Author's Note: Chapters one and two have been nitpicked for typos and general bad writing. No noteworthy changes, but I'm hoping that everything reads more smoothly. How things I wrote a week ago can sound so horrible now, I don't know.


Chapter 5: Blonds, Shopping and Catfights


Tony should have known that Dumbledore was a man who thrived on other people's misery.

But he hadn't expected himself to be one of those, well, people as he stood in the front of an unfamiliar bookshop that was becoming too familiar too quick, foisted with the weight of a dozen bags that held bits and pieces of magical merch. Even with the Feather-light Charm applied on them, they were a nuisance to lug around, and a large part of him wanted to dump them in a ditch somewhere, abandon ship and crawl back into the Room of Requirement, where he would promptly set up shop and forget about the rest of the world as he tinkered with his toys.

It was ridiculous. Tony Stark had never stood in line during his entire life.

(There was that pretzel vendor down by 33rd, but hey, those were some damn good cinnamon sticks.)

He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. Pools of color flitted in and out of peripherality, most of them the telltale space-blue and power-purple of witches and wizards but some of them just a faint orange. It was by far the largest assortment of magical energy he'd seen congregated in one place, and he thought he knew the reason why.

His gaze drifted to a huge banner stretched across the upper windows:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

He had a bad, bad feeling about this.

"It would be a nice and easy job, he said," he muttered. An old woman pushed against him in a crazed fervor to get to the front of the line, smelling like a pungent mix of perfume, powder and firewhisky. God. "Find Lockhart, give him the letter and get the hell out of there, he said."

"Your précis is most incorrect, sir."

"Shush, J."

Dumbledore had called him up to the headmaster's office two days ago to check up on him, by all pretense, chatting about nothings and offering some more of those house-elf cookies before beating right through the bush to ask if Anthony had plans on Wednesday, and if not, could he find time to deliver a letter to one Gilderoy Lockhart, please. Tony hated the idea of playing messenger for some asshole that couldn't be bothered to check his own mail, but in a vague way he was reminded of himself ("what's your social security number?") and ol' Dumbles had guilt-tripped him over the research grant into running along without further objection. To his credit, he managed to put off thinking about it until noon today.

He hated Diagon Alley. Everything about it was so familial that he felt like dying all over again.

Although he really could use a wand if he wanted to go around masquerading as a wizard any longer, and shopping for wizard robes had been somewhat fun. They clashed against his new suit collection horribly. Not that I'm enjoying it, he thought.

Tony was trying his darnedest to remember that yes, he'd agreed to do this, and yes, he was working for a boss that he at least had to pretend to listen to now (wasn't that a ridiculous idea) as he took deep, calming breaths while being squashed like a pack of sardines between giggling women.

"Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!"

Tony turned. There was a young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, who was waving her arm at him from somewhere in the back. A gaggle of redheads were lined up in front of her, along with a man and a woman who were obviously her parents. He thought he recognized a face, but couldn't be sure. The family looked like peas out of a pod with identical shades of red hair, freckles, and slightly worn clothes.

He walked over to them, bunching up his robes at the hip to keep other people from tripping up on them. He had on a double-breasted, very Muggle suit underneath them, but he was much better off than the witches sweltering under layers and layers from the late summer heat, and was that an authentic corset he saw on that blonde, Holy Mother of God.

"Miss Granger," he said. He pocketed his shades.

Hermione was beaming. "I'm so surprised to see you here! I thought you'd be leaving once your research was done, I mean, your name made the front page of the Daily Prophet nine times last month—oh, but where are my manners." She blushed, smoothing down her hair. The strands still stuck out like the coils on a spring.

"These are my parents, and the Weasleys, and Harry, who's in Ron and my year at school. This is Professor Stark, everybody. He'll be teaching—er, it's Muggle Intercommunal Technology, isn't it?"

Tony flashed them his best smile. "It's Tony Stark," he said. "And that's MIT for you. I love my acronyms."

Those same acronyms were what kept him afloat in a world of witchcraft and wizardry with his rationality intact. He stuck out a hand for each of them to shake, and there was a brief moment of confusion when he thought one of the Weasleys was coming back for more before realizing that there must be a twin in the family.

"Tony Stark?" someone said. "Not the Tony Stark?"

It was the older redheaded man. Mr. Weasley was thoroughly glowing with anticipation as he pushed aside one of the twins from a shelf stacked high with suspicious books (Abracadabra: An A-Z of Spooky Spells), babbling in excitement.

"Fascinating, fascinating. I've read all about you, of course—mentioned nine times in the Prophet, as Hermione was so astute as to point out"—Hermione blushed—"but to meet you in person, really! You are from America? And Muggle-born?"

The man beamed.

Tony Stark had been dealing with overeager fans since he was six. Everything he did was public knowledge, every detail gushed over or admonished, and as he grew older every invention he made had their names known alongside his, too, first on magazine covers and later on the news. He was a man who breathed attention, but he thought he'd lost all ability to appreciate publicity for what it was after years of tabloids, false rumors, and general public hatred.

Naturally, he preened.

"Yep, that's me," he crowed. "Tony Stark. My dad was . . . kind of familiar with magic, though." He thought about it for a moment. Howard would classify as a wizard in anyone's eyes. "But yes, I am heads over heels for Muggle tech, if that's what you're getting at. And proud of it, too."

Mr. Weasley beamed some more. "The name's Arthur Weasley." Another handshake. "I work at the Ministry, you know, the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Bewitching things that are Muggle-made in case something ends up back in a Muggle shop or house—can't hold a candle to anything you've done, of course—but your theory on combining the flow of magical energy and eckeltricity are most amazing! We really must have a cup of tea together sometime, I live in Devon—"

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat. Arthur fell silent.

Molly Weasley was a short, plump, kind-faced woman with frizzy red hair, as though she couldn't find enough time to sit down and and brush it in the mornings. "Yes, yes, we've both heard about you," she said, stressing the word. Her husband flushed a deep scarlet. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Stark. I think it'll do the children some good to have a class that touches more on modern history and Muggles. Most pure-bloods haven't got any clue about them. I was surprised you didn't assign them a textbook, though . . ."

Tony's easy grin faltered. The Weasleys apparently had some strong preconceived notions about quality education, likely from their combined years at Hogwarts School. But there were two weeks left until the first day of term and he still had zero ideas on what he was actually going to teach the rug rats.

He had also very ostensibly failed to turn in a lesson plan. McGonagall was going to skin him alive.

Molly gestured toward one of the younger children, who stuck out like a sore thumb with his black hair among a family of redheads. "Why, Harry here says that he went on the Underground to get to Diagon Alley last year!"

Tony spared Harry a glance. "Underground, huh? Your parents Muggles?"

Harry started. "What? No, er, I mean, they were both magic—"

"What, you don't know?" said the boy next to him.

Molly gave her son a very pointed stare. And it was like watching somebody steer a conversation by the literal reins, because she was pulling a shy ginger girl out from somewhere behind her back. "What wonderful coincidence. My youngest will be new at Hogwarts this year, too. She's the last in our family."

She gave her a little nudge with an elbow. "Why don't you introduce yourself, dear?"

"Ginny Weasley," her daughter squeaked.

Tony gave the poor girl a thumbs-up. Ginny blushed to the roots of her hair and disappeared behind her mother again, mumbling something about how "it was nice meeting you" and that she "looked forward to his classes".

"Mum," said one of the twins. "Ginny can't be friends with a professor."

The other snickered. "Yeah, she's going to catch a ride with the famous Harry Potter."

"The one and only!" they chorused. He thought he saw Harry scowl out of the corner of his eyes.

"Excuse me, did you say Harry Potter?"

They had reached the front of the line. A blond man wearing robes of a pale blue that matched the color of his eyes stepped around the table, a pointed wizard's hat drooping on his head; his teeth were a perfect, pristine white that would have given Captain America a run for his money. The crowd parted to let him through, whispering excitedly.

"It can't be Harry Potter?" said Blondie. The wizard dived forward and seized Harry's arm. "Harry—come here, come here, ladies and gentlemen, please let him through—Harry here has had a terrible, heart-rending past, and it wouldn't do well to touch him without warning—"

This time, Tony did see Harry scowling something fierce. It was a mild surprise considering how quiet and withdrawn the kid seemed to be. Maybe he was shy, maybe he had an alter ego, maybe he had a grudge.

Tony stepped in for the rescue.

"Hi, Gilderoy," he said. "Are you Gilderoy?"

The man turned, smile still plastered on his face. "Excuse me?"

There was a second wizard who was slinking by, closer to the table that was practically encrusted by books. He held a big black camera in his hands. The contraption emitted little puffs of smoke with every click that it made.

"Are you Gilderoy?" Tony asked, facing him. "And is that camera legal?"

"What?" The photographer blinked. "No!"

"It's not legal, then?" Tony's own smile was beginning to show hints of teeth. "Okay, Gilderoy, we have a problem. Apart from the fact that we haven't been properly introduced, see, I'm here on school business." His grin widened further. He was definitely showing teeth, now. "Dumbledore's orders."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"School business?"

"What's this about Dumbledore?"

"Is he in trouble?"

The real Lockhart's smile was looking a bit frayed around the edges. "Oh, dear. Stealing my thunder." He ran a hand through his oh-so-perfect, golden hair before raising his voice, making himself heard again. "Yes, yes! I almost forgot to announce. Ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

The murmurs intensified.

(With more than a hint of unease, Tony realized that this must be exactly how he'd been like when he was fifteen, stupid, and drunk as a skunk at an older girl's party, trying very hard to impress people as he stuttered over two-syllable words.)

"Harry, Harry. What an extraordinary moment this is!" Lockhart wasn't shaken off easily, man had to be handed that much. "Natural wanting to meet me, of course, as fellow contenders for fame—me, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award and the epitome of popularity—but let's not talk about that. I wasn't the one who vanished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and as a mere one-year-old baby!"

Harry looked murderous. Tony was thinking, and thinking hard, when all of a sudden, everything clicked.

"Dark Arts?" Tony scratched his chin. "You're kidding me, right? Dark Arts. Why is it the Dark Arts?Do they have Squidward living here, JARVIS? I wanted to learn the force choke from him."

"The Giant Squid resides at the bottom of the lake, sir."

Lying with both feet propped up on his bed's headboard, he was parsing through a holographic copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, which JARVIS had scanned from the library for him (Tony really needed to start thinking about building a proper magical base to operate from). The majority of wizard history books tended to be long, dull accounts that repeated themselves in endless loops of Muggles, murder, more Muggles, until when something called the Statute of Secrecy was instituted, which was then broken multiple times, leading to more Muggles, more murder and mayhem, overall.

He yawned. He was running on two hours of sleep and zero caffeine, so the book could wait a few more days. All it had to say on Dark Magic was that it was evil, unorthodox, and powerful, although none of these Dark witches and wizards ever seemed to be able to retain power outside their borders, apart from one case of Gellert Grindelwald. Overlords trying to take over the government happened all the time in the Muggle world. Big deal.

It was only when he waved a hand to close the book that he looked at the page he was supposed to be reading.

"JARVIS," he said. "What kind of a lousy title is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

The AI hummed in acknowledgement. "A euphemism for Lord Voldemort, sir. Voldemort appears to be French."

"Well, yeah. His parents would have to be off their rockers to name him something like that." Tony snorted. He'd faced Loki, Ultron, Thanos and was afraid of a lot of things, but he'd never once been scared of a name. "Although considering what they say about Dark wizards and how they spring crazy from the womb, it's a chance."

He looked at the page one more time, erased it from memory, then started reading up on jinxes and counter-jinxes.

Hermione had a friend named Harry. James and Lily Potter had a son named Harry, who they went into hiding for about twelve years ago. There was one Harry in the group of rising second years at Hogwarts.

"I wasn't the one who vanished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and as a mere one-year-old baby!"

James and Lily Potter were also very, very dead.

Tony was this close to snapping something, and it wasn't an Infinity Stone.

"Of course, there's nothing to worry about." Somehow, Lockhart was still prattling on without a clue. "Shouldn't be too much trouble, in fact, I am enthralled to have the chance to guide you on a path of fame and glory, Harry, you and I will get along fabulously—"

Tony walked forward, put a hand in his pocket, and slapped the envelope onto a copy of Magical Me.

"Your letter, Professor Lockhart," he said, "from Headmaster Dumbledore. Apparently you were supposed to meet him at the school two weeks ago, and once more after that, but you chose not to show up to either of them."

Lockhart's smile wavered. "Oh, I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding, er—terribly sorry, didn't get your name—"

"That's Professor Stark to you." Tony batted his eyelashes. "See, I'm also teaching at Hogwarts this year, what amazing luck. We'll be the best of colleagues, yeah? Braid each other's hair, do the BFF bracelets? I can't wait to tell the rest of the staff about what kind of preferential treatment GilderoyLockhart plans on giving his students, especially after manhandling them, especially especially before term's even started."

"Oh, this isn't manhandling! Young Harry and I were having a heart-to-heart conversation—"

He saw that Harry had escaped Lockhart's death grip while he'd been stalling, and lunged for the opening.

"Yep, you're right. I'm deaf as a doornail. Bad accident involving speakers and banshees and a rock band when I was younger. Horrid, horrid accident. Too horrid to go into details. So I probably missed hearing anything about that heart-to-heart conversation you said you were having with the kid. Toodles."

They exited Flourish and Blotts without trouble when he rushed them toward the exit. "This way you won't get your picture in the paper," he told Harry as they milled about the doors. The boy was staring down at his toes.

"How'd you do that?" said one of the redheads. Ron, he thought. "That git ("Ron!" said Arthur) couldn't stop himself from talking, did you see the way his mouth moved? He could talk the ear off a portrait!"

"You didn't really have an accident with banshees, did you?" said Hermione. She sounded a little worried, and annoyed.

"No to Miss Granger's question, but I agree wholeheartedly on anything Ron has to say about him." He gave Ron a mock salute, and Hermione a wink. "My secret? Too much ego in one room. Where to next, Captain Weasley?"

Molly was casting him a look that he supposed was intended to be discreet. "Oh, we thought we'd head up to the Leaky Cauldron for some food. Just about done with shopping, but Ginny wanted to look at some love potions—"

"Mum!"

"—but it wouldn't do, would it? Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and Professor, if you'd like to stay with us for lunch—"

"Professor?" said a high, reedy voice. "Professor, you say?"

Heads turned. There was a blond boy strutting toward them, chin raised high in the air with a distinct nose that curved upward. That was a French nose if Tony had ever seen one, and with the pale, pointed face stretching into a sneer in lieu of a greeting, he was tempted to make a passing comment about an aristoshit.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry spat.

So this was the son of Lucius Malfoy. Tony supposed he should feel bad about disliking a twelve-year-old on the spot, but he was already worn out from a day of witches and wizards, a street full of screaming children, and Lockhart, because that amazing man deserved a whole category to himself.

"Professor, you're saying?"

"Uh, yes," Tony began, but Ron beat him to the punch.

"Yeah," said Ron. "You have a problem with that, Malfoy?"

"Oh, no. The announcement was all over the papers." Draco inclined his head. "You would know if you read the Prophet, Weasley, but then again, does your family even have enough money in their vault for a subscription?"

Ron turned crimson in the face. Ginny was shaking behind her mother.

Tony put up his hand into a facepalm, letting out a long, slow breath that was more of an inflicted sigh. Jesus.

"Now look here, son—" Arthur started.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here."

Just when Tony thought things couldn't get any worse, the day hit absolute rock bottom as a tall, imposing man stalked up to them all, putting a firm hand on the shoulder of Draco Malfoy.

There was only one person as to who this could be.

"Lucius," Arthur said.

Lucius Malfoy was a carbon copy of his son, sleek blond hair swept back artfully from his temples and forehead. He matched the definition of aristocrat right down to the T; a walking stick was clasped in his hand, black, and with a serpent-head handle. He probably used it to hit his servants or something. The man was Tony's age, for heaven's sake.

"Arthur Weasley," he said. "Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. I hope they're paying you overtime?"

His eyes raked over Ron's secondhand books, Ginny's frayed robes, and the hole in the front of Molly's sweater. His lips twitched, Draco sneered some more, and the twins had to hold Ron back in a tight armlock.

"Obviously not." Lucius Malfoy shook his head. He reached into Ginny's new cauldron and extracted a very battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, which he studied in false mortification before thrusting back at her. "Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Tony had been busy composing a list of particularly nasty things to call the man when they finally met face-to-face, and he decided to use that list now. "I'm sorry, did anybody dial for an audition of Mean Girls just now? Because I never heard the stage come in, and I didn't know we were doing Regina George today."

"Anthony Stark," said Malfoy.

"Just Tony Stark, Mr. Malfoy, because not everyone in the world is lucky enough to be born with ridiculous five syllable last names that look great on the covers of fantasy novels." Tony paused. "But you'd better be on one of those shiny sparkly vampires angst stories. Ever read one?"

"My surname is two syllables."

"Well, yeah, but it still sounds ridiculous."

Malfoy ignored him. Tony gasped. How dare he.

Arthur was somehow speaking loud and clear through gritted teeth. "We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy."

"Obviously," said Malfoy. His gaze strayed to Hermione's parents and Hermione before returning to pin itself on Tony again, pale eyes narrowing in contempt. "The company you keep, Weasley . . . and I thought your family could sink no lower—"

Tony was already rolling up his sleeves, but like his son, Arthur beat him to it.

There was a loud clank of metal as Ginny's cauldron went flying. Arthur knocked Malfoy down onto the cobblestones, and there were fists flying; a yell of "Get him, Dad!" came from one of the twins. Molly was shrieking, passerby were craning their necks for a closer look, a throng of witches and wizards surged forward, and then—

"Break it up, gents, break it up!"

And Tony's eyes traveled up up and up, toward the face of a very large man that towered above him. Tony had plenty of occasions where he'd been forced to look up at friend and foe alike, but this man was bigger than the size of . . .

Nope, nope. Wrong memory lane.

His heart skipped twice in panic before he forced himself to relax.

The man had managed to pull apart Malfoy and Arthur. Arthur had a cut lip, but looked no worse for wear. Malfoy's sleek, shiny hair, though, was another story.

"Oh, goody," Tony said, because he really couldn't help himself. "Cinderella came back from the ball."

Malfoy's expression twisted into something darker than even utter hatred. Disentangling himself from the giant's grip, the wizard swept away from the street with his dignity less than intact, hauling his shocked clone behind him.

There was a rather thin, stretched sort of silence as everyone waited for the crowd to thin out around them. It was broken when the big man introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. During the two and a half months of his stay in the castle, Tony had avoided the Forbidden Forest and its surroundings like the plague (because who the hell knew what kind of monsters bred in there, gross), so they'd never had the chance to meet until now.

"Oh," said Hagrid. "Yer the new professor, eh? Should've known it. Haven' seen the likes o' yeh around these parts before."

"Foreign, as you can tell. I don't even come from Ilvermorny." Because he knew that lie would bleed out fast.

They dispersed into subdued groups after that, the Weasleys and Harry heading to the Leaky Cauldron for the Floo, while Hermione begged for a chance to get some other books from the bookshop, much to the amusement of her parents (and Tony, because he knew she was going back in there to ogle Lockhart some more). Hagrid returned from wherever in Diagon he had come from, complaining about a Slug Repellent and a bad deal.

By the end of ten minutes, Tony was alone on the front steps of Flourish and Blotts with his bags hanging from his arms.

He squared his shoulders, turned on his heels, and made way for Ollivanders.


Notes: Next up, a staff meeting in which everyone tries to kill each other (gasp), and the Sorting.