Minerva McGonagall prided herself on being both efficient and effective. She designed routines that worked for her and made certain each day's work was planned before she went to bed the night before. Disruptions to her routines were unwelcome and dealt with as efficiently and effectively as she knew how.
Until the arrival of a snowy owl one morning a month before the start of term. A very familiar snowy owl, in fact.
"Good morning, Hedwig," Minerva said, suppressing a smile as the owl offered a leg so she could remove the letter she carried.
She removed the message briskly, then reached for the container of owl treats she kept at her desk. They weren't often needed, as her mail came with the students' at breakfast, but during term breaks owls came as they would.
"You're welcome to rest a bit at the owlery," she said as the bird took the treat gently from her outstretched hand.
Hedwig hooted briefly and took wing once more.
"Well, Mr. Potter," Minerva murmured as she opened the envelope addressed in a scrawl that was only somewhat neater than Potter's first-year handwriting had been. "What have you to say this summer?"
She pulled out the sheet of parchment and frowned at its weight. It wasn't until she opened the parchment itself that she realized a second envelope was concealed within. The second envelope read only, PROFESSOR McGONAGALL in a script that reminded her of a book.
Loyalty to her students - and especially to one of her lions - compelled her to read Harry Potter's letter first.
Dear Professor McGonagall,
I apologize for the messiness of this letter, but my aunt and I were in an auto accident the day before yesterday, and I have several broken bones that make writing awkward and uncomfortable, especially with a quill.
My aunt, who was driving the car, did not survive.
I was very frightened when the hospital staff told me that - Uncle Vernon hates me and only put up with me because of my Aunt Petunia. I was afraid he would throw me out, or worse (not that I want to imagine what worse might be).
Fortunately, my biological father arrived. He'd been looking for me, but obviously not in the magical world. He checked me out of hospital, took me to Uncle Vernon's house to collect my things (and not a minute too soon, as he'd already thrown them in the rubbish bin), where Uncle Vernon said he never wanted to see me again.
That feeling's mutual, for sure.
Anyway, my father - Tony Stark - brought me to his apartment in London to recuperate. I have casts on my left wrist and ankle, two cracked ribs, and a fractured clavicle. Without magic, it will take 6-8 weeks for everything to heal.
Will you please come to the Stark Docklands Tower on Saturday at ten a.m. to formally introduce Mr. Stark to magic? If Madam Pomfrey could come along and heal my injuries, that would be great.
Looking forward to seeing you Saturday,
Respectfully,
Harry Potter
Minerva read the letter a second time, and a third, one phrase burning itself into her memory: my biological father arrived.
How could that be? Harry Potter was the son of James and Lily Potter - everyone knew that. Aside from Minerva's absolute certainty that Lily would never have cuckolded James, Minerva herself had been at the boy's welcoming ceremony and then, a couple of weeks later, his naming ceremony, and at both of which James Potter had looked as proud and happy as any new father could be.
So what in the name of magic was going on?
Perhaps the other letter offered more answers, so Minerva opened it and withdrew the single sheet of paper, almost as heavy as parchment, and unfolded it.
An embossed logo in blue read STARK INDUSTRIES - LONDON DOCKLANDS, and beneath it was more of that book-like script.
Dear Professor McGonagall,
I write to you today to invite you to my London apartment for brunch this coming Saturday at 10:00 a.m. to discuss my son, Harry Potter's, schooling.
Those words must have surprised you, but they are true - Harry Potter is my biological son. The hows and whys are private, but the fact remains, he's my son, and since James and Lily Potter died, he is now in my custody.
Harry told me he's been attending a special school, of which you're the Deputy Headmistress, and I would like to discuss how he's doing in class with you, as well as plans for his continued education.
If Saturday at ten is inconvenient, please let me know of a time and date that work better for you, but at your earliest convenience, as it's not long before school starts and arrangements must be made before then.
Whatever time you come, please bring all of Harry's transcripts with you, as well as syllabi for next year.
I look forward to meeting you in person.
Beneath the printed text, the name Tony Stark was scrawled in blue, and at the bottom of the page, an address told her, presumably, where his apartment was.
Minerva blew out a breath and ordered a pot of tea from one of Hogwarts' house-elves. When the tea appeared a few minutes later, she opened her bottom desk drawer and withdrew a bottle. She added a splash of Glengoyne 18 to her cup, returned the bottle to its place, and then topped off her cup with tea.
If it were later in the day, she'd have the dram neat, but on principle she refused to have uncut scotch before dinner. If she hadn't set that personal rule long ago, first the Marauders and then the Weasley twins would've seen her liver damaged beyond even magic's ability to repair.
Minerva took a sip as she pondered her course of action. If it were any other student besides Harry Potter, her path would be clear: she would accept the invitation, explain the situation to the new parent, and be on her way.
Why, then, did she hesitate when the student in question was Harry Potter?
Another sip of whiskey-laced tea brought the answer, and with it, a flush of shame.
She hesitated because of Albus Dumbledore. Part of her wanted to rush to him immediately and report this fascinating new information…
…which had yet to be proven.
Not that she thought Harry would lie, but she didn't have any idea about this Tony Stark. And even if Mr. Stark had the best of intentions, anyone could be misled.
And that thought decided her. There was no point in disturbing Albus until she'd verified the information.
Satisfied, Minerva reached for parchment and quill to pen her reply.
Tony supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that Steve was waiting for him and Harry when they finally left Gringotts.
The goblins were efficient in a somewhat vicious manner that scarily reminded him of Pepper Potts at her worst. Or maybe best, he wasn't entirely certain about that.
"Have fun on the Magical Mystery Tour?" Tony asked.
"I'm sure that's a popular culture reference I don't get," Steve said wryly. "But yes, I enjoyed looking around the Magical Menagerie."
"It was a record album," Harry said, "by the Beatles. Aunt Petunia loves - loved - them."
There was no break in Harry's voice when he spoke of his aunt, and Tony couldn't help but wonder when the dam would break. Harry might not have loved his aunt and uncle - and, honestly, if Petunia Dursley were anything like her husband, there wasn't much to love - but Harry had still spent twelve years of his life with them. He was bound to grieve sooner or later.
"I'll put it on the list of things to get me current in this century," Steve said. "Maybe we can listen to it together?"
"You have a list?" Tony asked, genuinely curious, and Steve shrugged.
"More mental than physical at this point," he said. "I've been a bit preoccupied so far."
Tony snorted at the understatement. He'd been - or, rather, Pepper had been - peripherally involved in making sure Steve got all the back pay he was entitled to, and he knew that was just the tip of the iceberg of what Steve had been doing. He'd also been cramming on modern military tactics and combat styles, which he felt was a necessity given the Chitauri invasion and Tony couldn't disagree, and trying to squeeze in reading modern history as well. Tony respected him for it, even if he thought Steve was focusing too much on the military side of things.
Tony was drawn from his musings when Steve asked, "Did you get some magical money? Galleons, or whatever?"
"A thousand or so for walking around money," Tony replied. "Why?"
"Because I want to go there," Steve said, pointing at a shopfront across the street.
Tony looked where Steve indicated and saw, ""The Daily Prophet?"
"Newspaper," Harry said. "A bit like a cross between the Times and the Guardian."
"Why do you want to go there?" Tony asked.
"Because I figure we should get caught up on recent magical history," Steve said. "And there's an ice cream shop next door to it so Harry won't have to be bored silly while we stop in."
Tony regarded his father's friend - and his, too, he realized with a start - seriously. Steve's expression was far more serious than his tone and words suggested, and something inside Tony tensed up at that realization.
"I would've thought you were tired of catching up," he said lightly, "but, hey, if that's what you're into… Would you mind waiting for us at the ice cream place, Harry? I don't think we'll be long, so order us something, too."
Harry nodded and the three of them crossed the street together, separating as Tony and Steve headed for the offices of the Daily Prophet.
"So what are we really doing here?" Tony asked.
"I thought we could order copies of every issue since Harry was born," Steve said. "Then we'd know what everyone else does - and that might give us an idea of what we're walking into with that meeting Saturday."
"Makes sense." And it would give him a bit of understanding about the world Harry was living in now.
Tony breezed into the office, to find a small reception room, sparsely furnished with a couple of Victorian-looking, and therefore uncomfortable-looking, chairs to one side and a reception desk in front of him. It was odd not to see a computer monitor on the receptionist's desk, but the woman sitting there looked up with a smile that faded somewhat as she took them in.
Tony gave her his best media-friendly smile. "Good morning. Can you direct me to the morgue?"
The receptionist had a round face, and all its lines seemed to come from smiling, so it was something of a puzzle to Tony how those lines all came together in puzzlement. "Morgue?"
"Maybe you call it something else, this side of the Pond," Tony said. "The place where you keep copies of all your back issues."
Puzzlement turned to suspicion. "Why?"
"Because I want to buy copies," Tony said. "Every issue since January 1, 2000."
Her red-lipsticked mouth formed a perfect O. "Every issue?"
"And we'd like to pick them up this afternoon," Steve put in, "preferably shrunk in such a way that an underage wizard can un-shrink them without difficulty."
"Right, what he said." Whatever he had actually said. Tony would ask him later.
The receptionist blinked, and again. "I - I can help you with that." She cleared her throat. "Let me do the maths…"
"I'll help," Tony offered with a grin. "It's what I do, after all - engineering is just applied mathematics and physics. There are 4,597 days between January 1, 2000, and today. At, what is it, 5 knuts per issue - though, really, these are copies, it should be much less, but whatever, I'm trying to be fair - that's almost 23,000 knuts, which is what - about 47 galleons? And you sometimes run two issues a day, right? For simplicity's sake, how about we just double it - 94 galleons. Round it up to a hundred even, if I can pick them up when we're done school shopping?"
The receptionist had paused, quill poised over a piece of parchment, and stared at them.
"That might have been a bit overwhelming, Tony," Steve said. "Not everyone's a genius at math, applied or otherwise."
"Okay, let's make it easy, then," Tony said. He dug into the pouch he'd gotten from Gringotts - Bogrod was a surprisingly helpful fellow - and pulled out fifty gold galleons. "Here's fifty galleons." He put them on the receptionist's desk. "I'll bring fifty more in a couple of hours, and you have the copies-"
"Shrunken," Steve put in.
"Right, shrunken," Tony nodded, "ready for us then. Okay?"
"Ah-" the receptionist seemed focused on the stack of gold in front of her. In a way, Tony couldn't blame her; it wasn't a sight many people ever saw, after all, probably not even in the magical world.
"Right, then," Tony said. "See you in a couple of hours. C'mon, Spangles - let's see what Diagon Alley has to offer."
Since the morning wasn't that hot, despite it being the first of August, Harry chose a seat on the patio at Fortescue's with his two scoops of chocolate and peanut butter ice cream in a bowl, like a sundae. He'd ordered the same thing for Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Fortescue had promised to bring them out as soon as the other two arrived.
Harry took a bite, grateful for the Cooling Charm on the bowl that meant he didn't have to hurry to eat the ice cream before it melted. He was also grateful for the opportunity to, however briefly, review everything that had happened at Gringotts.
He'd only understood about half of what Mr. Stark - or should he call him Tony, if he couldn't call him Dad yet? - and Bogrod had talked about, but the gist of it seemed to be that Tony wanted to make sure Harry earned as much money as he could without taking crazy risks doing so. Harry thought that was a great idea, even if the specifics were over his head right now. Tony had promised to find a tutor who could explain what Harry needed to know, and Bogrod had agreed that was a good idea.
Bogrod had also agreed with Tony's suggestion that the money Tony had put in trust for Harry - a million dollars a year, every year on his birthday! Harry had no idea what to do with that kind of money - remain in the Muggle world. "Diversification," Bogrod had called it, and Tony promised that the tutor would explain that to Harry as well.
An even bigger shock than the amount of money in Harry's Muggle trust fund, though, had been Tony's questions about James and Lily Potter's wills, especially the absolute certainty that he, Tony, was supposed to have been contacted in the event of the Potters' deaths. He'd asked Bogrod whether he had any knowledge of who the Potters' attorney had been, but the goblin hadn't. So Tony was on a mission, as he put it, to find out who the Potters' attorney had been and find out why he hadn't been contacted after their deaths.
Harry was half-terrified that the wills would reveal something that might take him away from Tony, whom he was coming to like quite a bit.
He had to hope not - he had to hope that what Tony had said was true, that he was supposed to live with Tony if anything had happened to the Potters. Obviously, something had happened to the Potters, only Harry had ended up with Aunt Petunia rather than Tony…whom he would've called Dad in that case.
Harry took another bite of ice cream, wishing he'd chosen something crunchier. A good crunch would at least fit his frustration level.
"Hey." Tony's voice pulled him back to the present. "You order for us?"
Harry waved a hand toward the empty seats at his table. "Mr. Fortescue said he'd bring them out as soon as you got here."
"What did you order?" Steve asked as he took a seat opposite Harry.
"Same for all of us - chocolate and peanut butter," Harry said. "Figured I'd play it safe."
"What would be not playing it safe?" Tony asked as he took the seat to Harry's left.
"Strawberries with chocolate frogs, maybe," Harry asked. "Something you wouldn't see in the Muggle - sorry, mundane - world."
"Chocolate frogs?" Tony looked dubious.
"They jump around in the ice cream," Harry told him, then bit back a smile when Tony looked a little queasy.
"They're not real frogs, are they?" Steve asked.
Harry shook his head even as Mr. Fortescue emerged with two other bowls. "Just enchanted to jump around a bit. The small ones in the ice cream really can't jump high at all. The chocolate frogs that come with the collectible cards, though - they've got a couple of really good jumps in them. I lost one out the window on the train to Hogwarts, first year. What did you want with the Prophet?"
"Copies of every issue they've published since you were born," Tony replied. "Figure that's enough to give me a working knowledge of this world we're both a part of."
Harry frowned. "Both?" He took another bite of ice cream.
"Yeah, both. Why wouldn't it be both?" Tony asked.
"You don't have magic," Harry pointed out.
"But you do," Tony said, as though Harry needed reminding, "and you're part of my life now. I need to know about this world so I can try to be a good parent to you."
Harry swallowed, hard, and managed a nod.
"Besides," Tony continued more seriously, "I want to find out what happened when Lily and James-" he broke off and took a breath before continuing, "I want to find out why you weren't with me from the beginning."
Harry swallowed hard and took a moment to collect himself before meeting Tony's gaze squarely. "So do I. I want that more than any- well, more than almost anything."
"You want your parents back," Tony said softly. "And the life you should have had with them."
"Not that I'm not grateful, and not that I don't want to live with you-" Harry began in a rush, only to have Tony hold up a hand, stopping his protest before it got a full head of steam.
"I get it," Tony said quietly. "I lost my parents when I was young - older than you, twenty-one, but still young. The last words I ever spoke to my dad were in anger, and I've never quite forgiven myself for that." He paused and took a deep breath. "So, yeah - I get it. And it's okay if you call them your parents."
"Even if I don't really remember them?" Harry asked in small voice that he hated the moment it left his lips.
"Even if," Tony assured him. "For now, I'm Tony. Maybe someday you'll feel comfortable with something more familial. Maybe you won't."
"Regardless," Steve put in, "I hope I can be an uncle of sorts."
Tony snorted. "Uncle Sam."
"But-" Harry protested, "his name is Steve."
"Cultural reference." Tony put down his spoon and pulled out his cell phone. A few taps later, he extended it toward Harry. "Uncle Sam."
Harry took the phone and looked at the image. It showed a white-haired man in a blue suit coat with a white shirt and loose red bow tie. A white top hat with a blue-and-white starred band crowned a rather severe expression that was only compounded by the man appearing to point out of the image straight at Harry. The caption read: I WANT YOU FOR U.S. ARMY.
Harry didn't know what to say to that, so he just handed the phone back to Tony. A few more taps, and Tony was once again offering it to him.
This time, the image on the phone was of a man in a costume with a blue cowl that covered the upper half of his face and his shoulders, a white letter A proudly displayed on the forehead and a white star on the chest. He mimicked Uncle Sam's pose, though with a stars-and-stripes shield over his free arm. The caption read: I WANT YOU TO BUY WAR BONDS NOW.
Harry couldn't help chuckling. "I see the resemblance."
Steve held out his hand, and Harry passed the phone over. Steve glanced at the image and gave a wry grin.
"To be fair, I only wore that suit on the USO tours," he said and passed the phone back to Tony.
"If the flag fits," Tony said with a shrug, and Harry took another bite of ice cream to keep from laughing. "So - what's next?"
"Something to secure his wand," Steve replied before Harry could speak. "It's a weapon, and it needs to be treated as such."
"Okay. Remind me where we go for that?" Tony asked Harry.
"Ollivanders," Harry replied immediately. "At the far end of the Alley from the Leaky Cauldron."
"Start there, then," Tony decided, "and work our way back to the pub for a late lunch."
It made sense, so Harry didn't protest as he finished the last of his ice cream and they started down the Alley.
It was Harry's third visit to Diagon Alley and the first one where he could take in all the sights. Hagrid had rushed his first visit and his second had been interrupted by the scuffle between Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy, not to mention the unplanned photo-op with Gilderoy Lockhart, so Harry gawked almost as much as Tony and Steve did.
To be fair, there was a lot to gawk at - the Magical Menagerie, Gambol and Japes, and a dozen other shops he hadn't seen before. Beside him, Tony was muttering under his breath at just about everything, while behind them Steve seemed to regard everything with respectful interest as they made their way to Ollivanders.
Harry almost bumped into Tony when the man stopped outside Ollivanders.
"Makers of fine wands since 382 B.C.," Tony read. "Gotta call bullshit on that - how can you possibly have records that far back? I mean, Alexander the Great, the Greeks, the Romans - more wars than I can count, not that I particularly want to count them. How can records have survived that long?"
"Family records, maybe?" Steve said.
"Huh. Maybe." But Tony didn't sound convinced. He flung the door open and strode in.
The shop hadn't changed much since Harry's first visit two years before - which was a shame, Harry thought as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. A little more lighting would make the shop more welcoming, especially to people who'd grown up in the non-magical world. Then again, illuminating the dust on the thousands of small boxes lining the walls might not be a good thing.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," the soft voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere in the shop, as Ollivander joined them. "Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather. Unless - it hasn't been broken, has it?" the old man asked sharply.
"No, sir." Harry produced the wand in question and Ollivander examined it closely.
"It could do with a polishing," he said, "but otherwise appears in fine shape. So what brings you to my shop today?"
"Do you have a carrier or a holster for my wand?" Harry asked. "It just - carrying it in my back pocket doesn't seem like a good idea."
"Indeed it's not," Ollivander said. "And yet, so few people ask about it."
"Why don't you just tell them about it?" Tony asked. "When they come in to buy their wands, suggest a holster, or whatever. You know - upsell."
An expression of horror settled on Ollivander's face. "How gauche!" He shook his head. "No, people will ask for what they want."
"Will they?" Tony asked. "Kids who don't grow up in the magical world aren't told about holsters - are they, Harry?"
"I wasn't," Harry said. "Neither was my friend Hermione."
Ollivander sniffed. "That's hardly my fault."
"Y'know what is your fault?" Tony asked. "Costing yourself a sale today."
"Two," Harry said, and shrugged at Tony's look. "I'd planned to get one for Hermione, too."
"Two sales," Tony said. "I'm sure whoever else sells wands will be happy to have them."
"There's no one else in Britain," Ollivander said. "No one legal, at any rate."
Tony shrugged. "I'm sure there's someone in America. I'm also sure they do mail order. I'm also also sure that I'll be happy to pay shipping costs for any student who wants to buy one, just to make sure you don't get the sale."
Tony's grin seemed wide and artificial to Harry, but that was okay. Harry's own grin was vicious enough for both of them.
"And I'm sure all my friends will hate to know how they're disadvantaged because you think letting them know they should have a holster is gauche. Have a nice day, Mr. Ollivander," Harry said and turned for the door.
"Wait, Mr. Potter and - I'm sorry, sir, I didn't catch your name?" Ollivander said, attempting a politeness Harry hadn't seen in him before.
"Because I didn't offer it," Tony replied. "And it shouldn't matter. Why should we wait, when you so clearly don't want our business?"
"Surely we can smooth over this misunderstanding," Ollivander said. "A twenty percent discount, perhaps?"
Tony turned to Harry. "You're more familiar with this than I am. Do you think that's fair?"
Harry blinked, surprised to be asked, but pushed that aside to focus on the actual question. "I think it's fair to me, but not to anyone else."
"What do you think is fair?" Steve asked, and Harry could see he was genuinely interested in the answer. He thought quickly.
"Maybe-" he paused to gather his words, "maybe instead of having to actually offer the holsters, because that would be gauche, he could simply post a sign that offers a ten percent discount on holsters purchased with the first wand. Or something like that, that would let people like me know about holsters at all. They find out they need one, or at least that they can have one, and you make more sales."
Ollivander blinked, and Harry bit back a smile. He might not have Ron Weasley's gift for strategy, but he did know a thing or two about dealing with bullies - and he couldn't see Ollivander's attitude as anything other than bullying, if more subtle than Dudley's version, no matter how hard he tried.
Rule number one of dealing with bullies was, if you chose to fight back, you had to be prepared to be hurt a lot and in turn hurt back so badly that the bullies decided you were more trouble than you were worth.
Rule number two was, if you chose not to fight back, give the bully a reason to leave you alone - in this case, that meant offering more sales to a businessman, even if discounted.
"That's-" Ollivander cleared his throat. "That's more than fair. You wanted two holsters?"