Chapter Text
“Tony Stark what are earth are you doing?” Pepper said the second the door shut behind them.
Peter was showing Harry around the residential part of the tower, and Tony didn’t interrupt since the kid seemed more comfortable with someone his own age.
He turned a charming smile on Pepper, despite knowing she’d see through it. “Hmm a good deed?” he suggested. “You know, one of those things you and the PR team are always on about?”
“Don’t give me that. You can’t just steal a British citizen,” she emphasized. “Especially not if they’re—and I must be losing my mind to even consider saying this aloud—potentially part of some secret British magical community.”
“Dear, I’m starting to think you have something against the British?”
“I think they have something against kidnapping!”
“Look,” Tony said, voice turning more serious, “nobody is looking for him, okay? He hasn’t been reported missing. His family is abusive, and with the footage I gave the police, they are going to be charged for it. Any connections to this other community as far as I can tell have been severed, except for the court date. What’s the harm in giving the kid a place to stay while also figuring out if we have a magical threat right in front of us?”
Pepper sighed. “And what about the court date? What if, by him not even being in the country, he is convicted of something? What if he doesn’t get to defend himself and faces god-knows-what repercussions?”
“Then we really need those answers,” Tony said. “If that’s the case, then he needs someone in his corner. A scared 15 year old alone at court is no better off than one that doesn’t show up at all.”
…
It took some convincing, but Pepper finally agreed to stay at the tower to keep an eye on Harry while Tony headed back to England for the kid’s junk. He couldn’t imagine what was so important, but the kid gave him a list.
In the cupboard under the stairs, he would find a truck with his school things.
Under a loose floorboard was a single photo album and a cloak (who even wore cloaks?).
In the corner of the bedroom there would be a caged snowy owl.
And that was it. It was a depressingly short list.
When Tony knocked on the door (viciously pleased to see it had to be replaced, and they hadn’t quite managed to get the scorch marks out of the concrete porch), he barely managed to shove his foot in the brief opening of the door before it was almost slammed in his face.
This time, Tony hadn’t bothered with the suit, but they clearly still recognized him.
“You don’t get to barge in here!” Vernon hollered.
Tony noticed with pride that his arm was in a sling. “I’m just collecting a few things,” he said nonchalantly, booking it up the stairs. The less time spent in this hellhole, the better.
Harry had said that his bedroom was at the end of the hall to the left. Tony, with a slow-burning rage, realized quickly that it was the door with six separate deadbolts and padlocks. On the outside of the door.
He barely took a second to consider before he summoned the palm of his suit and blew through the locks like they were nothing. He ignored the shrieks from deeper in the house. Stepping into a baren room, he saw that it was tidy, or maybe there was just nothing in it. A single ripped paperback sat on the bedside table next to a visibly lumpy mattress dressed in threadbare sheets and no comforter. A single small dresser stood against the wall, and when he yanked open the drawers there were only nasty oversized hand-me-downs inside.
Tony practiced his breathing techniques as he ripped up the loose floorboard, grabbing the listed items. His eye caught on the half of a moldy fruitcake, carefully wrapped up next to a small pile of nuts and a dinner roll, and he thought of the mouthy, scrawny kid he left back in the states, green eyes flashing, full of anger and occasionally of power so potent it shook the dining room table.
He was rapidly losing his resolution not to hurt these people.
The owl screeched, breaking him out of his vengeful revery.
Tony tucked the items into his bag before grabbing the owl’s cage, scolding it briefly when it pecked at his fingers. When he made his way back downstairs, he found all three Dursleys huddled by the hideous orange sofa.
Vernon started blustering again, which Tony ignored as he wrenched open the cupboard. The trunk was right there as Harry had said it would be, and Tony dragged it out with no small measure of relief to be done with this task. Then his eyes caught a small, shakily drawn and taped-up sign nearly hidden by cleaning supplies.
Harry’s Room.
His breath stopped as his eyes dropped to the small cot that had been hidden behind the trunk, the single broken toy soldier that still stood proud on the shelf.
Harry’s Room.
“Calling Pepper Potts,” JARVIS suddenly announced through his earpiece.
It startled him enough to break him out of the fog of anger he hadn’t even noticed descending. Before he could ask JARVIS why he’d called Pepper, her voice sounded in his ear.
“Tony?”
“Pepper,” he said, blinking between his fixation on the sign and the abusers standing behind him and her voice. “I didn’t mean to call you—”
“I know,” she interjected. “I told JARVIS to call me if your blood pressure spiked. Did you get his stuff?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good, now leave.”
His fists clenched. “But—”
“Tony,” she said, voice stern but understanding. “I know. But you’ve already helped him, okay? He’s out. Anything you do now is just going to make it more likely that they get away with it. So get the kid his stuff and get out of there.”
Tony said nothing, warring between listening to the woman he loved and beating the living shit out of the disgusting, abusive human beings standing just 10 feet away.
“Tony,” Pepper said, voice soft but no less strong. “Come home. You’ve done what needed to be done. Now it’s time to come home.”
He exhaled, and it was like the fight left him. Not the anger—that still curdled—but the uncontrollable need to hit something. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good boy,” she said fondly. “I’m going to stay on the line with you, okay? You can tell me all about it while you’re flying home.”
Tony blew out a breath, grabbing the trunk he’d dropped when he’d seen that hideous drawing. “Alright Pep. I’m headed out now.”
…
“So uhhh teleporting?” Peter said awkwardly, sitting across from the teen who basically refused to let him go home. Peter was almost flattered. “How long have you been able to do that?”
Harry tensed. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Peter showed his palms. “Yeah dude, no stress. I was just curious about my new friend.”
“You’re not a friend,” the teen said. “You’re a hostage.”
Excuse him?
“Err…I don’t know that I’m okay with that?”
Harry fixed him with a flat look. “I wasn’t okay with being kidnapped. No one seemed to give a shit then.”
Point.
“Alrighty then,” Peter trailed. “What does the role of your hostage entail?”
Harry sighed, and for a moment, Peter glimpsed the raw exhaustion he’d seen after the other boy’s panic attack. “Mostly you just have to sit there so I can threaten you if someone threatens me. Otherwise, feel free to be quiet.”
Peter pouted. That was no fun.
“Hey, why don’t we play video games?” he suggested, perking up. “Mr. Stark has a badass console we can use.”
Harry couldn’t have looked less interested, but that was fine.
“What?” Peter said mischievously, “afraid I’ll kick your ass?”
A slit of emerald iris appeared, and Peter mentally cheered. “You’re not slick.”
When the teen still pushed upright, clearly waiting for Peter to start the game, Peter mentally cheered.
…
It became readily apparent that Harry Potter (Peter had caught the last name from eavesdropping on a conversation between Mr. Stark and Ms. Pepper) had no idea how to play video games. He didn’t even seem to recognize a basic x-box controller. Eventually, Peter switched them out to the Wii, because who couldn’t handle Mario Kart?
Harry couldn’t.
Five minutes in, Harry had crashed in every possible way, and Peter wasn’t doing much better because he was laughing too hard to pay attention. Even worse was the genuine effort the teen was putting in, an adorable scowl twisting his brow as he double-fisted the controller.
Still, despite the excess of road rage and excuses, the air in the room had undeniable relaxed an hour later when Harry finally managed to finish in 7th place, respectable enough given his incredible struggle with the controls.
Peter checked his phone, seeing the expected text from Aunt May saying that it was time to come home since it was a school night.
He was wiped anyway, the whole situation being interesting but also mentally exhausting. “Alright, that’s my aunt texting me. I’ve gotta get home.”
Harry frowned, looking none to pleased to lose his “hostage.”
“I can come back tomorrow after school?” Peter offered. “I’ve got a project to work on, but we could chill too?”
The other teen shrugged, that look of distant blankness falling over his again, and Peter actually rather missed the perpetual air of irritation. “Alright then. See you.”
“I know you don’t have a phone yet but…” Peter scrawled his number on a nearby takeout menu. “Feel free to text me. You can even get JARVIS to do it.”
Harry just shrugged again. But he took the paper.
…
“So, conditions,” Iron Bitch said, dropping Harry’s truck inside the door of the bedroom he’d been assigned. The man set Hedwig down more carefully.
Harry just watched, immediately anxious about the presence of someone else in the room. He’d retreated the moment Peter had gone home, and he hadn’t once attempted to leave the luxurious suite.
“What do you want?” Harry said, tracking Stark’s movement as he stepped inside and leaned his back against the doorframe.
“I have a preliminary list of questions. Answering these will get you the trunk. Answer the follow-up questions, and you get the owl.”
“And my photos and cloak?”
Stark reached out and snagged a bag he’d dropped behind him. He tossed it to Harry, who barely managed to suppress a flinch.
“A show of good faith.”
Hesitantly, Harry pulled the bag toward him from where it had landed at the foot of the bed. Inside were his photo album and cloak. Harry took a second to just run his fingers over them, glancing at the photos to make sure they were all intact. He had no way of knowing if Stark had seen the moving photos, but the man already knew enough to break the Statute, and Harry knew he was going to answer whatever he had to to get the rest of his belongings.
“What’re the questions?”
Stark pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and, telegraphing his movements, handed it to Harry.
It was neatly typed and bulleted. Harry waited until the man retreated again to focus fully on the page.
- What is the Ministry of Magic?
- What are the capabilities and limitations of this “magic?”
- What is the full and exact nature of his previous caregivers’ abuse against him?
Harry paused at the last one, stuck between questions about magic as if it would somehow escape his notice.
“I’m not answering this.”
Stark raised an eyebrow. “Any of it?”
Harry scowled. “I’m not answering any questions about my family. It’s none of your business, and I don’t see why you’d even care.”
“Maybe I’m just curious how a magical society that is so paranoid about exposure that it constantly monitors its citizens managed to miss such an obvious and extreme case of abuse?”
Harry’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth together. “No. The other questions are fine—” he glanced at the rest of the list to confirm.
- Where is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and what does it teach?
- How many wizards are there?
“—except for where Hogwarts is. I’m not answering that or anything personal.”
Stark studied him. “You know I could have asked a lot more. These questions are so basic it’s almost painful.”
“They’re also extremely relevant if someone were to try and attack us,” Harry countered, paper crumpling under his grip. “I’ll answer what I have to but don’t think I don’t realize what this interrogation is about. Muggles and their bloody witch trials.”
“Muggles?” Stark leaned forward with a curious glint in his eye. “Is that term for non-magical people? Is it derogatory? You seem rather hostile to us.”
Harry recoiled at the implication that he was some sort of blood purist. “It’s not a slur! I don’t have a problem with muggles; muggles have a problem with me. They have a problem with freaks,” he spat, “and delinquents and anyone who doesn’t fit their definition of normal.”
“And the rest?” Stark said, looking almost bored by his outburst.
Harry took a second to reign himself back in. He needed to answer these questions, but he needed to be smart about it. He wouldn’t be the person who handed muggle law enforcement a jug of kerosene and pointed them toward all the wooden houses.
“The Ministry of Magic,” he said carefully, “is our government. They handle laws and law enforcement, and they deal with the muggle government too and make sure we all stay separate.”
Stark’s fingers thrummed. “So they’re like Britain’s parliament? Is there a constitution? Are they elected or inherited positions?”
Harry blinked. “Ah, I don’t know?”
The man visibly bluescreened before his eyes shut, lips barely moving to form the word, “teenagers.”
Harry hunched his shoulders, feeling rather judged. “I mean, there are Lords, I think, so some stuff is probably inherited?”
“Alright,” he sighed. “What about your magic? I would assume that you have a better understanding of your own capabilities?”
Harry huffed. This bitch. “There’s all sorts of stuff. It’d probably be easier to say what we can’t do…” Harry wracked his brain. “Er, we can’t raise the dead!” He paused, then nodded firmly to himself. “Not really, like you can but they’d be zombies, not people,” he amended, missing the flash of horror and revulsion on Stark’s face. “You can’t make food for some reason. Like, you can cook with magic, but you can’t just create food. And you can’t make people fall in love with you.”
Stark took a second to absorb all this. “So,” he started, “you’re claiming that you can do anything else? Time travel, matter manipulation, flight? Because there are only three things on that list, and they all came with conditions. Except falling in love, I suppose.”
“Oh,” Harry said, “actually, there are potions for love, but they just create really intense obsession, so they don’t really count. Still call them love potions though.
“As for the other stuff…” Harry considered, “yes to time travel, but it’s restricted. People can’t just make themselves time travel, it takes really specific equipment. Matter manipulation—you mean like alchemy? Or transfiguration? I don’t really know what you’re asking there. And flight, yes, but we need brooms. Or I guess if you had a bird animagus.”
It was a testament to how Harry had integrated into the Wixen world that he didn’t consider how odd this all sounded or that he himself had used terms that the man wouldn’t understand.
“This is insane,” Stark muttered.
Harry bristled. “Then stop asking me the bloody questions,” he spit, glaring at the man. “I never wanted to tell you all this shit. Just give me my belongings, and I’ll go.”
Brown eyes seemed to stare right through him. “No deal, kiddo. I’ve gotta hear all the crazy before I can figure out how to deal with it.”
Harry huffed. “Like I said, I’m not telling you where Hogwarts is, even if I did know exactly, which I don’t. It teaches kids how to do magic. Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Arithmancy, and other stuff too. How to change colors, duel, heal, fly, shrink things and blow them up. It’s like, wixen middle and high school.
“And even if I knew how many of us there were—which I don’t—I wouldn’t tell you. That’s invading a country 101, and I have so little interest in being the face of another genocide, you have no bleeding clue.” Harry’s fist actually ripped the paper with how hard he was clenching it. It was satisfying enough that he just started shredding it right in front of the (sadly unbothered) man.
“”Another” genocide?” he asked.
Harry froze. He hadn’t meant to say that. He didn’t mean to talk about Voldemort at all—not about possessed defense teachers or death tournaments or being tied to headstones and tortured, green light and stand aside!—
Harry screamed, throwing himself blindly backward as something touched his arm. He tumbled off the bed, vaguely registering the sound of something large being thrown against the opposite wall.
“Fuck,” he choked, realizing where he was, that he’d done it again, that his arm was bleeding like he'd dug his fingernails into the ritual scar that refused to heal properly.
“Stark?” he said, voice shaking as he raised himself up enough to peek over the bed.
The man was crumpled against the wall, a person-sized dent above him. He was conscious though, holding his head and waving a hand in feigned nonchalance when he heard Harry’s voice.
“Shit,” Harry whispered. He’d attacked the man. He’d had an…episode, and he’d attacked an adult and he had no backup. Hermione wasn’t there with an escape plan; Ron couldn’t think up bold strategies on the spot. It was just Harry and his constant fuckups.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, barely noticing as he began to hyperventilate. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I just—I can’t—”
“Ah shit,” Stark pushed himself up, wincing as he actually looked at Harry for the first time since being thrown at the wall by an invisible hand. “Hey, kid, I’m not mad or hurt or whatever. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have tried to touch you.”
Harry shook his head, grabbing a fistful of black hair and tugging on it. It was times like these that he—sickeningly—missed his cupboard, missed the tiny space where no one could get behind him and no one could sneak up on him or see him or remember he ever existed at all.
“I-I—” his voice gave out, and he only managed a distressed whine before he curled up entirely into a ball of knobby knees and elbows and untamable hair.
Just over the sound of his panicked breaths, he could heard the man’s voice speaking in a calm, even tone, and Harry vaguely registered that he didn’t sound mad before black spots overtook his vision, and he toppled over, unconscious.