Author's Note: I edited the Ollivanders scene into this chapter. Don't worry, I paraphrased, so it's nothing new.

And yes, BOMBARDA is one of Tony's acronyms. More will be explained . . . later.


Chapter 6: Motor Melodrama


He was down to the last roots of his patience.

"Dum-Dum."

Beep.

"Dum-Dum, step away from that fireplace."

Beep.

"I don't care if you made friends with it. Step away."

Beep.

Tony stared at his bot.

He wanted to punch something. Except he couldn't, because he had on a new, shiny glove dubbed BOMBARDA that could blow holes through bricks and knock the living daylights out of people. The fact that it was more of a gauntlet than a glove didn't matter. He really didn't want to see what it was capable of doing to the walls of his bedroom, and he'd just finished redecorating.

He wriggled his fingers. Dum-Dum's arm drooped in misery.

"You know what, Dum-Dum—holy shit, Gandalf!"

Bright green flames erupted in the fireplace. Dumbledore's head popped into existence on the hearth, looking quite whole and sound for a . . . head that was still attached to the body, of course. Perks of the Floo Network and all that. It was natural for wizarding households and schools to have fireplaces that doubled as a means of escape and or communication (he was not not thinking about magic portals), because if a kid came knocking on his door at midnight professing murder, how would he notify the facilities?

He knew that the rest of Dumbledore was kneeling beside the fireplace in the headmaster's office, four limbs intact. The knowledge did little in the face of rising panic, though, and Tony's pulse was hammering in his ears as he forced his arm to lower to his side, breathing through flared nostrils. "What is it, Dumbles?"

Dumbledore's head had the gall to be amused. "Are you attempting to vanish the fireplace again, Anthony?"

"No!" he snapped. Then thought about it for a moment. "Not vanishing it, per se. I was attempting something more along the lines of total incineration. You're lucky I wasn't aiming hard enough."

He wagged his fingers.

Dumbledore sighed. "I told you about the dangers—"

"Yeah, yeah. Because Hogwarts is a stronghold of magic, it wouldn't react well to someone tearing apart one of its rooms, yada yada. Not that it's done anything about it." Tony cocked a thumb toward his refurbished walls, which glowed white and marble from the glow of electric flames. "That's not why you're here, though. You got something you want to say?"

"Right down to business as usual, I see." The mirth faded from Dumbledore. "Very well. There has been an accident at Kings Cross Station this late morning—"

"Wait, how big an accident?"

"Very big." Dumbledore was grim. "You will see more details in today's edition of the Evening Prophet, I expect, but all members of the staff have been notified of the event. Someone has stolen a car that was parked outside the station, and used it to . . . fly."

Fly.

The headmaster cleared his throat. "Very conspicuously."

Flying car, huh. And Tony was yet to recuperate from the effects of another existential crisis. But things like this happened almost every other day in the wizarding world, and Dumbledore wouldn't have gone as far as to tell the entire staff about it if it were an average crazy wizard behind the wheels, especially when Tony made a point of yelling over anything related to the m-word.

"O-kay." He dragged the word out into two long syllables. "Do I know this someone?"

"Someones, rather, but I expect you do." There was none of the usual merriment that threaded their tête-à-têtes as Dumbledore continued, "The emergency staff meeting is due to begin in five minutes. You will be there, of course."

Tony sputtered. "But, but, I'm busy! You don't even need me there, Dumbledore. Why do I have to go?"

Some of the annoying twinkle returned to Dumbledore's eyes.

"Because, Anthony, everyone except you will be present, and I do not wish to see Minerva strangle you to death."

The head disappeared before it could listen to his indignant squawks and protests about invasion of privacy.

"Would you like me to bar Albus Dumbledore from the Floo, sir?" JARVIS asked.

"Nah," he said. "Let Dumbles have his way. Old man wouldn't be surprised if he saw me naked with a stripper."

"I am inclined to think that no one would be surprised to see you naked, sir, and with ten dozen strippers," said JARVIS, but by that time Tony was out of the room.

His perfect, glossy, tech-augmented room.

He'd spent the last weeks of August redecorating, and then redecorating some more when he got told off for trying to vanish his ugly-ass fireplace into the boys' bathroom. Tony and Dumbledore were both sick and tired of arranging super-secret meetings through super-secret house-elves and super-secret mimes across the super-secret lunch table, anyway, so it wasn't as bad as it sounded. Probably.

The seventh-floor corridor was bustling with artly life as he strutted along it. No portrait gave him a second glance, not that he cared. Maya's frame was glaringly empty after all of five weeks, and he and the Fat Lady were not on speaking terms.

Beep.

"Oh, you're coming with me." Dum-Dum had followed him out of the room. "Why are you coming with me?"

Beep.

"Moral support, huh? You're a lot like your brother."

Beep.

Dum-Dum raised his claw and gave him a high five, which Tony returned.

Great. Minnie was going to hate him.


The staff meeting was a disaster that walked on two legs. It had greasy hair, a hooked nose, sallow skin, and was called Severus Snape.

Sprout tutted. "Another book signing, then?" Gilderoy Lockhart's seat was, of course, very empty.

"It appears so." The quill in Minerva McGonagall's hand moved at a vicious speed as it raked across pieces of crisp parchment. "He's ignoring our warnings altogether. Anthony, you're sure that you gave him the headmaster's letter?"

This was his first time at the meeting as an official attendant, but Tony was more or less acquainted with everyone in the room. Mapping a castle while babbling to yourself (in defense of his sanity, he'd been talking to JARVIS) kind of had that effect on people. The majority of them were at most concerned that they had a nutcase on the job to deal with, no doubt, but a few of them had actually looked interested in what he had to say. The moment they got close enough for a semi-decent conversation, he would uncork his stunning personality, and boom! They were his.

He had half the castle under his charms, and the other half out there wanting to put his head on a platter. It was humbling, and a lot like Sokovia.

"Positive," said Tony. He was sitting at the other end of the room, as far away from a stressed McGonagall as he could manage. Dum-Dum whirred next to him, happily oblivious. "Didn't actually see him open the envelope, though, so I'd wager he burnt them over a plate of s'mores."

McGonagall's frown deepened. He inched his chair a little more backward.

"Well," she said, voice dripping with a sarcastic drawl, "since Gilderoy did not care enough to enlighten us with his presence, we might as well commence. Albus?"

It was the first day of September, six hours away from the start of term, and the castle was smack in the middle of being stirred into a frenzy. McGonagall's bun was less fixed than usual; Sprout had dirt smeared across her cheeks, Vector had brought her abacus to the staffroom—witches coped with pressure in weird ways—and Kettleburn was counting what remained of his left-hand fingers. Even Filius Flitwick, sitting atop of a pile of pink and blue cushions, seemed more fidgety than usual. Only Snape seemed to be able to keep his normal composure intact, and that was because the man gave less than zero fucks about something as mundane as a staff meeting rather than his incredible innate zenness, Tony knew.

Tony? Tony didn't care, either. He was just less conspicuous about jamming along to AC/DC from a pod in his ear, and unless somebody caught him in the act, everyone would remain happy and ignorant.

"Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley are missing from the train," said Dumbledore.

Vector's hand dropped from her abacus. Snape leaned forward with an eager glint in his eyes.

"I've heard," the Potions professor began. "That there has been a slight altercation—"

Seriously, thought Tony. Listen to this guy speak.

"That may or may not be related to the, ah, missing students." The man's face was smooth and neutral, but the light in his eyes betrayed more than a dash of vindictiveness. Ten thousand dashes, more like. "Two of the Gryffindors, as usual."

An eyebrow arched high into McGonagall's hairline. "And what might you be implying, Severus?"

The animosity between the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin was old news by now, although Tony thought that if they didn't resolve whatever issues they had with each other and kiss and make up (and that was one hell of a weird picture) Vector would throw her prized abacus across the room at them. Heck, he would be facepalming if he had any less sense of self-preservation, not that he had it in plenty.

"They are breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and flouting the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry." Snape's lips twisted in displeasure. "Flying a Muggle car to school? Their conduct is irredeemable. Surely this deserves some form of punishment, no less than expulsion. Or are you playing favorites with your lions again, Minerva?"

And boy, that must have struck the wrong cord, because McGonagall was looking up from her scrolls at last with a stony glare that would have cut daggers into the Hulkbuster.

Minerva McGonagall was the equivalent of a single, witchy, and older Pepper. Tony thought he might be in love.

Dumbledore jumped in before blood could splatter the walls. "Severus, the train is not due for six hours. Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley have not arrived at the school yet. We will listen to what they have to say, then decide on the punishment." His eyes were twin steely pebbles. "Minerva will be the one to make the final decision, as they are her responsibility as the Gryffindor Head of House. She will be most impartial."

Snape let out a disgruntled hmph, but seemed appeased.

And maybe old Snapey was right to turn up his large, hooked nose at things like staff meetings, because the meeting dragged on for several more minutes as everyone droned on about tiny trivialities. Flitwick wanted to go over the carriage schedule one last time. Sinistra wanted to switch her Wednesday study halls with Sprout's Friday ones, could something be done within the day. Trelawney asked, raising a timid hand, if she could be excused from the start-of-term feast, as she'd seen some frightening vision of dead trees and crashed automobiles in her teacup earlier. Babbling was already hungry for dinner.

As things were wrapping up at last, Dumbledore pulled him aside.

"Anthony, a word."

Tony rose from his seat, putting out a hand to stall his bot. "Go wait in my room with your brother and sister," he said. "No, not the Great Hall, Dum-Dum, were you even listening? There are going to be kids there. They'll take you apart and mold you into a cheap cauldron, and—oh, God, never mind."

When the rest of the staff had disappeared down the hall, including Trelawney, who was trying to eavesdrop by lurking behind the doors, Dumbledore turned to face Tony. And Dum-Dum.

"You know about this car," he said. It wasn't a question.

Tony blinked. "I'm sorry?" he said in turn, putting on his best trademarked bullshitting expression. It was one thing playing dumb to Nick Fury, but a whole different matter when it concerned Dumbledore. He was keeping his fingers crossed.

Dumbledore kept his face blank in return. The old man's stare continued to bore into him.

"You know about this car," Dumbledore repeated. "Please, Anthony, tell me about it."

He couldn't.

Because of course he knew about the car. It was Arthur Weasley's.

Arthur had kept true to his word by inviting Tony to tea that Sunday, four days after meeting in Diagon Alley. As Tony had nothing better to do with his time, having finished the alpha prototype of his hand-glove gauntlet, and because he felt sorry for the poor, decrepit owl that had carried the letter all the way to Hogwarts, he accepted with grace.

The Burrow was a tiny, jumbled thing built on stilted stone walls as though extra rooms had been added to it over time with zero architectural forethought whatsoever. It was painful to look at, the chickens were a nuisance, and the entirety of the grounds was smaller than his rooms at the compound. He loved it.

Molly and Arthur greeted him at the front of the yard. The children had gone up the hill for a game of Quidditch, they explained, ushering him inside, so it was just the three of them for tea. Percy was staying in his room.

Molly got up to do some cleaning when the tea had cooled and the dishes were put away. Tony took the chance to show Arthur some of his less offensive, more innocent inventions.

"Here, give it a tap with your wand." He put the red cube on the tabletop.

Tony had his own wand from Ollivanders now, walnut, phoenix feather, thirteen inches and brittle, that he went out of his way to avoid touching. Instead Dum-E and Dum-Dum had picked up the habit of brandishing it like a lightsaber while U watched over them, the perfect picture of a bemused older sister. It was pretty spot-on for a Star Wars allusion since Dark lords were an actual thing in this world, surprise surprise. That made Tony Darth Vader by default, which would have amused him to no end . . . under any other circumstances.

Because it shouldn't have been possible. Tony Stark was a genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist among a thousand other things, but he wasn't magic enough to hold a wand. Or so he thought, until the moment Ollivander handed him a stick that made him shoot sparks out of its ends.

Apparently the Reality Stone had decided to pull another one over him, because when he rushed into the castle for a full body scan, JARVIS said that sir lit up in all six colors of the Infinity Stones like a deranged Christmas tree.

It explained why he'd been able to make his way around Hogwarts and Diagon without typical Muggle confusion, at least. The tiny part of Tony that hadn't lost its mind yet was dwelling in this happy place as Arthur gave the box two little taps.

The cube lit up blasting quality '80s music, which really wasn't appropriate for a house full of underage kids.

"It's a Muggle gramophone!" Arthur exclaimed.

"We call it a boombox. Or a speaker." Tony shrugged. "But, um, that's not everything it can do . . ." He pushed a button.

The red box took itself apart to be rearranged into a blue one, the sides flipping in on themselves. It was like watching somebody rearrange a Rubik's Cube in record time, and with invisible hands. "It records sounds when it's this color," Tony said, handing the cube back to Arthur. "You can play it back. Consider it a gift. It's only a prototype, but."

He didn't mention anything about the earbuds rolling in his pocket.

Arthur was grinning as though Christmas had come early. "Most excellent!" he shouted, before his voice dropped to a whisper. "And not entirely within the boundaries of the law, Professor."

"Eh, whatever. What they don't know won't hurt 'em." Tony shrugged, but his voice had dropped in volume as well. The children were gone for now, but Molly Weasley was in the next room dusting and cleaning.

Both men cast a furtive glance toward the kitchen door. Paix.

With that danger averted, Arthur's air of exhilaration flared higher, and he gestured for Tony to follow him out of the house. "I'd like to show you one of my more ingenious modifications, if I may say so myself—yes, just around the corner—a little bit further—ah, here we are!"

In the Weasleys' garage was an old, dilapidated turquoise Ford Anglia. Tony was speechless.

Arthur's chest puffed. "Yes, yes. A beauty, isn't she?" The man was obviously mistaking his silence for something else, because he was opening the front doors of the car and showing him the baubles on the dashboard with an enthusiasm that belonged at a high school party. "I've installed an Invisibility Booster here, see, you press this little button—works wonders when you want to fly unnoticed—"

Of course, Molly Weasley chose that precise moment to come bursting out the front doors, screeching about how ashamed she was that her husband was showing that monstrosity to a professor, so Arthur had never told him how the magic car functioned. Not that Tony was enthusiastic about it, anyway. The Ford Anglia had been very rusty.

Tony was slowly reliving this memory in his mind as Dumbledore continued to stare at him, blue eyes unblinking.

Then a hint of something prickled across his eyebrows, and Tony slapped a hand onto his forehead. "Ouch, dammit!"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Anthony?"

"Never mind." He rubbed his head with his hand a few more times, sliding it down so that he could cradle his chin. The stinging sensation had faded as quickly as it had come. "Why is this so important, again?"

"I would rather not see Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley expelled. Arthur and Molly would be most distraught."

"Yeah." Tony had to agree, even if he thought distraught wouldn't cover it.

The thing was, he liked the Weasleys. Arthur Weasley was clueless, gauche, and far too happy for his life to be compared with something like Tony's, but then again, Tony had been that same way about cars and motorbikes when he was seven years old. He'd built that V8 engine all on his own, then ended up being shipped off to Phillips for the effort. And the Weasleys were such a big, loving family that he didn't want to see anything changed in their dynamics, so . . .

He was turning into some sort of rescue dog now, wasn't he.

"I'm not going to admit I know who that car belongs to," he said. "God, Dumbles, at least tell me you have no real intentions of getting those boys kicked out of school? They're twelve, for crying out loud. I can live on zero diplomas, you can live on zero diplomas, they can't live on zero diplomas. It's obvious."

"It depends on why Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley chose to fly the vehicle." Dumbledore was too calm for his own damn good. "While I am assured that they would have no reason to deliberately violate the law, the story will be a different one if they admit to having committed theft of any kind."

Oh, so that was where he was going with this.

Tony sighed. And sighed some more.

"Fine. Fine. I'll see what I can do."

He left the room, Dum-Dum wheeling in silence behind him.


As it turned out, Tony never managed to get there in time.

Snape had been lying in ambush next to the Great Hall since six o'clock like an evil rendition of James Bond, and dragged off Ron and Harry before Tony even figured out half of what was going on. He saw Snape return, McGonagall rise from her seat, Dumbledore trail after her, and took off sprinting toward Snape's office.

He got there just as Harry was wrapping up a ridiculous story on barriers, demented trees, and senile cars.

"We'll go and get our stuff," Ron was saying. Harry had his eyes fixed on his knees.

Tony opened the door and slipped in, leaning against the wall.

"Not yet, Mr. Weasley," said Dumbledore. "I must impress upon both of you the seriousness of what you have done. Not only did you trouble your peers and mislead your elders, but the Obliviators at the Ministry were called in as well to modify the memories of seven Muggles, and over a stolen piece of property—"

Tony cleared his throat. This was where he pulled the trump card.

"Actually, Headmaster," he said. "That car is mine."

Snape turned his neck so fast that Tony was surprised something didn't pop off.

"What do you mean," he hissed. "It's yours?"

Tony shrugged, playing at nonchalance. "It's mine. I have an affinity for cars, y'know, the red and shiny and antique ones, made a hobby out of collecting them. Still have some of them back in my, um, home in the States, even if the 105E's too rustic for my taste—" Shoot, he was rambling. "But yeah, it's mine. I used to fiddle with engines when I was younger. Grew out of it, though. You got a problem with that, Snapey?"

Snape's eyes were on the verge of bulging their ways out of their sockets. Tony had to eat his grin; he loved bullshitting people, even if his target audience wasn't Fury and co.

Ron's eyes were very much on the verge of bulging out, too, and Harry had looked up from his knees.

Dumbledore turned to face him. "Professor Stark," he said. And it was the utter emanation of peace on his face that told Tony how much the old man had expected this to play out the exact way he'd planned it, the bastard. "You do realize enchanting Muggle objects is illegal in Britain."

Tony put up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry. But yeah, I get it. If you want to report this to the MACUSA, I'm giving you the green light." Because he'd done his reading on wizarding America, like the good boy he was.

"I will do no such thing." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You see, Anthony, there is a loophole in the law here. As long as you didn't intend to fly the vehicle when you altered it, the fact that it could would be of little consequence." A pause. "You weren't intending to fly the car, were you?"

So Dumbledore was giving him an easy out. Tony debated if he should be pissed or sullen, but he wasn't going to be thankful, for God's sake. He shook his head in denial, and gave another shrug.

Dumbledore nodded. "Then I see no problem."

Snape looked thunderstruck, and more than a little off the hinges. "Professor Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree—surely acts of this nature—"

"It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these boys' punishments, Severus," said Dumbledore. "They are in her House and are therefore her responsibility. I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I've got to give out a few notices. Come, Severus, there's a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample—"

Then Snape was being dragged out of his own office (which was hilarious), leaving the boys alone with Minerva McGonagall and Tony. The woman was eyeing them like a wrathful eagle, and Tony tiptoed his way back into the quiet night corridor.

He'd waited for maybe two minutes before McGonagall was closing the door behind her. She seemed to be struggling with her words as she opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"Quite the Gryffindor you were back there, Anthony," she said.

He gave her an impassive stare. "Sorry?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't give me that attitude," she said. "I know full well that Arthur Weasley owns a Muggle car that is exactly like yours, and from what I know of him he is more than willing to enchant it to fly, as well as many other things. What I do not understand is why you stepped up to take the blame."

Okay, so he hadn't given old Minnie the credit that she deserved. She was strict, severe, and smart.

Tony was smitten. He was completely head over heels for her.

"You know what, Professor?" he said. "I got tricked into it. But all's well that ends well, I think."

She snorted. "I thought as much," she said, then started to leave.

"And it's Tony!" he called after her. "You sound like my dad!"

She didn't turn around once to acknowledge him as she disappeared down the corridor that led to the Great Hall.

Tony exhaled, massaging his temples with his fingertips. This day had been going on far too long and it wasn't even nine o'clock yet. He knew for a fact that his fifty-year-old body had more stamina than this, heck, he'd been pulling all-nighters since he was eight, his eight-year-old body had more stamina than this, and he'd been charmed backward into thirty-eight now. Living in a castle full of kids must have some detrimental effect on health, he decided. He wondered how Dumbledore kept up.

He stalled in the hallway for a bit longer, wanting nothing more than to run back upstairs to his bots and his tools, before he made up his mind, gathered his courage, knocked on the door and entered.

Ron and Harry were in the middle of stuffing their faces with a platter full of sandwiches.

"Hey, kids," he said. "How are you holding up?"

"'ofessor!" Ron said amidst a bite of chicken and ham. The boy swallowed, paling. "Er, we're great, thanks, just a few scratches and a nasty bit of shock. And thank you for, you know, what you did back there. Dad would have been in huge trouble, and if we said otherwise we might've been brown bread at the Ministry—"

"You didn't have to," said Harry, cutting in. "Why?"

Tony blinked. "Sorry?"

"Why?" Harry said.

Yes, that voice in his head asked him. Why?

He found himself staring at Harry, who held an uneaten sandwich in his hands and was far too thin and far too small for a twelve-year-old. Morgan would be able to arm-wrestle him out of life and reality in a few years, and she was almost six. Would be six, but he wasn't taking the thought that far.

Harry Potter was twelve, parentless, and alone in the world.

"I don't know," said Tony. "You remind me of a kid I used to know."

Harry nodded, mollified. Ron went back to eating his sandwiches.

He was just turning around to leave when Harry spoke out once more.

"Professor Stark?"

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"You don't—you don't think I'm doing this all for a path of fame and glory, do you? To be famous?"

And Harry was looking down at his toes again after blurting it out, as if he was ashamed of even daring to ask that question. The phrase itself sounded somewhat familiar, though, and Tony scrunched up his nose, thinking back to where and when he'd first heard it . . . a path of fame and glory, fame and glory . . .

Ah. Gilderoy.

(He was also thinking, with a slight sense of dread, what exactly Snape had said to Harry before he entered the room.)

Tony snorted. "Wow, kid, who are you kidding? I wouldn't be caught dead in a flying car, that's so . . . '60s." He pretended to mull it over a bit, putting up a finger to tap at his chin in a slow rhythm. "If you really want to make a memorable entrance, try again next year. I might have a few pointers you could use."

Harry had that strange look in his eyes again, but this time when he ducked his head the action managed to appear sheepish, not ashamed.

"Thanks, Professor."

Tony gave him a jerky nod, then exited the room.

The door clicked shut behind him.


Notes: I always thought it was odd nobody questioned who the Ford actually belonged to. Even if Harry and Ron had happened to stumble across a flying car on their own, flying it (and losing it) would qualify as theft. The MoM might not care if it was something that belonged to a Muggle, but obviously it's been enchanted somehow.

If you have any questions and/or confusion about an aspect of the setting/technicalities, feel free to point that out through my inbox. I go back and read what I wrote no less than ten times to check that everyone's getting the same message, and sometimes I'll rearrange or edit things a bit so that something's clearer. But I have pretty substantial issues with self-esteem, so crit on things other than typos or glaring mistakes (like a line that describes Ron as being blond) won't be thanked for. If you don't like what I'm writing, tell it to a mirror.

That being said, reviews are always, always appreciated, thank you very much. Not trying to discriminate but I completely forgot about replying to them till the other day, so I might've glossed over some of the earlier ones. Sorry. I still larv you three million. You guys are the light of my life, fire of my quill, etc.

Fav and follow for clear skin!