The morning sun cast long shadows across Privet Drive as Vernon Dursley stood in his perfectly manicured front garden, staring down at the wicker basket on his doorstep with the same expression he might reserve for a particularly offensive piece of modern art. The baby inside stirred slightly, one tiny fist emerging from the blankets to wave aimlessly in the air, and Vernon's mustache twitched with barely contained revulsion.
"Petunia!" His voice boomed across the suburban silence like a foghorn, causing Mrs. Figg's cat to bolt from her garden wall. "Get out here this instant!"
The front door opened with such force it rattled the decorative glass panels, and Petunia Dursley emerged like a giraffe startled at a watering hole—all angles and nervous energy. Her thin face, already pinched with the perpetual anxiety of someone who spent their days worrying about what the neighbors might think, went absolutely white when she spotted the basket.
"Oh no. No, no, no, Vernon." Her voice rose to a pitch that could have summoned every dog in Surrey. "Tell me that's not—"
"It's him." Vernon's meaty fingers crushed the parchment letter he'd found tucked beside the sleeping infant, the expensive paper crackling like kindling. "The freak's spawn. That barmy old fool Dumbledore has dumped him on our doorstep like some sort of unwanted milk delivery."
Petunia's hands flew to her throat, her fingers working at the high collar of her floral housecoat. Her eyes darted nervously up and down the street, cataloging which curtains were twitching and which garden gates had mysteriously developed interested onlookers. "Vernon, for heaven's sake, keep your voice down! Mrs. Next-Door has ears like a bat, and you know how she gossips at the post office—"
"Sod Mrs. Next-Door and sod the post office!" Vernon's face was rapidly cycling through an impressive spectrum of colors, from pink through red and settling into a particularly alarming shade of purple that clashed magnificently with his mustache. "I won't have it, Petunia. I absolutely will not have that... that thing in my house. Not after what those people did to your sister."
The baby began to fuss, small mewling sounds that seemed to echo strangely in the morning air. A nearby streetlamp flickered despite the broad daylight, and the milk bottles on the Dursleys' doorstep rattled softly against each other for no apparent reason.
Petunia took an involuntary step backward, her heel catching on the doormat. "Vernon, did you see—?"
"See? I bloody well felt it!" Vernon jabbed a thick finger toward the basket like he was identifying a war criminal. "It's already starting, isn't it? The freakishness. The... the unnatural nonsense. I won't have Dudley exposed to whatever that thing is capable of. What if it... what if it does something to our boy?"
Petunia wrapped her thin arms around herself, her face cycling through a kaleidoscope of emotions—fear, disgust, and something that might have been grief for the sister she'd lost, buried beneath years of resentment and jealousy. "But Vernon," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "he's just a baby. He's Lily's baby. Surely we can't just—"
"Can't we?" Vernon's small, piggy eyes glittered with cold determination. "Watch me. We're going to solve this problem the proper way, Petunia. The normal way. There are places for unwanted children, aren't there? Proper institutions run by proper people who know how to deal with... difficulties."
The word 'orphanage' hung in the air between them, unspoken but understood.
"You want to put him in care." It wasn't a question.
"I want to put him where he belongs," Vernon corrected, his voice dropping to the measured tone he used when explaining drill bit specifications to particularly dim clients. "London's full of children's homes, Pet. Clean, efficient places where trained professionals deal with problem cases. We drive there this morning, drop him off with a sad story about finding him abandoned, and wash our hands of the whole sordid business."
"But the letter," Petunia whispered, glancing at the crumpled parchment in her husband's fist as if it might spontaneously combust. "What if they come looking for him? What if they find out what we've done and they—"
"They won't." Vernon's voice carried a confidence he didn't entirely feel, but he'd built a successful business on projecting certainty even when he felt none. "These freaks live in their own little world, don't they? Probably assume we're raising him exactly like they wanted—grateful relatives doing our duty. By the time they figure out otherwise, if they ever do, it'll be far too late to matter."
Petunia stared at him for a long moment, her pale eyes searching his face. Then she looked down at the baby, who had gone quiet and was now staring up at her with the most extraordinarily green eyes she'd ever seen. For just a moment, she saw Lily in those eyes—Lily at five years old, showing off some new bit of accidental magic with that same intense, curious gaze.
The moment passed.
"I'll pack some things for him," she said quietly. "Nothing too expensive. We don't want questions."
An hour later, Vernon was loading a small, shabby suitcase into the boot of his company car, muttering under his breath about petrol costs and wasted time. The baby—Harry, though neither of them had spoken his name aloud—had been changed and fed with the same mechanical efficiency Petunia brought to all household tasks.
"Right then," Vernon announced, settling his considerable bulk behind the steering wheel. "St. Margaret's Home for Children in Whitechapel. According to the directory, they specialize in 'difficult cases and children with special needs.' Perfect."
As they drove through the London traffic, Vernon's grip on the steering wheel gradually relaxed. For the first time since he'd found that damned basket, he felt like he could breathe properly.
"This is for the best, Pet," he said, glancing at his wife in the rearview mirror. She sat in the back seat next to the baby carrier, staring out the window with hollow eyes. "For Dudley's sake. For all our sakes. That boy would have brought nothing but trouble and heartache. Mark my words."
Petunia didn't respond. Her fingers worried at the hem of her cardigan, twisting the fabric until it began to fray, her mind filled with images of Lily—Lily laughing, Lily crying, Lily dying.
The St. Margaret's Home for Children squatted like a Victorian monument to institutional charity on a busy East London street, its sooty brick facade and narrow windows giving it the appearance of a particularly grim factory. Vernon parked illegally at the curb, not caring about potential tickets.
"Remember," he said, turning to face his wife with the earnest expression of a man explaining something very important, "we found him abandoned on our doorstep this morning. No note, no identification, no idea where he came from. Just a baby someone didn't want, left with strangers out of desperation."
Petunia nodded mutely and lifted the carrier from the backseat. Harry was awake now, his unnaturally green eyes wide and alert, seeming to take in everything around him with a disconcerting intelligence that made her skin crawl.
They walked up the worn stone steps together, Vernon's heavy hand resting on Petunia's bony shoulder like a weight. At the top, she paused and looked down at the child one last time, this nephew she would never know, this last piece of her sister she was about to throw away.
"Goodbye, Lily," she whispered, so quietly that even Vernon, standing right beside her, didn't hear.
Then she reached out with one thin finger and pressed the brass doorbell, sealing the fate of the boy who lived.
—
Five Years Later
Tony Stark sprawled in the buttery leather passenger seat of the hired Bentley like a man who had never met a comfortable position he couldn't improve upon, designer sunglasses perched on his nose despite the London drizzle that was doing its best impression of a very polite apocalypse. His fingers danced across the screen of his phone with the casual expertise of a concert pianist, scrolling through the morning tabloids with the kind of morbid fascination usually reserved for traffic accidents.
*"STARK RAVING MAD: Billionaire's Latest Bender Ends in Fountain Fiasco"*
*"Iron-Willed or Just Irresponsible? Tony Stark's Wild Night Out Leaves Mayor's Wife All Wet"*
*"SPLASH LANDING: Stark Industries Stock Takes a Dive After Founder's Pool Party"*
"Oh, come on," he muttered, waving the phone in the general direction of Pepper Potts, who sat beside him with the rigid posture of someone who had perfected the art of radiating disapproval without actually speaking. "The fountain thing was clearly an accident. A beautiful, hilarious, completely unforeseeable accident. How was I supposed to know the mayor's wife couldn't swim? It's a basic life skill! Like breathing or appreciating good scotch."
Pepper didn't even glance at the phone. Her jaw was set in that particular way that meant Tony was in the kind of trouble usually reserved for international incidents or tax audits, and her silence carried more menace than most people's shouting.
"Plus," Tony continued, because he had never met a hole he couldn't dig deeper, "technically, she fell in on her own. I was merely... in the vicinity. Providing moral support. And possibly some light choreography."
The silence stretched like a very expensive rubber band.
"Pepper?" Tony tried, deploying his most winningly boyish smile. "My devastatingly attractive and frighteningly competent assistant? Light of my professional life? The woman who keeps me from accidentally declaring war on small European nations?"
"Do you know," Pepper said finally, her voice carrying the kind of icy precision that could have been used to perform surgery, "what Obadiah said to me this morning?"
Tony winced. "Something charming about my natural charisma and boyish good looks?"
"He said, and I quote because the words are burned into my memory like a particularly unpleasant brand, 'Get that walking disaster in front of some cameras doing something wholesome before the board decides he's more liability than asset and votes to have him committed.'"
"Committed seems harsh. I prefer 'creatively managed.'"
"So congratulations, Tony." Pepper's smile could have been used to flash-freeze champagne. "You get to spend your morning reading to orphans."
Tony's head fell back against the leather headrest with a thud that probably cost more than most people's cars. "Orphans. Why is it always orphans? What's wrong with, I don't know, ribbon cuttings? Building dedications? Kissing babies? I'm excellent at kissing babies. Very photogenic baby-kisser, me."
"Because ribbon cuttings don't try to sell you to the tabloids for candy money," Pepper replied with the kind of logic that Tony found both infuriating and oddly attractive. "And because maybe, just maybe, seeing some children who've actually faced real hardship might give you some perspective on your own life."
"I have perspective," Tony protested. "I have loads of perspective. I have so much perspective I could start a perspective store and corner the market on—"
"Tony."
"Right. Shutting up now."
The Bentley glided to a stop outside St. Margaret's Home for Children, its gray Victorian facade looking particularly grim in the weak morning light. Tony stared at the building through the rain-streaked window and felt a familiar knot form in his stomach—the same one he'd carried since childhood whenever faced with anything that resembled genuine human emotion or, God forbid, children who expected him to be responsible.
"How long do I have to stay?" he asked, and was annoyed to hear that his voice sounded younger than his twenty-eight years.
Pepper's expression softened slightly, probably because she was professionally trained to recognize when Tony Stark was approaching the limits of his emotional comfort zone. "An hour. Maybe two. Just long enough for the photographers to get some shots of you being human."
"I'm always human," Tony protested, straightening his jacket—a burgundy Tom Ford that probably cost more than most people's monthly salaries. "I'm extremely human. Possibly the most human person you know."
"You once tried to tip a waiter with a prototype repulsor technology."
"He seemed interested in engineering!"
Tony stepped out of the car and immediately regretted not bringing an umbrella, though umbrellas were for people who didn't have the foresight to be born wealthy enough to simply buy new clothes when the old ones got wet. The small crowd of photographers that had somehow materialized pressed forward like particularly well-dressed vultures, cameras clicking with mechanical hunger.
"Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark! Any comment on last night's fountain incident?"
"Are you planning to make charitable donations a regular occurrence?"
"What's your response to critics who say this is just an elaborate publicity stunt?"
"Is it true you're dating three supermodels simultaneously?"
Tony flashed his practiced media smile—the one he'd perfected in boarding school for dealing with particularly persistent headmasters—and waved, but didn't stop to answer questions. Pepper's heels clicked authoritatively beside him as they climbed the worn stone steps, her presence serving as both shield and conscience.
The director of St. Margaret's, a stern-looking woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Crawford, greeted them in the foyer with the kind of smile usually reserved for wealthy donors and minor royalty. Tony noticed she'd clearly made an effort—fresh flowers in the hallway, the lingering scent of furniture polish that didn't quite mask the underlying institutional smell of boiled vegetables and industrial disinfectant, and children's artwork hung at precisely measured intervals along the walls.
"Mr. Stark, what an absolute honor to have you visit our facility," Mrs. Crawford gushed, her voice carrying just a hint of a working-class accent that she'd clearly spent years trying to smooth into something more respectable. "The children are so excited to meet you. We don't often get visitors of your... caliber."
"The feeling's mutual," Tony lied with the smooth expertise of someone who had been lying to adults since he could speak, though he found himself genuinely curious about some of the artwork. Several pieces were surprisingly sophisticated—particularly a series of mechanical drawings that looked less like children's scribbles and more like actual blueprints.
Mrs. Crawford led them down a corridor lined with doors bearing cheerful nameplates, though the institutional linoleum and fluorescent lighting gave the place an undeniably clinical feel. Through the windows, Tony could see groups of children engaged in various activities—some playing with toys that had clearly seen better decades, others clustered around a woman reading from a picture book with theatrical enthusiasm.
"We have forty-three children currently in residence," Mrs. Crawford was saying, launching into what was clearly a well-rehearsed speech designed to impress potential benefactors. "Ages three to sixteen. Many of them have been with us for several years, and we pride ourselves on providing not just shelter and sustenance, but proper education and emotional support to help them transition into productive members of society..."
Tony found himself tuning out the institutional speak as they entered a large common room where about twenty children had been gathered. They ranged in age from tiny tots who couldn't be more than four to surly-looking teenagers who clearly wanted to be anywhere else in the universe. The photographers filed in behind them, already snapping pictures with the enthusiasm of paparazzi who'd spotted a celebrity scandal in the making.
"Children," Mrs. Crawford called out, clapping her hands with the practiced authority of someone who had spent years wrangling small humans, "I'd like you all to meet Mr. Stark. He's come all the way from America to visit with you today."
A small girl with pigtails that defied several laws of physics immediately shot her hand into the air. "Are you famous?"
Tony grinned—the first genuinely amused expression he'd worn all morning. "Depends on who you ask, sweetheart. What's your name?"
"Emma," the girl announced with the confidence of someone who had never doubted her right to exist. "Are you rich?"
"Emma!" Mrs. Crawford looked mortified, probably envisioning donations evaporating in real time.
But Tony laughed—a real laugh, not one of his practiced media chuckles. "Very rich," he said with mock solemnity. "Rich enough to buy this whole building. Rich enough to buy a small country, actually. Maybe Luxembourg. I hear it's lovely this time of year, and they probably need the investment."
The children giggled, and Tony felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Kids, he realized, were actually easier to deal with than most adults. They asked direct questions, they laughed at his jokes, and they didn't want anything from him except entertainment—something he'd never been short on.
For the next twenty minutes, he worked the room like the natural performer he'd always been. He answered questions about America ("Yes, we really do have hamburgers for breakfast sometimes, and it's as wonderful as it sounds"), about his company ("We make things that go fast and explode, but in a good way—mostly"), and about whether he'd ever met Elvis ("Kid, I hate to break it to you, but Elvis left the building permanently about fifteen years ago").
The photographers snapped away, capturing Tony kneeling down to talk to the smaller children, signing autographs on scraps of paper with the kind of flourish usually reserved for peace treaties, and generally being the kind of charming, accessible billionaire that Stark Industries' PR department paid millions to project.
But it was when he was making his way toward the door, already mentally planning his escape route and wondering if the Bentley's bar was adequately stocked, that something caught his eye.
In the corner of the room, almost hidden behind a worn armchair that looked like it had survived both world wars, a small boy sat cross-legged on the floor with a sketch pad balanced on his knees. He couldn't be more than six, with a riot of black hair that stuck up in every direction as if it had never met a comb it couldn't defeat, and the most vivid green eyes Tony had ever seen. Unlike the other children, who had all crowded around to meet the famous visitor, this boy seemed completely absorbed in his drawing, his small tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
Tony found himself drifting over, drawn by curiosity and something else he couldn't quite name. "Hey there, Picasso," he said, crouching down to the boy's level. "Mind if I take a look at what you're working on?"
The boy glanced up, and Tony was struck by something in those green eyes—an old soul weariness that no five-year-old should possess, mixed with a spark of intelligence that was almost unsettling. The child didn't say anything immediately, but after a moment's consideration, he tilted the sketch pad so Tony could see.
Tony's breath caught in his throat.
The drawing was remarkable—not just for a child of five, but remarkable, period. It showed a figure in armor, but not the crude medieval knights that most kids might copy from storybooks. This was sleek, modern, almost technological in its design. The proportions were perfect, the details precise and purposeful. It looked like something that could actually work, something that could actually fly.
"Jesus," Tony breathed, then caught himself. "I mean, wow. That's... that's really something special. Did you design this yourself?"
The boy nodded shyly, his voice soft and careful when he spoke, as if he wasn't used to adults actually listening to him. "I dream about it sometimes. Flying."
"Flying?" Tony's pulse quickened, his engineer's mind already analyzing the design, noting the way the boy had instinctively placed what looked like propulsion systems in exactly the right locations for optimal flight dynamics. "You dream about flying in this armor?"
Another nod, more confident now. "It's red and gold in the dreams. And it has lights here"—he pointed to the chest piece with one small finger—"that glow really bright, like a star."
Tony stared at the drawing, then at the boy, then back at the drawing. Red and gold. The exact color scheme that had been rattling around in his subconscious for months, ever since he'd started sketching out ideas for a new kind of protective equipment. Ideas he'd never shown to anyone, ideas he'd barely admitted to himself.
"What's your name?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying none of its usual flippant humor.
"Harry," the boy said. "Harry Potter."
"Harry Potter." Tony tested the name, found he liked the sound of it. It had weight, character. "That's a good name. A strong name. Tell me, Harry—do you like building things?"
Harry's face lit up for the first time since Tony had noticed him, transforming from solemn to radiant in the space of a heartbeat. "Oh yes! I found some old radios in the basement storage, and I took them apart to see how they work inside. Mrs. Crawford says I'm not supposed to touch them, but I always put them back together afterward."
"And do they work better after you put them back together?"
Harry ducked his head as if admitting to some great sin. "Usually. Sometimes I change things a bit. Make them... different. Better, I think, but Mrs. Crawford doesn't like it when things are different."
Tony felt something shift in his chest, a recognition that went deeper than intellectual curiosity. This kid—this tiny, overlooked kid sitting in the corner of a London orphanage—was speaking his language in a way that most MIT graduates couldn't manage.
"Mr. Stark?" Pepper's voice cut through his reverie like a perfectly sharpened blade. She was standing by the door with Mrs. Crawford, both women wearing identical expressions of polite impatience tinged with growing concern. "We really should be going. You have that conference call with the Tokyo investors in an hour, and the traffic getting back to the hotel—"
"Right." Tony started to stand, then paused, looking down at Harry, who had already gone back to his drawing with the resigned air of someone who was used to adult attention being temporary at best. "Harry, can I ask you something? Do you like it here?"
The boy's green eyes flicked toward Mrs. Crawford, then back to Tony. When he spoke, his voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more weight than a shout. "It's all right, I suppose. Mrs. Crawford takes good care of us, and there's always food and clean clothes and lessons."
"But?"
Harry bit his lower lip, clearly weighing whether honesty was worth the risk. "But sometimes I wish I had a family. A real family. Someone who might want to see what I build, instead of telling me to put it away."
The words hit Tony like a physical blow, bringing back memories of his own childhood—the empty mansion, the absent father, the parade of nannies and boarding schools. At least he'd had money, resources, opportunities. This kid had nothing but his remarkable mind and a sketch pad that probably cost less than Tony's morning coffee.
"Mr. Stark?" Pepper's voice carried a note of genuine concern now. She knew that look, had seen it before when Tony was about to make the kind of impulsive decision that either changed the world or required extensive legal cleanup.
Tony stood slowly, his mind racing through calculations and possibilities with the same analytical precision he brought to engineering problems. He looked at Harry, really looked at him—this small, brilliant boy who dreamed of flying and built better radios in basement storage rooms—and felt something click into place with almost audible finality.
"Mrs. Crawford," he called across the room, his voice carrying the kind of authority that made boardrooms fall silent and stock prices fluctuate. "I'd like to speak with you privately. About Harry."
The director's eyebrows shot up toward her graying hairline. "Of course, Mr. Stark. Children, why don't you continue with your activities while I speak with our distinguished guest."
As the photographers were politely but firmly ushered out and the children dispersed to their various corners, Tony felt Pepper's sharp gaze boring into him like a particularly elegant laser. He could practically hear her internal alarm bells going off, could see her mentally calculating the potential legal, financial, and public relations ramifications of whatever he was about to do.
"Tony," she said quietly, stepping close enough that her voice wouldn't carry, "whatever you're thinking, please think it through carefully. Very carefully."
But Tony was already thinking it through, running risk assessments and probability matrices with the same focused intensity he brought to designing new technology. And every calculation, every analysis, every gut instinct he possessed was screaming the same thing.
This was right. This was meant to happen.
He looked down at Harry one more time, watching the way the boy's small fingers gripped his pencil with the steady confidence of someone who had never doubted his ability to create, noting the intense concentration on his face as he added what looked like repulsors to the armor's palms.
"Harry," Tony said softly, crouching down again so they were eye to eye, "how would you feel about coming home with me? To America?"
The sketch pad slipped from Harry's suddenly nerveless fingers.
—
The next seventy-two hours passed in a blur of phone calls, legal consultations, and what could only be described as the full deployment of the Stark Industries machinery when Tony Stark wanted something done yesterday.
"Tony, you can't just adopt a child like you're buying a sports car," Pepper said for the fifteenth time, her voice tight with the kind of stress that usually preceded either a nervous breakdown or a very expensive legal settlement. She was pacing the length of the hotel suite's sitting room, her heels clicking against the marble floor with machine-gun precision, while Tony sprawled in an overstuffed armchair with his phone pressed to his ear and his laptop balanced on his knees.
"Watch me," Tony replied absently, then spoke into the phone with the kind of tone that suggested money was no object and failure was not an option. "Johnson, I don't care what the normal processing time is. I care about what the processing time can be if we grease the right wheels and fill out the right forms in triplicate. In gold ink, if necessary."
The suite had been transformed into a war room. Legal documents covered every available surface, three different lawyers had been flown in from New York, and a fourth was participating via video conference from the London offices of what was apparently Britain's most expensive family law firm. Room service trays sat abandoned on side tables, their contents growing cold while Tony orchestrated what was rapidly becoming the most elaborate adoption process in recorded history.
"The home study can be expedited," reported Ms. Victoria Ashworth, the formidable London solicitor whose fees probably exceeded most people's annual salaries. She sat primly on the edge of the sofa, her silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the early hour, consulting a leather portfolio with the kind of precision usually reserved for military operations. "I've spoken with the relevant authorities, and given Mr. Stark's... considerable resources and public profile, they're willing to conduct an accelerated assessment."
"How accelerated?" Tony asked, finally looking up from his laptop where he'd been simultaneously reviewing adoption regulations and designing what appeared to be a child-sized workshop complete with safety protocols that would make NASA jealous.
"Forty-eight hours, provided you can demonstrate adequate living arrangements, financial stability, and character references."
Tony snorted. "Financial stability shouldn't be a problem. As for character references, I can get you everyone from the MIT faculty to the Secretary of Defense. Living arrangements..." He glanced at Pepper, who was now stress-eating what looked like her third croissant of the morning. "We'll figure that out. What about the kid? Harry? What does he need to know?"
Mrs. Crawford, who had been summoned to the hotel that morning and was currently sitting in a corner armchair looking like she'd been caught in a very expensive tornado, cleared her throat nervously. "Well, Mr. Stark, adoption can be quite overwhelming for a child, especially one who's never had a permanent family. Harry is... he's a special boy, but he's also been with us since he was just a baby. This is the only home he's ever known."
"Which is exactly why he deserves better," Tony said with a certainty that surprised even him. He'd spent the previous evening reading everything he could find about child psychology, developmental needs, and the long-term effects of institutional care. It made for depressing reading, but it had only strengthened his resolve. "What's his story? How did he end up at St. Margaret's?"
Mrs. Crawford's expression grew carefully neutral in the way of someone who had spent years dealing with social services and bureaucratic oversight. "He was left with us as an infant. The people who brought him claimed they'd found him abandoned, no identification, no family contacts. We tried to trace his origins, of course, but..." She shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes children simply fall through the cracks."
Tony felt a familiar surge of anger at the unfairness of it all. Somewhere out there, Harry had family—people who should have cared for him, loved him, given him the kind of childhood that every kid deserved. Instead, he'd spent five years in an institution that, while well-meaning, could never be more than a placeholder for the real thing.
"What about medical records? Educational assessments? I need to know everything about this kid's needs, his abilities, any special requirements."
"Medically, he's remarkably healthy," Mrs. Crawford replied, consulting her own folder of papers. "A few minor incidents over the years—cuts and bruises that healed unusually quickly, but nothing serious. Educationally... well, Harry is quite exceptional. His reading comprehension is several years above his age level, and his mathematical abilities are even more advanced. His teachers have noted an unusual aptitude for understanding complex systems and mechanical principles."
"Of course they have," Tony muttered, thinking of those remarkable drawings and the casual way Harry had discussed improving radio designs. The kid was a natural engineer, probably saw the world in terms of problems to be solved and systems to be optimized. Tony recognized the type because he'd been the same way at that age—though he'd had the advantage of resources, education, and a father who, despite his many flaws, had at least understood the value of nurturing exceptional talent.
"There is one thing," Mrs. Crawford added hesitantly. "Harry sometimes has... unusual dreams. Nightmares, he calls them, though they don't seem to distress him the way typical nightmares might. He draws pictures afterward—always the same themes. Flying, lights in the sky, people in strange costumes. The child psychologist we consulted suggested they might be processing some kind of early trauma, possibly related to whatever happened to his birth parents."
Tony's hand stilled on his laptop keyboard. Dreams of flying. Red and gold armor with lights that glowed like stars. Either this was the most extraordinary coincidence in the history of coincidences, or something much stranger was going on.
"I want to see him," he said suddenly, standing up with the kind of decisive energy that had built empires and launched spacecraft. "I want to talk to Harry about this. About all of it."
"Tony," Pepper began, her voice carrying a warning note, "you need to be careful. This is a six-year-old child who's about to have his entire world turned upside down. You can't just march in there and start interrogating him about—"
"I'm not going to interrogate him," Tony interrupted, though even as he said it, he realized that was exactly what it would sound like to anyone who didn't understand the desperate need driving him. "I'm going to talk to him. Father to... potential father. Whatever. The point is, I need to know if this is real. If he really is what I think he is."
The ride back to St. Margaret's was conducted in tense silence, broken only by Pepper's occasional sighs and the sound of Tony's fingers drumming against the Bentley's leather armrest. The photographers had multiplied since the previous day—word had leaked about Tony Stark's interest in adopting a British orphan, and the media was having a field day with the story.
*"STARK'S SOFTER SIDE: Billionaire Playboy Shows Heart of Gold"*
*"ORPHAN'S LUCKY DAY: London Boy Set to Join Stark Fortune"*
The headlines were splashed across every newspaper they passed, and Tony found himself simultaneously annoyed by the attention and grateful that public pressure might help expedite the normally glacial adoption process.
They found Harry exactly where Tony had expected—in the corner of the common room, cross-legged on the floor with his sketch pad, seemingly oblivious to the chaos swirling around him. But when Tony approached, the boy looked up immediately, as if he'd been waiting.
"You came back," Harry said simply, and something in his voice made Tony's chest tighten.
"I said I would." Tony settled himself on the floor beside Harry, ignoring the way his expensive suit protested against the worn carpet. "I wanted to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me, okay?"
Harry nodded solemnly, those extraordinary green eyes fixed on Tony's face with an intensity that was almost unnerving.
"The dreams you have, the ones about flying—have you always had them?"
"As long as I can remember," Harry replied without hesitation. "They're not scary, though. Mrs. Crawford thinks they are because I wake up and draw pictures, but they're not scary at all. They're..." He paused, searching for the right word. "They're like memories. But memories of things that haven't happened yet."
Tony felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Memories of the future?"
"I know it sounds strange," Harry said quickly, as if he was used to adults dismissing his experiences. "But in the dreams, I'm older. And I'm flying, but not in an airplane. In something that fits around me, like a second skin. And there are lights—not just the ones on the chest, but all over. And I can feel the power of it, humming through my bones like electricity."
Tony's breath caught. The description was so precise, so technically accurate, that it could have come from his own design notes. This wasn't the vague fantasy of a child who'd seen too many superhero movies. This was the detailed observation of someone who understood, on some fundamental level, exactly how such a system would work.
"Harry," he said carefully, "what do you think those dreams mean?"
The boy was quiet for a long moment, his small fingers tracing the edge of his sketch pad. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I think they mean I'm supposed to build something. Something important. Something that will help people."
"And do you want to? Build things that help people?"
Harry's face lit up with an intensity that made him look older than his five years. "More than anything. Sometimes I feel like... like there's something inside me that's bigger than I am. Something that wants to create and fix and make things better. Does that sound silly?"
Tony felt something crack open in his chest, a recognition so profound it was almost painful. This kid—this remarkable, brilliant, overlooked kid—was describing exactly what Tony had felt his entire life. That driving need to build, to innovate, to use technology to solve problems and protect people. It was as if he was looking at a younger version of himself, but one who'd been shaped by hardship instead of privilege.
"No," Tony said quietly, his voice rough with emotion he hadn't expected. "No, Harry, that doesn't sound silly at all. That sounds like exactly what the world needs."
Behind them, he could hear Pepper talking in low, urgent tones with Mrs. Crawford and the lawyers, no doubt working out the final details of what was about to become the most thoroughly documented adoption in British legal history. But Tony found himself completely focused on the small boy beside him, this child who dreamed of flying and understood, with startling clarity, that technology could be a force for good.
"Harry," Tony said, making what might have been the most important decision of his life, "would you like to come home with me? Not just to visit—to stay. Forever. To be my son."
The silence that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity. Harry stared at Tony with those impossibly green eyes, his small face cycling through a dozen different emotions—disbelief, hope, fear, and something that might have been recognition.
"You really mean it?" Harry whispered finally. "You're not just being kind?"
"Kid," Tony said, reaching out to gently ruffle Harry's perpetually unruly hair, "I may be many things, but 'just being kind' isn't really in my wheelhouse. I'm offering because I think we could be good for each other. You need someone who understands what it's like to see the world as a series of problems waiting to be solved. And I..." He paused, surprised by his own honesty. "I think I need someone to help me remember why solving those problems matters."
Harry was quiet for another long moment, his gaze drifting to his sketch pad where the drawing of the armored figure seemed to shimmer in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. When he looked back at Tony, his voice was steady and sure.
"Yes," he said simply. "I'd like that very much."
---
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