Chapter Text
Staring down on the letter with unseeing eyes, Harry James Potter was torn between hysterical laughter, bone deep exhaustion and fury.
Right now, all of those emotions lay at his fingertips and felt as if they were on another continent at the same time. Like most things nowadays. Which, if Harry wanted to be optimistic, was a good thing, since he knew how to handle that.
Mostly.
Leaning back in his kitchen chair, the savior of the Wizarding World (at least he still had been last he checked, wasn’t sure what the public had declared him to be today yet) exhaled. Calmly. Controlled.
Funny how a year on the run, a very very near death experience and fulfilling your destiny put everything into perspective.
Or destroyed everything you had built your world view on and plunged you into a permanent state of sure, that may as well happen .
Exhaustion it was, then.
That wasn’t a surprise. Not really. Or at all. By now, Harry was thankful enough to even feel the sparks of emotions before just going with whatever bullshit fate itself threw at him. That didn’t mean he was just accepting it, of course not. He had just yesterday told Shaklebolt to go fuck himself. Not in those exact words, but it had been close enough.
Why did everyone think they knew what Harry was going to do? Or what would be best for him? He had no clue whatsoever what he wanted to do. And it was best to not even think about what would be best for him, because the first thing coming to mind was straightjacket .
Sure, he had always wanted to become an Auror. But had he wanted that, or had he been made to believe he wanted that to hone his skills to fulfill his bloody destiny? Did he want to become a magical copper and spent the rest of his life fighting against the next wanna-be Dark Lord?
Always provided that Rita Skeeter didn’t have the sight and he wouldn’t someday snap and use all the dark powers and worrying influence he had, militarized Dumbledore's Army and declared himself King of the Universe. Or whatever she thought he was going to do.
On the other hand, he was absolutely 100% sure he wasn’t a Saint, something she had written a few weeks ago, so he was probably good.
Also, he would never be able to rule the world without Hermione and as she was going to repeat her seventh year in Hogwarts he would have to wait for at least a year before going mental and declaring himself Major Threat Persy.
Looking down on the letter lying before him, Harry exhaled. This was, in a twisted sort of way, everything he had wished for since he could remember. He hadn’t wished for this, of course. Not at all.
It wouldn’t change anything though, would it?
Grabbing his wand he summoned his patronus without really thinking about it. “Sherbet Lemon.”
This had not been the eighteenth birthday he had envisioned. Hell, he had planned to stay in his cosy apartment, thanking Merlin himself that no one aside from Ron and Hermione knew that he didn’t live in Grimmauld place any longer, especially not since Kreacher had died a peaceful death just after Christmas, having been so proud to make a real Christmas dinner together with Molly Weasley one last time.
Which was a reason more why he had moved. Why he had planned to meet Ron and Hermione later today in a pub in the muggle part of London.
Where no one knew them.
Where no one would get either weirdly appreciative or offended or tried to kill him. And yes, that was becoming even more common since the end of the war and wasn’t that depressing?
He had just wanted a quiet day for once.
As if he could even have a fucking quiet day.
He had even braved the worry and ire of Molly Weasley when he had told them last week he didn’t want to celebrate his birthday just to have a little peace and quiet.
The loud crack of apparition ripped through his apartment and Harry was once again thankful for all the protective and noise canceling spells he had learned last year.
“Harry!”
“Kitchen.”
Just a heartbeat later the boy who lived twice had his arms full of the brightest witch of her age, trying to strangle him with her hug. Her brown curls almost completely blocked his view. He could still hear the footsteps behind her promising Ron had come with her when Harry had sent them his distress signal.
“What happened!” She stepped back, patting him down as if searching for wounds, broken bones or at least some bruises.
As Harry had known he would be, just behind her, his wand drawn, stood Ron.
“Sit down.”
“Harry, what-”
“Please, Mione.”
Hermione’s expression grew even more concerned, her brown eyes focussing almost immediately on the folded piece of parchment on his kitchen table.
“What happened mate?” Ron sat down right beside him, one hand grabbing his shoulder. Grounding Harry.
Swallowing, he pushed the parchment towards Hermione and nodded to her.
Never one to hesitate, she grabbed the letter, unfolded it and stopped almost immediately again, before looking at Harry.
“June 23rd 1994.” She read out loud.
They had written and sent that letter before he had even been born. Harry wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
“Dear Harry.” Hermione inhaled, slowly, before continuing. “It’s surreal to write to you while I feel you kicking in my stomach. Your father swears you’re going to be a Beater. I think you might become a soccer player the way you kick my ribs. Have I embarrassed you enough on your eighteenth birthday yet?”
Ron’s hand dug harder into his shoulder. It would probably bruise. Not that Harry cared.
“I’m sure you thought it was a joke when we told you about this letter but as you can see, we were pretty sirius. Pun intended.” Hermione looked up at him, worry clear in her expression.
“Keep reading. It gets…” Better? Worse? More bizarre?
“We wrote this letter to make sure we would tell you the truth long before your eighteenth birthday. The child appropriate version at least. You know that neither I or your dad are able to refuse a dare, so here we are: James Potter is not your biological-” Hermione choked on the word.
“What?” Ron asked, his eyes on Hermione.
“James Potter was not my biological father.” Hearing those words, saying those words felt wrong.
“But-” Ron blinked at him. “You were recognized as a Potter. Your magic-”
“He adopted me. Magically. I don’t know. They don’t explain it.” Instead they had explained how it had happened. Which was probably the dare-part of the whole letter.
Apparently, James had been infertile. As his parents had been only nineteen back then, Harry had no idea why they would even think about wanting a child. Hell, they had been fighting a war against Voldemort. Why would they actively try to get pregnant? He couldn’t even fathom to want a child right now. And he had already won the war for crying out loud!
“James is your father in all but blood. We put him down as your father and he adopted you with every necessary shebang, making you his heir. You are a Potter. You are our son.”
Just not only theirs.
“We had a mission for OoP… the Order of the Phoenix I presume.” Mione mumbled before continuing reading. “And ended up in a club in London. There we met this hilarious and clever man that looked so much like James and, best of all, was an American Muggle. We invited him to come with us and now I’m almost eight months pregnant and you, my little love, keep kicking me in the bladder.” Hermione chuckled, even if a little breathlessly.
“It was the best decision of our lives. I don’t know if you have by now reached out to him or if you don’t care about it. I know that it won’t matter to me either way. We are your parents and we will always love you. Until we finally meet. Also, suck it up, James, I won.”
“Oh I like your mom.” Ron smiled, not realizing what exactly he had just said.
“Your biological father is-” Hermione choked again, looking up so fast that Harry almost feared she got whiplash from it.
“No.”
Harry didn’t react.
“That can’t be true.”
Harry just raised an eyebrow. He had stopped thinking anything was too crazy to happen to him around the time he fought a fifty feet long Basilisk obeying a memory from a diary with an old hat and a sword. As a fucking twelve year old.
“It’s just making it official: Fate hates me.”
“Come on, it can’t be that bad, right?” Ron asked, a comforting smile on his face.
“My biological father is Tony fucking Stark.”
“Who?”
“Iron Man.”
Ron stopped at that. Even though it had taken them a little longer than the rest of the world, they had watched the videos from the Alien Invasion just two days after the Battle of Hogwarts ended. After that Ron had wanted to learn more about Muggles, especially the Avengers, Hermione had wanted to learn more about the Alien Invasion and why the magical community hadn’t helped defend their planet. Harry had been happy doing anything that wasn’t connected to Voldemort, his sacrifice and everything he lost.
Well, as it turned out, he had almost lost his biological father that day. Lovely.
“Oh.” Patting his shoulder, Ron leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, it might hate you, mate. But it might also be the best thing that ever happened to you. Aside from meeting us, of course.”
-c-c-c-c-c-
Flying in a plane sucked. And not only because Harry craved to fly himself, to feel the winds tearing at his clothes and hair. To feel free and weightless. As if he wasn’t bound to earth and its limitations.
It also sucked because it was uncomfortable, took forever, everyone seemed to be on edge and it took bloody forever.
It had taken him three days to arrange for his trip of self discovery. That was what he had been selling the Ministry of Magic, the Weasleys and basically everyone who cared. And even though he didn’t plan for a full sabbatical to travel across both North America (especially Canada) and South America, still, it was not only a perfect excuse, it might even be a good idea. Even if he couldn’t and wouldn’t do that to Teddy.
They had offered him a portkey to travel to America and a guide for him which Harry had refused point blank. The longer no one knew what was going on the better.
Excluding himself and Tony Stark, most likely.
Not that Harry knew whether or not Anthony Edward Stark would care. And why should he? The man was as much a victim as Harry himself. He hadn’t known what Lily and James had planned. Hadn’t consented to fathering a child with a woman he had never seen before or after.
The man would have every right to never want to see Harry again. To hope Harry had never told him about any of this.
Even if that would be the case, Harry couldn’t not tell him though. The truth would come out one day - point in case - and the longer it took the more it would hurt. After all the lies and hidden secrets Harry had sworn himself he wouldn’t lie. Not to spare someone’s feelings. Not to be polite. Never.
It, of course, didn’t mean he needed to be cruel, of course not. But that didn’t mean others wouldn’t think he was.
The magical world certainly thought he had been, when he had told them they had failed him and so many other people. When he had spoken openly and honestly at the trials about what had happened. That all of this was too fast. That the trials had to be real and thorough and not just a show of strength. When he told them about what they had done to Sirius. When he called them on their ignorance.
The biggest uproar had happened after he had crashed Draco Malfoy’s trial, telling them exactly what he thought about convicting Slytherin students for being Slytherins. He hadn’t glossed over their animosity. He hadn’t glossed over everything he knew Malfoy had done. Or the fact that Malfoy and him had both been puppets to dance for the amusement of others. That they had been raised for a purpose and that Malfoy had made three choices for himself. And both had been if not good, at least not furthering Voldemort’s reign. Hell, the last had been throwing Harry a wand for Merlin’s sake!
Standing in front of the Wizengamot had been one of the rare moments he had felt like himself again. Standing up to bullies, in this case the Ministry of Magic, not that it was his first time, of course, and reminding them of the crimes he had committed during the war against Voldemort. He had used unforgivable curses, he had destroyed Gringotts and his actions had led to Voldemort’s death. And those were just the high points.
“Before you send any of the Slytherin students to Azkaban you’ll have to send me. I’m not saying they shouldn’t face consequences for their actions. I’m saying you have to be better . Stop the separation of houses. Stop sending kids to Azkaban . Teach them for Merlin’s sake. This war happened because of ignorance and prejudices. So work against that!” It seemed so obvious to him now.
“War doesn’t make heroes and villains. It makes victims.”
His closing line had been the headline for a solid week before someone , Skeeter, the witch, had discovered that Harry had broken up with Ginny. After that everyone had been speculating why, which of course was more important than reflecting on boring stuff like more human forms of punishment or rehabilitation.
There would probably not be much progress until Hermione would get there. She was on her way though and Merlin would need to have mercy on their souls if they fucked up before that.
That he hadn’t been committed to St. Mungus the same day was probably a combination of him being the bloody boy that lived twice and that most of the war heroes were standing behind him. Even if not as vocally and openly critical of the whole process as him, Hermione and Neville.
Neville for one, had taken a prominent role in many proceedings and especially in the trials as he had clashed with a lot of those people or knew people who had. He was barely recognizable as the boy Harry had met eight years ago. But then again, neither was he.
Leaving the airport he had taken the first chance he got, used a disillusionment charm and his invisibility cloak, enlarged his Firebolt and took to the air.
As soon as he had left behind the people he was able to breathe calmer. And didn’t feel as paranoid. Although, was it being paranoid if destiny was out to get you?
Looking around New York it was quite obvious how much work had already been put into rebuilding the city. The signs of the fight two months ago were everywhere, like wounds. Some still bleeding, some already scarring.
New York was healing. Was fighting. Was holding on.
Staying high enough to not disturb anyone, Harry observed the people mingling on the streets. The whole city was pulsing with energy. With hope.
Stark Tower, too, was under construction, although in comparison to most other buildings it looked almost whole. Aside from the missing letters in Stark . Or rather, the only one still standing was the A.
Hermione, in true Hermione fashion, had used her time wisely and researched everything she could about Tony Stark, Stark Industries, the Avengers, facts about New York City, American customs and more topics Harry didn’t even remember.
What he did remember was that people called Stark Tower, Avengers Tower now because of the still standing A. He also knew some unflattering facts about Tony Stark and Stark Industries, which seemed to be public knowledge since forever.
Not that Harry put a lot of stock in most of the articles. He knew how the press could be. But in every outrageous lie was a bit of truth or at least concern. Being it Tony Stark being called the Merchant of Death or Harry Potter being called Slytherin’s heir.
The bit he had been most interested in was when Mr. Stark had turned his life around after being in the hands of terrorists for three months. That had been the moment he became Iron Man. A hero.
If anyone didn’t need to be told that heroes were just broken people who didn’t know how to stop, it was Harry.
Being a hero didn’t necessarily mean you were a good person. It didn’t mean they knew what they were doing. It didn’t mean they cared.
Tony Stark, too, had lost his parents. When he had been sixteen. That didn’t mean he wanted a connection to someone with the same blood. It didn’t mean he would want to get to know Harry.
If he was honest with himself, Harry didn’t know what he wanted either. Yeah, it had been his dream to have a family since he could remember. But he had thought that was going to happen when he had met Sirius.
That hadn’t worked out at all, starting with Sirius being a fugitive and ending with Harry being responsible for his death because of his own stupidity.
He had wished for someone to take him away from the Dursleys. Someone that would keep him safe. He had thought that happened when he was invited to study at Hogwarts. But not only did they force him to go back every year, Hogwarts hadn’t been safe. Better than the Dursleys but not safe. Hell, Snape had been worse sometimes.
He had wished for parents and siblings and parental guidance and to feel loved and protected . And he had kind of found all of it. Just not like he envisioned it.
But now he had siblings in Ron and Hermione. He had had parental figures, even though the only one holding up was McGonagall and even though he respected the hell out of her, she had never felt like a mother to him.
He was loved. He had been protected. Just not enough. Not for his sake.
Shaking himself out of the spiral he knew could go on forever, he focused back on the landing platform of Stark Tower.
Whether or not Mr. Stark wanted to know about him or not, he had a right to know. If Mr. Stark wanted to get to know him… he would probably stay. Talk to him. Learn about the person who had fathered him unknowingly.
If Mr. Stark wanted that.
If not… If he didn’t want that, Harry would travel around the continent. See new sights. Maybe meet new people. Get a grip.
It wouldn’t matter. Why should it? He didn’t even know about Mr. Stark just four days ago. It wouldn’t matter.
And the man certainly didn’t owe him anything.
It wouldn’t be the first time Harry wasn’t wanted and it would surely not be the last.