentioned—just after defeating the uh… bad guy. One was from my mum. Or who I grew up thinking was my mum, anyway. She and my dad died when I was a baby. Actually the uh… bad guy killed them, and tried to kill me but I survived. So the letter was a big deal—I don't really have any memories of them, you know? But she wrote that I was adopted. She included a letter from my birth mother who—it's complicated. My… powers come from her, and—” He stopped himself briefly.

That was right, his magic came from his mother. Was Asgardian magic the same as human magic? Was he even considered a Wizard? Did Wizarding laws even apply to him? He tabled the thought to wait and speak with Hermione since Peter was watching him, face open and expectant. “And her letter says my birth father is still alive. That he’s here. So I came to try and find him.”

Peter went quiet for a second.

“That’s a lot to shoulder all at once,” he said softly.

Harry shrugged, still watching the streetlights blur below. “It doesn’t feel real, half the time. Like—I grew up thinking I was alone in the world. Or at least, that the people who’d loved me were all dead. And then suddenly there’s this whole other version of my life I never knew existed. I even… even my real name is different. Or my birth name, I guess. And after years of thinking that, now I'm told my dad is still alive, but he doesn't even know I exist. And even if I did meet him, would he even accept me? I'm… I've had to deal with a lot the last few years and I doubt I'm the kind of kid anyone would be proud of. I was pretty… mediocre at school—I didn't really try as hard as I could. I…and my powers are—well, I'm not sure he'd accept me.”

“Man,” Peter breathed. “That’s… yeah. I feel that. Not exactly the same way, but…”

Harry tilted his head toward him. “Do you… are you…?” he trailed off—there was no great way to ask if someone was an orphan, really.

But Peter seemed to understand anyway. He nodded, eyes distant. “My parents died when I was really little, in a plane crash. I was six, and went to live with my aunt and uncle. They're… they’re great, but they never really wanted kids, you know? I always kinda felt like a burden, even when they assured me I wasn't. Then I got these powers—super strength and hearing and stuff, and I couldn't tell them. I just… I'm already not their kid and now they have to deal with that on top of everything else. Then… my uncle died, too. Couple years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Peter waved it off with a half-hearted shrug, but there was something brittle behind his grin. “Yeah. Me too.”

They sat in silence for a moment—just the breeze and the soft hiss of tires far below.

“I don’t think I ever really processed it,” Peter said eventually. “Not properly. I mean, May—my aunt—she’s amazing . But I know it's hard for her to raise me by herself. I try to be good—keep up my grades and keep away from bullies while I'm not actively out as Spider-Man, but I don't want to burden her with yet another thing. And sometimes I wonder if there’s stuff I missed, you know? Like… answers I’ll never get because I never thought to ask the question until it was too late. And as much as I love May and she loves me, I always have this like… voice in the back of my head that reminds me that she isn't even a blood relative and she's still doing all of this for me. Taking care of me. So I want to try extra hard to make it easy for her. She doesn't deserve to have to deal with all this.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

Peter leaned back on his hands again, glancing over at him. “So… what now? I mean, what happens if you find him?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “That’s the part that scares me.”

“Well,” Peter said thoughtfully, “at least you’re doing something. That’s more than a lot of people.”

Harry smiled faintly. “You think?”

“I know.” Peter nudged him lightly. “You got on a plane and crossed an ocean to chase hope. That’s superhero material.”

Harry snorted. “You’re a terrible influence.”

Peter grinned. “Yeah, well. I’ve been called worse.”

The quiet between them settled again—comfortable now, no longer burdened with the sharp edge of uncertainty.

Peter stretched his arms behind his head and let out a low sigh. “So… how long are you in town for, anyway?”

Harry glanced at him, uncertain. “Uh. Technically four weeks. So I’ve got… two and a half left, I guess.”

Peter tilted his head. “You say that like you’re not planning to stay the whole time.”

Harry hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about going back early. I’m not really getting anywhere, and it’s… kind of exhausting. Being here alone.”

Peter sat up a bit straighter, frowning. “Hey, don’t say that. I mean, I get it, yeah—but you’ve come this far. You can’t give up yet.”

Harry looked down at his hands. “Feels like I already have.”

“Well… then un -give up,” Peter said, nudging him lightly. “You don’t have to do it all today, you still have some time. Just keep going. Baby steps, right?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately, but there was something in Peter’s tone—gently firm, the kind of belief Harry wasn’t used to getting from strangers, only from Ron and Hermione—that made him pause. 

Then Peter said, a little hesitant, “You know, I could help. Even if it's just someone to talk to—or I dunno, someone who knows the city better—I could give you my number?”

Harry blinked. “Your number?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, pulling a pen from somewhere in his suit and patting his pockets. “Or I can text you, but—wait—castle without electricity... Please tell me you have a phone.”

“I don’t have a phone. Well…I have the phone in my hotel, but not a mobile.”

Peter stared. “Seriously?”

“I’m not even sure I know how to use a mobile properly,” Harry admitted.

“That is…” Peter waved his hands. “Wild. But also kind of adorable in a very medieval, mysterious-boy-from-afar kind of way.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Hang on,” Peter said, rummaging in another one of his belt pouches. “I have an old phone—like, it still works, I just upgraded. It’s not fancy, but it has texting and maps and stuff—ah damn, I don't think I brought it with me.”

“You… carry extra phones?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m a teenage superhero. I carry a lot of weird stuff.”

Harry gave him a skeptical look, but Peter grinned. “Seriously, you can have it. You really need a phone, or at least something with the internet if you're on a manhunt. Just come by my place tomorrow and I’ll get you set up and show you the basics. My Aunt’s cooking is… questionable. But there’s always food.”

Harry felt wary, but also hopeful. Having someone who knew the city might be what he needed to find his dad. And if he tried anything, Harry could just stun him and Apparate away, so what was the harm? “You sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You’re not,” Peter said firmly. “I’m inviting you.”

That made Harry go quiet again, in a thoughtful way. Eventually, he nodded. “Alright. Yeah. I’d like that—thank you.”

Peter beamed. “Awesome. I’ll meet you outside your hotel—which one is it? And would 3pm be ok? It's just… I live in Queens, so it'll take a bit to get there on the subway, and since it's summer I usually sleep till noon.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Sure, 3 is fine. I'm staying at the Andover Hotel. The one by the Woolworth Building.”

“Great! Oh, and my best friend Ned? Total tech genius. Like, if your dad’s even vaguely connected to anything in this city, he can probably find him. I could see if he'll come and bring his laptop?”

Harry blinked. “You’d do that for me? Both of you?”

Peter gave him a sideways look. “I'm Spider-Man, remember? It's my job to help people. I think helping you find your dad is the least I can do. And Ned—he's my guy in the chair. He loves doing this kinda stuff, you know… super stuff.”

Harry laughed—soft, disbelieving, a little shaky.

“Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow, then.”

Peter stood and offered a hand. “Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Sat 20th June, 2015

Midtown Manhattan – 2:58 PM

Harry stood near the revolving door of the hotel lobby, hands in his trouser pockets and the faint shimmer of the pendant tucked safely beneath his shirt. He was early. Of course he was. He’d been standing there for almost fifteen minutes, watching every teenager that passed and wondering if maybe last night had all been a dream. Or a very odd hallucination brought on by bad New York tap water.

But then, at precisely three o’clock, Peter Parker rounded the corner at a brisk walk, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be excited or nervous.

“Hey!” he called, jogging the last few steps. “You didn’t change your mind.”

“I almost did,” Harry admitted. “But… I figured if I was going to stay in the city, I might as well have one person I actually know.”

Peter laughed. “Fair enough. And hey, thanks again for not calling me creepy for inviting you over within twenty minutes of meeting you.”

“You gave me part of your bagel. That bought you some trust.”

“Bagels—the true key to international diplomacy,” Peter said solemnly. “You ready?”

Harry nodded, and they set off down the street.

They reached the nearest subway entrance and descended into a world of flickering fluorescents, peeling ads, and the low roar of a train pulling into the station.

“You ever used the subway before?” Peter asked as they swiped their Metrocards.

“No,” Harry said. “I had to ask someone at the hotel and they sold me a card.”

Peter winced sympathetically. “Alright, first rule of New York transit—don’t make eye contact with anyone playing a harmonica. Or a ferret. Or both.”

“That’s… incredibly specific.”

“You’d be surprised.”

They caught a Q train headed downtown, and Harry followed Peter’s lead onto the car. It wasn’t too crowded—just a few commuters and a man asleep under a tattered blanket. Peter gestured to two seats near the end, and they sat side by side as the train lurched into motion.

“You ever been on a train like this at all?” Peter asked.

“I went on the tube once,” Harry replied, glancing around. “But mostly I've just taken normal trains.”

If the Hogwarts Express could be considered, well, normal.

Peter nodded slowly. “Well, welcome to the subway. Half miracle, half medieval torture device. If we’re lucky, the AC will work.”

They chatted as the train snaked through Manhattan—Harry asking questions about boroughs and neighborhoods, Peter explaining which subway lines smelled like regret and which were “only mildly haunted.”

By the time they emerged from the underground and into the warm light of Queens, Harry found that his shoulders had relaxed without him even noticing.

“So this is your neighborhood?” he asked as they climbed the stairs to the street.

“Yup. Sunny Ridgewood. You’ll love it—it’s got charm, and a lot less honking than Midtown.”

Harry glanced up at the rows of brownstones and little shops that lined the street. It felt quieter here. Lived in. Real.

Peter pointed to a brick building on the corner. “That’s us. My aunt’s cooking may be a mild health hazard, but she’s the best. Just a warning—she’s probably going to ask you a hundred questions.”

“I can handle that.”

Peter looked at him, something fond and surprised behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You'll be fine.”

The stairwell smelled faintly of takeout and detergent, and Harry followed Peter up two flights of creaky steps, the hum of a nearby television leaking through the thin walls.

Peter stopped at a green-painted door with a slightly crooked number 5B and pulled it open without knocking.

“Aunt May?” he called. “We’re back!”

The apartment was small but homey, filled with mismatched furniture, soft lighting, and the smell of something suspiciously tomato-based drifting in from the kitchen. Harry hovered just inside the doorway, unsure whether to remove his shoes.

A woman appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her expression softened the moment she saw Peter—and immediately grew curious when she spotted Harry behind him.

“Oh, this must be your new friend!” she said brightly, moving forward. “Hi, I’m May—Peter’s aunt, unofficial roommate, and habitual overfeeder.”

Harry smiled awkwardly and offered his hand. “Harry. It’s really nice to meet you.”

She shook it warmly. “Likewise! Peter’s told me… well, very little actually, but that’s par for the course.”

Peter coughed. “I was gonna give you the full rundown later.”

“Uh-huh,” May said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, it’s nice to have you here. Are you staying for dinner?”

“I—” Harry started.

“Yes,” Peter said quickly, shooting Harry a look before he could argue. “We’re starving.”

May snorted. “You’re always starving. Dinner’s at five. Ned coming too?”

“Yeah, he texted—should be here in a bit,” Peter said, already steering Harry down the narrow hall. “We’ll be in my room until then.”

“Doors stay open!” May called after them.

“May!”

Peter’s bedroom was small and cluttered but clearly lived-in. Posters of various science fiction films and blueprints for homemade gadgets covered the walls. There was a single desk stacked with notebooks, a large pile of what Harry recognised as Lego pieces, a surprisingly neat bunk bed, and a laptop that looked like it had been built from scratch.

Harry paused by the doorway, taking it all in.

“This is… actually really nice,” he said.

Peter shrugged, tossing his backpack onto the bed. “It’s home. Bit of a mess sometimes, but it’s mine.” He looked back at Harry and grinned. “And now that I’ve successfully tricked you into staying for dinner, welcome, officially, to the Parker residence.”

Harry huffed a laugh and leaned against the doorframe, strangely touched by the casual warmth.

“Thanks,” he said. “For all of this.”

Peter plopped down on the lower bed with a dramatic sigh. “Hey, you’re the one who looked like you needed a rescue mission. I just showed up.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “With a bagel.”

“With half a bagel,” Peter corrected, grinning. “I’m not that generous.”

Peter gestured for him to step inside, then darted to his desk and started rifling through a drawer. “I knew I hadn’t lost it,” he muttered triumphantly, pulling out a slightly scuffed but perfectly intact mobile. “This was my backup before I upgraded. Still works great. I got you a prepaid SIM, too.”

He turned and offered it to Harry like it was some kind of relic. “It’s not the newest StarkPhone model, but she’s sturdy, loyal, and already charged.”

Harry took it gingerly, turning it over in his hands like it might bite him. “Right. Okay. So… how does it work?”

Peter blinked. “You really don’t use phones, huh?”

“I wasn’t allowed one growing up,” Harry said with an awkward shrug. “And honestly, I’ve been a bit busy.”

Peter grinned and moved to stand beside him. “Alright, Professor Potter, let’s start with the basics.” He unlocked the screen with a few quick taps. “This is your home screen. You swipe here to get to your apps—those little squares are basically magic tools that do stuff. Messaging, calling, directions, music, games, calculator. All that good stuff.”

Harry peered at it. “It’s like a really tiny, flat, magical computer.”

“I mean… kind of?” Peter said, delighted. “Now I wanna call it that.”

He spent a few minutes helping Harry navigate the menus, set up a simple passcode (“Don’t pick 1-2-3-4, please, I’ll cry”), and showed him how to open the text app and answer calls. Harry learned to tap and scroll with intense concentration, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried to remember which icon did what.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Peter said reassuringly. “And hey—my number’s already in there. Ned’s too. Just text us if you get lost or bored or need someone to explain why American bathrooms have that weird gap under the doors.”

Before Harry could reply, there was a knock at the bedroom door, followed by Aunt May’s cheerful call. “Peter! Your partner in crime’s here!”

Peter groaned. “That’s Ned.”

He swung the bedroom door open just as a dark haired boy bustled in, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes already darting around with the energy of someone fully expecting chaos.

He stopped cold when he spotted Harry sitting casually on the lower bunk.

“Dude,” Ned said slowly, narrowing his eyes at Peter. “You met him last night and just invited him over? What if he was an axe murderer?”

He turned to Harry. “And you just said yes? You don’t know he’s not an axe murderer.”

Harry blinked. “Well, he did stop someone from mugging me and then offered me half a bagel, so… figured I’d take my chances.”

Peter raised a hand. “See? Bagel-sharing. That’s not very axe-murdery.”

Ned gave them both a look, then sighed with mock exasperation. “You two are definitely going to get us all murdered.”

Harry offered a faint smile. “Sorry. Wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I was just… up on a rooftop last night, thinking. Peter thought I was about to do something drastic—which I wasn’t, but we talked and he offered to help.”

Ned’s expression shifted, his suspicion softening into something closer to disbelief. “Okay… that’s actually kind of wholesome. But still— seriously , Peter?”

Peter threw up his hands. “What? He’s a super too! And he needed help! Was I supposed to just not help him?”

Ned’s eyes widened like saucers. “You told me it was family stuff. Not origin story stuff!”

Harry blinked, still seated cross-legged on the bed. “Er… what?”

Ned turned back to him and stuck out his hand with dramatic flair. “Ned Leeds. Research guy, also known as Spider-Man’s Guy in the Chair. Peter’s best friend, co-conspirator in all things weird and potentially illegal, and occasional moral compass. Also, huge fan of not dying so you better not be an axe murderer.”

Harry shook it, bemused. “Right. Nice to meet you. And thanks for, you know, helping.”

“So, I hear you’re trying to find your dad,” Ned said, whipping out a notebook and pen like a journalist at a press conference. “And Peter said it’s important, so—hit me. Names, dates, scandalous family secrets, anything that’ll help me legally stalk someone for a noble cause.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re… very into this.”

Ned grinned. “You have no idea. If you’re a super like Peter and trying to find your long-lost dad? That’s premium superhero origin story content.”

Harry glanced at Peter, who just shrugged, resigned, and mouthed, Let him be excited.

Harry took a breath. “I haven’t told many people this,” he said slowly. “But a friend of mine—Hermione—she did some research after I got a letter from my birth mum. She said… my biological father is someone famous.”

Both boys blinked.

“Famous how?” Ned asked, lowering the pen slightly. “Like… actor famous? Reality TV famous? Secret royal?”

Harry shook his head. “She said he’s an inventor.”

He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded, worn letter. His fingers moved with care as he opened it and pointed to a line halfway down, making sure that other parts of the letter were covered.

“He’s American. I’d never heard of him until the letter. His name is Tony Stark.”

Ned froze. “What?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—Tony Stark?”

Harry frowned. “You know him?”

“Know him?” Peter repeated, flabbergasted. “He’s, like… a global icon.”

Harry blinked, frowning. It wasn't like Hermione to be misinformed, and he'd seen all those adverts... but what did he know about famous people? Or, rather, normal famous people? Wasn't there an actor who was made the governor of California? Why couldn't Tony Stark also be an actor? “Wait, so he is a film star?”

Peter and Ned stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“No,” Ned said slowly, reverently. “He’s Iron Man.”

“Who?” Harry asked, thoroughly confused now.

Peter stood up and pointed at a huge poster of what appeared to be a red and gold robot flying over New York. “Iron Man. Tony Stark. Billionaire inventor? The guy who built an arc reactor? He flies around in a suit of armor and saves the world. Frequently.”

Harry just blinked at them. “...Are you taking the piss?”

“No!” Ned said, almost tripping over himself in his eagerness. “We’re completely serious. He’s one of the Avengers —super famous. Like, global icon famous. Also kind of impossible to get in touch with, but don’t worry—we’ll figure something out.”

Harry’s expression went flat. “Hermione never said anything about… whatever that is. Avengers? What does that even mean? How am I supposed to find him?”

Peter gave a low whistle. “Either she didn’t want to overwhelm you… or she seriously underestimated how weird your life is.”

“But hey,” Ned added quickly, “you’ve got us now. We’re in this.”

Harry hesitated, then slowly pulled the pendant from beneath his shirt. It shimmered faintly in the room’s light—green, serpentine, and otherworldly.

Both Peter and Ned leaned in at once, eyes wide.

“Whoa,” Ned whispered. “That looks… alien.”

“It was a gift,” Harry said, voice quiet. “From him. To my mum. Before I was born.”

Peter looked at him, all wide eyes and cautious awe. “So… Iron Man might be your dad.”

“I guess so,” Harry said. “I just didn’t know he wore a bloody suit of armour.”

Peter let out a choked laugh. “Understatement of the decade.”

Ned’s thumbs were already flying across his phone screen. “We have to figure out how to get you a meeting. This is Avengers -level drama.”

Harry glanced between them, equal parts bewildered and amused. “You two are completely ridiculous.”

Peter grinned and bumped his shoulder. “Yeah, but we’re your ridiculous now.”

With a dramatic sigh, Ned finally dropped his backpack and flopped into Peter’s desk chair, still staring at Harry like he’d just summoned a unicorn from thin air. “Okay. So—your biological father might be Tony Stark. Tony. Stark.”

Harry exhaled through his nose. “Yes. Possibly. I have… a few reasons to think so.”

Peter, still sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed, leaned forward. “Okay, so we need a plan—I mean we can’t just Google ‘how to meet Iron Man.’”

Ned snorted. “I did try that once, actually. Not under these exact circumstances, but…”

“And?”

“Apparently there’s a fan club, but I don’t think mailing in a glossy photo is the vibe.”

Harry sighed. “I did try waiting around that big building in the lobby for three days straight and nothing.”

“Okay,” Peter said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “So we need a real plan. Something better than joining a fanclub or standing outside Stark Tower with a sandwich board.”

Ned, sprawled in Peter’s desk chair, waved a hand. “I say we get his attention somehow. It’s probably the easiest way, since your maybe-dad is also maybe the most paranoid man in New York, so…”

“Is he?” Harry asked.

Peter and Ned exchanged a look.

Peter coughed. “Let’s just say—Stark doesn’t exactly miss things.”

“Okay,” Harry said, slowly. “Then what?”

“Well,” Peter said, “the best way to get noticed by a Stark-level genius is to do something Stark-level weird.”

“Or impressive,” Ned added. “Or dangerous. Preferably not all three at once.”

Peter nodded. “Right. So—how about you come out on patrol with me?”

Harry blinked. “Patrol. Like… superhero patrol?”

“Yeah. We keep it chill. No crime lords or explosions, hopefully. Just… some basic web-slinging and suspicious activity monitoring.”

“And you think he’ll just… see us?”

Peter shrugged. “He has drones. And tower sensors. If we keep the patrol around Avengers Tower, it'll be more noticeable—and with two of us, instead of one, that'll be even moreso.”

Harry glanced between them. “This sounds… mildly insane.”

Peter grinned. “Welcome to New York.”

There was a beat, then Ned leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “Okay, but like… what are your powers? You said you have abilities, right?”

Harry hesitated. “Er. Sort of.”

Ned gestured broadly. “Super strength? Teleportation? Shapeshifting? Do you sparkle in the sunlight?”

“Wha—why would I…” Harry said, utterly confused.

Peter snorted. “Uh… you don't wanna know. Ignore him. Powers?”

“I mean, I’m not really sure what I can do yet,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s been changing recently. I haven’t really tested anything, and…” The words caught on his tongue, all of them edged with worry. He thought of the magic burning under his skin, of the weightless surge in his chest the last time it had rushed forward unbidden. He could feel it now—buzzing faintly beneath his fingertips like it was waiting.

“You don’t have to tell us,” Peter added quickly. “Or show us. If it’s personal, or you’re not ready after defeating the bad guy you told me about—totally fine.”

Harry glanced over at the two of them—Peter, caught somewhere between excitement and real concern, and Ned practically vibrating with anticipation.

His mind flicked back to the Floo call from the night before. He’d paced his hotel room for half an hour, turning over what he'd realised on the rooftop—wondering what it meant to have Asgardian magic in his blood. He’d thought about telling Hermione, but then remembered Bill had seen it already; that pulse of strange, ancient magic the day the Goblin came to Grimmauld Place.

For all Hermione's brilliance, she hadn’t exactly studied Divine magic. Bill, though—a Gringotts curse-breaker—he’d worked with rare artefacts and in ancient places. He'd have to have at least brushed up against other magical traditions.

The firelight had danced over Bill’s face when he’d answered, brows raising in interest when Harry asked if he knew anything about Asgardian magic.

“I… it’s not my specialty,” Bill had admitted, “but I know a bit… Does this have anything to do with what happened when you signed the Gringotts contract?”

“Uh… yeah,” Harry had said. “I was just wondering—does the Ministry track it? Like, trace it like they do underage magic?”

Bill had gone thoughtful, then said carefully, “It’s not that simple. But technically, no. Asgardian magic doesn’t register the way human magic does. It’s not tied to Ministry detection—it’s older. Wilder. Closer to divine contracts or ritual currents than spellcasting.”

Harry had stared at him. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning, if what you’re using is actually Asgardian magic—and you’re doing it wandlessly—you’re a magical anomaly.” Bill had grinned, a little wry. “You’re probably safe. Just don’t blow up Manhattan. I’m pretty sure MACUSA would notice that.”

Now, sitting in Peter’s bedroom with the weight of secrecy coiled tight in his chest, Harry let out a breath.

Maybe it was fine to test something small. Maybe this was the place to do it—here, in a Muggle apartment, with no wands in sight, no Prophet waiting to sensationalise the fallout. Just two teenagers who’d already decided to believe in him.

He stood slowly. “Okay,” he said, voice steadier than he expected. “Something small.”

Peter and Ned both perked up like golden retrievers.

He looked around for something safe to try—his eyes landed on the slightly wrinkled t-shirt folded on the desk chair. That would do.

“All right,” he murmured, stepping to the center of the room. He raised a hand and focused. 

But just as he opened his lips to say the spell aloud, he felt it—the same spark he’d felt the night the letter from his mother had spelled out his full name. That same surge of energy, humming like something ancient and sharp and alive beneath his skin.

The shirt flew across the room like a missile and smacked him in the chest with a force that knocked him back into the closet doors with a clatter.

“Holy—!” Peter yelped.

“Dude,” Ned whispered. “That was awesome.”

“Was that, like, telekinesis?” Peter asked. “Man I wish I had telekinesis.”

Harry peeled the shirt from his face and stared at it, stunned. “That’s… not how that spell used to work.”

Peter blinked, eyes widening. “Wait, that was magic? That was legit magic? Like… Loki magic?”

Harry nodded, heart starting to pound at the mention of his mother. “Uh… surprise?”

Peter looked like he was about to pass out from excitement. “Oh my God you're magic.”

“Boys? Everything alright?” Harry heard May call, sounding both resigned and concerned. 

“Fine, Aunt May! Sorry, just… tripped over something!” Peter answered in a rush even as Harry tried to get used to the heavy, humming thrum of power that didn’t quite belong to the kind of magic he’d grown up with. It was familiar, but… different.

“Okay,” Ned said, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Can you do another one?”

Harry blinked. “You want me to do another spell?”

Peter nodded eagerly. “I mean, yeah. Unless you’re tired or it hurts or something?”

Harry hesitated. “It doesn’t hurt. It just… feels strange. Bigger than it should.”

Peter gave him a half-smile. “So maybe just… something small? Like, what’s the magical equivalent of making a light?”

Still unsure, Harry stood again, curling his fingers loosely like he might be holding a wand. He focused—not on power, not on will—but on intention. A simple light.

Same as before, just as he opened his mouth to incant,  there was a sound like a breath catching in the air—and then light exploded from his palm. Not just a little glow, but a golden-white flare that filled the entire bedroom like a miniature sun, casting sharp shadows and throwing Peter’s posters into stark contrast.

“AH—!” Ned threw an arm over his eyes. “TOO BRIGHT! I CAN SEE MY REGRETS!”

“Okay! Okay!” Peter shouted, stumbling back and nearly tripping over his desk chair. “I said small!”

Harry yelped, eyes wide, and opened his mouth to shout, “Nox!” but the light vanished before the words could escape. The sudden lack left the room plunged in relative dimness again, the only illumination now the soft afternoon glow leaking through the window blinds.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“…Whoa,” Ned breathed, slowly lowering his arm. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Ever. In my life. Sorry, Peter.”

Peter was blinking rapidly, still slightly dazzled. “I can’t feel my retinas, but agreed.”

Harry sat down hard on the bed again, hand still faintly tingling. “It’s not supposed to be like that. I don’t—” He looked down at his fingers, half-expecting them to still be glowing. “I used to barely manage a decent Lumos even with—even before.”

“Maybe it’s like… you’ve been leveled up?” Peter offered, still blinking.

“Like magical puberty,” Ned added. “But hotter.”

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please never say that again.”

Peter and Ned exchanged a glance, both clearly trying not to grin too hard.

“I’m serious,” Harry said, muffled. “I don’t know what this is. It’s not just stronger, it’s different. Wilder. And I don’t know how far I can push it before something goes wrong.”

Peter’s smile faded just a little. “Okay. Then we don’t push. Not yet.” He gave a wince that Harry could hear when he added, "Or in my bedroom—we can find a warehouse or something to test it out more.”

Ned nodded. “Yeah, that was plenty of proof for one afternoon. I’ll be seeing spots for the next two hours anyway.”

Harry peeked up through his fingers, finally allowing himself a reluctant smile. “Thanks.”

Peter nudged his ankle lightly. “You’re welcome, Magic Bagel Man,” before turning to Ned. “Okay, new plan—we go on patrol, but we keep Harry from blowing up any buildings by accident.”

Harry winced. “That might be harder than it sounds.”

Ned waved him off. “Nah, it'll be fine. We want flashy, remember? Now for a name… I vote, The Mighty Merlin!”

Harry blinked. “A name?”

“A superhero name,” Ned said, as if it were obvious. “You can’t just go around doing magic and saving people while being called, like, ‘Harry.’ No offense.”

Peter nodded sagely. “He’s got a point. You need something with punch. Gravitas. Mystique.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And you landed on Spider-Man?”

Peter flushed. “Hey! It was thematically relevant! I got bitten by a spider. It makes sense.”

“And it’s alliterative,” Ned added. “Which apparently is, like, 60% of being a superhero.”

“Okay, so…” Peter tapped his chin. “You do magic, but it’s, like, wild and ancient-feeling. Maybe something with ‘Mage’? Mageknight? Shadowmage? Enchanter Kid?”

“Sounds like an off-brand Pokémon,” Ned muttered. “What about something cooler? Like… Arcane? No—Arcanum. Wait. That sounds like a forbidden spellbook.”

“That's… ” Harry trailed off with a wince. He wasn't about to tell him it was a forbidden spellbook.

“Okay, okay.” Peter grinned, fortunately taking the hint. “New strategy. Pick a vibe. If your powers were a soundtrack, what would they be?”

“Haunting violins over ominous thunder,” Ned said confidently.

Peter snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his mouth was real. “I’m not naming myself after a weather forecast.”

“What about Mystic?” Ned offered. “Mystic… something. Mystic Flame? Mystic Shade?”

“That sounds like an eyeshadow palette,” Peter said.

“Okay you come up with something better then!”

Peter turned to Harry. “What do you think? Anything you’d want to go by? Something meaningful?”

Harry hesitated. The echo of Hela’s voice stirred at the back of his mind like wind through fog.

You are the Veilwalker. Half-shadow, half-light.

His fingers brushed the pendant at his chest.

“…Veilwalker,” he said softly.

Both Peter and Ned froze.

Then, they spoke in unison.

“Holy shit.”

“That’s so badass,” Ned breathed.

“That’s, like, final-boss-in-a-video-game level cool,” Peter said, eyes wide. “Mysterious but, like, poetic, too. You sure you’re not already famous?”

Harry flushed slightly. “Pretty sure,” he lied.

“No, that’s totally it,” Ned declared. “Veilwalker. Mysterious spell-caster who might be made of shadows and heartbreak.”

“I am not made of heartbreak,” Harry muttered.

Peter leaned in. “Tell that to the name Veilwalker, which sounds like someone who communes with ghosts and drinks espresso in the rain.”

“You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?” Harry asked.

“Absolutely,” Peter said cheerfully.

Harry groaned—but he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Dinner’s ready!” May’s voice rang through the apartment, followed by the unmistakable clatter of plates.

Peter groaned and shoved himself off the bed. “Come on,” he said to Harry and Ned, jerking his head toward the hallway. “Time to see if May’s cooking survived the laws of physics.”

“Be nice!” Ned said, trying for optimism and not pulling it off. “It might be edible this time.”

Peter gave him a look that said you sweet summer child.

The three of them filed into the small kitchen, which was filled with the smell of tomato sauce, garlic, and something slightly scorched. A pot of something steamed on the stove and a dish of what might have once been garlic bread sat on the counter, just this side of burned.

May beamed at them. “Boys! Sit. Eat. No complaining until at least three bites.”

They obeyed quickly. Plates were filled. Parmesan was offered. A fork was pressed into Harry’s hand before he even sat down properly.

Ned poked cautiously at a congealing corner of lasagna and tried not to look alarmed.

Peter gave Harry a grin that was 80% apology, 20% mischief.

But Harry? Harry tucked in.

The food was warm, and salty, and real, and after only being able to eat whatever they could forage last year, and consistently being denied food at the Dursley's, this was a feast. Sure, it wasn't Mrs Weasley quality, but it was edible. He didn’t say much, but he scraped his plate clean and even accepted seconds.

May noticed. She smiled gently. “You’ve got a good appetite, Harry.”

Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin. “It’s really good, Mrs Parker. Thank you.”

Peter’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

“Someone likes May’s cooking?” Ned muttered under his breath. “Are you… sure you're not cursed?”

May smacked Ned lightly on the arm with a dishtowel. “Shut it, Leeds. At least one of you was raised with manners.”

Ned wilted under the force of May’s irritated affection. “I didn’t say bad, I just said— okay, okay, sorry.”

May turned her attention back to Harry, her voice softening. “So, sweetheart—Peter said you’re here from England. I thought school semesters were different over there. Are you still in school? Are you visiting family?”

Harry hesitated, twisting his fork slowly between his fingers. “School is… complicated. I’m seventeen, and I should be finishing this year, but—well, my school got a bit torn up a couple months ago. It’s not exactly operational at the moment, so everything’s sort of on pause.”

May raised her brows slightly, but didn’t press.

“And uh, no,” Harry added after a moment. “I’m not here visiting family. I’m here looking for my birth father.”

Peter and Ned glanced at him—quiet now, but attentive.

May’s brow furrowed gently. “Does he know you’re looking for him?”

Harry gave a helpless little shrug. He wasn’t even sure why he’d admitted it. Maybe it was the warmth of the kitchen, or the fact that Peter and Ned already knew. Or maybe it was just how good it had felt to finally tell someone the truth last night. To be heard without wading neck deep through preconceived notions about The Boy Who Lived.

“I didn’t even know about him until recently,” he admitted. “I got some letters. From my mum—my adoptive mum. Both my adoptive parents died when I was a baby, so I was raised by her sister’s family. They… didn’t really care for me.”

May’s expression darkened in sympathy, but she said nothing, letting him speak.

“My godfather left me his house when he died, so that’s where I’ve been staying,” Harry went on. “And a few weeks ago, one of my school friends’ mum passed away. She’d been in an… accident years ago—when we were both really little—and no one knew she was holding onto something for me. Turns out, she’d kept these letters. From both my adopted mum and my birth mum.”

His voice grew quieter.

“My adopted mum’s said I’d been adopted as a baby, and my birth mum's said that my birth father was American.”

May leaned in slightly. “Do you know their name?”

“Uh, yeah… it's, uh, Tony Stark,” Harry said quietly.

There was a pause.

May went still, her eyes widening. “Tony Stark? As in—Tony Stark?”

Peter and Ned stayed silent. Traitors.

“I didn’t really know it was such a big deal until Peter and Ned told me.” Harry said, sheepish. “My best friend Hermione told me he was famous. An inventor? Something about energy I think she said? But I didn't really realise how famous. I didn't even know superheroes were even real until I came here, so… I haven’t really had much luck getting in touch.”

May stood and started clearing plates automatically, her expression going tight around the edges.

“Does he know about you?” she asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. My mum—my birth mum—she said he didn't. But she wanted me to try to find him… I just… I don’t even know if he’d want to know about me.”

May pressed her lips together and exhaled through her nose.

“Well, I'm sure you could find someone to take up a paternity suit pro-bono. But if you're not staying with family, where are you staying?”

“At a hotel,” Harry said. “In Manhattan.”

May turned to Peter, hands on her hips. “You thought it was okay to let a seventeen-year-old boy stay in a hotel by himself in New York?”

“I— May —he’s—” Peter gestured wildly. “He’s very capable?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I’ve, um, had a lot of practice being self-sufficient.”

May did not look comforted.

“Nope. Absolutely not.” She pointed a finger at all of them. “You’ll be staying here. That’s final . I won’t have a teenager alone in a foreign country while he’s out chasing Tony Stark, even if the man is his father. I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England, you need someone to keep an eye on you and make sure you eat three meals a day.”

Harry looked stunned. “I—I couldn’t possibly—”

“You can, ” she said, already yanking a stack of clean pillowcases from the hallway closet. “And you will. End of discussion. We’ll sort out the details and get your things tomorrow.”

Peter leaned over and whispered, “Just say thank you, bro. She’s like this with stray cats, too.”

Harry looked down at his empty plate, then back at the woman bustling around with determined kindness.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly but sincerely.

May softened. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now who wants dessert? There's cheesecake. Store-bought, so you know it’s safe.”

Peter and Ned cheered. Harry smiled.

Chapter Text

Sun 28th June, 2015

Queens, New York City

Staying with the Parkers was both more wonderful and more painful than Harry could’ve imagined.

Wonderful, because May was kind in a way that didn’t feel forced or obligatory—just soft and steady, like sunlight through kitchen curtains. She made tea without being asked, remembered how he liked his eggs, and talked to him like he mattered even when he had nothing to say.

Painful, because every morning he woke up in a house that felt like home, and it chipped away at a part of him he’d long since boarded up. He hadn’t realised how tightly he’d wound himself until it started to unwind—until May patted his shoulder and called him “sweetheart,” or when Peter shouted “I’m home!” when they got back from helping Harry practice his new magic like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It reminded him a little of the Burrow, at first, but the Parkers weren’t the Weasleys.

The Burrow had always been loud and warm and crowded with laughter and noise and chaos. He loved it fiercely. But there, he was one of many—swept into the joyful tide of a family already brimming over. The Parkers were quieter. Smaller. It was just the two of them—Peter and May—and that made everything feel closer. More intimate. There was space to be seen.

He didn’t have to fight for air here. He didn’t constantly feel the need to apologise for taking up space.

But that also made it more difficult.

Sometimes he caught himself watching Peter and May interact like a scientist observing an unknown species. There were inside jokes, arguments about laundry, casual affection that didn’t carry the weight of survival through war. They teased. They talked—really talked. And none of it came with strings or judgement.

He hadn’t known how much he yearned for that kind of life until it was put in front of him, just out of reach.

May had even started talking to a friend of hers at a local solicitors about whether Harry could bring a Paternity suit. Harry had no clue if that was even possible—he wasn’t sure his birth had been technically registered in this world, let alone his adoption—but May was determined to look into it despite his hedging. “You need options,” she’d said, voice firm. “Not dead ends.”

He hadn’t said it aloud, but he already had more than he ever thought he would. Things besides the standard roof and a mattress. At the Parker’s he had someone worrying about where he was when he and Peter stayed out late. An adult who asked how his day had gone and genuinely wanted to know. And even if he went home without meeting his father, he couldn't claim that he'd wasted his time.

It was terrifying, how much he wanted to stay.

Peter had offered to let him crash in his room as long as he liked—“Ned can sleep on the couch if he comes over, no big”—and somehow, that one small thing had helped Harry sleep better than he had in weeks. No alarms. No nightmares. Just the sound of the city outside and the slow, steady rhythm of another person breathing nearby.

It felt safe. It felt like a life he might’ve had, in some parallel universe. One where his name was just Harry, and that was enough.

But of course, things were never just that simple.

And as much as he liked pretending, Harry knew that sooner or later, the life he’d been born into—the one that came wrapped in magic and mystery and the name of a man he still hadn’t found—was going to catch up with him.

The signs were already there. His magic, once raw and erratic, was starting to shape itself into something he could trust. A warehouse had become their makeshift training ground—a hollowed-out skeleton of a building on the river, tucked between rusted fences and cracked pavement where no one asked questions about strange noises or bursts of light. They’d spent nearly every afternoon there for the past week. Just the three of them—Peter with his webs and boundless energy, Ned with his laptop and wildly enthusiastic commentary, and Harry, trying to make sense of a part of himself that had felt more like a burden than a gift.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still slips in his power, flares of energy that sizzled against the wrong surface or sparked too hot against metal. But Harry was learning to control it. He could feel it in his bones.

The warehouse smelled like rust and old rain, its concrete floor cracked in places where tree roots had once tried to push through. Sunlight filtered in through broken windows in long, dusty beams, catching the floating haze of chalk and air disturbance left in the wake of Harry’s last spell.

“Okay,” Ned said, typing notes impressively quickly on his laptop. “So that last one didn’t level the entire building. That’s good. Better than good—that’s progress. You can see it in my spreadsheet, if you want.”

Harry wiped sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Thanks, Ned. High praise.”

Peter swung down from a rusted catwalk, landing beside them with a web-assisted bounce. “No, seriously. That last one—what was it, a shield?—that was clean. No shockwave, no unintended… wall vaporisation. That’s a first.”

Harry nodded, then turned to face the crumbling far wall again. “Okay. I’ve got one more I want to try.”

Peter and Ned stepped back without being told.

Harry exhaled. Focused.

The air around him shimmered, and a faint hum prickled at the edges of the space as he drew the magic upward, not from a wand, but from somewhere deeper and more wild. He raised a hand—and with a flick of his fingers, a floating burst of blue-white sparks spiraled outward like a starburst, danced above the floor, then dissipated gently in a warm gust of wind.

No chaos. No recoil. No scorch marks.

Peter’s eyes widened. Ned dropped his pen.

“Okay,” Peter said, after a long pause. “That was—actually kind of beautiful.”

“Like Disney fireworks,” Ned added, then cleared his throat. “The really magical ones.”

Harry let his hand fall, flexing his fingers. “I was going for a simple spell, meant for getting attention or illuminating paths. Like a flare, I suppose.”

Peter stepped forward and clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Well, it just illuminated one thing—we’re totally doing this. You’re ready.”

Harry blinked. “You mean…?”

“Patrolling,” Peter said. “Together. Starting tomorrow.”

Ned pumped a fist in the air. “The Veilwalker and Spider-Man. Coming soon to rooftops near you! Now all we need to do is come up with a costume and iron out some details. Let's go!”

Peter’s bedroom looked like the aftermath of a particularly chaotic fancy dress party gone wrong.

Scraps of fabric were scattered across the floor, sketches littered the bed, and Ned was digging through a box labeled “Peter’s Old Stuff – Hands Off!!”

“So… you’re sure I can’t just wear black jeans and a hoodie?” Harry said from where he sat cross-legged on the floor.

“No,” Peter and Ned said in unison.

Peter held up a dark blue prototype of one of his old suits. “Look, we could repurpose this one—just need to adjust the stitching and maybe change the color palette—”

“He’s the Veilwalker,” Ned interrupted dramatically from the closet. “He needs black. Like, dramatic black. Lurking-in-shadows black. Thematic black.”

Peter blinked. “Thematic black?”

“I don’t make the rules,” Ned said. “He's got Veil in his name. This is fate, my friend.”

Harry laughed under his breath. “Alright, alright. Black is fine, but I’m not wearing spandex.”

“Compromise,” Peter said, already rifling through his closet again. “What about something like mine? Breathable. Functional. Not super tight. A tactical tracksuit sort of thing.”

“Tracksuit of shadow,” Ned intoned like it was sacred scripture.

They found a sleek black training outfit in the bottom of a drawer—joggers with reinforced seams, a long-sleeve fitted top with subtle mesh paneling, and a hooded jacket. Before the spider bite, Peter told him, he'd tried out for the track team in an effort to get in shape—it didn't go well. The suit wasn't flashy, but when Harry pulled it on and looked in the mirror, it actually felt… right.

“Okay,” Peter said, eyeing him critically. “This is good. Minimalist. Clean. But we still need something on the chest.”

“A symbol,” Ned added seriously, “is like your whole ‘I’m a mysterious magical superhero’ brand. It's gotta be cool.”

Harry hesitated, then reached for one of the discarded designs on the bed and a pen. He drew slowly, finally revealing the finished product as a triangular symbol inked in thin, elegant lines; a circle inside a triangle, bisected by a vertical line.

Peter tilted his head. “That’s… cool. What is it?”

“It’s… a legendary symbol from my… community,” Harry said. “It means a few things. But mostly—it reminds me of where I came from. What I’ve lived through. And… the choices I made.”

Ned’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. It’s cryptic, old-looking but simple, and exactly the kind of thing people will obsess over on the internet.”

Peter grinned. “The Veilwalker, clad in black, marked with mystery. Boom.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “You two are ridiculous.”

“But stylish,” Ned said, tossing Harry a black balaclava and grabbing the design from Harry. “I can use my mom's Cricut and we can iron it on tomorrow, so it looks even better.”

Harry caught the mask and pulled it on, shoving his glasses over it before glancing at his reflection again.

Not terrible—better than he expected given Peter's usual getup. It was a shame he couldn't forgo the glasses, but maybe he could pop by the Underline and see if there was a place he could get Quidditch goggles that he could have charmed, like Peter wore.

“Okay,” Peter said, flopping backwards onto the lower bunk, uncaring of the mess with arms spread wide. “So the look is sorted. You’re all mysterious and cool now.”

“Obviously,” Ned added, admiring Harry like he’d just installed custom armor on a sports car.

“But we’ve got a practical problem,” Peter said, frowning. “How are you actually going to get anywhere on patrol? I’ve got webs. Rooftops. Fire escapes. But you’re kind of stuck at ground level, and New York traffic is murder. I guess you could just hold onto me and I can swing us around, but…”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been… thinking about that.”

“Tell me you’ve been hiding a grappling hook or teleportation bracelet this whole time,” Ned said, only half-joking.

Harry hesitated. “I mean, I can teleport—” he started, and both boys’ eyes widened impossibly large, “but it's pretty loud and not super practical. I uh… had another idea, though.”

He reached for his bag, still slumped in the corner where he’d dropped it earlier, and drew out a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. He laid it across the bed, unrolling it carefully to reveal his Firebolt.

Peter blinked. “Is that—?”

“A broomstick,” Harry said. “Yes.”

“For flying?” Ned said, awe dawning in his voice. “Like, actual up in the sky flying? Like a witch?”

Harry nodded, then reached into the side pocket of his bag and pulled out something else—a rumpled, silvery mass that shimmered unnaturally even in the dim room light.

“What’s that?” Peter asked, eyebrows high.

“My invisibility cloak,” Harry said. “Makes me basically invisible when I wear it—perfect for surveillance and not, y’know, terrifying the entire city.”

Ned leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Okay, so that’s awesome. Veilwalker has a cloak that makes him vanish and a flying broom. You’re like Batman meets Mary Poppins.”

Harry choked on a laugh. 

Peter grinned. “But seriously—that’s perfect. You could be my eyes in the air, stay above the fight, scout from above. You won’t need webs.”

“And if we both need to get somewhere fast,” Harry added, “I can fly overhead, stay invisible. No one would even know I’m there.”

“This is perfect,” Ned said, already scribbling in his notes again. “Mystery, flight, stealth—it’s all coming together. All we need now is some kind of dramatic rooftop shot for your debut.”

“I’m still getting used to the name,” Harry muttered.

“You’ll grow into it,” Peter said, nudging him. “Trust me. You’ve got the vibe down already.”

Mon 29th June, 2015

Midtown, New York City 

The sun dipped low behind the skyline by the time they set out, the city beginning to glow with neon signs and the hum of evening traffic. They kept to the shadows at first—Peter swinging between buildings, Harry under his cloak above, and Ned whispering directions through a Muggle Bluetooth earpiece Peter had helped him pair to his mobile.

It felt surreal. Like something out of a comic book.

“Alright,” Ned’s voice crackled faintly in Harry’s ear, “there’s a possible disturbance near Eighth and Forty-Second. Or maybe someone just dropped a bunch of recycling. Hard to tell from Twitter.”

“Very reassuring,” Peter muttered from above, dangling upside down from a streetlight. “But hey, it’s a start.”

Harry chuckled under his breath and pushed his broom forward faster, skimming lightly along a second-story ledge.

They passed a bakery closing for the night, a group of teenagers loitering near a corner deli, a man cursing at his phone on a bench. Nothing screamed “supervillain activity,” and honestly, Harry was a little relieved.

At one point, a dog barked wildly at something invisible—namely, Harry—and its owner looked around in confusion. Harry froze, held his breath, then carefully inched out of range. The dog stared after him, nose twitching.

“Well,” Ned said, “if the worst thing you get chased by tonight is a schnauzer, I’d call it a win.”

They made a full loop through Midtown before heading back, their energy waning but spirits oddly high. No evil villains. No muggings. No world-ending threats. Just the city, alive and busy, and the small comfort of knowing they were out there watching it.

As they regrouped near the edge of a rooftop not far from the warehouse, Peter pulled off his mask and flopped dramatically onto the concrete.

“I’m starving,” he announced. “And emotionally fulfilled, but mostly starving.”

“Same,” Ned said, voice crackling. “We could meet up and hit that taco truck? My mom's out with her book club tonight and she left me pizza money.”

Harry sat down beside Peter, arms resting on his knees, his magic still humming quietly under his skin. The pendant under his shirt pulsed faintly with warmth.

It hadn’t been an eventful night, but there was always tomorrow.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Let’s get tacos.”

Thurs 2nd July, 2015

Queens, New York City 

The key clicked in the lock just before the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting Queens in a soft, golden haze. Harry pushed the Parker’s front door open gently, slipping inside and letting it shut with a quiet snick behind him.

The apartment smelled like laundry detergent and something vaguely sweet—maybe May had baked earlier. A comforting scent. A warm one. He toed off his trainers near the door and padded quietly into the living room.

No one was home, but he didn't really expect there to be; May had a late shift at the shelter and Peter had texted to say he and Ned were grabbing snacks for another late-night patrol. Harry was grateful for the silence.

His bag was heavier than it should’ve been, still half-full with books and the massive mound of biscuits Kreacher had pressed on him. He still hadn't found George's chocolate frog and was starting to worry about it. Even though he had now moved all of his things to the Parker's, the hotel room was still booked—Hermione had insisted he keep it, “for emergencies or privacy,” and Harry hadn’t argued. It gave him a quiet spot to think, and, crucially, a way to stay connected to his friends.

It had been strange, stepping up to the hotel fireplace that afternoon and seeing Hermione’s face flicker into view, her hair pinned up haphazardly, ink stains on her fingers even through the flames.

She’d looked tired.

“So let me get this straight,” she’d said. “You’re sneaking around New York with two teenage Muggles, breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and hoping your birth father just… happens to notice?”

Harry had winced. “It sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“It sounds insane no matter how I say it,” she’d replied sharply, but her eyes had softened almost immediately. “Harry, I know you want answers. And I know it’s hard. But this isn’t like—like finding Horcruxes. This isn’t something you can just fight your way through.”

“I’m not fighting,” he’d said, a little too quickly.

She’d arched a brow.

“I’m not,” he’d insisted. “Not yet, anyway. Mostly we've just been guiding lost tourists and helping older people across zebra crossings.”

She’d looked like she wanted to argue, but in the end, she’d just sighed. “Just… be careful. Please.”

He hadn’t told her the full truth—not yet. Hadn’t said that his birth mother was Loki, or that his sister had visited his dreams, or that Asgardian magic was blooming under his skin like wildfire. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he didn’t quite know what it meant yet. Because he wasn’t ready for what her brilliant mind might deduce, or what conclusions she might draw before he could draw his own.

“It’ll be fine,” he’d said.

It was almost believable, the way he said it.

Now, back in the Parkers’ living room, Harry dropped his bag beside the couch and let himself sink down into the comfortable seat. He leaned back into the cushions, letting the quiet wrap around him. There was a hum in his chest, low and electric, not entirely magical but not entirely normal either. His magic didn’t sleep anymore—it stirred constantly now, like it was listening.

He reached up and touched the pendant beneath his shirt. Still warm. Still strange.

The apartment felt lived in, worn around the edges in a good way. There were photos on the walls. A faint scratch on the coffee table where someone had clearly dropped a mug. A stack of newspapers on the dining counter, one of them folded open to an article about Stark Industries' latest clean-energy initiative.

Harry glanced at it, then looked away.

Slowly, the sofa dissolved around him like ash in the wind.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, the Parker's flat had stretched out around him—warm and homely and unusually quiet. The next, he stood in a place that felt like a memory but looked like nothing he knew.

Mist swirled low across the ground, curling around his boots. The air was colder here, tinged with silver and shadow. Trees rose in the distance—tall, skeletal things with leaves like dark velvet—and overhead, stars blazed too bright for any ordinary sky.

She appeared in the distance, as she always did, walking toward him like her arrival had been inevitable.

"Heil, systir,” he said before he could stop himself.

She inclined her head, the faintest smile touching her mouth. “You remember the Allspeak.”

“I didn’t forget—I just… knew it. I didn't even know I knew it.”

Her gown whispered across the stone. “And yet you’ve been trying so hard to pretend to be mortal.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. “I’m doing what I need to meet my father. It’s just—not working.”

“Because you are waiting for someone else to name your path.” Her voice was calm, but there was steel in it. “Still you seek permission. Validation. You chase echoes of your past, expecting them to shape your future.”

He looked away. “What else am I supposed to do? I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know who I am.”

“You are the same,” she said, stepping closer. “And not. You are shaped by mortal hands and otherworldly blood. Your magic has woken, Hárekr. The city hears you. The threads of fate stir when you move.”

Harry frowned. “Then why hasn't anything changed?”

Hela paused. “Because you have not yet asked the right question.”

The mist thickened at her feet. Stars shifted overhead.

“When you find him,” she said, “the one who shares your blood—do not ask him who he is. Ask him what he became. Ask him what he chose when no one else could see.”

“You said that before,” Harry said, stepping toward her now. “You said to ask him why he stopped building weapons.”

“And he will answer, if he dares to be known.” Her voice was softer now, but darker, too. “But more dangerous than what he tells you… is the one who seeks you with falsehood.”

Harry’s pulse stilled.

“He will wear the face of a friend,” she said. “He will speak your name before you give it. But it is not his to know.”

“Then who is he?”

She didn’t answer. The stars behind her seemed to shift, forming something—a shadow of antlers, or a crown, or a scar in the sky.

“Be careful, brother. Even the gods can lie when the end is near. Your heart is strong—but it is still healing. And some would use your need to belong as a blade.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Why me?”

Hela stepped into the mist. Her eyes—green like flame and forest—found his one last time.

“Because you were born between worlds. Because you are both.”

Her voice followed him as she vanished—

“And because someone must hold the gate.”

The dream broke like a wave, and Harry startled awake with a gasp.

The room was growing dark, the edges still blurry with the shapes and sounds of the dream—stars like wounds in the sky, Hela’s voice a whisper in his blood. Sweat clung to his collar, and his hands were clenched in a throw blanket like he was still trying to hold onto something vanishing.

He sat up too fast, breathing like he’d just run a mile.

The soft click of the apartment door opening made him flinch.

“Harry?” Peter’s voice was quiet, careful. “I've been texting but you didn't answer.”

Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Yeah—sorry. I didn’t mean to—fell asleep.”

Peter toed off his shoes and crept closer, expression shifting the moment he saw Harry’s face in the dim lamplight. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “You okay?”

Harry tried for a nod, but it came out more like a shrug.

“Nightmare?” Peter asked gently, crouching beside the sofa. Harry didn’t answer right away. His throat felt dry.

“No. Yeah,” he said finally. “Just… dreams. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Peter said, immediately. “I have them too. Sometimes. You wake up and it’s like your brain forgot how to be here again.”

Harry gave a shaky breath. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

Peter hesitated, then sat beside him—close enough that their knees almost touched. The room was quiet except for the hum of a passing car outside and the distant thrum of a subway under the streets.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Peter said. “But… I’m here. If you want to.”

Harry looked over at him then—really looked. At the earnest worry in his eyes, the way he sat like he wasn’t afraid of the space Harry took up. The way he hadn’t asked for anything in return for helping. So much like his friends back home and yet something felt… different.

“I’ve never really had many people who would do that,” Harry said before he could think better of it. “Who would just be… there.”

Peter’s smile was soft, a little crooked. “Well. Now you have one more.”

Something in Harry’s chest gave an unexpected twist.

He didn’t know if it was the leftover emotion from the dream or the way Peter’s voice went quiet like it was meant just for him—but the ache he’d been carrying since waking cracked, and something warmer slipped in.

Harry turned his gaze away quickly, staring down at his hands. “Thanks,” he said, voice rougher than he liked. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “But I wanted to.”

A beat passed. The kind of silence that wasn’t heavy, just full of something unnamed.

Peter nudged him gently. “Scoot.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You’re not going back to sleep like that,” Peter said matter-of-factly, already tugging the blanket up and over both their laps. “So either we both sit here and stare at the ceiling, or we watch dumb YouTube videos and judge them together.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “That… actually sounds kind of perfect.”

Peter grinned, triumphant. “Thought so.”

They settled back on the sofa—shoulders close, blanket haphazardly shared, the light from Peter’s tablet casting faint blue shadows across the room. Harry didn’t care what the videos were about. Peter made sarcastic commentary the entire time.

But Harry didn’t mind.

Peter had no idea that he’d just made Harry feel a little bit like he mattered. It was the same sort of ache he’d tried not to think about during his time at the Burrow—when Bill had stayed up late with him in the sitting room, or helped him draft Gringotts statements and explained Goblin contract law with that calm, capable voice of his. When he'd silently hand him a cup of tea and offer to just… be. 

Harry hadn’t known what to call that feeling then, either—the strange flutter of wanting to listen longer than he had to, wanting to be close, the warm shiver when Bill had rested a hand on his shoulder and told him he was doing fine.

He’d written it off as misplaced gratitude. Confusion. Admiration for someone older and safer and good.

But now, here with Peter—his voice scratchy from talking too much, elbowed up against him in a tangle of blanket—Harry felt it again. That quiet, slow swell in his chest, like a door nudging open just enough to let something soft and dangerous through.

And he didn’t know what it meant.

Didn’t know if it meant anything at all.

Just that it was happening again. That he was being seen in a way he wasn’t used to—and that part of him, buried deep and aching, wanted to lean into it.

He thought of George then. That night in the sitting room after everyone else had fallen asleep. The way he’d sat with Harry and, without judgment, had said it was okay to feel. Okay not to have all the answers. Okay to want closeness that didn’t come with a script.

“You think they know? About how you look at Bill.” George had said, voice low and not unkind. “Like I said, you’re allowed to feel things. To want things. Even if you don’t have the words for them yet.”

Harry hadn’t really answered at the time. Hadn’t known how.

But now—here, next to Peter—he remembered those words and they felt like something close to permission.

So he let the moment be what it was. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t bury it. Just let himself sit beside someone who cared, and didn’t ask why, even if he still didn’t know exactly what it meant.

After a while, Peter nudged his knee against Harry’s, careful. “You, uh… want to skip patrol tonight?”

Harry blinked slowly, still a little out of it from the dream. “No,” he said automatically, voice rough around the edges.

Peter didn’t say anything right away. Just studied him for a moment longer than Harry could stand.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay—maybe I do. Just this once.”

Peter gave him a crooked smile. “Thought so.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh and slouched further into the couch. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Little bit,” Peter said. “But only if someone’s paying attention.”

That made Harry’s stomach twist—not in a bad way, but in the way that meant he was maybe starting to care too much. He glanced sideways, unsure what to say to that, but Peter had already sprung to his feet.

“No patrol means junk food,” he declared. “We’ve got popcorn. May’s got ice cream hidden in the back of the freezer she thinks I don’t know about. And—” he disappeared into his bedroom and returned holding up a DVD case like a trophy. “The original Ghostbusters. On disc. Like a relic from a sacred age.”

Harry snorted. “That’s so ancient even I've heard of it.”

“You hush,” Peter said, already putting it into the player. “It’s a classic.”

They ended up curled together on the couch again, a bowl of popcorn between them and Peter animatedly quoting every third line while Harry leaned against his shoulder and let himself breathe. The living room was warm and soft and dimly lit—quiet in the way only safe places ever were.

“You ever think,” Harry said at one point, voice barely above a whisper, “that maybe… normal isn’t so bad?”

Peter turned his head. “Normal’s kinda my dream,” he said. “But, like, with a side of weird superhero stuff.”

Harry smiled. “That’s a very specific dream.”

Peter elbowed him. “You saying it’s not good?”

“I’m saying,” Harry said carefully, “maybe it’s not so bad sharing it.”

Peter’s expression shifted, something flickering in his eyes that Harry wasn’t ready to look at too closely. But it made his chest ache a little in that same bittersweet way it had after George’s talk, and Bill’s steady presence, and that rooftop moment when Peter had handed him part of a bagel and made him feel seen.

By the time May had arrived back home and scolded Harry and Peter to bed, it was nearing one in the morning. The ceiling was faintly lit by the glow of Peter’s alarm clock, casting soft green numbers across the room. Outside, New York murmured to itself—horns, sirens, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. But inside the room, everything was still.

Peter’s bunk creaked faintly above him as he shifted.

“Harry?” he whispered.

Harry, staring up at the wooden slats, blinked. “Yeah?”

He paused for a moment, then asked quietly, “You told May last week, I—what did you mean… when you said your relatives didn’t like you?”

Harry exhaled slowly, the question settling like dust in the dark.

“I didn’t mean to—sorry,” Peter said quickly. “You don’t have to tell me. I was just—thinking about it, I guess.”

“No,” Harry said, quieter than before. “It’s okay. Just… not something I talk about much.”

The silence stretched a little before Harry rolled onto his side and continued, voice calm but distant.

“They were my aunt and uncle. My adopted mum’s sister. They took me in after my parents died. I think—” He hesitated. “I think they only did it because they felt like they had to. I lived in a cupboard until I was eleven. Under the stairs.”

Peter’s breath caught above him.

“They told me my parents were drunks. Told me and all the neighbours I was dangerous. I wasn’t allowed to ask questions, or get good marks, or… be seen, really. They gave their son everything. And I got scraps. Or nothing.”

“Harry…” Peter said softly.

Harry shrugged, even though Peter couldn’t see it. “It’s fine. I didn’t even realise it was messed up until I met other people. One of my best friends—Ron—he has a really big family. Like… six siblings. His house was so different than the Dursley's and it made me think, really, that how I was treated wasn't normal. And you and May… yeah. It's just… different.”

Peter was quiet for a long moment. Then the bed creaked again, and a soft thump came as he dropped down from the upper bunk.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, looking up at Harry through the dimness.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said. “Not even a little.”

Harry didn’t answer at first. Then, a small, broken sound escaped him—half sigh, half something heavier. He nodded, once.

“I know that now,” he said. “But sometimes… it still feels like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop and I'll find out my life is just a—I dunno know, some kind of… weird dream. Like my life is so shit that I've just… imagined this whole other life for myself and someday I'll wake up and still be in my cupboard. Or like… even though they've moved away, and there isn't really a place to go back to, anymore, I still… it still feels like if I'm not… who people expect me to be, I'll be sent back.”

“They won’t,” Peter said firmly. “They wouldn't dare. I won’t let them.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He reached out and squeezed Peter’s wrist, just for a second.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough.

Peter gave him a small smile, then climbed back up to the top bunk.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Night, Peter.”

It took a while, but eventually… sleep came.

Chapter Text

Sat 4th July, 2015

Midtown Manhattan, New York City 

The balaclava itched.

Harry scrunched his nose, resisting the urge to dig beneath the edge of the cloth to scratch. The material, cheap and slightly too tight, clung to his skin like damp wool, made worse by the summer heat radiating off the pavement below. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the dark jacket, and the wind didn’t help much. Riding a broomstick under an invisibility cloak in the middle of summer was, as it turned out, not as glamorous as it sounded.

Especially in New York, where the air inherently smelled like grilled meat, rubbish, asphalt, and the vague sting of electricity.

“—Midtown’s still quiet,” Peter said, voice muffled through the Bluetooth in Harry’s ear. “You seeing anything from up there?”

“Just a very horny pigeon trying to mate with a drone,” Harry muttered, circling lazily above the rooftops.

“Sounds romantic,” Peter said cheerfully. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Too late,” Harry replied, adjusting his grip on the broom’s handle. “You’re the one who keeps insisting on communicating through a headset.”

“You need to get used to how to go on a proper patrol. This is how real teams communicate.”

“Like the Avengers?”

“Exactly like the Avengers,” Peter said, right as a second voice crackled through the line.

“Guys!” Ned’s voice burst into their ears, frantic. “Something’s going down— big time. A building just lit up like a torch on East 56th and 2nd thanks to a fireworks incident. Emergency scanners are freaking out. Like, six engines en route, but it’s bad.”

Harry’s gut clenched. “How bad?”

“Residential,” Ned said. “Multiple floors. People still inside.”

“I’m near there,” Peter said, already moving. “On my way.”

“I’ve got aerial,” Harry said, banking sharply and angling toward the address. The wind tore at his jacket as he leaned low over the broomstick, the cityscape blurring past beneath him.

“I’ll keep monitoring,” Ned said. “Just—be careful, okay?”

Harry didn’t answer. The heat of adrenaline was already kicking in, tightening his focus, sharpening the edges of his vision. Somewhere ahead, the sky flickered orange and red—bright against the steel and glass of the buildings around it, and looking almost unreal against the backdrop of multicoloured fireworks over the river beyond.

The building was already half-swallowed in flame by the time they arrived.

Smoke rolled in dense plumes across the upper floors, the sky above painted orange and ash-grey. Sirens howled in the distance, still blocks away, and a small crowd had gathered on the opposite pavement, phones out, shouting questions, names, anything over the roar of fire.

Harry hovered thirty feet above the scene, face flushed and itchy beneath the balaclava and under the cloak. The wool scratched at his cheeks, and his hands were sweaty against the smooth wood of his Firebolt, but the heat pouring out of the building below was worse.

Peter landed beside him on a rooftop with a soft thump, pulling off his mask for a second to cough. “Okay. That is very much not a drill.”

Harry pulled his cloak back and skimmed the broom lower. “Where are the firefighters?”

“Stuck behind a pile-up on Eighth,” Ned said over their earpieces. “Half the city’s backed up. But—guys, people are still inside. Fifth floor, probably sixth too. I saw movement in a window just now on Channel 4.”

Harry’s gut twisted.

“Okay,” Peter said, voice clipped and steady as he remasked. “We go in fast but safe as possible. Harry—fly a sweep on the upper floors, get anyone you can out through windows. I’ll take the stairs and work up.”

“Got it,” Harry said. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

Peter launched downward, a streak of red and blue vanishing through a broken third-story window.

Harry turned the broom in a wide arc, circling once to get a clearer look. The flames were worst on the east side, windows already shattered, the wall blackening by the second. He rose a little higher and scanned the floor below the blaze for a hint of movement.

There.

He guided the broom lower, fingers tightening on the handle. The heat was brutal this close. He checked the balaclava to make sure his mouth was properly uncovered, squinting through the smoke, and pulled the hood of his cloak down. A window—stubborn, jammed from the humidity and heat—rattled under his wandless push. Then it cracked upward and a teenage boy coughed violently through the opening.

“Stay back!” Harry shouted. “I’m going to levitate you out!”

The boy stared at him with wide, ash-streaked eyes, then nodded.

Harry aimed a careful, wandless Wingardium, pushing with his core as intentionally as possible, and the boy rose shakily through the window, trembling as he was floated down toward the street opposite. Harry followed, barely breathing until he was safe.

Three more followed from nearby windows—an elderly woman with her cat clutched to her chest, a young man yelling into a mobile, a girl who refused to move until she was sure her brother had made it out first.

And through it all, the fire climbed higher.

Sweat dripped into Harry’s eyes. His cloak reeked of smoke, and his lungs burned from the sharp tang of ash. Too late he wished he'd practiced the bubblehead charm. He circled the building again, desperate to find a better entrance point for those still inside. The fire was winning and they were running out of time.

Then Peter’s voice cut in, sharp and tense.

“Harry. Fifth floor—a little girl’s trapped—I can’t get to her in time. The stairs are gone and the fire is eating through my webs too fast.”

Harry felt something click inside him, cold and precise. A tug in his chest like something unseen had just drawn a thread tight.

“I’m coming,” he said, and dove for a window.

If he thought the outside was bad, the heat inside the building hit like a brick wall.

Harry blasted a fifth-floor window open with a wordless pulse of force and guided the broomstick through the smoke-thick room, his invisibility cloak flaring behind him like a ghost. He landed hard, boots skidding on scorched linoleum, the air so hot it felt like breathing through boiling water. He took only a moment to shrink his broom and tuck it away along with his cloak.

“Peter?” he called, voice muffled through the balaclava.

His earpiece crackled. “She’s in Apartment 504. I can’t get to her—the whole corridor collapsed on my end.”

“Got it,” Harry said, already moving.

The door to Flat 504 was half-melted, a crooked slab of flame-charred wood. Harry shoved the embers open with his shoulder and grunted at the force.

A little girl—maybe six or seven—was curled beneath a singed blanket beside a smoking settee, her face streaked with soot and sweat and tears.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” Harry said, picking his way through the room towards her. “I’m here to help.”

The girl stared at him, dazed, wheezing through every shallow breath.

She was going to die.

Harry knew it with a horrible, clear certainty. It didn't come from some abstract fear or experience bourne from the war—there was no prophecy, no voice from the beyond that gave warning. He knew because the moment he stepped into the room, something inside him released painfully, like a thread had snapped loose. The shadows in the corners pulsed with something deeper than heat or fear.

He felt death lingering, close and curious.

“Her lungs,” he breathed, kneeling beside her. “She’s—she’s too far gone.”

“What?! No!” Peter shouted in his ear. “No, don’t give up! Can you carry her?”

Harry’s hand hovered over her chest. The pendant beneath his shirt burned hot against his skin.

“I could,” he said quietly, “but it wouldn’t matter. She’s inhaled too much smoke. She needs more than a rescue.”

There was silence over the channel. Just crackling, and the distant rumble of another explosion below.

And then the voice—not Peter’s. Not anyone he could name.

It came from within.

“ What are you afraid of becoming?”

Harry flinched, eyes squeezing shut. But that simple question was enough for him to know intimately and  instinctually—the Veil wasn't just about death; it was a threshold. Between what had been, and what could still be—between endings, and the possibility of one more breath. And he was meant to be a bridge. He was meant to guard the gate.

He looked down at the girl’s grey face, her intricate braids, her consciousness slipping away, and felt the magic stir inside him—not bright like a Patronus or fiery like a duel, but something colder, stranger, humming in the marrow of his bones.

He wasn’t afraid of the power itself, but he was afraid of what it meant to use it. Afraid of becoming something even more Other than he was at all times. Something that might prevent him from being at home anywhere.

But this wasn’t about him, in this moment—it was about the girl.

He wasn't going to let yet another innocent person die. Not again. Too many had died under Harry's influence—Fred, Sirius, Hedwig, Colin, Remus, Dobby, Tonks, Lavender…

Harry grabbed the girl as gently as possible and stood, straightened his shoulders, and took a deep breath.

“Peter,” he said, voice low and calm. “Get ready. I’m gonna App—teleport out of here but I might need your help, afterwards.”

“What are you—Harry—?”

Peter didn’t get the chance to finish his question.

There was a crack like air imploding—and suddenly, Harry and the girl were gone.

They landed in a narrow patch of pavement just beyond the fire cordons. The smell of smoke hit Harry full force now, mingled with the stench of sweat and scorched metal. Civilians cried out, ducking away, startled by the sudden appearance. 

Harry sank to his knees and laid the girl gently on the concrete. She was limp. Still. Her chest didn’t rise. Her lips had gone pale.

He hovered over her, eyes wild, breath shaking.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on…”

What am I afraid of becoming?

A weapon? A monster?

Something unnatural?

But the girl was right here.

And he was the Veilwalker.

Not a wizard, not a soldier, not a pawn or a superhero.

He was the bridge between worlds—and he had the choice.

He reached out.

The pendant against his chest pulsed once—green light flashing against his sternum like a second heartbeat. He placed his hand over the girl's chest, felt the thready whisper of her life slipping away, and exhaled, closing his eyes.

The moment he did, the world bent inward.

This was different from the spells he'd been taught. This wasn’t magic in the way that wands and Latin incantations had always been. This was something deeper. Older.

The moment his hands brushed her sternum, something opened.

A rush of cold filled him—like diving beneath an icy lake—and with it came the weight of the Veil.

He could see it now, just beyond the edge of the world. Threads of smoke, of magic, of death curled up around her limbs. One in particular—thin, silvered, fraying at the ends—was slipping slowly from her body.

No. Not yet.

Harry reached for it.

He didn’t know what he was doing, only that he could. That he had to.

His hands pressed lightly against her ribs. A strange energy pulsed outward—not golden or blue or red like most spells—but the ghostly sheen of moonlight reflected in water. Not alive. Not dead.

In between.

For a long second, nothing happened.

Then—

Time slowed.

The crackle of embers fell to a distant hush, like rain heard through glass. Peter stood frozen mid-breath, hand outstretched toward him. Around Harry, the smoke stilled—swirling like mist, like threads waiting to be woven.

Her chest jolted once.

Twice.

Magic swept through him like a flood, wild and green and silver and dark, but not cruel. Never cruel. It wrapped around her chest, flickered into her mouth, her heart.

And dragged her back.

She let out a shuddering gasp.

The thread snapped back into her, sealing itself like it had never unraveled.

People screamed and whispered. A man dropped his phone. A woman fainted and slipped down to sprawl across the pavement.

Harry staggered back, gasping, nearly falling. A hand caught his elbow—it was Peter, sturdy beside him, eyes huge behind his goggles.

“Holy shit,” Peter breathed. “Harry… are you ok?”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The cold was still clinging to his fingertips, to his soul. But the girl was alive. Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked up at the smoky sky, then began to cry.

Sirens wailed.

And beyond them, Harry heard the ripple start in the crowd.

“Did he just…?” “Is she alive?” “That wasn’t normal!” “Oh my god—what was that?” “He brought her back to life!”

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe, then kneeled beside the girl.

This was what Hela meant.

The Veil hadn’t taken the girl, but only because he had stopped it.

And now… the world had seen it.

Peter was still gaping at him. “Dude,” he said, hoarse. “You just saved her.”

Harry looked down at his hands. They weren't shaking—not anymore, at least. They were just… steady.

Before he could speak, he collapsed back on the ground, breathing hard, the pendant dimming once more against his chest. Peter was staring at him.

“How did you do that?” he whispered.

Harry just shook his head, dazed. “I… don’t know. It was like my magic just… knew how.”

Behind them, a crash sounded. Voices called out—shouting between themselves.

Through the smoke, red and gold flashed and the sound of repulsors filled the air. When Harry turned—half-expecting a wave of emergency workers to sweep him away—he saw the familiar robot from Peter's room. 

Iron Man hovered into view, visor gleaming in the firelight, voice sharp and urgent over his comms.

“What the hell was that?”

Peter stared up at him. “Oh my God!”

He hovered in place, scanning the scene, before his helmet turned to Harry.

To the girl, now being tended to by EMTs.

To the green flash of the pendant beneath Harry's shirt.

And for the first time in a very long time, Harry Potter felt completely cracked open.

Iron Man—Tony—landed like a thunderclap, repulsors blasting hot against the already scorching pavement. His helmet slid back, revealing a face drawn tight with shock and calculation. His eyes locked instantly on Harry, who could only imagine what he looked like right now—pale, soot-streaked, beside the little girl whose chest now rose and fell in shallow, living breaths even as an ambulance crew worked to move her onto a gurney.

“Okay,” Tony said, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “What the hell did I just watch on like… seven different social media sites?”

Harry blinked up at him, still panting. Peter crouched protectively just behind, one hand resting lightly on Harry’s shoulder.

“I… I saved her,” Harry said quietly.

“No,” Tony snapped. “You didn’t save her. You brought her back. I have full thermal scans and biometric logs saying that kid was gone. Her heart stopped. And now she’s breathing because you hovered your hand over her. You don’t just… do that. That’s not first aid—that’s not adrenaline—that’s not anything I’ve ever seen.”

Harry didn’t answer. His hand drifted toward the faintly glowing pendant beneath his jacket.

Tony’s eyes flicked to it. “And what is that? Some kind of alien tech? A bio-repair interface? Some Stark knockoff I missed in a patent war?”

Peter stepped in. “Mr. Stark, wait—he’s not dangerous. He saved her. He just—he has abilities, okay? Like me. But… different.”

Tony didn’t look convinced. He turned back to Harry, folding his arms. “You’re coming with me. Both of you.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“You just staged a miracle in front of fifty civilians and half the press corps of Manhattan,” Tony said. “You want to talk about this on the curb, or somewhere without a million camera phones?”

Peter hesitated. “Can we trust—?”

“Yes,” Tony snapped, already lifting an arm. “You can trust that I’m not letting an unknown super pull resurrection stunts in the middle of New York without at least a debrief.”

“Peter,” Harry murmured.

Peter’s jaw tightened. Then he gave a short nod. “Let’s go.”

Tony didn’t wait. With a jolt of repulsors and some kind of magnetic field to keep them stable, he lifted them both by the waist in a blur of light and force.

The street disappeared behind them as the city streaked past in a rush of wind and light.

Stark Tower – Private Landing, 93rd Floor

The doors to the landing pad hissed shut behind them.

Piece by piece, the Iron Man suit retracted into the platform—leaving behind only Tony Stark, rumpled, sharp-eyed, and clearly not in the mood for nonsense.

Tony took one look at them and said, “Okay. One of you’s Spider-Man. The other just raised a kid from the dead. Not exactly a low-key Tuesday. Talk.”

Peter pulled off his mask, fidgeting with the strap. “That’s me. Spider-Man.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Peter Parker. Midtown High. National-level science fair results, robotics award from the Stark Foundation—ironic, by the way—and a school record that reads like you’ve been moonlighting as a crash test dummy.”

Peter blinked. “You’ve been—keeping tabs on me?”

“I run a tech empire, kid, not a fan club. You're on my radar because I like knowing who’s swinging over my city in a hoodie and spandex.”

He turned, then, toward Harry. And something in his posture shifted—less sarcasm, more scrutiny.

“You.” His voice cooled. “No school file. No ID. You don’t exist on paper. And yet you show up during a five-alarm fire and decide to play necromancer in front of half of lower Manhattan?”

Harry’s mouth was dry. His hands curled into fists at his sides to keep from shaking.

“I wasn’t going to walk away,” he said, trying—failing—not to sound defensive.

Tony stepped closer. “You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even hesitate. That’s not normal behavior for someone watching a child die.”

“I knew I could help,” Harry said, his voice taut. “So I did.”

Tony stared at him. “And how exactly did you know that?”

“I just—” Harry faltered. “I just knew.”

Tony gave a low, skeptical sound. “So that’s where we are now. Instinctual resurrections. From a British tourist who doesn’t exist.”

Peter cleared his throat. “This is Harry. He’s… staying with me. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Peter winced. “Long story. But—he’s not a threat.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Funny. Usually when people say that, it’s right before someone explodes.”

“He’s not,” Peter said quickly. “We wouldn’t be here if—look, there’s something you should see. It’s why we came. Why we were even at the building in the first place.”

Tony didn’t budge. “I’m all eyes.”

Harry took a steadying breath, then reached under his jacket and closed his fingers around the pendant.

His hands were trembling.

He hated that—hated the way they gave him away when the rest of him was trying so hard to stay calm. The chain was cool against his skin, the metal smooth and solid in his palm, but it felt heavier than it had earlier. He pulled it free slowly, letting the pendant fall into the space between them.

It pulsed. Not with heat, not with light exactly, but with something quieter. Like breath. Like it recognized the man standing in front of him.

Tony froze.

The shift was instant—his whole body went still, like he’d been struck. No sarcasm, no movement, just that intense, unblinking stare that made Harry want to look away and couldn’t.

“That…” Tony said, his voice rasping lower, more human than it had been moments ago. “Where did you get that?”

Harry couldn’t stop his fingers from curling protectively around it again. “It was given to me,” he said quietly. “By my birth mother.”

Tony’s expression didn’t change, but something about him did. It was subtle—like a crack running through stone. A hesitation. A breath caught on the edge of something remembered.

“What was her name?”

Harry’s throat was tight. He almost didn’t answer. But he forced himself to speak.

“Sigyn.”

The name fell between them like a grenade. Tony didn’t say anything right away, but his silence wasn’t empty—it was braced, almost reeling.

Harry’s heart was pounding hard enough to hurt.

“I know that necklace,” Tony said finally. His voice was quieter now, and he wasn’t looking at Harry—he was looking at the pendant like it had pulled something loose from the back of his mind. “It was at an auction. New York. Eighteen years ago, maybe more. One of those pretentious benefit galas with white wine and overpriced antiques.”

He let out a short breath.

“She wanted it. Outbid half the room for it. Weird little thing—silver, sharp angles, strange markings. Not magical. Not glowing. Just strange. I outbid her at the last second.” A pause. “Then gave it to her anyway.”

Harry didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.

“She laughed,” Tony went on, almost like he’d forgotten there was anyone listening. “Said I was insufferable. Spent a week putting up with me anyway. And then—she was gone. No note. No goodbye. Just vanished.”

He looked up again, and this time his eyes found Harry’s.

“How old are you, kid?”

Harry could barely breathe. His fingers were still clenched around the pendant. His chest felt too tight, like something huge was pressing down on it.

“Seventeen.”

It came out hoarse. Barely audible. And Tony just stared at him.

The change was slow, but unmistakable. His posture, his face, his breath, all of it stilled. Harry didn’t need to see a blood test or a family tree—he could feel it. In the way Tony was looking at him now. Not like a stranger. Not even like a threat.

But like something terrifyingly possible.

And Harry didn’t know what to do with that. He couldn’t seem to pull his shoulders back the way he usually did when he felt exposed. Couldn’t summon the usual fire in his chest to tell him to fight or run. There was just… silence. Not the empty kind; the kind that came just before something cracked open.

He wanted to speak. To explain. To run. To disappear.

Instead, he stood there, every inch of him burning, while Tony’s gaze traced the lines of his face and saw too much. His posture went still, shoulders taut. He didn’t speak for a long beat—didn’t even blink. Just stared at Harry like he was seeing something he hadn’t dared consider until now.

Tony didn’t move. His gaze stayed locked on Harry like the world had narrowed to a single, terrifying possibility. The pendant still hung between them, its soft glow catching the lines in Tony’s face—lines that hadn’t been there when Harry first saw him on a screen.

Harry forced himself to speak, even though every instinct screamed to run.

“I didn’t know,” he said, voice rough. “Not until two months ago.”

Tony’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted—like he was preparing for impact.

“I thought I was someone else,” Harry continued. “I was raised by my adoptive mum’s family. After she and her husband died, I was left with her relatives. They never told me anything. Not about her. Not about you. Not even my adopted parents, really. I didn’t even know I was adopted.”

The shame of it curled hot behind his ribs. He didn’t know why. Maybe because every part of this felt like lying, even when it wasn’t.

Tony’s brow furrowed slightly, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“I found out when I got a letter,” Harry said. “From my adopted mum. And with it was another. From her. From Sigyn.”

His throat closed slightly around the name—not because it wasn’t real, but because it was. And because it wasn’t her only name.

“Sigyn said she never told you,” he went on, slower now, cautious. “That it wasn’t safe. That her father—my grandfather—was powerful. Dangerous. That if people knew who I was, it could put me at risk.”

Tony’s mouth twisted, not in disbelief exactly, but like he was trying to fit that information into a world that had never included it.

“She said you didn’t know,” Harry added. “That you never had the chance. But she gave me your name. Told me I could find you. That I should. She wanted me to.”

He hesitated.

“My middle name is Anthony.”

He saw the flicker in Tony’s expression—the brief, involuntary softening. The kind you couldn’t fake even if you wanted to. But it didn’t last.

Tony scrubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to stay grounded. “She never said a damn word.”

“I don’t think she thought she could,” Harry said. And that part, at least, was true.

There were so many things he wasn’t saying. That Sigyn had never existed—not really. That his mother was Loki. That she was still alive—he could feel it, deep in his bones—but he had no idea where she was.

He couldn’t say any of that. Not yet.

“I came to New York because of the letter,” Harry said. “Because of you. I just—I needed to understand.”

The silence that followed was long and uneven. The tower hummed around them like a living thing, but the space between Harry and Tony felt frozen.

Then, finally, Tony straightened.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re doing a DNA test.”

Harry nodded.

“No—five,” Tony corrected. “Right now. One for each stage of denial.”

A ghost of a smile tried to rise at the corners of Harry’s mouth, but didn’t quite make it. “Okay,” he said again.

Peter, who’d been standing frozen beside Harry, gave a small, wide-eyed nod. “I mean… yeah. That seems fair.”

Tony shot him a look. “You’re not off the hook either, Spider-Kid. But we’ll get to that later.”

Tony shook his head once. “Seventeen years. I didn’t know. Not a hint. Nothing.”

Harry didn’t answer. What could he say?

Neither did I.

And I still don’t know who I’m supposed to be now.

Tony's voice cut through again—quieter now, but no less intense.

“If this is real… if you’re really mine…”

His eyes searched Harry’s face like the answer might be written there, just beneath the surface.

“Then we have a lot to talk about.”

Harry swallowed hard. He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded. The pendant felt warm against his chest, almost too warm, like it was responding to something he didn’t understand.

Tony turned toward the hallway, brisk now. All purpose, no ceremony. “Let’s go. We’ll run the test.”

He paused, just briefly, and glanced back over his shoulder.

“And while we’re waiting…”

A beat.

“You can start at the beginning.”

Avengers Tower – Sublevel Three, Medical Bay

10:38 p.m.

The elevator ride down to the med bay felt like holding his breath underwater.

Harry stood tense between Peter and Tony, every metal surface a reflection of something he couldn’t quite face—his singed jacket, Peter’s ash-smudged cheek, the unreadable twist of Tony’s mouth. They looked like they'd just survived the same fire but ended up on opposite shores.

Peter shifted beside him, awkward and too quiet. Tony stood with his arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw ticking slightly, like he was clenching back words he didn’t trust himself to say.

Then—

“Welcome back, sir,” said a crisp, perfectly composed voice from above. “Medical bay has been prepped. Dr. Graves is offsite, but I’ve initiated standard recovery protocols.”

Harry flinched. His eyes darted to the mirrored panel across from him, where faint lines of text had begun to shimmer across the surface, glowing like a rune-inscribed mirror just coming to life. He blinked.

“Right. Okay. Most polite mirror I’ve ever met. Usually they just insult my posture or suggest I do something about my hair.”

Tony gave him a look. 

Peter's eyes widened. “Wait—is that—?”

“JARVIS,” Tony replied, still staring ahead. “My AI. Don’t worry, he’s got better bedside manner than I do.”

Harry’s eyes stayed locked on the glowing wall. A voice in the glass. The way it seemed to know where they were going. The way it responded. Maybe it wasn't a mirror after all?

“You keep a butler in your lift?” he asked warily.

The mirror answered.

“Only when required, Mr. Potter.”

Harry jerked in surprise.

After a pause, Peter leaned in and murmured, “So this is, like… the futuristic castle part. The bit where it scans us for curses.”

Harry forced a thin smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The lift chimed and opened onto a pristine corridor of softly glowing walls and antiseptic air. The lighting felt too calm for what was happening. The med bay stretched out in front of them like something from a dream—or a containment cell.

Tony moved ahead, all business. “Sit. Breathe. Don’t argue. I want vitals, scans, and if anyone even looks congested, we’re adding chest X-rays.”

“I feel fine,” Peter said, dropping into one of the sleek exam beds. “Just, you know, crispy.”

“You’re not a doctor, and you just cartwheeled through a collapsing inferno,” Tony said without looking at him. “Let the robot decide if you’re still intact.”

Harry sat more hesitantly, his shoulder twinging as his jacket pulled across the burn from knocking through the door. He glanced around warily at the strange tech and sterile light, then muttered, “Could’ve just gone to A&E…”

“And had your blood tested by government lab techs who file reports? Pass,” Tony said. “You’re in my house. I keep my mysteries—and my possible offspring—local.”

A robotic arm emerged soundlessly from the wall behind him. Harry tensed, but it moved with eerie precision, releasing a cool puff of air against his neck. No needle. No sting. Still, he flinched.

“Vitals normal,” JARVIS said. “Mild dehydration. Elevated adrenaline. Superficial burns. Internal systems stable.”

“Breathing?” Tony asked sharply.

“Clear,” replied the AI. “No signs of smoke inhalation.”

Peter exhaled with relief. “Great. I love being declared basically alive.”

A second arm extended toward Harry, this one holding a soft-tipped cotton bud.

“Open please, Mr. Potter.”

Harry did, suppressing every instinct that screamed this is a trap. The swab brushed around his gums, then withdrew without ceremony.

“DNA is feeding into the analyser now,” Tony said, his posture easing—fractionally. “Six hours. Maybe less.”

Harry leaned back against the wall, heart still thudding. “Better than not knowing.”

He could feel Tony looking at him again—less guarded now, but more focused. As if seeing him not just as a threat or an anomaly, but… something else.

“When’s your birthday?”

Harry hesitated. “I always thought it was July thirty-first.”

Tony didn’t respond right away. He just nodded and turned toward the console, tapping something into the interface. The hum of diagnostics filled the room. For a few seconds, no one spoke.

Then Peter rubbed his face and made a small, strangled noise. “Oh—crap. I should call my aunt. She’s gonna kill us if I don’t check in.”

“You definitely should,” Tony said dryly. “Before she declares you missing and I have to explain you’re in my med bay after a building fire.”

Peter was already jogging toward the exit with his phone. “Be right back!”

The door hissed shut behind him. Silence settled.

Harry shifted slightly on the edge of the bed, trying to look casual. “You don’t have to stay. I’m fine here.”

Tony didn’t look up from the console. “That sounded a lot like someone who doesn’t want to be alone and is pretending otherwise.”

Harry flushed. “It’s not that. I’m just… used to waiting alone.”

Tony finally turned to face him. “You shouldn’t have to be,” he said. “Not for this.”

Something in his voice caught Harry off guard—less sarcasm, more… weariness. A kind of unguarded honesty that made it harder to meet his eyes.

There was a pause, and then Tony said, more gently this time, “So. You said she wrote you a letter. Sigyn. And that you were adopted?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. My adopted parents… they died. I was left with my aunt and uncle. I don’t think they knew I was adopted. They wouldn’t’ve taken me in if they had.”

Tony’s mouth twitched—not in amusement. Something closer to anger. Or recognition.

“So you thought…”

“I thought I was someone else,” Harry said quietly. “For most of my life.”

He traced a line along the edge of the bench with his fingertip. “My godmother—my friend’s mum—she kept a letter from my adopted mum. She was supposed to  give it to me ages ago but she was… medically incapable. My friend ended up finding it and sending it on.”

Tony’s fingers drummed once on the side of the console, then fell still. “And now you’re here.”

Harry nodded. Something shifted in Tony then. It wasn’t dramatic—just a breath, a soft tilt of the head, a weight falling off one shoulder. But it was the first time Harry saw the edge of what might have been hope.

Not excitement, but something edging toward it.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Tony said. “Guest rooms upstairs. Hot shower, proper food. We’ll deal with the rest in the morning.”

Harry hesitated. “Okay.”

The door opened again, and Peter reappeared, phone raised like a peace offering. “Okay, I told May we're staying at Stark Tower overnight.”

Tony gave him a skeptical look. “And she believed that?”

“She believes we're safe,” Peter said. “But she’s making lasagna tomorrow and she told me not to make her bring it here in Tupperware.”

“Right,” Tony said. “Well, if she shows up with a frying pan, I’m not getting between you.”

Peter flopped down beside Harry. “Not leaving him here alone.”

“I’m really fine,” Harry said.

“Nope,” Peter replied. “Too bad.”

For the first time since stepping into the med bay, something in Harry settled. Just a little. 

Tony watched them both, then shook his head. “Teenagers,” he muttered. “You sneak out, you pick fights with fires, and now I’ve got magical orphans sleeping in my guest rooms.”

Peter raised a hand. “I don’t do magic.”

Tony sighed. “We’re going upstairs. Both of you will eat something. Shower. You look like chimney sweeps.”

Harry stood slowly, one hand brushing the edge of the bench for balance. As he followed Peter to the door, he let himself glance back one last time.

The analyser still glowed softly behind them, processing strands of code and blood and ancestry. Somewhere in that glass and circuitry was an answer. He could admit, now, even though he was terrified, that… he might be ready to know it.

Chapter Text

Sun 5th July, 2015 

Stark Tower, Midtown Manhattan

Tony stood at the window with one hand braced against the glass, the skyline spread beneath him like a circuit board—lit up and pulsing, alive in a way that felt distant. Too bright. Too big. Too much.

The penthouse around him was quiet. That kind of engineered quiet you paid for in glass and steel and sound-dampening panels. Not even the low hum of JARVIS broke it.

He hadn’t turned on the lights. The only illumination came from the city beyond the windows and the soft glow of the arc reactor under his shirt, casting faint blue shadows across the polished floor.

Behind him, a drink sat untouched on the counter. He’d poured it automatically. Out of habit. Out of something older than habit—muscle memory from all the nights he needed to feel like he was doing something about the chaos in his head.

It didn’t help tonight.

He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a slow, uneven breath.

Seventeen.

Harry had said he was seventeen.

That should’ve been the end of it. A number. A coincidence.

But then there was the necklace.

And the name.

And the kind of power that didn’t belong in this world—magic or not. The kind of power you didn’t teach. You were born with it, if you were born at all.

The pendant was what caught him first. The moment he saw it—green, serpentine, faintly pulsing with some kind of energy that even his tech couldn’t quite parse—he knew.

It was the same pendant. The one he’d bought at a private auction nearly two decades ago and handed off to a woman who never quite made sense, no matter how close she stood.

Sigyn Frejasdottir.

He wasn’t even sure that was her real name. Probably wasn’t. She’d been strange, in the way that made you feel like you were three moves behind in a chess game you didn’t know you were playing. Elegant. Sharp. Otherworldly, though he’d have laughed at the word then.

They’d met by accident. Spent just over a week colliding at gallery openings, charity events, half-abandoned rooftops. Long enough for him to think—stupidly, in retrospect—that it might turn into something. And then one morning, she was gone. No goodbye. No note. Just the unsettling feeling that he was the one who’d been left behind.

He’d written her off. Chalked it up to one of those strange, beautiful flukes life sometimes threw at you when it was feeling particularly cinematic.

And now here he was.

Standing in the dark. Staring out over Manhattan. And trying not to lose it over the fact that the kid sleeping down the hall had her pendant, her eyes, his name—

And Tony’s face.

He hadn’t seen it right away. Too much going on. Fire, smoke, adrenaline. Resurrection.

But later, when things had gone quiet, when his brain had stopped running emergency protocols—he saw it.

The angle of Harry’s jaw. The shape of his mouth. His height. Even the way he held himself—tense but wary, like he was waiting for someone to yell without knowing why.

And the eyes—Christ, his eyes. Not in color, but in weight. In the way they looked older than they should’ve, like they’d seen too much and come out the other side with the burn marks to prove it.

Tony closed his own and pressed his palm to the reactor in his chest, grounding himself in something real. Solid. Known.

The math worked.

More than that, the feeling worked.

It scared the hell out of him.

Because if it was true—if Harry was his—

Everything changed.

Tony Stark. Former wunderkind. Ex-CEO. Engineer. Mechanic. Walking cautionary tale.

And maybe, just maybe—father.

The word caught on something in his throat. He didn’t say it. Didn’t dare. Not out loud.

He’d always told himself he wouldn’t have kids. Too dangerous. Too selfish. Too much like his father in all the ways that mattered.

Howard Stark had been a genius, a titan, a man who built the world and forgot to love the people in it. He’d given Tony everything except a reason to love him. Tony had spent half his life trying not to become him and the other half wondering if it was already too late.

But this—Harry—was something else. Something terrifying and precious and already halfway gone before Tony even knew to look for it.

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years of not knowing. Of absence. Of silence.

And somehow, impossibly, the kid didn’t hate him.

That was the worst part.

The most terrifying thing wasn’t that it might be true, it was that he wanted it to be.

Desperately.

He wanted a second chance at something he never thought he’d have. He wanted to look that kid in the eye and mean it when he said he wouldn’t walk away. Wouldn’t repeat the cycle. Wouldn’t be Howard.

Tony opened his eyes and stared out at the city.

He didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t even know where to start.

But he knew this much—if he was Harry’s father, he was going to fight like hell to be better than the one he’d had.

“JARVIS,” he said quietly, not turning from the window. “Let me know the second those test results come in.”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis replied.

Tony closed his eyes.

And whispered, more to himself than anyone, “please let this be real.”

He didn’t move from the window for a long time.

He just stood there, half-lit by the distant city, drink still untouched on the bar behind him, as the pieces kept sliding into place whether he liked it or not.

And now the legal nightmare began to unfold in his head like blueprints for disaster. Seventeen years old. No contact. No guardianship. No custody. No prep. No plan.

What if Harry was his?

What if he wasn’t?

Either way, the fallout could be catastrophic. Press. Public image. Guardianship hearings. State departments. SHIELD sticking its nose in. God forbid Fury caught wind. And the kid had no legal documentation in the U.S. No school enrollment. No visa that Tony knew of. He’d said he’d been staying with Peter. What if someone tried to deport him?

No. No, no, no.

This needed a plan.

Not a guess. Not a gut instinct. Not one of his classic fly-by-night panic-spirals disguised as brilliance. This needed a strategy. A blueprint. Something rational to hold onto before his brain flooded itself with every worst-case scenario.

He crossed the room in a few long strides and snatched his phone off the table. Unlocked it. Thumbs hovering, heart already racing. There was only one name that ever worked when he got like this—only one voice that could talk him off the metaphorical (and sometimes literal) ledge.

Pepper.

He hesitated.

It was late. Really late.

He glanced at the clock. 1:42 a.m.

Shit.

She was probably curled up in her high-rise apartment in Malibu, white noise playing softly, blackout curtains drawn, some herbal nonsense tea on the nightstand. Running Stark Industries now—his company, technically, but she wore the title better than he ever had. Stronger. Calmer. Cleaner.

And still—despite the time, despite the distance—he hit call.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She picked up on the fourth.

Her voice was groggy, dry with sleep and laced with that particular brand of steel-threaded exasperation she reserved for him and him alone. “Tony, if this is about organic import logistics again, I swear to God—”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “Well—okay, it is about logistics, but not the food kind.”

There was a pause. Sheets rustled.

“...Is someone bleeding?”

“No.”

“Exploding?”

“Also no.”

“Then this had better be really good,” she sighed. “It’s almost eleven here, and I was actually asleep for once.”

Tony let out a slow breath and collapsed into the nearest chair. It creaked under him, leather too stiff, too new. “Pep… I need you to listen. I’m not kidding. This is serious.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his fingers lingering over tired eyes.

He hadn’t even meant to call her, not really. It was just… muscle memory. His brain hit the panic switch, and his fingers knew where to go before his thoughts caught up. Because even now—especially now—she was the person he still reached for when the bottom dropped out.

Some habits never died. Even if you didn’t live on the same coast anymore.

Even if you didn’t kiss her when you should’ve.

The memory surfaced uninvited—that night on the rooftop after Hammer’s tech had fallen apart and the Expo lights flickered like fireworks behind them. She’d stood there, breathing hard, hands on her hips, the two of them pressed close by heat and chaos and something else that felt like gravity. She’d looked up at him—really looked—and it would’ve been so easy.

But he hadn’t.

Because he didn’t trust himself. Because he’d ruin it. Because he always did.

Now she was in California, CEO of his legacy, and he was here—New York, in a tower full of superheroes and gadgets, panicking in a chair down the hall from something impossible in the form of a seventeen-year-old with a too-familiar jawline.

But some part of him still thought of Pepper as his person. His north star. The one who knew him better than he liked to admit.

He took a breath, steadier this time. “Do you remember that pendant necklace I gave a woman named Sigyn? It was green and shaped like a constellation? Got it in an auction in 1996 or 7. You lectured me for twenty minutes about giving expensive one-of-a-kind jewelry to women who were just going to leave.”

Another pause. This time longer.

“…Yes,” she said slowly. “Tony, why the hell are you thinking about her?”

He stared at the skyline like it might give him an answer.

“Because I think I just met the kid she never told me about. My kid, if that wasn't obvious. I think, anyway.”

Silence. Not confusion. Just… silence. The kind of stunned silence you could feel through the phone.

“You… think?”

“I might. It’s not confirmed. DNA test is running. He’s down the hall in the guest room with Spider-Man—yes, that Spider-Man, long story—and he’s asleep. But he has the pendant, and my name, and apparently a letter. And he’s seventeen. And he’s my height, and has my mouth, and possibly my level of inability to shut up when nervous—”

“Tony.”

“—and his name’s Harry. He was in the middle of a building fire, and he pulled this move that defibrillated a dead kid with moonlight, and I know that sounds insane, but—”

“Tony.” Her voice was firmer now. Steady. Familiar. “Take a breath.”

He did. Shaky, but he took it.

“Okay,” she said after a moment. “I’m up. I’m listening. Start from the top.”

He ran her through it as fast and cleanly as he could. The fire. The kid. The power. The pendant. The name Sigyn had given him. 

She was quiet for most of it, only humming or asking for clarification here and there. But when he got to the part about Harry never knowing until recently—about him being an orphan, raised by people who didn’t even like him—he heard something shift in her tone.

“Oh my God,” she murmured. 

Tony exhaled like he’d been waiting for someone else to say it.

“I don’t know what to do, Pep. If it’s true, I’ve already missed everything. And if it’s not, he still needs help. And I don’t even know if he wants anything from me—except maybe answers.”

There was a soft thump—her bare feet hitting the floor. “What do you need from me?”

He closed his eyes. “I need a plan. Lawyers. Paperwork. Emergency guardianship prep in case someone comes sniffing around. And… maybe you. Here.”

There was no hesitation in her voice now. “I’m booking a flight. I’ll be on the next one out.”

Tony nearly dropped the phone from the weight of relief.

“I owe you.”

“You owe me a lot,” she said wryly. “But we’ll start with coffee when I land.”

He laughed, just once. Short, tired, grateful.

“Thanks, Pep.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she replied. “Let’s just see what the next few hours bring.”

And with that, the line went quiet.

Tony leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling, the sound of the city muffled by thick glass.

Three hours.

And everything could change.

Stark Tower – Workshop, Sublevel 5

2:27 a.m.

The elevator opened with a whisper, spilling Tony into the cavernous quiet of his private workshop.

The room was all metal and light—frosted panels humming softly, tools gleaming in silent anticipation, a dozen prototypes in various states of undress strewn across tables. One of the gauntlets from Mark 45 blinked lazily to life as he passed, then went dim again, sensing his distraction.

Tony rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaled through his nose, and tossed a tablet onto the nearest bench.

“JARVIS,” he said into the room, voice low. “Dim lights to sixty. Run playlist 7.3. No vocals.”

A soft wash of warm light replaced the sterile glow, and the dulcet, unobtrusive hum of piano and synth chords began to fill the air.

He sat on the edge of the stool by his workbench and stared at a mostly-disassembled flight stabilizer. Picked up a socket wrench. Put it back down.

Fidgeted. Spun the stool once. Regretted it immediately.

This isn’t working.

It wasn’t the engineering that wasn't making sense to him—engineering always made sense. Metal obeyed. Electrons followed rules. He could build something from nothing and it would do exactly what he’d designed it to do.

But nothing about tonight—this kid—was going the way it was supposed to.

Harry.

Harry who might be seventeen years of arrogant assumption that he was childless and a pendant he’d buried in the past and a mouth that looked just like his.

Harry who had looked completely calm kneeling over a dying girl, then brought her back to life.

He swore under his breath and stood again, pacing. The workshop lights followed his movements with the quiet loyalty of a dog watching its owner unravel.

“JARVIS,” he said finally. “Pull up all immigration records from the UK to the US from the last six months. Cross-reference for any minors entering under tourist visas, no adult accompaniment. Filter for anyone named Harry.”

A pause.

“Sir, that may take several minutes. There are over one thousand candidates.”

“Then cross-check those names with anything in the last fifteen years flagged under UK news media. Accidents. Missing persons. Weird stories. Anything that gives off a whiff of weird.”

“Refining now.”

Tony opened a drawer and started organizing cables by size and color, something he hadn’t done since he was detoxing from palladium in Malibu.

What kind of name was Sigyn, anyway?

He tried saying it aloud. “Sigyn.”

Sounded like an old Norse saga. A myth.

Not someone he ever expected to see again—not after that week. One week. The auction. Her eyes. That pendant. The way she never gave up anything about herself and always smiled like she was keeping something sacred. And then—

Gone.

Ghosted. Not a trace. Not even a shadow in his databases, and that never happened. It was like she’d disappeared into smoke.

And now her kid shows up. In his building. With his face.

He gripped the back of the chair again, jaw tight.

“Sir.”

He turned toward the voice. JARVIS was displaying a filtered list on the nearest screen with an attached file.

Harry James Potter

Citizenship: United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

NI number: HP 82 07 93 B

Parents: Unknown, deceased

Guardians: Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley nee Evans

Birthday: 31 July 1997

ESTA issued: London, 5 June 2015

Current address: Unknown

The holo-screens flickered in the low light of the lab, casting a pale glow over Tony’s face as he sat motionless in front of the console. A school photo hovered in front of him—Harry James Potter, aged about seven, maybe eight. Too thin. Dull-eyed. Wearing a school uniform three sizes too big and a tentative smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Tony zoomed in slightly.

A fading bruise near the boy’s temple. Slight swelling under one eye, like an old black eye never quite healed. And his hands—clutching the edge of his shirt—bore marks Tony had seen before. Not on kids. On soldiers. On survivors.

That familiar churn started in his gut.

"JARVIS," Tony said, his voice low and flat. "Run a deep scan on UK educational and municipal records for one Harry James Potter. Start with Surrey. Cross-check for CPS reports, school documentation, and medical incidents starting in 1997."

“Already compiling,” JARVIS replied. “Initial hits found under Runnymede Borough Council. Multiple reports filed.”

The screen filled with scanned documents—social worker reports, flagged school notes, emails between departments that had gone nowhere.

‘Child arrived with significant bruising to forearms and neck.’

‘Reluctant to speak during group activities. Reports hunger and sleeplessness.’

‘Clothing inappropriate for weather.’

‘Claimed to sleep in the cupboard beneath stairs.’

‘Concern forwarded to council. Case closed: insufficient evidence.’

Tony’s jaw clenched.

“Jesus Christ.”

He attended Peaslake Primary from 2002 to 2008, except the file cut off abruptly at age eleven. No transfer records. No private school notations. Just—gone.

And the Dursleys. Names redacted in the more recent reports, but early notes still included their address. Privet Drive. Little Whinging. A neighborhood Tony could've driven past. Cookie-cutter. Middle-class. The kind of place that covered up its secrets in thick suburban hedges and HOA regulations.

He scrolled forward.

The Dursleys themselves had vanished on Harry’s 17th birthday—forwarding address failed, home sold, records sealed. No public phone numbers. No tax filings since.

“Run a secondary search on Vernon and Petunia Dursley,” Tony snapped. “I want everything—travel history, tax filings, emergency services calls, missing person reports, CCTV, anything.”

“Working,” JARVIS said.

But Tony already knew what he'd find.

Nothing.

Someone had made it disappear. Someone with power. Either governmental or something else.

He leaned back, running a hand down his face. The timelines, the sudden vanishing act, the weird glow from the necklace… it didn’t feel random. It didn’t even feel accidental.

It felt buried.

Someone had wanted this kid invisible.

And he had been—until tonight.

Tony sat still for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose.

If this was his kid—and if Harry was left with those people—then he had already failed. But he wouldn’t again. Never again.

He didn’t move for a long time.

The screens in front of him showed file after file of negligence, of reports dismissed, of a system that had quietly and repeatedly failed a kid who hadn’t even hit puberty. And then—nothing. A total blackout. 

A familiar knot formed in Tony’s chest—the same one he got reading casualty reports, or watching surveillance footage too late to make a difference.

"JARVIS,” he said, his voice quieter now, but edged like steel, “where the hell did those records go?”

“Unknown. Stonewall Secondary registration exists but was never activated. All subsequent school records terminate as of August 2008. No forwarding data, no digital transition files. The usual educational networks show no trace.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “So someone wiped him. Not just lost paperwork. Wiped.”

“It would appear so, sir.”

Tony tapped the arm of his chair. Once. Twice. Then he said, “Alright. Time to break the rules. Bypass GCHQ firewalls and get me access to the MI5 juvenile record archives. If it’s not there, pivot to MI6. Keyword priority: Harry James Potter. Include Dursley, Privet Drive, Little Whinging. Make it quiet.”

“Understood,” JARVIS said, not even pretending to be surprised. “Penetrating British Security Service archives now. I’ll isolate local nodes and spoof routing through dark satellite proxies. Estimated time to access: six minutes.”

“Good. And once you're in, don’t just pull the surface data. I want the files that were buried. Redacted. Hidden.”

“You suspect a classified reason for the erasure?”

Tony exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. But people don’t just vanish from the system at eleven years old unless someone makes it happen.”

There was a pause.

“Sir… if I may—”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re becoming personally involved.”

Tony gave a bitter half-smile. “J, if there’s even a chance that kid’s mine—and I’m starting to believe it—then someone let him grow up in hell, and someone else made damn sure nobody noticed. I need to know who. And why.”

The lab lights dimmed slightly as JARVIS diverted more power into the network breach.

“Understood. Quiet mode engaged.”

Tony sat back, eyes still on the grainy school photo—on the hollow-cheeked kid in the too-big sweater, blinking blearily at the camera like he didn’t quite know what being seen even meant.

“You’re not invisible anymore, kid,” Tony murmured. “Not to me.”

The workshop lights flickered faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the tools and half-finished suit mods strewn across the table. Tony hadn’t moved in a while—he sat slouched in front of the screen, hands limp at his sides, gaze locked somewhere far past the monitor.

JARVIS's voice cut through the quiet.

“Sir, I’ve managed to access the MI5 records. The breach was… delicate.”

Tony straightened immediately. “And?”

A new file appeared onscreen. Sparse. Fragmented. Clearly redacted by multiple hands.

“Harry James Potter,” JARVIS recited. “Born 31 July 1997. Last recorded civilian enrollment was Stonewall Secondary School, scheduled to begin autumn term 2008. All public school records cease at that point.”

Tony frowned. “We know that, but what about after?”

“There is one flagged document. A transfer classification. Code-locked. It references an institution—Hogwarts School—but the department seal has been scrubbed. No digital footprint, no physical address.”

“Hogwarts?” Tony repeated. “What, like a theme park?”

“Possibly,” JARVIS replied. “But no official record exists in MI5, MI6, or Ministry of Education archives. All post–2008 references to Harry Potter vanish or are buried beneath higher-than-normal clearance blocks.”

Tony rubbed his hands over his face.

“Jesus, what the hell did this kid get wrapped up in?”

JARVIS was silent for a beat.

Then, quietly he asked, “Shall I continue digging?”

Tony hesitated.

He glanced at the screen where Harry’s school photo stared back at him, big-eyed and small-shouldered, bruises just visible at the edge of his collar.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, keep going. But quietly, J. Don’t flag anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony leaned back in the chair, staring at the hidden transfer file—Hogwarts, whatever that was—and the cold knot in his chest only tightened.

Something wasn’t right.

And if this kid was his, he was going to find out everything. Until then, he had work to do. 

He brought up a new screen, accessing Twitter and typing in search parameters for the fire before scrolling until he found a shaky video.

He stood for a long moment, arms folded across his chest, just staring at the hologram in front of him—a video of Harry levitating people out of a burning building on one side of the screen, the pendant blown up beside it, pulsing faintly like it was alive.

He didn’t know what Harry had done, exactly—some kind of impossible, defiant necromancy in front of a crowd of iPhone-wielding New Yorkers. He didn’t know who Sigyn had been, or how she’d left him with a seventeen-year-old who he was convinced was his with every passing minute.

But he did know one thing.

That kid had gone into a burning building, saved people, and brought a child back from the dead—and then crumpled like he was the one dying. No armor. No backup. Just a fucking tracksuit and that necklace and something ancient in his eyes.

Tony scrubbed a hand through his hair and pivoted to the workbench.

The Spider-Man prototype suit sat on the hanger, nearly complete. Peter had no idea it even existed yet. Tony had started it months ago, when he first flagged Spider-Man’s footage on YouTube—more out of curiosity than concern. But now?

Now he had two kids to look out for. Maybe. Probably.

And no way was Harry going out again in a hoodie and a balaclava and whatever secondhand sneakers he’d found in Peter’s closet.

“JARVIS,” Tony said, sweeping a hand through the air to bring up a blank projection. “Start a new suit file. Project designation: Wandless Wonder.”

“Initializing,” JARVIS replied smoothly. “Parameters?”

“Same adaptive mesh as the Mark 6 undersuit. Needs mobility, insulation, maybe some reactive cooling depending on his power signature—we’ll tweak it later.”

“And color palette?”

Tony hesitated. His mind flashed to the way Harry had crouched protectively over the girl, black-on-black, the pendant glowing faintly at his throat like a second heartbeat.

“Midnight,” he said finally. “Matte black. Graphene overlay. Something that blends.”

The suit began to take shape—lines forming in the air, elegant and severe. Tony added a lightweight hood, some hidden compartments, and a built-in HUD node that could sync to a basic AI interface. No facial armor—not yet. He didn’t know if Harry would even want it. But he’d add shielding around the chest, around the heart. Where the pendant rested.

He worked in silence for a while, refining and adjusting, letting his hands distract his mind.

Not that it helped much.

This wasn’t about just building something sleek and badass. This was about making sure the kid survived. Because the truth was, even if the DNA said no—if this turned out to be some massive cosmic joke or mistake—Tony already knew he was too far in.

He was building armor for a seventeen-year-old stranger. A stranger who, somehow, already felt like a son.

And he was terrified out of his mind.

“Estimated time to DNA result delivery: one hour, twelve minutes,” JARVIS intoned quietly.

Tony nodded, not looking up.

“Then let’s make sure he’s got something to wear when it comes back. Any luck with that search for the Dursleys?”

“Affirmative, sir,” the AI replied smoothly. “CCTV captured Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley in a small market town in the Lake District. Timestamp: Friday, 3rd July, 2015.”

Tony stood straighter. “Show me.”

A feed flickered onto the screen in front of him—grainy but serviceable. Three figures crossed a small parking lot. In front was a heavyset man with a red face and too-tight polo shirt; just behind him, a woman whose every muscle seemed clenched against the very idea of joy; and finally a teenage boy built like a refrigerator, waddling a half-step behind, licking an ice cream.

“Jesus,” Tony muttered, staring. “Those are the Dursleys?”

He’d seen their files. Read the reports. There’d been headshots attached—school registration forms, passport scans. But this? This was like watching a three-act play about willful suburban spite.

“Run the plates on that rental,” he added, gesturing vaguely to the car in the background. “And start pulling anything we can get—credit card transactions, lodging registrations, local digital footprints. I want to know where they’ve been eating, sleeping, pissing, and parking.”

“Processing now,” JARVIS confirmed. “The vehicle is registered to a rental agency in Keswick. Records indicate a one-week rental, paid in cash.”

Tony crossed his arms and watched as Vernon barked something at Petunia—her mouth flattened into a thin, disapproving line—and then pointed toward a bakery window like he was preparing to invade Normandy.

“Unbelievable,” Tony muttered. “That’s who raised him?”

He zoomed in instinctively on the woman—Petunia—watching the way she grabbed her handbag tighter when a kid on a bike rode by. She didn’t look cruel in the mustache-twirling villain sense, but her eyes were hard. Cold in the way that came from choice and bitterness.

They hadn’t just neglected Harry, they’d tried to erase him. Hid him in a cupboard. Buried him under plastic smiles and manicured lawns.

Tony exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.

“Any police records on them?” he asked.

“Nothing with convictions,” JARVIS replied, “just the uninvestigated reports of suspected abuse filed by educators in Runnymede Borough. No follow-up recorded.”

Tony shook his head. “Of course not.”

He stepped away from the screen, one hand raking through his hair.

This was the first time he could attach movement to the names and faces. These weren’t just the people who ignored the bruises on a kid’s school photo—they were the kind who’d blame a ten-year-old for making their house look messy and doled out bruises for it.

And now they were hiding from something.

“Keep tracking,” Tony said, voice low. “I want to know if they’re planning on staying up there, or if they’re moving again.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned back to the screen for one more glance—just as Vernon opened the passenger door with the kind of possessive flash in his eyes usually reserved for gold bars and cigars.

Tony clenched his teeth.

Whatever the DNA test said… it didn’t change one thing.

No kid should’ve been raised by people like that.

And if Harry was his? There wasn’t a bunker deep enough to hide the Dursleys from what Tony Stark was going to do next.

Chapter Text

Sat 4th July, 2015

Guest Suite, Avengers Tower – 11:14pm

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a bed this soft. Or this big. Or this... posh.

The guest room in Tony Stark’s penthouse was sleek but warm—showy but comfortable. The bed was massive, the sheets smelled like lavender and starch, and the view from the floor-to-ceiling window stretched out over Manhattan like a dream painted in lights and glass.

He and Peter had been standing awkwardly by the door earlier, still half covered in soot and adrenaline, when Tony had wordlessly tossed each of them a folded set of clothes.

“These should fit. Or fit well enough. Try not to get too much soot on them, they’re mine. I'll wake you when the results are in,” he said, already halfway down the hall. “JARVIS, unlock the guest bath. Don’t let Parker clog the toilet.”

“I never—!” Peter started, but Tony had already vanished.

Now Harry was holding one of those shirts—a soft black tee with a cracked and faded band logo. It smelled like expensive detergent, motor oil, and a hint of whatever cologne Tony wore. Something dark and citrusy and too refined for either of them.

“Pretty sure this shirt costs more than our rent,” Peter said, emerging from the bathroom in loose Stark Industries sweatpants and a plain black tee that was falling off one shoulder.

Harry laughed under his breath and ducked into the steam-filled ensuite next.

He scrubbed away the soot and grime, trying not to think too hard about what had happened earlier—what he had done. By the time he stepped out, skin pink and clean, Peter was already sprawled sideways on the massive bed, texting Ned with wild abandon.

“You told him?” Harry asked, toweling off his hair.

“He may have screamed loud enough to shatter a window and gotten in trouble,” Peter replied. “I regret nothing.”

Harry shook his head fondly and changed into the clothes Tony had left—drawstring lounge pants, the tee with sleeves to his elbows, a massively oversized hoodie that he set aside, and socks that were clearly cashmere because no other socks had any business being that soft.

He dropped onto the bed beside Peter with a sigh, the mattress barely shifting beneath him.

“Okay, we need to set some rules,” Peter said suddenly, locking his phone. “No accidentally vaporising me in your sleep.”

“I make no promises,” Harry muttered, tugging at the hem of the too-long shirt.

They got into bed properly, then lay there for a moment in the quiet, the city humming gently below them through the insulated windows.

“You good?” Peter asked eventually, voice low.

Harry hesitated. “I think so.”

“You sure?”

He turned his head slightly, watching Peter in the dim glow of the bedside console. “I’ve never had this before.”

Peter blinked. “What? Expensive pajamas?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “No. Clothes from someone who cared enough to guess the size instead of hand-me-downs ten sizes too big with holes in the knees.”

Peter didn’t answer, but his foot nudged Harry’s under the covers, warm and steady. Then he shifted so he was lying on his side, head propped up on his hand. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Harry asked, though he already knew.

“The one that says you’re lying there pretending not to be thinking about everything all at once.”

Harry stared at the ceiling for a moment. The soft hum of the city filtered in through the window, muffled and distant like the world was wrapped in cotton.

Then he said, quietly, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Peter’s brows knit slightly. “About what?”

“All of it.” Harry turned his head to look at him. “Tony might be my father. I’m… apparently some kind of magical grim reaper. I brought a girl back to life today. And now I’m lying in a billionaire’s penthouse wearing his old shirt like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

Peter let out a quiet breath. “Okay. Yeah. Fair point.”

Harry nodded. “I don’t need money. I’m… I’m already rich. Not like—this rich, but rich enough. I’ve got a house. I’ve got a vault full of gold and more paperwork than I know what to do with. But I’ve never had a family. And I don’t know how to be someone’s kid.”

Peter didn’t speak right away.

So Harry kept going, words slower now, like they were harder to pull out. “There was one person. He was the closest I’ve had to a parent. My… godfather, Sirius. He didn’t raise me, but he wanted to. He was funny, and loud, and kind of mad. Reckless—but he really cared about me.”

Peter listened, quiet and open.

“He died when I was fifteen,” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. “And I think some part of me just shut down after that. I’ve been on my own for a long time. Ron and Hermione—my best friends—they’re my family, too. But I always felt like I didn’t quite belong to anyone.”

Peter was silent for a long moment. Then he said softly, “When Ben—my uncle—died… it felt like everything broke. I kept waiting for things to make sense again. But they never really did. I just got better at pretending they had.”

Harry turned his face into the pillow a little, letting the warmth of Peter’s words settle somewhere in his chest.

“But,” Peter continued, “you don’t have to figure it all out right away. You don’t have to be anyone’s anything if you’re not ready. You don’t owe Tony a perfect reunion. You just owe yourself a chance to decide what you want.”

Harry closed his eyes. “I don’t even know what I want.”

“That’s okay, too.”

They lay in silence again, softer now, the hush of the Tower pressing gently in around them.

After a while, Harry murmured, “None of this is what I expected, you know.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, turning just enough to give him a tired smile. “I think it is.”

Peter smiled back. “Well… good.”

Their hands brushed between the sheets—just once—and neither of them moved away. It wasn't a declaration, just enough to know they weren’t alone.

Sun 5th July, 2015

Avengers Tower

Harry wasn’t even sure when he’d fallen asleep.

One moment he was lying beside Peter in the ridiculous bed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think too hard about… well, everything. The next, he was being gently shaken awake.

“Hey,” came a voice—low, but not unkind. “Rise and shine, Junior.”

Harry blinked groggily, the room was grey-blue with early morning light bleeding in around the curtains. His mouth was dry. His shoulder ached faintly. Peter’s arm was warm against his.

Tony stood over them, bleary-eyed in a Metallica shirt and jeans, a coffee mug in one hand. His face looked drawn, like he hadn’t slept.

For a half-second, Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. Had something happened?

Then Tony said, “The results are in.”

Peter made a muffled noise beside him and half-sat up, dragging his hair out of his eyes. “Wait—what time is it? Results, like… DNA results?”

Harry sat bolt upright. His heart thudded, panic and adrenaline suddenly flooding his chest. “Now?”

Tony nodded once. “JARVIS just pinged me. I figured I should come get you before I opened anything. Felt like the kind of thing you want to learn together.”

Peter scrambled to his feet, dragging on the a slightly-too-long Stark Industries zip up Tony had given him the night before. “I’m coming too,” he mumbled through a yawn.

Harry jammed his glasses on and reached for the hoodie Tony had given him last night at the end of the bed, tugging it on over the oversized t-shirt. The pendant beneath it was still warm, resting heavily against his chest like a second heartbeat.

He stood, suddenly aware of how rumpled he looked. The sleeves were too long, and the collar slipped slightly to one side. His hair—already an untamable mess—was sticking up in every direction, and his glasses were askew. Tony didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered. Just for a moment.

“You already know, don’t you?” Harry asked, his voice rough with sleep and nerves.

Tony’s expression twitched—something almost imperceptible. “It took all my questionable willpower to wait.”

The walk down the corridor was quiet. Peter trailed behind them, barefoot and clearly still half-dreaming, but Harry’s pulse was hammering so hard he could barely hear anything else. Every step made the moment more real.

He was seventeen years old. He had lived under a staircase, faced war and death—and nothing, nothing, had ever felt as terrifying as this.

He brushed a hand over the pendant again without thinking.

They reached the med bay via the lift, and the door hissed open. Tech gleamed everywhere—glass and silver and LED panels that pulsed faintly. One large display was already active in the center, the light pale blue and waiting.

Tony stepped forward first. “JARVIS?”

“Good morning, Mr Stark,” came the smooth, accented voice. “The results have been compiled and are awaiting visual confirmation.”

Peter stood beside Harry, looking back and forth between them with wide eyes. Harry didn’t dare look at either of them now.

Tony hesitated only a breath longer, then said, “Show us.”

The display flickered. Data filled the screen—strands of genetic code, side-by-side results, percentages, something in bold that Harry couldn’t make sense of.

But it didn’t matter.

Because one line glowed clear and unmistakable at the top:

PATERNITY MATCH: 99.96% – STARK, ANTHONY E.

The room went very still.

Peter let out a noise that might’ve been a gasp or a laugh or a curse—it was hard to tell. Harry didn’t move. Tony stared at the screen for a long moment. His jaw clenched. He looked pale.

Harry’s voice came out hoarse. “So… it’s true.”

Tony didn’t speak. Just turned slowly toward him. Their eyes met. And then Tony Stark, billionaire inventor, Avenger, and man with heavier security than most prisons, let out a shaky breath and said, very softly, “Jesus Christ… I have a kid.”

Harry’s stomach swooped. He didn’t know what to feel. Relief, panic, some strange sense of closure that didn’t feel like closure at all. Just a new beginning that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

“I didn’t know,” Tony said, stepping closer. “I swear to you, Harry—I didn’t know. If I had—God, if I’d known—”

“It’s okay,” Harry said quickly, on instinct, even though it wasn’t okay. Not really. “I know.”

Tony gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh and dragged a hand down his face. “It's not okay, I… I don’t even know what to say. I thought that week with her was—I mean, she left. Just vanished. I feel like she didn't even tell me her real name.”

He stared at him—really stared. Like he was seeing something impossible. And then he crossed the room and sat down heavily on the nearest bench. Peter slowly sank into a chair beside the panel, wide-eyed, clearly overwhelmed.

Harry just stood there, everything inside him buzzing like a live wire, something twisting tight in his chest. He didn’t mean to say anything, but the silence stretched too long—and the pressure, the sheer weight of the moment, pushed the words out of him before he could stop.

“I, um—sorry, I’m not really good at this,” he started, voice rough. 

Tony didn’t interrupt, just watched him with that same unreadable expression.

“I—I grew up with my aunt and uncle. They weren’t… kind. They hated anything they couldn’t explain, and I was a walking mystery from day one.” He gave a small, humorless laugh.

Tony’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.

“And then school was—well, not exactly fantastic either. It was a lot better, because I had friends, but it was also… I mean, there was a war. A… a real one. We lost people. I lost people.” He swallowed. “My godfather. My mentor. My—people I really cared about. People who thought I was something important before I even knew who I was.”

He rubbed at his neck, eyes fixed on the floor. “So, yeah. I guess I’ve always been in the middle of something. I just… didn’t expect this to be the next thing.”

When he finally glanced up, Tony hadn’t looked away. His face had gone still, eyes dark with something Harry couldn’t quite read—anger, maybe. Not at him. But at everything else.

And softly—barely above a whisper—Tony said, “Jesus.”

Harry gave him a tired smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tony exhaled, scrubbing both hands over his face like he could physically push the emotion back. Then he looked at Harry again, and there was something steadier there now.

Resolve.

“Okay, kid,” Tony said quietly. “I can’t fix what already happened. But I’m not gonna be another thing that hurts you.”

Harry blinked. “Erm… okay.”

“Just so we're clear,” Tony said, standing again. “Because I wanna get this right. Honestly, I don’t know what I'm doing, either. I didn’t exactly have a shining example. But if you’ll let me… I’d like to try.”

It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he looked at Harry when he said them. Like he meant every syllable. Like he wouldn’t run. And against all odds, Harry believed him.

Tony’s voice was still low when he asked it.

“But… what do you want from me, kid?”

Harry blinked. It wasn’t an accusation, just a quiet question—raw and open, like a man who’d learned not to expect the answer he wanted. Harry hesitated, eyes flicking toward Peter, who had settled against the chair back beside him, silent and watchful.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to want,” Harry admitted. “But I know what I don’t want. I’m not here to ask for money or… I don’t need anything like that.” He shifted awkwardly in place. “I’ve got my own place. I’ve got… money. What I really want is just to get to know you. If that’s something you want, too.”

Tony exhaled, running a hand down his jaw. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“I don’t want to rush anything,” Harry added quickly. “We can take it slow. But there are… some things I think you should know. Just… I can't say to anyone else. You're allowed to know, as my… f-father, but…”

Peter, to his credit, didn’t even look offended. He just stood, stretching his arms with a dramatic groan. “That’s my cue, huh? I can go start on breakfast or something.”

“You cook?” Tony raised an eyebrow.

“Not well,” Peter admitted. “But I’ve watched my aunt enough times to fake it.”

“I’ll show you the kitchen,” Tony said, standing and giving Harry a look that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. “It’s a bit of a hike.”

They took the lift back up, silently marching through the penthouse until they reached the glass-and-steel sprawl of Tony’s private kitchen. It was sleek and modern, but somehow still looked like a place someone lived—a fruit bowl on the island counter, a coffee mug abandoned next to the sink.

“Fridge is voice activated,” Tony told Peter as they stepped inside. “But there’s a manual panel too. JARVIS can walk you through it. We'll be down in the workshop—just let JARVIS know if you’re coming down.”

“Got it,” Peter said. “Harry—I'll be here if you need anything, okay?”

Harry gave a brief nod and trailed after Tony into the hall.

Neither of them spoke until they reached the lift. Tony murmured a voice command, and the doors slid shut with a quiet hiss. The silence between them lingered—not just awkward, but weighted, filled with things neither was ready to say.

When the doors opened, soft light spilled into the vast expanse of a massive, chaotic room. Screens flickered to life in greeting, blueprints and trays of components catching the glow of the overhead lights. The air was thick with the scent of metal and machine oil—a familiar, electric sort of quiet.

Tony walked in first, barefoot on the polished floor, still clinging to a mug of coffee in one hand and gesturing behind him with his other.

"Welcome to the mad scientist lair," he said, half-turning to make sure Harry followed. "Try not to touch anything unless you want to accidentally launch a missile or trigger a dance party. Equal odds, really."

Harry stepped cautiously inside, hands shoved into the sleeves of the oversized hoodie Tony had given him. "This is where you build the suits?"

"Yep. Suits, drones, satellites, coffee when I forget where the kitchen is." He took a sip. "I do my best thinking here."

Harry nodded, stepping closer to the worktable where a half-assembled gauntlet lay open like a steel flower. He hesitated.

Tony watched him for a moment, then set his mug down on the table beside the worn old sofa with a quiet thunk.

“So,” he said, voice softer now. “What do you need to tell me?”

Harry’s hand drifted to the pendant under his hoodie. He glanced toward the lift, like he half-expected Peter to show up and interrupt.

“There are things I can’t say in front of just anyone,” he said quietly. “Not even Peter.”

Tony didn’t push. Just gave a nod. “Okay. I’m listening.”

Harry took a breath. “The world I come from… it’s hidden. Most people don’t even know it exists. And even there—in the magical world—I don’t really fit.”

Tony stayed silent, but the shift in his eyes said he was paying close attention.

“I didn’t mean to hide it. I just…” Harry faltered, jaw tightening. “The Dursleys—they raised me after my parents died. They hated magic. Pretended it didn’t exist. And people get strange about it—even in the magical world, especially when someone’s different. And I’m… very different.”

He let out a frustrated breath. “There are rules. A Statute of Secrecy to keep people like you from finding out. But there’s so much I haven’t said, and I don’t even know where to start.”

Tony leaned forward slightly. “But I’m not ‘people like me’ anymore.”

Harry blinked.

“I’m your father,” Tony said, offering a small, uneven smile. “That makes me family. Right?”

Harry nodded, slow and a little unsteady.

“Then no secrets,” Tony said. “Not if you don’t want them. Obviously you don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with, but this can just be you and me, figuring it out. I can’t promise I’ll understand it all, but I’m not going to back away because of something you were born with.”

Some of the tension began to ease from Harry’s shoulders. Tony stood, bracing himself against the workbench like he needed something solid under him. “You saved someone’s life last night. And I don’t care if your DNA says magic, alien, or cosmic anomaly—you’re mine. We’ll figure the rest out together.”

That pulled a startled laugh from Harry. Quiet. Almost shy.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re just… weirdly calm about this.”

Tony shrugged. “I built a flying suit in a cave with a box of scraps. Magic’s new, sure. But not unworkable. And definitely not the weirdest thing I’ve seen.”

Harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“And I know the other Avengers will feel the same,” Tony said lightly, “whenever you want to meet them. Whatever you feel like sharing, or don't. Plus Pepper, and Happy, and Rhodey. You’ve got support here. And speaking of—you’re gonna need a suit.”

“A suit?” Harry asked, thrown. “Like... Iron Man? Or like for a dinner party?”

Tony grinned. “Both, but I was thinking more a super suit. Only if you want. Something of your own that'll protect you in a scrape. I'm not gonna ask you to stop going out on patrol with Peter—you're old enough to make that decision for yourself. But I want to support you, whatever you choose, and you’re a Stark. Might as well look the part.”

This time, Harry smiled for real—warm and genuine, a little disbelieving but no less true. Tony’s smile lingered, but then his expression shifted. “You said there’s more. About the magical world.”

“There is,” Harry said, quieter. “Things you should know, especially if you… if we're going to try.”

“Go ahead.”

“When I was a baby, my adopted parents—Lily and James Potter—died protecting me from a dark wizard named Voldemort.”

Tony’s brows drew together, face darkening. “That's a name.”

“We—nobody knew the Potters weren't my real parents, but either way, Voldemort wasn’t a fan of anyone who didn’t fit his definition of power,” Harry said, shaking his head. “He believed in blood purity. That only magical families with the ‘right’ lineage should rule. Everyone else, especially Muggleborns—kids born to non-magical families—were inferior. Targets.”

Tony went quiet for a moment, then said, “So a fascist.”

“Pretty much.”

“He still a threat?”

Harry shook his head. “I defeated him. Eventually. But it wasn’t just me. I couldn't have done it on my own. I had people who helped. Who loved me enough to put themselves in danger for me, even though I don't really understand why.”

Tony looked at him for a long time.

“I hope you’ll have that here, too,” he said.

Harry blinked, eyes stinging unexpectedly. He cleared his throat to continue, unsure how to respond. “I... Voldemort came to kill me originally because of a prophecy,” Harry said. “But something went wrong. The killing curse he used rebounded off me and destroyed his body. I survived. My mum—Lily—had died to protect me, and that… that protection did something. No one fully understood it at the time.”

He shifted. “Dumbledore—he was the head of our school, and kind of the leader of the resistance back then—he placed me with my adopted mum’s sister. Because of the blood connection, the magic could be anchored there. I’d be safe, as long as I could call that place home.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “And was it?”

Harry’s expression twisted faintly. “Technically. But they didn’t want me. Not really. I think Dumbledore hoped Petunia would… but she… didn’t. They kept me alive, sure. Fed me just enough. Reminded me every day that I was unnatural.”

He cleared his throat, skimming past it. “Then, I got a letter. An invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That was the first time I learned I was a wizard. That I belonged somewhere, and why strange things always seemed to happen around me.”

Tony was still. “And that was a good thing?”

Harry smiled faintly. “At the time it was the best thing. I met Ron and Hermione—my best friends. I learned magic. I finally felt like… me. But every year something happened. Dangerous things… usually Voldemort trying to come back. He'd split his soul into pieces so he couldn't die even if his body was destroyed.”

He paused, then went on. “In my fourth year, I was entered into a magical tournament. I wasn’t supposed to be—I was too young—but someone forced my name in. I had to compete, and at the end… I was taken. Kidnapped. Voldemort used me in a ritual—used my blood to bring himself fully back.”

Tony’s jaw was tight now, but he didn’t interrupt.

“No one believed me for a year after that,” Harry said. “The government covered it up and called me delusional. I kept trying to warn people, but it didn’t do much. Then, in my sixth year, Dumbledore… was killed.”

Tony’s head lifted at that.

“And in my seventh year—or i guess what would've been my seventh year, last year—Voldemort took over the Ministry. The government, Hogwarts, everything. Me, Ron, and Hermione went into hiding. We destroyed the pieces of Voldemort’s soul that were keeping him alive. And then we fought. At Hogwarts. In May.”

Harry took a breath. “So he's gone for good, this time.”

Tony leaned back slowly, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Jesus, kid.”

Harry gave a small shrug, like that might somehow minimize the weight of it all. “I didn’t tell you to scare you. The wizarding world will hopefully get better, now he's gone. I just… I think if I’m going to get to know you, and if you’re going to get to know me, then you should know where I’ve come from.”

Tony exhaled, then met his eyes. “You’ve lived through a goddamn war.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t… I became really famous after that,” he said quietly. “Not that I wasn't famous before—nobody had ever survived the killing curse except me. But it got really crazy when Voldemort was defeated. I kind of… locked myself away at my house until I got the letters. The ones from my mum. My birth mother, I mean.”

Tony’s expression shifted slightly, but he stayed silent.

“I told you she left me that pendant,” Harry continued. “And she said you were my father. That my middle name is Anthony. But there was something else in the letters too. She told me my magic… wasn’t what I thought it was.”

Tony blinked. “Meaning?”

“I grew up thinking I was just a wizard. A weird, famous one, maybe. But still human. Still… normal in magical terms.” Harry looked down. “But I’m not. Not really.” His voice dropped as he added, “Not anymore.”

Tony tilted his head. “Your magic changed?”

“Yeah. Wizards—our magic gets tracked when we’re underage. Especially if we use it outside school. They call it the Trace. Every spell sends a signal to the Ministry that notifies the authorities if the caster is underage or casting where Muggles might notice.” Harry glanced over. “The world is hidden, like I said, so we’re not supposed to do magic in front of non-magical people.”

“Right,” Tony said slowly. “Governmental paranoia isn’t just for us average folk.”

Harry snorted faintly. “My magic used to get traced. When I was younger. I had letters sent to my relatives more than once. But something changed after the letters. After I read what she’d written.”

He let the pendant drop back to his chest. “It’s like the magic inside me woke up. Not just wizard magic. Something… older. Deeper. And the Trace doesn’t register it anymore. It’s not human magic, technically. My friend Ron’s brother Bill says it's divine.”

Tony’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t look skeptical—just thoughtful.

Harry hesitated. “I don’t really understand it. I don’t even know how to control it, not properly. I've practiced some with Peter and Ned, but not enough. It's a lot more powerful than my magic used to be, and when I’m pushed—when someone’s about to die or I’m… afraid—I can apparently do things that aren't really possible. It’s not light magic, or dark magic, or anything they teach at Hogwarts. It just… is. I—was told that it's because I'm the Veilwalker. I stand at the gate between life and death and form a bridge between them. But I don't really know what that means, and until last night I'd never done anything like that.”

Tony’s gaze dropped to the pendant again. “And this is all since you found out about your birth mother?”

Harry nodded once. “Yeah.”

Tony’s brow creased. He tapped his fingers once against the bench. “The only time I’ve ever seen anything I’d even consider magic was about three years ago.”

Harry looked up, startled. “Yeah?”

“Yep. There was a guy. Wore green, carried a staff, real Shakespearean drama queen. Took over my building and opened a wormhole above Manhattan.”

Harry’s breath caught. “What?”

“Name was—is Loki,” Tony said. “Said he was a god, but who knows. Most of what he did seemed more alien tech than true sorcery—but it felt magical. Glowy illusions, shape-shifting, mind control, and an army of space bugs.”

Harry stared at him. “And you fought him?”

Tony gave a wry smile. “We all fought him. Whole team. The Avengers. We stopped the invasion. He got taken back to Asgard after that.”

“Right,” Harry said faintly. “Asgard.”

Harry could feel something flicker in his expression. Tony clearly noticed, but didn’t comment.

“He was the only real example of ‘magic’ we’ve had on Earth that's public knowledge,” Tony said. “At least, until you.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “I’m nothing like him.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Tony replied, tone even. “You saved a kid’s life last night. You didn’t try to conquer the city.”

Harry nodded slowly, then whispered, “Still… it scares me. Not knowing where it ends. Not knowing where I end.”

There was silence between them for a moment.

Then Tony pushed away from the worktable and crossed his arms, his voice softer. “Then we figure it out. I don’t care if your magic came from a wand, a pendant, a genetic accident, or the space-time continuum. If it’s part of you, we’ll find a way to help you understand it.”

Harry looked over at him, expression shuttered—but something in his chest eased. “I’m not used to… family accepting it,” he said.

Tony gave a faint smile. “Get used to it.”

The gentle chime of JARVIS broke the quiet murmur of the workshop.

“Sir, breakfast is now served. I feel obligated to report that the culinary endeavor involved significant use of the fire extinguisher. No structural damage, only mild emotional trauma.”

Tony raised a brow. “Define mild?”

“Mr Parker shouted ‘it’s fine!’ six times and then attempted CPR on a pancake.”

Harry blinked. “He what?”

Tony sighed and stood. “Come on, kid. Let’s see what survived.”

They took the lift up, and as soon as the doors opened, the distinct smell of something charred-but-possibly-sweet drifted toward them. The kitchen was a bit of a disaster—flour dusted the counter, eggshell halves scattered through it, and Peter standing at the stove in Tony’s oversized clothes, looking smug and slightly flustered.

“There was no fire,” Peter said immediately.

Tony pointed at the foam-dusted fire extinguisher sitting on the floor. “You’re not great at lying, kid.”

“It was a controlled sizzle,” Peter said. “Very sophisticated cooking technique.”

The table, at least, was set. Sort of. Three plates, mismatched cutlery, and a plate of uneven but mostly edible pancakes sat in the center. A pitcher of orange juice sweated quietly beside a stack of napkins that had clearly been used for an earlier emergency.

Harry hesitated, then grinned and sat down. “Looks fantastic.”

Peter beamed. “See? Validation.”

Tony muttered, “Low bar,” and refilled his cup with coffee. He passed a clean mug to Harry, who looked almost startled by the gesture but accepted it with a murmured thanks.

They all sat. It was quiet for a moment—just the sounds of utensils clinking, juice being poured, and a tentative bite or two being tested.

“This actually isn’t bad,” Harry said eventually, surprised.

Peter lit up. “I told you! Cooking is like science, but with more butter.”

Tony pointed his fork at him. “Not bad isn't an endorsement.”

Harry chuckled. It was the first time that laughter felt easy, even if the world was still reeling beneath him. He'd nearly finished his second pancake when Tony finally cleared his throat and leaned forward, setting down his coffee.

“So,” he said, tone casual—but not too casual. “We’re gonna need a game plan.”

Harry tensed slightly, but didn’t look up.

Tony noticed. “Hey, not like... a ‘taking-you-apart-in-a-lab’ kind of plan,” he said. “More like a ‘you’re a minor, and the US government tends to frown on seventeen-year-olds randomly showing up with powers and no legal guardian’ kind of plan.”

Harry blinked at him, mouth still half-full.

Peter swallowed his bite of toast. “Wait, is he actually still a minor? Seventeen’s legal age in some countries, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, this one’s got rules,” Tony said, waving his fork. “And lawyers. So we need to get a few things sorted. At the very least, someone needs to sign something somewhere so this whole arrangement doesn’t scream ‘international incident.’”

Harry hesitated, then glanced at Peter. “What arrangement?”

Tony met his eyes. “I meant what I said before. I want to try. And that means wherever I live, you'll be welcome. I'd like it if you'd stay here—at the tower—but only if you want that. We'll set you up with your own room. And you’ve got… me, here. If you want that too.”

Harry’s heart lurched. He didn’t answer right away, and Peter—bless him, awkward but earnest—jumped in.

“Not that we don’t want you at my place! You could totally stay. May loves you, and Ned doesn't mind the sofa. But—” He nudged Harry gently. “But this is your dad. Like, real dad. And… you found him. That’s a big deal.”

Harry gave a small, sheepish smile, eyes still fixed on his plate. Tony didn’t press. Instead, he said, quietly, “You’ve had to figure out a lot of things on your own, haven’t you?”

Harry nodded, once. “Yeah.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you didn’t have to,” Tony said. “Just… think about it. Like I said before, I’m not saying I know what I’m doing. Hell, I barely managed to raise a robotic arm without supervision. But I want to try. And if you’re up for that, then—stay.”

Silence followed. Not uncomfortable, but heavy in the way decisions always are.

Harry stared down at his juice, fingers tapping lightly against the mug’s ceramic. Then he looked up—at Peter, at Tony, at the strange kitchen that already felt less like a fortress and more like a promise.

“I’d like that,” he said. His voice was soft, but steady. “To stay. Here.”

Tony didn’t smile, not exactly. But something in his shoulders loosened.

“Alright then,” he said. “We’ll draw up papers. File something. Make it all nice and official.”

“And maybe upgrade the fire alarm system while we’re at it,” JARVIS added dryly from the ceiling.

Peter groaned. “Okay, that was one time.”

Tony grinned, and so did Harry.

Chapter Text

Sun 5th July, 2015

Avengers Tower – Residential Kitchen

“So wait,” Peter said around a mouthful of pancake, eyes wide, “you’re telling me Captain America actually punched a vending machine?”

Tony didn’t look up from the coffee he was doctoring with cinnamon. “Correction—he apologised to a vending machine before punching it because it ate his quarters. Which he claimed were government property.”

Harry gave a small, surprised laugh, the kind that escaped before he could stop it.

Tony smirked. “I’m not saying he’s got a thing for authority, but the man once filed a written complaint against a parking meter.”

Peter looked delighted. “What about Thor?”

“Ah, Goldilocks.” Tony sipped his coffee like it was a fine wine. “Thinks Pop-Tarts are a food group and once tried to duel a washing machine for ‘eating’ his socks. Lost, by the way, but I still had to buy a new one.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes brighter than they’d been in days. “That actually makes me feel better.”

“About socks?” Tony asked.

“About not knowing what the hell I’m doing,” Harry said, then flushed slightly.

Tony raised his mug in a toast. “Welcome to the club. President’s been missing since ‘09.”

They were just finishing up the last of the pancakes—Peter hoarding the syrup like it was a precious resource—when the lift chimed and the doors slid open with practiced grace.

A ginger woman entered like a force of nature. Poised, polished, and exuding the kind of effortless authority that made even Tony sit up straighter. Her heels clicked softly on the floor as she surveyed the room—Tony at the head of the table, Peter leaning half-out of his chair, and a slightly rumpled Harry with syrup on his sleeve.

“Well,” she said, one brow arched, “I don't call for twenty-four hours and you adopt two teenagers and destroy the kitchen.”

Tony grimaced. “I was going to clean it.”

“Were you?”

“I was… eventually going to clean it.”

Peter waved awkwardly. “Hi.”

She blinked at him. “...Hello.”

“This is Peter Parker,” Tony said quickly. “Local hero, high schooler, currently overdosing on syrup. He’s, uh, involved.”

“Not like that,” Peter added hastily, flushing beet red. “I mean—we’re just friends. Me and—uh—him.” He pointed unnecessarily at Harry.

“Good clarification,” Pepper said dryly.

Harry stood, unsure whether to shake her hand or apologise. “I’m Harry. Um. Harry Potter.”

The woman turned to him—and for a moment, all the tension in her posture softened. “So you’re the reason I was dragged out of my bed and across three time zones on no sleep.”

Harry flinched. “Sorry.”

“No,” she said, stepping forward and shaking his hand. “That was a joke. A bad one. I’m Pepper Potts. And apparently, I’ve got a lot to catch up on.” 

Pepper turned to Tony with crisp efficiency. “We’ll need to discuss his legal status—citizenship, guardianship, visas, the works.”

“I know,” Tony said, rubbing his eyes. “I was going to get to that after the DNA results came back positive and forced an existential panic.”

She ignored him, turning back to Harry. “You’re okay staying here for now?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. It’s… it’s actually been kind of nice.”

Peter gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s not just the pancakes, right?”

“No,” Harry said with a small grin. “Though they help.”

Tony reached for the coffee pot again. “Alright, gang, we’ve got paperwork, government oversight, and probably at least one ethics violation to prep for. But first—someone clean up this syrup before Pepper decides to incinerate us all with her eyes.”

Pepper smiled sweetly. “Too late.”

By midday, Harry felt like he was drowning in paperwork and acronyms.

“This is your ESTA form,” Pepper said briskly, setting a document on the conference table in front of him. “You’re here on a 90-day waiver as a tourist. Which means, if you’re staying longer—and I assume you are—we’ll need to petition for a change of status.”

Harry blinked at the neatly printed box at the top of the form. “But I haven’t even been here a month yet.”

“That’s exactly why we’re doing this now,” Pepper replied, her tone not unkind. “It’s easier to get ahead of immigration than fix it once something lapses.”

Peter, sprawled on the couch with his phone, offered a half-hearted thumbs up. “I don’t even have a passport,” he said. “You’re still doing better than me.”

That didn’t make Harry feel better.

“Tony?” Pepper said, not looking up from her tablet. “Any word from the attorney?”

Tony didn’t look up from his own screen. “He’s on it. Working the guardianship angle. Temporary status should be fine once we get Harry into the system.”

Harry froze mid-sip of his water. “Guardianship?”

Pepper turned, her expression softening. “Since you’re underage here—under eighteen—we need to establish a legal guardian for you while your visa application is processed. Technically you’re a minor with no known family on file in either country.”

“But I’m—” Harry started, then faltered. He couldn’t exactly explain why he didn’t need legal guardianship. Why none of this had mattered when in his world he was considered an adult.

Tony gave him a subtle look across the table. “It’s just paperwork,” he said evenly. “Doesn’t change anything unless we want it to.”

That helped. A little.

Harry nodded stiffly. “Okay. So… what do I need to do?”

“Mostly sign things,” Pepper said. “We’re reaching out to the British embassy, but they’ll want to confirm you don’t have any living relatives responsible for you there.”

“None that would step up,” Harry muttered.

Peter tilted his head. “Like… your aunt or uncle?”

Harry shrugged, his voice neutral. “Pretty sure they skipped the country.”

Pepper made a thoughtful note on her tablet. “Well, that’s one less legal hurdle, at least.”

The day passed in a blur of forms and questions. Where was he living before he came here? Did he have a national insurance number? Could he provide a UK bank statement?

Harry could barely remember his answers by the time lunch arrived.

They ate in the lounge. Harry picked at his noodles, half-listening as Peter talked about a classmate who tried to smuggle a parrot into school. He forced a laugh or two, but most of his focus stayed locked on the echo of every new responsibility pressing in around him—visas, records, courts.

At some point, he murmured, “I didn’t expect all this.”

Tony, sitting beside him with a tablet and an open soda, didn’t miss a beat. “Neither did I.”

Harry looked up.

“You think I expected to wake up one day and have a seventeen-year-old son with a British accent and more baggage than LaGuardia?” Tony said, eyes dry but not unkind.

Harry huffed a small breath. “Fair enough.”

They sat there in a companionable silence for a moment, the soft clatter of Pepper working at the table behind them the only real noise.

Then, so quietly that no one else could hear, Tony leaned in and asked, “You holding up? Really?”

Harry hesitated, then gave a faint nod. “It’s just… a lot. Trying to keep everything straight. Trying to… stay normal.”

Tony’s brow creased slightly, but he didn’t push. “Well. Good thing you’re not normal, then.”

Harry managed a faint smile.

“Finish your lunch,” Tony added, a little louder. “We’ve got lawyers calling in ten minutes. And I’m not facing another Stark Legal conference without back-up.”

Peter saluted with his chopsticks. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Tony smirked. “Don’t tempt me, Spider-Boy.”