Paper Cups and Broken Firewalls
New York was a constant hum.
It buzzed underfoot, climbed into bones, threaded itself into every breath like static. It didn't sleep. It didn't wait. It simply was—loud and alive and unapologetically fast.
Harry Potter liked it more than he expected to.
He blended in well here. Too well, maybe. Small-framed, sharp-eyed, usually in a hoodie three sizes too big and always moving like he was two steps ahead of the world. Nobody looked twice at the quiet guy who paid in exact change, drank his coffee with alarming intensity, and seemed to have memorized every camera angle in the neighborhood.
He liked routine. It wasn't weakness—it was control.
The corner café three blocks from his apartment was part of that routine. Quiet, warm, with windows fogged in the mornings and chairs that creaked just enough to make people self-conscious. The barista, Jace, never asked for his name anymore. Just set down the same drink at the same time—black coffee, splash of oat milk, cinnamon on top. Always hot. Always fast.
Harry took the seat in the corner against the wall. It was the one with the clearest view of the front door, the street beyond, and the back exit. Just in case.
He wasn't paranoid. He was prepared.
The laptop he carried with him was battered on the outside and terrifying on the inside. Government-grade firewalls couldn't hold him. Not that they'd ever know. He didn't leave signatures. Not anymore.
He just... looked. Watched. Listened. Built his little safety nets like spiderwebs across the city's digital veins.
And he never expected anyone to notice.
Which is why, when a man dropped into the seat across from him with the sort of casual arrogance only money or madness could justify, Harry's brain tripped.
Not visibly. His expression didn't change. His fingers didn't tighten on his cup. But internally? There were alarm bells. They weren't ringing, but they were definitely reaching for the cord.
Tony Stark.
Brilliant. Loud. Famous. And currently in Harry's seat bubble.
Harry blinked at him. Slowly. Like maybe that would undo the moment.
No such luck.
"Morning," Stark said, voice warm, curious, and entirely too relaxed. "You look like someone who just hacked the Pentagon for fun and called it self-care."
Harry stared at him for a long moment. Then, evenly, "I don't remember inviting you to my table."
"You didn't," Stark agreed cheerfully. "But it's the only one with a view I like."
"Then stare out the window."
"Oh, I am."
There was a beat.
Harry exhaled through his nose. "That's terrible."
Stark grinned. "I've heard worse."
Harry tilted his head. "Are you flirting with me?"
Tony's smile didn't falter. "Would it work?"
"No," Harry said, sipping his coffee. "But you get points for bravery."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was... assessing. Two minds, each trying to solve the other without revealing the rules.
Tony didn't look away.
Harry didn't blink.
And still—still—he knew something was off. Stark wasn't here to flirt. Not really. He was watching. Testing. Like he'd seen something and hadn't decided what to do with it yet.
Harry filed the moment away for later. With a mental sticky note: watch this one.
Tony gestured to the laptop. "You're not just answering emails."
"You don't know that."
"I do. That's a custom UI. Minimalist design. Data node's pulsing in the corner like it's nervous."
Harry's lips twitched. Just barely. "You're very nosy."
"I'm very observant," Stark corrected. "And I like puzzles."
"Well," Harry murmured, "you'll hate me. I'm more of a riddle."
He stood then, gathering his things with unhurried precision. Coffee cup. Laptop. Notebook.
Tony didn't stop him.
Didn't ask his name.
Didn't need to.
Because later that night, when Jarvis ran a passive scan on the stranger in the café—the small one with the hoodie and eyes that didn't miss a thing—the system returned a result Tony never expected.
"Subject identified. Harry James Potter. Age: 28.
Location: New York.
DNA analysis confirms a 99.98% paternal match.
You are his biological father."
Tony stared at the screen.
And for once in his life—he had no idea what the hell to do next.