Three weeks later, the tabloids had a field day:
*"STARK FAMILY OFFICIAL: Adoption Papers Signed"*
*"BRITAIN'S LOSS, AMERICA'S GAIN: Wonder Kid Heads to Malibu"*
*"POTTER TO STARK: Orphan's Amazing Transformation"*
*"BILLIONAIRE'S NEW HEIR: What We Know About Harry Potter"*
---
The final meeting took place in the oak-paneled offices of Ashworth & Associates, a law firm so prestigious that even the water glasses probably had their own legal degrees. Tony sprawled in a leather chair that cost more than most people's annual salaries, watching with barely contained amusement as Harry methodically examined each document with the kind of laser focus usually reserved for nuclear physics equations.
"You know, kid, you don't have to memorize the entire British legal code," Tony said, gesturing at the mountain of paperwork. "I've got three lawyers here who've already read this stuff so many times they could probably recite it in Latin."
Harry looked up with that particular expression that somehow managed to be both innocent and devastatingly sarcastic—a skill Tony was beginning to realize the boy had in spades. "Yes, well, forgive me for wanting to understand the fine print before signing my life away. I've read enough fairy tales to know that's usually where the devil hides his conditions."
Pepper, who had been quietly organizing her own stack of documents, snorted with laughter. "I like this kid more every day."
"A six-year-old with trust issues and a vocabulary that would make Oxford professors weep," Tony mused. "Yeah, he's definitely going to fit right in."
Ms. Ashworth, a formidable woman in her sixties who had apparently developed a soft spot for Harry over the past few weeks, adjusted her reading glasses with a smile. "You're quite right to be thorough, young man. These documents establish not just your legal relationship with Mr. Stark, but also your inheritance rights, educational provisions, healthcare arrangements, and—"
"The truly exciting stuff like dental coverage and library card privileges," Harry interrupted solemnly, then glanced at Tony. "Though I suppose with your resources, I could probably buy my own library if needed."
Tony blinked. "Did a six-year-old just make a joke about my net worth?"
"I prefer to think of it as observational commentary," Harry replied primly, returning his attention to the papers. "Though if we're being technical, I'm nearly seven."
Pepper leaned over to Tony. "He's going to destroy you in arguments by the time he's ten."
"I'm looking forward to it," Tony whispered back. "Finally, someone who might actually keep up."
Harry's head popped up again. "You do realize I can hear you both, yes? The whispering isn't actually as subtle as you think."
"Smart mouth," Tony grinned. "I'm proud already."
"Speaking of which," Tony continued, straightening in his chair, "there's one more thing we need to discuss before you sign your soul away to the Stark empire. Your name."
Harry tilted his head with curiosity. "My name? I was under the impression that was fairly well established. Harry James Potter, if we're being formal about it."
"Well, yes, but legally speaking, you're about to become a Stark. The question is whether you want to be Harry Stark, or if you'd prefer to keep Potter, or..." Tony paused dramatically, struck by sudden inspiration. "Hear me out—Harry Potter-Stark. You get to keep your history and add to it. Best of both worlds, maximum coolness factor."
Harry considered this with the same serious attention he'd given the legal documents, his small fingers drumming against the mahogany table. "Potter-Stark," he said slowly, testing the sound. "Harry Potter-Stark." His face brightened considerably. "I do rather like the sound of that. It has a certain... gravitas."
"Gravitas?" Pepper laughed. "Tony, I think you've met your match."
"Potter-Stark it is then," Tony declared, feeling an unexpected surge of something he was pretty sure was pride. "Welcome to the family, Harry Potter-Stark. Try not to let it go to your head."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," Harry replied with perfect six-year-old sincerity. "Though I should probably warn you—I have it on good authority that I can be rather difficult when I put my mind to it."
"Kid, you're talking to someone who once reprogrammed a military weapons system during a board meeting because I was bored. I think I can handle a little attitude."
Harry's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "You reprogrammed military hardware during a meeting? That's brilliant! Was it terribly complex, or just tediously straightforward?"
Tony and Pepper exchanged glances. "Oh, we're in trouble," Pepper muttered.
The actual signing ceremony was surprisingly brief considering the magnitude of what was happening. Harry approached each signature with the careful precision of someone illuminating medieval manuscripts, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he wrote his new name for the first time.
"There," he said finally, setting down the pen with satisfaction. "Harry Potter-Stark, in triplicate. I do hope my penmanship meets with approval."
Ms. Ashworth gathered the documents with professional efficiency. "Congratulations, Mr. Stark. And congratulations to you as well, Harry. You're now officially family."
"Excellent," Harry said brightly. "Now, about that library card situation..."
As they prepared to leave the lawyers' offices, Tony found himself officially responsible for another human being—a thought that should have terrified him but somehow felt completely right. Especially when that human being had already proven capable of verbal sparring that would make seasoned politicians nervous.
"So," he said, holding the door open, "ready to see America? Fair warning—it's loud, chaotic, and the coffee's nowhere near as good as what you're used to."
Harry nodded eagerly, then paused, his expression suddenly uncertain. "Tony—I mean, Mr. Stark—I mean..." He frowned, clearly struggling with the proper form of address now that everything was official.
Tony crouched down to Harry's eye level, his voice gentle. "How about 'Dad'? If that feels right to you. No pressure—we can figure out what works as we go."
Harry's face transformed into the first completely uninhibited smile Tony had ever seen from him, bright enough to power a small arc reactor. "Dad," he said, testing the word like he was tasting something wonderful. "Yes, I'd like that very much... Dad."
"Good," Tony said, straightening up with a grin. "Now come on, son. Let's go show you what American chaos looks like. Fair warning—it involves a lot more explosions than you're probably used to."
"Promise?" Harry asked hopefully.
Pepper shook her head as they walked toward the exit. "Tony, what have you gotten yourself into?"
"The adventure of a lifetime," Tony replied, watching as Harry practically bounced with excitement. "And something tells me it's going to be absolutely incredible."
—
**Meanwhile, several hundred miles away, in a castle in Scotland that officially didn't exist on any muggle map...**
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his carved oak desk in the circular office that had housed Hogwarts headmasters for centuries, absently feeding crystallized pineapple to Fawkes while reviewing the morning correspondence. The phoenix preened under the attention, occasionally letting out soft trills of contentment that harmonized with the gentle whirring of the countless silver instruments scattered throughout the room.
"Ah, Fawkes," Dumbledore murmured, his fingers gentle as he stroked the magnificent bird's scarlet and gold feathers, "sometimes I wonder if you understand the weight of our responsibilities better than most humans do. The delicate balance we must maintain, the careful plans we must weave like spider's silk across the years..."
The phoenix tilted its head, fixing one bright black eye on the headmaster with what might have been understanding—or possibly just hope for another piece of crystallized fruit.
A sharp, authoritative knock interrupted his philosophical musings. The door opened with enough force to rattle the portraits on the walls, and Professor McGonagall strode in without waiting for permission, her emerald robes billowing behind her like storm clouds. Her usually immaculate hair showed signs of hasty arrangement, and her face was set in lines of barely controlled alarm.
"Albus," she said without preamble, clutching what appeared to be a muggle newspaper in her white-knuckled grip, "we have a problem. A rather significant one, I'm afraid."
Dumbledore looked up from Fawkes, his half-moon spectacles catching the morning light as he noted the tension radiating from his deputy's rigid posture. In all their years of working together, he had rarely seen Minerva quite so... unsettled.
"What sort of problem, my dear Minerva?" he asked mildly, though his blue eyes had sharpened with sudden alertness. "Has young Mr. Abernathy managed to set something else on fire? Or perhaps the Charlie Weasley and Nymphadora Tonks have discovered a new way to circumvent our security measures?"
"If only it were something so simple," McGonagall replied grimly. Instead of elaborating, she unfolded the newspaper with sharp, precise movements and placed it squarely in the center of his desk, directly over the letter from the Ministry he'd been reading. "I believe this requires your immediate attention."
The headline screamed across the front page in bold letters that seemed to pulse with unwelcome significance:
**"STARK FAMILY OFFICIAL: American Billionaire Adopts British Orphan Harry Potter"**
For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Dumbledore simply stared at the paper. The familiar weight of centuries seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders as his eyes took in the impossible words. Then, with movements that suddenly seemed much older than his considerable years, he reached for his spectacles with trembling fingers and began to read.
The article was thorough—irritatingly so. Complete with photographs of a dark-haired man in an expensive suit and a small boy with unmistakably familiar green eyes and an unruly shock of black hair. There were quotes from adoption agencies, details about expedited legal processes, and breathless speculation about young Harry's bright future in America as heir to a technological empire.
"Good Lord," Dumbledore whispered, his voice barely audible above the ticking of the various instruments around his office. "This is... this is not supposed to be possible."
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line. "Albus, surely you placed protections—monitoring charms, tracking spells? Something to ensure we would know if the boy was moved?"
"Of course I did," Dumbledore said, though his voice carried a note of uncertainty that McGonagall had rarely heard. "The monitoring charms on Privet Drive were... considerable. Blood wards, notice-me-not charms, protective enchantments woven into the very foundations of the house. Nothing should have been able to—" He trailed off, his expression growing increasingly troubled.
"Then how," McGonagall demanded, her Scottish accent growing more pronounced with her agitation, "did a muggle billionaire manage to adopt the most famous wizard child in Britain without us knowing?"
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, his fingers steepled before him as he stared at the photograph of Harry—older than when he'd last seen the boy, but unmistakably the child he'd left on the Dursleys' doorstep all those years ago. The boy who was supposed to be safely tucked away, protected and hidden until the time came for his return to the wizarding world.
"The blood protections," he said slowly, his voice heavy with realization. "They were tied to Petunia's care, to her home. If she voluntarily relinquished custody..."
"The protections would have dissolved," McGonagall finished, her voice sharp with understanding and no small amount of anger. "Albus, you mean to tell me that our entire plan—everything we've worked toward—depended on Petunia Dursley's maternal instincts?"
"It seemed... reasonable at the time," Dumbledore said weakly, though even he seemed to realize how inadequate that sounded. "Family bonds, blood magic—these are powerful forces, Minerva. I believed..."
"You believed," McGonagall said with the kind of crisp authority that had cowed generations of Hogwarts students, "that a woman who spent her childhood resenting her magical sister would somehow develop protective feelings toward that sister's magical son. Really, Albus, sometimes your faith in human nature borders on the criminally naive."
Fawkes let out a low trill that sounded distinctly like agreement. Dumbledore shot his familiar a reproachful look.
"The question now," McGonagall continued, beginning to pace back and forth in front of his desk with sharp, agitated steps, "is what we do about this situation. The boy is supposed to return to Hogwarts. The prophecy—"
"The prophecy remains," Dumbledore said quietly, though his voice carried less certainty than usual. "Though I confess, I did not foresee this particular... complication."
"Complication?" McGonagall stopped pacing to stare at him incredulously. "Albus, the boy is now the adopted son of one of the most powerful men in the muggle world. He has resources, protection, legal standing. You can't simply... retrieve him as if he were a lost pet."
"No," Dumbledore agreed slowly, his expression growing more troubled by the moment. "No, I don't suppose we can." He picked up the paper again, studying the photograph more closely. "This Tony Stark... what do we know of him?"
"According to this article, he's a genius inventor, a billionaire, and the head of a company that produces advanced technology for both civilian and military applications," McGonagall read over his shoulder. "He's known for being... unconventional in his business methods and rather famous for his quick wit and tendency to speak his mind regardless of consequences."
"A man of influence and resources, then," Dumbledore mused. "Not someone who would be easily... persuaded to return a child he's legally adopted."
"And not someone," McGonagall added pointedly, "who would be impressed by cryptic explanations about destiny and the greater good. Muggles tend to prefer concrete facts, Albus."
Dumbledore was quiet for several minutes, his fingers absently stroking Fawkes' feathers as he contemplated this unprecedented turn of events. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with the weight of difficult decisions.
"We'll need to contact the Ministry, of course. And the Order. This changes... everything."
"How much does it change?" McGonagall asked quietly. "The prophecy spoke of the boy, not of where he would be raised or by whom. Perhaps..."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore agreed, though his tone suggested he found little comfort in the possibility. "But our carefully laid plans, our preparations for his return to our world... all of that must be reconsidered now." He looked up at McGonagall, and for the first time in years, she saw something she'd never expected to see in Albus Dumbledore's eyes: genuine uncertainty.
"Minerva," he said softly, "I fear we may have underestimated the complexity of the game we've been playing. And now, it seems, we have a new player at the table—one who was never supposed to be there at all."
Outside the castle windows, storm clouds were gathering on the Scottish horizon, and in the distance, thunder began to rumble with what sounded almost like mocking laughter.
McGonagall straightened her robes with sharp, precise movements. "Well then," she said briskly, falling back on the practical nature that had served her well through decades of teaching and administrative challenges, "I suppose we'd better figure out our next move rather quickly. Something tells me that Mr. Stark is not the sort of man who waits for others to act first."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, his expression grave. "Indeed, Minerva. Indeed."
—
The common room at St. Margaret's had never seen such organized chaos. Harry sat cross-legged in the center of what looked like a small explosion of paper, sketches, and mechanical parts, methodically sorting through five years of accumulated treasures with the same focused intensity he brought to everything else.
"Right then," he said to himself, holding up a sketch pad filled with detailed drawings of what appeared to be a improved heating system for the building, "definitely keeping this one. The boiler efficiency calculations alone took me three weeks to work out properly."
Tony watched from the doorway, still somewhat amazed by the sight of his new son treating the packing process like a scientific expedition. Most six-year-olds would be focused on toys and games. Harry was debating the relative merits of various engineering schematics.
"Kid," Tony said, settling down beside him on the worn carpet, "you know we can always get you new paper and pencils in America, right? You don't have to take every single drawing you've ever made."
Harry looked up with an expression that was equal parts patient and slightly pitying—the look of someone explaining something obvious to a well-meaning but slow adult.
"These aren't just drawings, Dad," he said, the word still new enough that he seemed to savor it slightly. "These are solutions. Look—" He held up a detailed sketch that looked more like a blueprint than a child's doodle. "This is a redesign for the kitchen ventilation system. Mrs. Crawford said the current one doesn't work properly, so I studied the airflow patterns and calculated how to improve the circulation efficiency by thirty-seven percent."
Tony blinked, taking the paper and examining it more closely. The design was not only technically sound, it was genuinely innovative. "Harry, this is... this is actually brilliant. How did you figure out these calculations?"
"Books, mostly," Harry replied with a shrug, as if teaching himself advanced engineering from library books was the most natural thing in the world. "And observation. I watched how the air moved during cooking times, noted which areas got too hot or too smoky, and worked backward from there."
"Of course you did," Tony muttered, adding the sketch to the growing pile of definitely-keeping items. "What about this one?" He picked up another drawing that appeared to show some kind of radio with additional components.
"Oh, that's for better signal reception in the basement," Harry said eagerly, his whole face lighting up with enthusiasm. "The current wireless down there gets terrible reception because of all the metal piping, so I designed an amplification system using parts from old electronics. It works brilliantly—Mrs. Crawford can listen to her evening programs without all that static now."
"You built this? An actual working radio amplifier?"
"Well, yes." Harry looked suddenly uncertain, as if he was worried about getting in trouble. "I did ask permission before taking apart the old wireless sets. And I put everything back together better than it was before. Is that... is that all right?"
Tony felt something warm and fierce expand in his chest. This kid—his kid—had been living in an orphanage, rebuilding electronics and designing ventilation systems and apologizing for being brilliant. "Harry," he said seriously, "it's more than all right. It's incredible. You're incredible."
Harry's smile could have powered the entire building.
"Right then," Pepper said, appearing in the doorway with her arms full of official-looking folders and wearing the expression of someone who had just spent an hour dealing with bureaucratic paperwork, "how are we doing with the packing? The car will be here in twenty minutes, and we still need to get to Heathrow with enough time for international departure procedures."
"Almost finished," Harry replied, carefully placing his most precious sketches into a new leather portfolio that Tony had bought specifically for the purpose. "Just deciding which of my practical experiments to bring along."
"Practical experiments?" Pepper asked, then noticed the small collection of what appeared to be electronic devices arranged neatly on a nearby table. "Harry, did you build all of these?"
"Most of them," Harry said modestly. "The radio amplifier I mentioned, a more efficient timer system for the kitchen ovens, and this—" He picked up what looked like a modified torch that seemed to glow with unusually bright, steady light. "It's a torch that doesn't run down. I worked out how to make the battery system recharge itself using ambient electromagnetic fields."
Pepper stared at the device, then at Tony, then back at Harry. "You created a self-charging flashlight. At age six."
"Nearly seven," Harry corrected automatically. "And it wasn't terribly difficult once I understood the principles involved. Though I did have to rebuild it three times before I got the energy conversion rate properly calibrated."
"Of course you did," Tony said faintly. He was beginning to suspect that adopting Harry wasn't just going to change his life—it was going to completely revolutionize his understanding of what was possible. "Anything else we should know about?"
Harry considered this seriously. "Well, there's the improved door lock system I designed for the older children's rooms—better privacy and security using a combination of mechanical and magnetic principles. And I've been working on plans for a more efficient water heating system for the entire building, but that's still theoretical. Oh, and I may have accidentally improved the telephone system last month when I was trying to figure out why the connection to the outside line was so poor."
"You improved the telephone system," Pepper repeated slowly. "Accidentally."
"The wiring was rather inefficient," Harry explained. "Simple matter of understanding signal degradation and impedance matching. Though I probably should have asked permission before rewiring the junction box in the basement."
Tony and Pepper exchanged a look that contained approximately seventeen different varieties of amazement and concern.
"Kid," Tony said eventually, "remind me to never leave you alone with anything electronic until we've had a serious conversation about asking permission before upgrading infrastructure."
"Does that include your workshop?" Harry asked hopefully.
"Especially my workshop," Tony replied, though his grin suggested he was already looking forward to seeing what Harry might create with proper tools and unlimited resources. "At least until I'm sure you won't accidentally build something that could level half of Malibu."
Mrs. Crawford appeared in the doorway, her expression cycling between pride, regret, and barely controlled worry. "Harry, dear, the other children wanted to say goodbye before you leave."
What followed was perhaps the most emotionally complex farewell scene Tony had ever witnessed. The other children at St. Margaret's clearly adored Harry—not just because he was genuinely kind and generous, but because he'd spent years quietly making their lives better with his inventions and improvements. The older boys shook his hand with the solemnity of businessmen concluding important deals, while the younger children clung to his legs and extracted promises that he would write letters and maybe send pictures of America.
"Don't forget us, Harry," whispered Emma, the little girl with the gravity-defying pigtails who had asked Tony about being rich on that first day. "Promise you won't forget."
"I could never forget you," Harry said seriously, crouching down to her level. "You're my family too, just in a different way. And besides—" He glanced up at Tony with a mischievous glint in his green eyes. "I have a feeling I might be able to visit more often now that I have access to private transportation."
"Private transportation?" Tony raised an eyebrow.
"You do own aircraft, don't you?" Harry asked innocently. "I've read about the Stark Industries fleet. The efficiency ratings on your newer jets are quite impressive."
"I'm doomed," Tony muttered to Pepper. "This kid is going to have me wrapped around his little finger before we even get to customs."
"Before you get to customs?" Pepper snorted. "Tony, that happened about ten seconds after you first saw him drawing that armor design."
She wasn't wrong.
The final gathering of Harry's belongings revealed the true scope of his makeshift laboratory. In addition to the electronics and sketches, he'd collected an impressive array of salvaged components, reference books "borrowed" from the library (with permission, he assured them), and detailed notebooks filled with observations about everything from London weather patterns to the behavioral habits of urban pigeons.
"You've been conducting scientific studies on pigeons?" Tony asked, flipping through a notebook filled with charts and diagrams.
"They're quite fascinating, actually," Harry replied, carefully wrapping his self-charging torch in a spare jumper. "Their navigation systems are remarkably sophisticated, and their ability to adapt to urban environments suggests some interesting possibilities for biomimetic engineering applications."
"Biomimetic engineering," Tony repeated. "Of course. Because normal six-year-olds definitely use terms like 'biomimetic engineering' in casual conversation."
"Nearly seven," Harry corrected automatically, then looked up with sudden concern. "Is it... is it wrong that I think about things like this? Some of the adults here have said I'm rather strange for my age."
The question hit Tony like a punch to the gut. He set down the notebook and crouched to Harry's eye level, his voice completely serious when he spoke.
"Harry, listen to me very carefully. You are not strange. You are exceptional. There's a difference, and anyone who can't see that difference doesn't deserve your attention or concern." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The world has plenty of people who think inside the box. What it needs—what it's always needed—are people who can see the box, understand why it exists, and then build something completely different that works better."
Harry's face transformed into one of those radiant smiles that seemed to light up the entire room. "Is that what you do? Build something different that works better?"
"I try to," Tony said honestly. "And I have a feeling you're going to be better at it than I ever was."
The ride to Heathrow was filled with Harry's excited observations about London traffic patterns ("The signal timing at that intersection is terribly inefficient—I could improve the flow rate by at least twenty percent with better coordination"), architectural details ("That building's structural supports are fascinating—the load distribution must be calculated to account for both wind stress and seismic variation"), and increasingly specific questions about aviation technology.
"The Stark Industries fleet uses primarily turbofan engines, correct?" Harry asked as they approached the airport. "I've been reading about the efficiency improvements in modern commercial aviation, and the thrust-to-weight ratios are quite impressive compared to older designs."
Tony stared at him in the rearview mirror. "Harry, where exactly have you been reading about turbofan engines? That's not exactly standard orphanage library material."
"The Royal Aeronautical Society publishes publicly available technical papers," Harry replied as if this was obvious. "I may have written to them requesting access to their research database. For educational purposes."
"You wrote to the Royal Aeronautical Society," Pepper said slowly. "And they gave a six-year-old access to their technical database."
"Nearly seven," Harry corrected. "And I did explain that I was conducting independent research into flight mechanics and propulsion systems. They were quite helpful, actually. Dr. Harrison even sent me some additional papers on supersonic flight characteristics."
Tony pulled into the airport parking area and sat for a moment, trying to process the fact that his new son had apparently been conducting correspondence with professional aeronautical engineers as a hobby.
"Kid," he said finally, "I think you and I are going to get along just fine."
Heathrow Airport was everything Harry had imagined and more. The sheer scale of the operation fascinated him—the careful coordination of arriving and departing flights, the complex logistics of passenger and cargo management, the sophisticated radar and communication systems that kept everything running smoothly.
"It's like a massive machine," he said wonderfully, his nose pressed against the terminal windows as he watched planes taxi and take off. "All these separate systems working together to create something much larger and more complex than any individual component."
"That's exactly what it is," Tony agreed, watching his son's face with growing amazement. "A machine made of people and planes and procedures, all calibrated to work in harmony."
"And we're about to become part of it," Harry said with barely contained excitement. "We're going to fly. Actually fly, in a machine that weighs tons but still manages to defy gravity through the application of aerodynamic principles and massive amounts of thrust."
"When you put it like that," Pepper observed, "it does sound rather miraculous."
The Stark Industries private jet was everything Harry had hoped for and more. He spent the first ten minutes examining every visible detail of the aircraft's construction, asking rapid-fire questions about everything from the wing design to the avionics systems to the specific alloys used in the engine components.
"The fuel efficiency on this model must be exceptional," he said, settling into a leather seat that probably cost more than most people's cars. "The aerodynamic profile is beautifully optimized, and I'm guessing the engine management systems are cutting-edge."
"Kid's got good eyes," the pilot, Captain Rodriguez, said to Tony with obvious amusement. "This bird is one of our newest—all the latest tech, custom modifications, and yes, the fuel efficiency is about thirty percent better than anything else in this class."
"Custom modifications?" Harry's eyes lit up with interest.
"Oh no," Tony said quickly. "We are not discussing custom modifications with the six-year-old who builds self-charging flashlights in his spare time. That way lies madness."
"Nearly seven," Harry protested. "And I'm just curious about the technical specifications."
As the plane taxied toward the runway, Harry pressed his face against the window with the kind of unguarded wonder that reminded Tony that, despite his remarkable intelligence, Harry was still very much a child experiencing something completely new.
"This is it," Harry whispered, his voice filled with awe. "We're really flying. We're really going to America."
"We really are," Tony said softly, watching the mixture of excitement and nervousness play across his son's face. "Ready for the adventure of a lifetime, kiddo?"
Harry turned from the window to look at Tony—his father, his family, his future—and nodded with the kind of determined confidence that suggested he was ready for anything the world might throw at them.
"Ready," he said simply.
As the jet lifted off from British soil, carrying them toward a new life across the Atlantic, Tony found himself thinking that this might just be the best decision he'd ever made. Even if it did mean living with someone who could probably redesign his arc reactor technology before his eighth birthday.
"Dad?" Harry said quietly as London fell away beneath them.
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Thank you. For everything. For choosing me."
Tony felt his throat tighten unexpectedly. "Harry," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "I think we chose each other."
And as they soared through the clouds toward America, both father and son began to dream about all the incredible things they were going to build together.
Below them, the Atlantic Ocean stretched endlessly toward the horizon, and ahead of them, the future waited with infinite possibility.
---
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