New York
Harry Potter stared out the window of his uncle’s car, trepidation setting in. The happiness his uncle was emitting was practically palpable, and Harry dreaded anything that could make his uncle smile. Vernon never smiled. Not around Harry. The car passed the exit that would have taken them to Number 4, Privet Drive, and the foreboding feeling he had in his stomach grew.
At the car, the Dursleys had presented him with an old and worn out rucksack, telling Harry that they were ‘not going to lug around that god awful trunk of yours’ and that he better ‘use it or lose it’. Harry had cautiously stuffed his cloak, wand, journal, photo book, and a few other spare items that would fit into the rucksack, and set it in the boot with the other luggage. He let Hedwig out of her cage, and gave her a brief sendoff before he was shoved back into the car. They drove off, leaving the rest of his belongings in the parking lot, magic and all. He had an inkling of what was going on. The Dursleys were going on a trip - it couldn’t be a vacation, they would have left him in Privet Drive. There was no way that Vernon suddenly trusted him not to ruin their vacation - in fact, the Dursley’s haven’t taken Harry anywhere since the zoo incident when he was 10. If it wasn’t a trip, it had to be a permanent move. Based on his uncle’s gleeful expression, it was likely some sort of promotion at work. The rest of the Dursley’s things had probably already been moved, but the only other branch of Grunnings was in California. America. They were going to America. Shite.
Harry found out he was right half an hour later, when they were boarding an expensive-looking plane to New York City - likely their layover city. Vernon had proudly boasted about his promotion to the poor man working at baggage check, and Harry felt the colour drain from his face.
There was no way owls could reach him in America, all the way across the Atlantic. No one would probably even realise he wasn’t at Privet Drive for at least a week, optimistically. He crossed his fingers that he would be okay in America and someone would look for him.
Sirius would've looked for him.
Sirius would've noticed.
Probably.
The thought of Sirius sobered him. His Godfather had just died last week, and the sting of his death was fresh. Harry had only known Sirius for two years, but Sirius had easily become the most important and most trusted adult in his life - perhaps the only one. Throughout the whole 8 hour flight, Harry didn’t get a wink of sleep.
The plane was cramped, the seats were small and scratchy, but the experience was truly something else. It was nothing like flying on a broom, but Harry supposed that Sirius would have loved it regardless, if for no other reason than the simple fact that it was muggle.
He watched the sky as they ascended, passing through the clouds, and continued peacefully for hours. The sun set on the horizon, shading all the clouds a stunning array of pinks and oranges. The stars lined the sky, sprinkled into seemingly random patterns, but Harry could easily spot Sirius, the brightest star in the sky.
The landing jolted Harry out of his solemn thoughts, and he tailed behind the Dursley’s, retrieving his rucksack from the overhead and following them into the cab. New York flashed from all sides. Skyscrapers stretched toward the sky, and despite the late hour, the streets were flooded with people and cars, and it was so damn loud. Harry hated it - billboards flashed at Harry from every direction, it smelled of garbage and exhaust, he was surrounded by walls of buildings, and worst of all - he couldn’t see a single star.
The cab inched along so slowly that even Dudley seemed to grow restless. After what seemed like hours, they pulled in front of a hotel. It was a far call from a high class hotel, but it certainly wasn’t cheap. Vernon argued with the cab driver about the fare while Petunia and Dudley strolled (or in Dudley’s case, waddled) into the front door, leaving Harry to grab the rucksacks out of the boot.
It was possible that they were in New York as a layover city to get to California, but they would have definitely stayed at a hotel closer to the airport if that had been the case. Vernon would have undoubtedly demanded for the best hotel in the city if this was company funded, so the Dursley’s had to be here of their own volition. The question was why? Petunia has gone off on enough tangents about ‘dirty cities and filthy street rats’ for Harry to know they wouldn’t be here if they weren’t getting something out of it.
“Boy! Hurry up with that damned luggage!” Vernon snarled as soon as he shuffled out of the cab. Harry sighed, lugging the fourth rucksack out of the boot just as the cab sped off. He awkwardly shuffled with the four rucksacks into the hotel, tailing after Vernon with a substantial distance between them.
Once they were within the confines of the room, Vernon spun around and smiled cruelly at Harry. Harry’s stomach turned, dread settling.
“Set the luggage down carefully boy, we wouldn’t want anything to be broken, now would we?” Vernon said, danger on the edge of his voice.
“Of course not, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said, well used to the listless responses he was expected to return. He set down the Dursley’s bags on the settee, and his own on the floor.
“Listen closely boy, here’s what is going to happen. We are going out to dinner, and there better not be a single thing out of place when I get back,” Vernon snarled, spit flying out of his mouth and onto Harry’s face.
“Yes Uncle Vernon,” Harry replied, draining the emotion out of his voice. His uncle’s frown seemed to grow deeper with mistrust. Without warning, Vernon reached out and pulled Harry’s shirt collar, forcing Harry to stumble after his uncle.
“There. Now you won’t cause trouble,” Vernon said smugly as he tossed Harry in the hall closet, closing the door and sliding a chair under the handle so Harry couldn’t open it from the inside. Grudgingly, Harry was impressed. He genuinely didn’t think his Uncle would be smart enough to think about such a complex mechanism. Vernon must’ve done his research, Harry thought as he rolled his eyes.
The darkness became absolute when the Dursleys left, turning the lights off in the hall as they slammed the door on their way out. Perfect. It had to have been a good two hours before Petunia and Dudley came home, shuffling into their separate spaces and passing out on the beds, the time change having thoroughly fucked them over. Thankfully the hall closet was large enough for Harry to sit down - not as comfortable as he would’ve liked, but he had far more mobility than he had expected. He stared into the darkness, desperately trying to keep himself awake, away from the nightmares.
It was at least another hour before Harry heard Vernon drunkenly stumble into the sitting room. Fuck. Of course the first thing Venon would do is get piss-poor drunk. Harry silently braced himself, knowing what was to come. Sure enough, the hall closet was dragged open and Vernon roughly pulled Harry out.
“Boy! What the hell are you up to, huh?” Vernon slurred, a menacing grin stretched across his face. Harry didn’t even respond - he knew the drill. Sure enough, his uncle’s hand came flying at him. Harry knew better than to dodge it, and the fist connected with his rib cage, pushing him against the wall and breaking one of his ribs with an audible snap.
Harry whimpered and tears gathered in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall, for fear of his uncle seeing them. He slid to the floor, unable to hold himself up. His uncle delivered a kick to his back and grabbed Harry by his arm, slamming Harry against the wall and taking off his belt, striking Harry once. Twice.
Harry tried to focus on the numbers, on counting and not making any sort of indication he was in pain. Because there was no way he was going to give that bastard the pleasure of hearing him scream. He may deserve to be hit, but Vernon certainly didn’t deserve to take so much joy in it.
“Tomorrow we’re going to sell you to your father,” Vernon spat, “And you better not tell him about any of this, you hear me?”
Three times. Four.
“My father is dead!” Harry blurted. Vernon narrowed his eyes and kicked Harry again.
Five.
“Your whore of a mother made sure that the Potter man wasn’t your real father! Her stupid diary says as much!”
“That’s not true!” Harry spat back. He could smell the alcohol from Vernon’s breath, his uncle had to just be making things up to upset Harry. He did it often enough while sober, and drunk Vernon was likely doing the same. Probably.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
“It’s not true,” Harry whispered to himself, but a hint of doubt crept into his voice. It made sense - getting rid of him was the only solid reason that the Dursley’s would go to New York City. If they were planning on selling him, then there really was only one thing left to do. He had to get the fuck out. His back was burning, and he had managed to count to fifteen before Vernon finally stopped. His uncle grinned viciously and kneeled next to him.
“It is true. You are more of a freak than even I knew, and I’m going to give you a reminder. You might be leaving to live a new life under the iron fist of your new father, but you will always be a freak. Worthless. Useless. A Burden. Nobody wants you, and I’ll be glad to be rid of you,” Vernon snarled as he kicked Harry one more time and dragged a shocked Harry to the small closet and tossed him in.
“Don’t come out until we fetch you, freak, or you’ll regret it,”
That night, Harry waited until he heard the snores of his uncle before creeping out of the closet. His back burned, but he has had far worse. His rib was bothering him more than his back, but he ignored that as well, and grabbed a granola bar from the small kitchenette. Eating it quickly, he discarded the wrapped under the trash can, a force of habit to avoid the Dursleys spotting his trash. Harry then went toward his aunt’s luggage. If his relatives brought his mother’s journal with them to America, then his aunt would have it.
After ten minutes of carefully searching his aunt’s rucksack, he found it. A small, compact black journal. Harry sensed a few charms on it, like one that made it so only blood relatives could open it, and another that would destroy the journal if anybody opened it with malicious intent.
Harry carefully opened the journal and flipped until he got to the part he was looking for.
I knew that this was a mistake. Coming to America was a mistake. I made a mistake. Oh my god, what would James say? I have been in America for a week to gather information for the Order, and I’ve been going to some muggle science conventions when I have the time - it really is fascinating. But I was drugged. The whole night was hazy, and I know I only had one drink. I don’t understand, because I remember getting away from the man who was trying to take me to his flat, but I must’ve fallen into another man’s arms because I just woke up, naked, in my own flat. I had sex with Tony Stark! Of all bloody people. Oh Merlin, what am I going to do with myself? I just cheated on my husband. Oh god, I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more than now.
As soon as he got out of that horrid hotel, he slipped into an alleyway and cried. His own parents didn’t want him, but they put up with him. They sacrificed their lives for him. His father, James, sacrificed himself for a child that wasn’t his own. In Harry’s eyes, James would always be his father. Not Tony Stark.
Not the man that raped his mother. God, he hated Tony Stark. For causing his mother so much pain. For creating Harry, who is the reason so many people are dead. Merlin, Voldemort wouldn’t have ever come after him or killed his parents if he had known that Harry didn’t fit that bloody prophecy. Harry could have had a normal life. With parents. And friends.
Harry could admit it wasn’t entirely Stark’s fault. But blaming Stark was much easier. So Harry let himself hate.