Harry had dozed or slept most of the way from Privet Drive to … wherever they were now. He hadn't realized just how tired he'd been - both physically and emotionally - and not for the first time since the accident, he wished for a pain relief potion. Maybe even some Skele-Gro, no matter how nasty it tasted.
Shifting in his seat, he craned his neck, looking at the city around him.
"Docklands," Stark said from where he sat across from Harry. "Dad invested fairly heavily in the redevelopment of the area, including building the Stark Docklands Tower."
Harry nodded as though he had any idea what the other man was talking about. He only occasionally heard part of the newscasts Uncle Vernon insisted on listening to, and since he hadn't gone into the city proper other than on occasional trips in primary school, he had no idea what "Docklands" actually meant.
Still, it wasn't Privet Drive, so it was all good.
The car pulled into an underground parking garage, and Harry let Rogers assist him out of the car and over to the lifts nearby. Behind him, Stark gave orders to have Harry's trunk brought up to the residential floor, whatever that meant, and then came to join them.
"Hungry?" he asked as they stepped into the lift - which had opened just as Stark arrived. "Wait - what am I saying? You have to be hungry - teenage boy, stuck in the hospital with certainly good for you but horrible tasting food. Pizza?"
"I've never had it," Harry said absently.
"That is a travesty," Stark declared. "J, order us some pies. Anyone got a preference?"
"It could be interesting to try the English interpretation of a New York style pizza," Rogers said. "But I'm not picky."
"One New York style, one with everything," Stark said, then looked at Harry. "Unless you have allergies?"
"I don't think so," Harry said.
"I have placed the order, Sir," JARVIS said. "They estimate half an hour for delivery."
"Thanks, J," Stark said as the lift doors opened into an entryway that was larger than Harry's bedroom at Privet Drive.
"Five-cent tour," Stark said, breezing past Harry and further into the flat. He pointed to the right. "Kitchen, breakfast bar, and dining room that way. Living area straight ahead, and four bedrooms with en suite baths to the left. Far left bedroom's mine. Either of you have preferences for the other?"
"I can sleep anywhere," Rogers replied. "Harry?"
"Wherever you want," Harry replied. "I don't want to be a bother." Which, he reflected, was a silly thing to say, since the man's life had been uprooted because of Harry.
"You're not a bother," Stark said fiercely, and Harry turned to stare at him.
"I've upended your life," Harry protested.
"No, this," he tapped his chest, where Harry could see a faint blue light beneath the black T-shirt he wore, "and how I got it upended my life. The alien invasion a couple of months ago upended a lot of people's lives. You - no offense, kid, but you're … what do the Brits call it?" He paused, frowning thoughtfully.
"A spot of bother," Rogers supplied. "Or that's what Peggy would've called it. Then again, she called the Blitz an inconvenience."
Stark laughed. "Sounds like Aunt Peggy."
Before Harry could wonder, let alone ask, what they were talking about, a brisk, almost impatient, tapping sounded.
Harry turned as quickly as he could, hampered by crutches and casts, and by that time, Rogers was in a defensive stance - in front of him? Harry boggled - and Stark stood with his arms out, which made Harry frown. What did the man think he was doing?
Then he saw the source of the tapping - a white owl pecking on the window.
"Hedwig!" he exclaimed happily and hobbled his way across the room.
"Harry?" Stark asked. "Do you - recognize this bird?"
"She's mine," Harry replied, pressing his hand flat against the glass. "Or I'm hers, I'm not quite sure how it works."
Hedwig flapped her wings such that the tip of one of them smacked the glass opposite Harry's hand. Harry grinned at her before turning back to the others.
"Is there a window where she can come in? Or someplace she can land?"
"Garden on the roof," Stark said, looking nonplussed.
Harry turned back to Hedwig. "Hear that, girl? Garden on the roof. I'll be up there in a minute."
Hedwig made some kind of noise in response, then soared away.
Harry turned back to Stark. "How do I get to the roof?"
Stark gestured over his shoulder. "Elevator's back there."
Minutes later, Harry emerged into the July afternoon - and a landscape garden like those he'd seen on the covers of some of Aunt Petunia's magazines. To one side, a latticework gazebo held pride of place, and Hedwig perched on its railing.
To his surprise, there were two other owls with her, each of them with a package and a letter tied to their legs.
A large tawny owl shook its feathers and stuck out its leg imperiously.
"Bossy," Harry murmured as he removed the letter and package. Then he looked up at Stark. "Is there a bird feeder, or some place it can get water?"
"There's a birdbath somewhere," Stark said, sounding somewhat perplexed. "This is only the second time I've been to this apartment, and the last time was in December, so I didn't come outside."
"Help yourself, then," Harry told the tawny owl and it flew off.
He moved to the second owl, which had fallen over, apparently unconscious, to lay on the railing.
"Oh, Errol." Harry shook his head and removed the parcel and letter from the Weasley family owl. Then he took the owl and carried it to the table in the gazebo. "I'll get you some water soon."
The owl opened its eyes and gave a soft hoot before apparently passing out again. Harry shook his head again and turned back to the final owl.
"Hedwig." He reached out to stroke her feathers. "After the accident, I was afraid you wouldn't find me."
She gave a sound somewhere between a bark and a growl that he interpreted as, Of course I can find you. Stupid human.
Harry chuckled. "I'm sorry to have doubted you. Let's see what you've got, then."
It wasn't long before he had the package she'd carried laid out neatly beside the others along the rail. She nipped at his ear affectionately and took off from the railing, but keeping her flight low, doubtless looking for the birdbath. Harry turned his attention to the packages and letters before him, only then remembering that, yes, today was actually his birthday.
"I've heard of messenger pigeons," Rogers' voice broke into Harry's thoughts. "They were used during the Great War. But I've never heard of messenger owls."
"Two reasons for that," Stark replied. "First, you really don't want a bird of prey as a messenger - they can do serious damage to you if they object to the idea. Second, for birds of prey, owls are too dumb to do the job."
An annoyed shriek came from the far side of the roof.
"He didn't mean you, Hedwig!" Harry called, and got a slightly less annoyed bark for his trouble.
Harry turned in time to see the rather astonished expression Rogers was giving Stark. "I've gotten used to you knowing a lot of things," Rogers said, "but how do you know that?"
Stark ducked his head. "Whenever Aunt Peggy chose my punishment, she made me copy out articles on subjects I was absolutely not interested in. And then she graded my penmanship and made me recopy it if it wasn't good enough. One was on homing birds."
"Huh." Rogers looked like he was mentally filing that away for future reference.
"So," Stark said, ambling over to where Harry stood, "that begs the question, who's actually using messenger owls?" He picked up each package in turn, clearly testing their weights, and fixed Harry with an intensely curious look. "More interestingly, how are they managing to carry things that equal or exceed their body weight?"
Harry looked down, thinking furiously. He'd been so caught up in happiness at seeing Hedwig again that he'd completely forgotten that Muggles like Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers weren't supposed to know about magic.
But - Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had known. And Hermione's parents - he'd met them at Diagon Alley last summer. Maybe it was okay for family to know?
It would have to be okay for family to know … but what if he told Mr. Stark and Mr. Stark decided he didn't want Harry around anymore?
Harry wasn't comfortable calling him Dad yet, but he still didn't know how he'd take it if Mr. Stark threw him out because of magic.
"Harry." To his surprise, it wasn't Stark who spoke, but Rogers. "I was picked on as a kid - a lot. I get it, you know? That it can be hard to trust people. You don't really know either of us, and that makes it even harder. I hope you'll try to trust us."
"It's just-" Harry swallowed hard and looked back at Stark. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, but you need to know, and I don't know what to do."
"That's rough," Stark said, and Harry thought he heard genuine sympathy in the man's tone. "So I won't push, if it's something you're not supposed to talk about." Rogers snorted a laugh, and Stark grimaced. "I'll try not to push."
Harry laughed a little, too, relieved that nobody was yelling because he hadn't directly answered the question.
"Anyway," Stark said, "the packages remind me that today's your birthday. What would you like to do?"
"What?" Harry asked, and he hated how his voice broke.
"Simple question," Stark said. "How do you want to celebrate your birthday?"
"I - don't know," Harry admitted. "I never have before, really."
"That," Stark declared, "is a shame. So, tell you what, you go ahead and open your packages, and the Capsicle and I will figure out something to do to celebrate."
Capsicle? Harry frowned at the unfamiliar word, but he nodded without questioning it. Maybe he'd have figured out what to do by the time they were finished.
As the two adults moved away, Harry picked up a package. The neat handwriting told him it was from Hermione, and he opened it eagerly.
Inside was a birthday card - his first ever! - and a chatty letter about her summer, including that she and her parents were in France and that Hedwig had just shown up, as though she knew Hermione wanted to send Harry a birthday present. The present itself turned out to be a hefty box with Broomstick Servicing Kit stenciled on it in gilt letters. Harry grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. Trust Hermione to pick her gifts with care.
That thought made him frown as he realized he didn't know when her birthday was. He'd have to find out - and in the meantime, he'd have to think about what he could get her that would show as much thought as the servicing kit did.
The next package he opened was from Ron. Besides a birthday card and letter, there was a clipping from the Daily Prophet. Harry smiled at the picture of the entire Weasley clan - all nine of them - in front of a pyramid, waving madly at the camera. The accompanying article described how Mr. Weasley had won the annual Grand Prize Galleon Draw and were using the prize of seven hundred galleons to pay for a family trip to Egypt.
Harry set the clipping aside and picked up the gold-wrapped package. When he opened it, he found what looked like a miniature glass spinning top. Another note from Ron proclaimed it a Pocket Sneakoscope, which Bill Weasley said was sold to gullible tourists and wasn't actually good at detecting untrustworthy people as it was supposed to do.
Both Hermione and Ron had mentioned going to London for supplies during the week before term started and invited him to join them. Ron was even getting a new wand to replace the one he'd broken the year before and that ultimately had been destroyed when Gilderoy Lockhart tried to cast a Memory Charm on Harry and Ron.
Those letters just brought Harry's dilemma back to the forefront of his mind. How could he tell Mr. Stark that he had to go to London - well, a specific part of London, as he was already in London proper - for his school supplies and not say anything else?
Very firmly, Harry told himself not to think about that now, but rather focus on the last package.
The untidy scrawl on the brown paper told him it was from Hagrid - Hagrid, who had gotten Harry the first present that he remembered receiving. That said present turned out to be Harry's familiar owl, Hedwig, was simply icing on the cake.
He tore off the top layer of paper and saw something green and leathery beneath. Before he could finish unwrapping it properly, the package gave a great shudder. Whatever inside it snapped loudly, as though closing a jaw quickly.
Uh-oh.
Hagrid would never send Harry anything dangerous on purpose, but Hagrid had a different idea of what might be considered dangerous than other, normal, people.
Harry poked tentatively at the package, and it made that snapping sound again.
Fantastic.
Shifting his weight onto his good leg, Harry hefted a crutch in his right hand, ready to defend himself if necessary. With his free hand, he grabbed the rest of the wrapping paper and pulled as hard as he could.
Out fell … a book.
Harry barely had time to register the gold lettering on its green cover, The Monster Book of Monsters, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled along the gazebo railing like some weird, demented crab.
The book flopped off the railing, landing too close to Harry's feet for his comfort - though one ankle was in a cast, and maybe that would offer some protection - and then skittered across the roof toward some kind of hedge.
"Bother," Harry muttered. He thought for a moment, then dropped the wrapping paper and undid the belt he wore. It was long enough to wrap twice around his waist and still have a fair bit hanging down from the buckle, so it should be long enough to contain the Monster Book.
Of course, that meant his trousers fell down to his ankles. With a groan, he pulled them off, not certain how to react when they slid over his cast without catching. Then he set the crutch aside and cautiously approached the hedge where the book had retreated.
"Here, book book book," he sing-songed quietly as he dropped to his hands and knees to look into the darkness under the hedge. What seemed like a pair of eyes reflected the midday light back at him.
"There you are," Harry said. "C'mon, now, let's get you out of there -"
He reached for it, but the book snapped shut on his hand.
"Ouch!"
The book scuttled back and forth, apparently looking for a route around him.
Harry closed his eyes, took a breath, and released it. When he opened his eyes again, he felt more like he did during a Quidditch game, because this really wasn't all that different, was it? He had to catch something - only this time, the object was skittering rather than flying.
Granted, the book bit back, but still.
The book seemed to be quivering, whether in fear or anticipation he couldn't tell, and Harry feinted a left-handed grab, which sent the book flapping toward his right, and Harry lunged to grab it.
He caught it by the cover, and the rest of the book started slapping shut and open on his fingers.
"Calm down, book," Harry gasped as he wrestled to get it shut without his fingers caught inside. Finally, he had it clutched against his chest. He reached out blindly and found the belt.
A minute later, he had the belt double, maybe triple-wrapped around the book and was fastening it tight.
"Right, that's you sorted," Harry said, allowing himself to relax and take pride in his work. The book still shuddered, probably in anger at being trapped, but at least it wasn't attacking him anymore.
Now he just had to figure out how to keep his trousers up.
Using his crutch for stability, he leveraged himself to his feet, wincing at a little more pain than he'd had before, and looked around for his trousers -
- and saw Stark and Rogers at the gazebo, pizza boxes and drinks respectively in hand.
"I was going to suggest we have pizza and talk about whether to go on a bus tour of London or maybe hit the Science Museum," Stark said. "Now, I think we're going to have pizza and talk about whatever that is."
Discussing what to do with a thirteen-year-old for his birthday with Steve Rogers was, Tony reflected as he leaned back in his seat at the dining table, almost an exercise in futility. Steve hadn't been out of the ice long enough to have learned what was available, though he had suggested an amusement park, a movie, or maybe a zoo.
Which, Tony had to admit, weren't bad suggestions in and of themselves. They were just … old-fashioned - except for the movie. Then again, Rogers had been a young man when movies hit their stride.
"What was it like?" Tony asked as he and Steve sat waiting for the pizza to arrive. Taking it outside would be a natural intrusion on Harry's gifts from his friends.
"What was what like?" Steve asked.
"The movies," Tony said. "I mean, 1939 was a fantastic year for movies - doubt we've had as good a year since. Gone with the Wind; Stagecoach; Goodbye, Mr. Chips; Mr. Smith Goes to Washington; and, of course, The Wizard of Oz. I know you've seen that one, you caught the flying monkeys reference."
"I was broke, Tony," Steve said. "Poor at times, but broke almost always."
"There's a difference?" Tony asked. "Genuinely asking here."
"Poor isn't likely to change soon," Steve said. "Broke means you're temporarily out of money."
"Huh. Okay, I get it. As much as I can, anyway - we were never either of those."
Steve raised an eyebrow, and Tony shrugged. "Accident of birth. I'm not going to apologize for it."
"I don't expect you to. I'm just - well, surprised, in a way, that you recognize it."
Tony smiled without mirth. "Someone told you I'm an insensitive jerk, didn't they?" But he waved it away before Steve could answer. "Back to the question - what was it like, seeing those movies?"
Steve took a sip of coffee as he appeared to consider the question. "I remember The Wizard of Oz most, for a lot of reasons. Mostly the change from black and white to color. It really was like entering a new world, like seeing everything with new eyes."
"I had a similar feeling watching Star Wars, the first time they made the hyperspace jump," Tony said. "It was a hold onto your hats, it's gonna be a wild ride kind of moment."
"Star Wars?" Steve asked, and Tony sat up so straight so quickly he was surprised his spine didn't protest.
"Oh. My. God," he said. "You haven't seen Star Wars."
"Not yet," Steve said. "There are a bunch of - um - I forget the term, but recordings of movies in the apartment."
"Oh, no. No no no no no. Your first experience of Star Wars will not be on a television, even if it has a seventy-two-inch screen. You'll see it in a theater just like the rest of us. JARVIS!"
"Yes, Sir," came the immediate response.
"Survey the employees at SI - what movies are best seen for the first time on the big screen? Make a list of the top, oh, twenty-five most frequently chosen, and we'll find a theater to show them."
"You don't have to go to all that trouble," Steve protested.
"It's not just for you - but I'd do it just for you, too, and not just because Dad would've wanted it," Tony said and rotated his coffee cup between his hands. "I get the feeling Harry hasn't seen a lot of movies, either. It'll be good for you both to have someone to share the experience with."
Steve just sighed and took another swallow of coffee before saying, "We can't get that arranged in time for his birthday today, though. So - any decisions?"
"A bus tour of London," Tony said. "That's as much because of his broken ankle than anything else. Or, if he really wants, the Science Museum, or maybe the V&A Museum of Childhood."
"How about letting him pick the museum?" Steve asked, and Tony couldn't help grimacing.
"He'll probably pick something completely boring."
"It's his birthday - shouldn't he get to pick what he wants?"
Tony gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Just don't complain to me when you're bored."
"I won't." Steve grinned.
JARVIS spoke before Tony could pick up the thread of conversation. "Sir, the pizzas have arrived."
"Great! Send 'em up in the elevator, and I'll grab drinks from the fridge." Tony frowned. "I wonder what he likes?"
"He's too young for alcohol," Steve observed, and Tony shot him an incredulous look. "What?"
"I wasn't even thinking of alcohol," Tony said, and was somewhat surprised to find that was true. Though, by all rights, he could think of alcohol and no one would blame him.
Having an injured, previously-abused thirteen-year-old dropped into his life was a better excuse to drink than he'd ever had before, but he'd decided to cut way back on alcohol after his too-close-for-comfort brush with death by palladium poisoning. He'd die eventually, but it wouldn't be from poisoning of any kind.
"Point me toward the icebox, and I'll grab a selection."
"We call them fridges these days," Tony said. He jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. "That way. Big silver-colored thing, top door."
By the time Tony had retrieved the boxes from the elevator - three pizzas plus a cinnamon dessert thing and a chocolate chip cookie the size of a medium pizza - Steve had pulled an armload of drinks from the fridge and was crossing to join him.
"Are there stairs to the roof?" he asked. "Not just the private elevator?"
"Have to be," Tony replied as they stepped into said private elevator. He elbowed the button for the roof and said, "Fire code regulations. JARVIS can show you at some point."
The elevator doors slid open, and Tony started for the gazebo, surprised to see a pile of opened packages, but no sign of Harry.
Just as he was about to call out for his son, Harry's voice came from a few feet away, down one of the paths laid out on the roof.
"Calm down, book," Harry said, somewhat breathlessly, and Tony flicked a glance at Steve, who looked as surprised and confused as he felt.
Two steps brought him within sight of his son, whose bare legs were pale in the early afternoon sunlight - what had happened to his pants? Tony looked around and saw a pile of dark fabric not far away.
Frowning, Tony forced himself to focus once more on Harry, who was struggling to wrap something - a belt, maybe - around a … book?
Yes, a book.
A book that was struggling mightily against being bound, if Tony were any judge.
Finally, Harry sat back. "Right, that's you sorted," he said.
After a moment, Harry leveraged himself to his feet and turned around - only to freeze when he met Tony's gaze.
"I was going to suggest we have pizza and talk about whether to go on a bus tour of London or maybe hit the Science Museum," Tony said. "Now, I think we're going to have pizza and talk about whatever that is."