red and gold (MCU/Harry Potter)
“My uncle?” repeated Harry disbelievingly.
The family lawyer nodded. It was Harry’s second time meeting with the man, who hadn’t seen fit to contact him until he’d actually reached his majority. Then the war had happened, and Mr Armitage had obviously thought it would be better to wait until he had a guarantee that his client would survive to his nineteenth birthday. Oscar Armitage was the successor of the Potters’ previous lawyer, and thus had access to a lot of indispensable documentation about the family. It had been useful when Harry had sought to reach a settlement with the goblins of Gringotts – which was the main reason why he had reached out to the man the first time-- and now the ridiculous buggers stopped trying to skewer him every time he approached the bank, and it was useful now that Harry was finally able to read what his parents’ will bloody said.
Nothing about custody was written on there, obviously, nor about Sirius’ innocence – which was fortunate, or he’d probably have risen Dumbledore from the grave just to kill him again – but there was quite a big amount of money bequeathed to one Anthony Stark. That, and a stack of letters addressed to him from James Potter titled “your big brother.”
“Anthony is ten years younger than your father. You have to understand, Mr Potter, that your grandparents were already unsure about having another child. They were both in their seventies when they had James, which made them in their eighties when Anthony was born. And when he turned out to be a squib child, growing in the magical world in the middle of a blood war... the Potters felt a bit over their head, you see. So they searched for a couple willing to adopt him.” He paused. “It’s actually during their visit in America that they contracted dragonpox,” he said regretfully. “Perhaps they would have been better served keeping the child.”
“How did they know he was a squib?” he asked, frowning.
He wasn’t sure what to respond to... everything else the man had just said.
“Most parents prefer to wait and find out organically, but looking for your child in the Book of Names early on is totally acceptable, and saves the parents some grief,” explained Mr Armitage.
“I see,” he sighed. “Well, I don’t suppose the family has a bank account in the muggle world?”
“As a matter of fact, they do,” said the man. “You’ll want to contact the stewardess of House Potter. I’ll send out her contact information by owl, but you should meet the man first and give him the letters as soon as you can.”
Harry restrained another exhausted exhale. It would be a little rude, after all the work Mr Armitage had done.
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
Of course it had to be when he’d given up on having family that something like this happened, he muttered.
“Let’s find out where the bloke lives, shall we?” he told himself, his shoulders slumping.
***
Of course the whole thing wouldn’t be so easy. Hermione informed him that Anthony Stark was actually a celebrity and a genius of some sort who used to be nicknamed the Merchant of Death until he was kidnapped by terrorists and had to fight his way out, whereby he ended his weapon selling business and started both selling clean energy and parading around in a gold and red metal suit that shot beams out of its hands.
“He’s a thrill seeker and he’s got your saving people thing too,” said his best friend with an amused glance at him as she brandished an American newspaper from the dinner table.
Harry groaned, face down on the couch.
“So it’s hereditary,” snickered Ron. “Should have figured.”
“Contacting him will be hard,” fretted Hermione. “As a public figure, writing him isn’t exactly easy. I think you’d actually have an easier time if you let your stewardess send the money and waited for him to follow up.”
“I was planning on renovating Grimmauld,” moaned Harry through the cushions. “Do something cozy and low stress, turn my godfather’s house into something other than a mausoleum. It would have been great.”
“You can still do that,” shrugged Ron. “You just need to meet your uncle first.”
“Ugh.”
***
“So, Mr Potter. Can I ask what this is about,” she said, handing over a tablet with the history of transaction made under the Potter Estate’s name.
She made the question sound like a threat, noted Harry. He hoped that the tabloids were wrong about Stark’s CEO being his girlfriend.
“I’m afraid that is something I should be discussing with your... um, employee? He’s your head of R&D, isn’t he? Employee it is,” he explained with an apologetic smile. “Private family matter, you understand.”
Miss Potts was not impressed. Harry restrained the urge to fidget.
He defeated a Dark Lord, he reminded himself silently, he could do this.
“Listen, Mr Potter,” she started, “I have more important things to deal with than a privileged teenager who tries to be mysterious. If you’d be so kind to explain the matter to me, I can forward your answer to Mr Stark and see what he thinks of it. But beyond that, I cannot help you any further.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “And I can tell that you care about Mr Stark, but I cannot give additional information on this matter to you without his consent. So it seems we are at an impasse.” He paused. “My stewardess was clear enough on the fact that this concerns my late father’s will reading. You do not need to know more about it to at least understand that this – at least to me – is a sensitive matter.”
He smiled winningly.
She went from unimpressed to exasperated really fast. “Listen, kid, we’ve had cases like you before. You could have gone through the usual routes and requested a paternity test, but instead you’ve decided to squander your family fortune for unclear reasons, that’s your choice. You’re still not gonna get to meet Iron Man before you can prove you’re actually his son.”
Harry’s eyes widened.
“Is that what you think is happening? My father is James Potter, no one else!”
Miss Potts blushed.
“I am... sorry, it seems I’ve made some assumptions.”
The wizard pinched the bridge of his nose. He leaned to the side and started rummaging through the case he’d brought with him for this. He pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Here,” he said brusquely, laying it on the table. “You show him this, and if he doesn’t want to see me after he reads it, I’ll just fuck off. But I want your word that you won’t read it yourself.”
“Jarvis, scan the contents and send them to Mr Stark,” asked Miss Potts.
“Very well, Miss Potts,” said a disembodied voice with a British accent.
Harry tapped his index on the table impatiently. The CEO’s eyes narrowed upon seeing his lack of reaction; he couldn’t help it. In the wizarding world, it had become weirder not to hear some kind of wall speaking than the reverse. Portraits were everywhere and they simply never shut up. Wizards liked it that way; it figured that muggles would invent ways to fill out the silence of their homes too. Weird choice for a workplace but he supposed that if the... whatever that was could scan documents, it was at least more useful to have around than a magical painting.
“Mr Stark is coming down, Miss Potts.”
The redhead startled, staring at Harry with raised eyebrows. He shrugged and was about to say something when the man he’d only seen on the telly or in newspapers barged into the room.
“This cannot be true,” he said, brandishing his tablet, where a perfect copy of the document in front of him was displayed. “You’re playing a prank, kid?”
Harry’s lips quirked. “A little expensive for a prank, innit?”
“I refuse to believe I am British,” protested Stark.
“Hey, I was as surprised as you are, Mr American Dream,” claimed the wizard with a grin. “So, uh, if you want any proof I can do my best, but in the meantime..." he took his case from the floor and started emptying it. First went the stack of letters, “here are the letters my dad wrote you,” then a bound pile of papers, “and this is the part of the will that concerns you, and," he pulled out a few stilled pictures – the magic reveal would come without an audience, if possible --, “well, this is pretty self-explanatory.”
He didn’t hand it to him; he’d already come all the way here, more effort than this was beyond him if he was totally honest. Stark greedily looked at all the papers, though he hesitated before reaching out.
“A blood test, first,” he announced.
Miss Potts’ eyes narrowed.
“I thought you said you weren’t his son,” she accused.
Harry raised his hands innocently. “I didn’t say we weren’t related, just that I wasn’t his son,” he retorted.
Stark looked at both of them with intrigue.
“No, Pepper, he’s not claiming to be my kid. He’s claiming I’m adopted, and the paperwork has my parents’ signatures so I’m half-inclined to believe him. According to this,” he said, raising his tablet once more, “he’s my nephew. Which is... fascinating.” He clapped his hands. “But blood test first. Then we’ll talk.”
***
“Shit, I really am adopted.”