MACUSA Headquarters - New York
President Seraphina Picquery moved around her mahogany desk like a panther sizing up prey, her perfectly tailored midnight-blue robes swishing with the kind of calculated grace that made foreign diplomats forget how to breathe. The urgent communique crackled with magical energy in her manicured fingers, SHIELD's most secure classifications glowing faintly in the enchanted office lighting. Her dark eyes—the kind that could make a grown wizard confess to crimes he hadn't even thought about committing—blazed with controlled fury as she absorbed every damning word.
The magical portraits lining her office walls had gone suspiciously quiet, sensing the storm brewing behind their president's composed exterior. Even the enchanted ceiling fans slowed their rotation, as if the very air itself was holding its breath.
"Percival Graves!" Her voice exploded through the office with the force of a thunderclap, carrying enough raw authority to make the building's protective wards hum in response. "Get your stubborn, coffee-addicted ass in here right now, or I swear on my grandmother's grimoire I'll drag you here myself!"
The heavy oak doors didn't just open—they practically exploded inward as Percival Graves burst through like a man charging into battle. His weathered face, marked by decades of chasing dark wizards through New York's most dangerous magical districts, immediately locked onto the SHIELD letterhead with the kind of laser focus that had kept him alive through three separate goblin uprisings and two vampire gang wars.
"Alright, alright, what's got your wand in a twist this time, Seraphina?" Graves grumbled, his voice carrying the gravelly Brooklyn accent that made criminals think twice about lying to him. His steel-gray eyes swept the office, cataloguing threats with practiced efficiency. "And please, for the love of Merlin's saggy left—tell me we ain't got another dragon setting fire to Times Square. I'm still filling out paperwork from the last one."
Picquery's laugh could have frozen hellfire. "Oh, Percival. Sweet, naive, perpetually grumpy Percival. A dragon would be a vacation compared to this clusterfuck." She waved the communique like a battle standard. "We've got exactly—" she glanced at the enchanted clock that showed time zones across the magical world, "—five hours and forty-three minutes to figure out how to explain the existence of magic to a billionaire weapons manufacturer without him either trying to reverse-engineer our wands, selling tickets to Diagon Alley, or accidentally triggering the magical equivalent of nuclear winter."
Graves' bushy eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline like they were trying to escape his forehead entirely. "Well, there goes my plans for a quiet Tuesday night with a bottle of bourbon and some decent jazz." He dropped into the leather chair across from her desk without ceremony, the worn furniture creaking under his solid frame. "So who's the lucky muggle bastard who's about to get his world turned inside out?"
"Anthony Edward Stark."
The silence that followed was so complete that even the magical portraits stopped pretending to read their newspapers. The enchanted coffee pot on Picquery's side table actually stuttered mid-pour. Graves' jaw worked like a fish trying to breathe air, and for a moment, the man who'd stared down werewolves without flinching looked genuinely stunned.
"Tony Stark?" His voice cracked like a teenager's. "The guy who builds missiles the way other people build sandcastles? The nutjob who's got more money than the goblin treasury and thinks physics are just suggestions? That Tony Stark?"
"The very same." Picquery settled into her chair with the fluid grace of a predator claiming territory. "MIT graduate at fifteen, holder of more patents than some countries have laws, owner of enough firepower to level small nations, and as of seventy-two hours ago..." She paused, savoring the moment like fine wine, "the completely legal, utterly legitimate adoptive father of one Harry James Potter."
Graves blinked once. Twice. Then his face went through more expressions than a shape-shifting boggart at a comedy show. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention.
"Come the fuck again?"
"Language, Percival."
"Screw language, Seraphina! You just told me that the Boy Who Lived—the kid who turned Voldemort into magical confetti when he was barely out of diapers—is now living in a mansion in Malibu with a guy who builds weapons that make our best battle magic look like party tricks!" Graves was on his feet now, pacing with the restless energy of a caged tiger. "How in the hell did that happen? Did somebody slip stupid pills in the water supply over in Britain?"
Picquery activated her desk's privacy enchantments with a casual flick of her wand, the air shimmering as layers of protective spells settled around them like an invisible cocoon. "According to SHIELD intelligence—and yes, they're briefing us because this could potentially destabilize both the magical and non-magical worlds—young Mr. Potter's muggle relatives decided that magic was too inconvenient for their perfectly planned suburban lives."
"Those worthless pieces of—"
"They abandoned him at a London orphanage when he was fifteen months old," Picquery continued, her voice carrying the kind of cold fury that made smart people reconsider their career choices. "Apparently, dealing with a magical child was too much trouble for their pristine little existence."
Graves stopped pacing and turned to face her, his weathered features hardening into something that would have made a basilisk nervous. "Those bastards. Those absolute, worthless, cowardly bastards." His hands clenched into fists. "Kid saves their entire world, and they toss him away like yesterday's newspaper?"
"Oh, it gets better." Picquery's smile could have cut diamonds. "The adoption is completely legitimate. Stark went through proper international channels, followed every law, crossed every T and dotted every I. The boy is now an American citizen living under American magical jurisdiction. The British Ministry of Magic doesn't even know he's missing yet."
"Jesus Christ on a broomstick." Graves resumed his pacing, his tactical mind working through implications with the precision of a master chess player. "Madam President, we got problems. Big, complicated, potentially world-ending problems."
"Do tell."
"First problem—and this one's a doozy—Harry Potter ain't just famous in magical Britain. He's a goddamn legend. Half the wizarding world thinks he's the second coming of Merlin, the other half thinks he's a ticking time bomb waiting to go dark. When they find out he's gone..."
"They'll lose their collective minds and probably blame us for kidnapping him," Picquery finished smoothly. "Continue."
Graves gestured emphatically, his hands cutting through the air like he was conducting an orchestra of chaos. "Second problem: Tony Stark couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it. Guy holds press conferences about what brand of coffee he drinks. You tell him about magic existing, and by Thursday morning it'll be trending on Twitter with its own hashtag."
"#MagicIsReal?" Picquery suggested with dark humor.
"Something like that. But here's the real kicker—problem number three." Graves stopped pacing and fixed her with a direct stare that had made hardened criminals confess to their mothers. "Tony Stark is a genius inventor with unlimited resources, a documented history of taking insane risks when something catches his interest, and the attention span of a caffeinated hummingbird. You introduce him to magic, and he's gonna want to study it, analyze it, reverse-engineer it, and probably try to build some kind of magic-tech hybrid that either revolutionizes human civilization or blows up half the planet."
"Probably both," Picquery agreed grimly. "Anything else keeping you up at night?"
"Oh, plenty." Graves dropped back into his chair, the leather creaking ominously. "What's our legal standing here? Because the Brits are gonna want the kid back, and they ain't exactly known for taking 'no' for an answer when it comes to their precious Boy Who Lived."
Picquery's smile was sharp enough to perform surgery. "Our legal standing, my dear Percival, is that Harry James Potter is now an American citizen under the full protection of American magical law. International magical jurisprudence is crystal clear on this point—we have complete jurisdiction over any magical person residing within our territorial boundaries." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "If the British Ministry wants him back, they can file a formal diplomatic request through proper channels and join the back of a very, very long line."
"And if they decide to skip the paperwork and try something monumentally stupid?"
"Then they'll discover what American magical independence really means." Picquery's voice carried the iron certainty of someone whose ancestors had fought those battles with wand and spell. "We didn't break free from British magical authority just to roll over and show our bellies when London throws a tantrum. We've got the magical firepower to remind them why picking fights with us is a career-limiting decision."
Graves' grin transformed his weathered features, making him look like a shark that had just spotted a particularly tasty swimmer. "Now that's the kind of talk I like to hear. So what's the plan, boss?"
"You're going to California."
"Me?" Graves looked like she'd just suggested he wrestle a Hungarian Horntail while wearing a meat suit. "Why the hell me? I'm the guy you send to arrest dark wizards and negotiate with hostile goblins, not play magical nanny to some billionaire with commitment issues."
"Exactly." Picquery stood and moved to the enchanted windows that offered a panoramic view of magical New York's glittering skyline. "You're the only person I trust to handle this situation without either starting World War Three or accidentally revealing classified magical secrets to a man who builds weapons for fun." She turned back to face him. "I want you to assemble a small team. Our best people—specialists in muggle relations, threat assessment, child protection magic, and diplomatic damage control."
"What's our approach with Stark? Good cop, bad cop? Polite inquiry? Veiled threats?"
"Honesty."
Graves stared at her like she'd suggested they try juggling active grenades. "Come again?"
"You heard me correctly." Picquery's reflection in the window showed a woman carrying the weight of impossible decisions with unwavering resolve. "We tell him the truth about Harry, about the magical world, about the very real threats his adopted son might face. We treat him like the intelligent, responsible adult he can be when the situation calls for it, and we hope his protective instincts outweigh his curiosity and ego."
"And if they don't? What if he decides that magic is just another puzzle to solve or another toy to play with?"
"Then we deal with the consequences as they arise." Picquery's voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "But Percival, here's what you need to remember—Tony Stark chose to adopt a child he believed was just another orphan in need of a home. He could have his pick of charities and causes to throw money at, but he chose to take personal responsibility for one lost little boy. That tells me something important about the man underneath all the publicity and ego."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"That he's got a heart under all that armor he builds, literal and metaphorical. Use that knowledge wisely."
Graves nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "What about the kid? Harry Potter's gonna need magical education, proper training, protection from threats he doesn't even know exist yet. You can't just leave him in the muggle world without magical support, no matter how rich his new daddy is."
"That's exactly why you're going," Picquery said firmly. "I want a complete assessment of the boy's magical development, his current living situation, his emotional state, and Stark's actual ability to provide appropriate care for a magical child. If the boy needs magical education, we'll provide it. If he needs protection, we'll ensure he gets it. If he needs a connection to the magical world, we'll facilitate it."
"And if Stark turns out to be a genuine threat to the kid or to magical secrecy?"
Picquery's expression hardened into something that would have made a dementor reconsider its career choices. "Then we neutralize the threat while protecting the child. But Percival, I don't think it'll come to that. Everything in his psychological profile suggests he's reckless and impulsive, not malicious. There's a significant difference."
"Yeah, well, reckless can be just as dangerous as evil when you're dealing with magic," Graves muttered, heading toward the door. He paused with his hand on the ornate handle. "One more thing, Madam President. What if the kid's magical development accelerates under Stark's influence? Guy's famous for encouraging innovation, pushing boundaries, and thinking outside conventional boxes. What happens if he teaches Harry Potter to think the same way about magic?"
Picquery was quiet for a long moment, her brilliant mind working through possibilities that ranged from revolutionary breakthroughs to potential apocalypse. "Then we make damn sure we're positioned on the right side of whatever Harry Potter becomes. Because something tells me that between Stark's technological genius and Potter's raw magical potential, we're looking at changes that could reshape both our worlds in ways we can't even imagine yet."
"That's either really exciting or absolutely terrifying."
"Probably both," Picquery admitted. "Now go pack your bags and try not to let Stark blow anything up while you're there."
After Graves left, muttering creatively obscene combinations of words under his breath, Picquery returned to her desk and opened a heavily warded file cabinet that required three different magical keys, a blood authentication spell, and a personal oath of secrecy just to access. The folder she withdrew bore classifications that would give most government officials panic attacks: **PROJECT PROMETHEUS - THEORETICAL MAGICAL-TECHNOLOGICAL INTEGRATION STUDIES - EYES ONLY - PRESIDENTIAL AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED**.
The thick file contained decades of MACUSA's most sensitive theoretical research—carefully controlled experiments, deeply classified case studies, and projections exploring what might happen if magical and muggle technologies ever achieved true synthesis. The conclusions ranged from "revolutionary advancement of human civilization" to "complete annihilation of both magical and non-magical societies" with very little middle ground.
"Tony Stark," she murmured to herself, scanning projections that suddenly seemed far less theoretical and much more like prophecy, "I really, really hope you're as smart and as responsible as everyone claims you are. Because you're about to get a crash course in forces that most people can't even comprehend, much less control."
She closed the file, sealed it away with extra protective charms, and moved to her private communications array—a complex arrangement of enchanted mirrors, scrying crystals, and secure magical frequencies that connected her to MACUSA operations across the globe.
"Jenkins!" she called to one of the larger mirrors, which immediately shimmered to life, revealing her Deputy Director of International Relations sitting in his own office three floors down. "I need you to prepare diplomatic responses to approximately twenty-three different scenarios involving British magical authorities demanding immediate extradition of an American citizen."
"Which citizen, Madam President?" Jenkins asked, then immediately looked like he regretted the question.
"Harry Potter."
Even through the magical connection, she could see Jenkins go several shades paler than a ghost's bedsheet. "Ma'am, with all due respect, Harry Potter isn't an American citizen. He's British magical nobility, and the political ramifications of—"
"Not anymore," Picquery interrupted with fierce satisfaction. "As of seventy-two hours ago, he's as American as apple pie and baseball. And Jenkins?"
"Yes, Madam President?"
"Make sure our diplomatic responses include plenty of historical references to the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and every other time the British got their asses handed to them when they overstepped their authority in American affairs. They need a refresher course on what happens when they forget their place."
"Should I also prepare responses for potential... military intervention?"
Picquery's smile was absolutely predatory. "Oh yes. And make sure our war wizards know they might need to dust off some of the more creative defensive spells. The kind that make uninvited guests very sorry they decided to visit."
Outside her office windows, the lights of magical New York glittered like captured stars against the night sky. Three thousand miles away, a genius inventor was probably tucking his newly adopted son into bed, reading him a bedtime story, and being the kind of father the boy had never had—completely unaware that his world was about to become infinitely more complicated, dangerous, and magical than anything his brilliant mind had ever conceived.
And somewhere in London, magical authorities were about to discover that their most famous wizard had vanished without a trace, setting in motion events that would test the limits of international magical law, diplomatic patience, and possibly the structural integrity of reality itself.
Picquery poured herself a glass of enchanted wine that sparkled with tiny stars and raised it in a toast to the empty office.
"To interesting times," she murmured, "and to hoping we all survive them."
—
Tony Stark's Malibu Mansion - 7:47 PM PST
"And this," Tony said, pushing open the door with theatrical flourish, "is your room, kiddo. Fair warning—I may have gotten a little carried away with the whole 'welcome home' thing."
Harry stepped through the doorway and stopped dead in his tracks, his green eyes going wide as he took in what could only be described as a child's paradise reimagined by someone with unlimited resources and a flair for the dramatic.
The room was enormous by any standard, but especially by the standards of someone who'd spent five years in institutional housing. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean, while built-in shelves lined one entire wall, already stocked with books on everything from basic engineering principles to advanced physics. A massive desk sat positioned to catch the natural light, equipped with what appeared to be a computer workstation that would make most universities weep with envy.
But it was the details that made Harry's breath catch in his throat. The bed was built into a design that looked like the cockpit of a futuristic aircraft, complete with working displays and controls that were clearly more than decorative. A workshop corner had been set up with child-sized tools and electronic components, organized with the kind of precision that suggested someone understood exactly what a budding inventor might need. Model aircraft hung from the ceiling at carefully calculated intervals, their designs ranging from historical fighters to what appeared to be Tony's own experimental prototypes.
"I know it might be a bit much," Tony said, suddenly uncertain as he watched Harry's stunned expression. "If you don't like any of it, we can change whatever—"
"It's perfect," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. He walked slowly toward the center of the room, his small hands trailing along surfaces with the kind of reverent care usually reserved for precious artifacts. "It's absolutely perfect."
Pepper, who had been watching from the doorway, smiled softly. "Tony spent three days redesigning this room after he decided to adopt you. I've never seen him so focused on interior decoration."
"I wasn't decorating," Tony protested. "I was engineering an optimal environment for nurturing technical creativity and intellectual development. There's a difference."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Happy grinned from his position near the door.
Harry had made his way to the bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines with obvious wonder. "These are all mine? All of these books?"
"Every single one," Tony confirmed. "Though I'm guessing you'll probably read through most of them in the first month. JARVIS, show Harry the tablet integration system."
"Certainly, Mr. Stark," JARVIS replied, and suddenly several panels in the wall lit up with soft blue light. "Master Harry, the room's computing systems are fully integrated with the house network. You can access additional research materials, technical databases, and educational resources from any surface in the room."
"The desk surface is actually a touchscreen interface," Tony explained, moving over to demonstrate. "You can pull up schematics, run calculations, design and test theoretical models... I figured since you seem to enjoy engineering problems, you might as well have the tools to solve them properly."
Harry moved to the desk and placed his small hands on the smooth surface, which immediately came to life with gentle blue light and floating holographic displays. For a moment, he simply stared at the technology with the kind of awe usually reserved for religious experiences.
"This is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "I... I can't believe it's real. I can't believe I get to live here, with all of this, with you..."
Tony felt something tighten in his chest as he watched his son—his son—struggle with emotions that were clearly overwhelming. "Harry, kiddo, this is your home now. All of this is yours because you're family. You don't have to earn it or prove you deserve it. It's yours because you're mine."
That was when Harry Potter-Stark finally broke down.
Six years of institutionalized living, of being nobody special, of having his remarkable abilities dismissed as strange quirks, of never having anyone who truly wanted him—all of it came crashing down at once. He stood in the middle of his perfect room, surrounded by everything he'd ever dreamed of having, claimed by a father who actually understood him, and he simply couldn't hold back the tears anymore.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, his small shoulders shaking with the force of emotions he'd kept bottled up for years. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's just... it's just that I've never had anything that was really mine before, and I've never had anyone who wanted me to stay, and I was so scared that if you knew about the strange things that sometimes happen around me you'd change your mind and send me back, and—"
The lights in the room began to flicker.
At first, it was subtle—just a slight fluctuation in the illumination that could have been attributed to the electrical grid. But as Harry's emotional breakdown intensified, the flickering became more pronounced. The holographic displays at his desk started pulsing in rhythm with his sobs, and the model aircraft hanging from the ceiling began to sway despite the complete absence of any breeze.
"Harry," Tony said gently, moving closer with the kind of careful movements usually reserved for approaching wounded animals, "kiddo, it's okay. Whatever these strange things are, we'll figure them out. You don't have to be afraid."
But Harry was beyond hearing reassurance. Years of suppressed fear, loneliness, and desperate hope had finally found an outlet, and with it came something far more extraordinary than simple tears.
The temperature in the room began to fluctuate wildly—first dropping several degrees, then spiking upward until everyone could feel the heat radiating from Harry's small form. Books on the shelves started sliding back and forth of their own accord, while the electronic components on the workshop table began to spark and hum with energy that had no identifiable source.
"What the hell—" Happy began, his hand instinctively moving toward his concealed weapon.
"JARVIS," Tony called sharply, his engineer's mind racing to find a logical explanation for what he was witnessing, "are we experiencing some kind of electrical malfunction? Power surge? Electromagnetic interference?"
"Negative, Mr. Stark," JARVIS replied, and for the first time since Tony had known the AI, there was something that sounded almost like uncertainty in his voice. "All house systems are functioning within normal parameters. The phenomena appear to be localized around Master Harry's immediate vicinity."
"That's impossible," Pepper whispered, but her voice lacked conviction as she watched a paperweight on Harry's desk slowly rise into the air and hover three feet above the surface.
Tony stared at the floating paperweight, then at his son, then back at the paperweight. His brilliant mind, trained to find rational explanations for every observable phenomenon, simply couldn't process what he was seeing.
"Harry," he said softly, approaching with the kind of careful calm he'd once used to defuse explosive devices, "I need you to take a deep breath and try to calm down. Whatever this is, whatever's happening, we're going to figure it out together, okay? But first, I need you to breathe."
At the sound of Tony's voice—calm, accepting, utterly without fear or rejection—Harry's sobs began to slow. And as his emotional state gradually stabilized, the impossible phenomena around them started to fade. The lights stopped flickering, the temperature returned to normal, and the paperweight settled gently back onto the desk with barely a whisper of sound.
The room fell into stunned silence.
"So," Tony said finally, his voice carrying the kind of forced casualness that suggested he was working very hard to maintain his composure, "that was new."
Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his expression cycling through embarrassment, fear, and desperate hope. "You're not going to send me away?" he whispered. "You're not going to decide I'm too strange to keep?"
"Kid," Tony said, crouching down to Harry's eye level, "I once built a robot that accidentally achieved sentience and tried to redecorate my workshop. Before that, I created an AI that speaks with a British accent and occasionally expresses opinions about my fashion choices. Strange is practically the family business."
"But this was different," Harry said quietly. "Things don't usually... move by themselves. Or heat up without reason. The people at St. Margaret's said I was unusual, but this is..."
"This is definitely unusual," Tony agreed, his scientific mind already churning through possibilities. "But Harry, I need you to understand something very important. I didn't adopt you because you were normal. I adopted you because you're remarkable. And whatever this is—" he gestured at the room, which still seemed to hum with residual energy, "—it doesn't change anything about how I feel about you."
Happy, who had been unusually quiet, cleared his throat. "Boss, I hate to interrupt the family bonding moment, but we might want to address whatever's happening outside before we get too deep into the weird science stuff."
"What's happening outside?" Tony asked, straightening up.
"JARVIS," Happy continued, "show them what your external cameras are picking up."
The wall-mounted display screen flickered to life, showing the property's front gate area in high-definition clarity. What they saw made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
Two distinct groups of people had somehow appeared on the grounds without triggering any of the sophisticated security systems. The first group consisted of three individuals in what appeared to be period costume—an elderly man with an extraordinarily long white beard wearing midnight-blue robes, a stern-looking woman in emerald green, and a heavily scarred man whose coat seemed to be made of dragon leather.
The second group was slightly larger and dressed in more contemporary clothing, though their formal black suits and synchronized movements gave them the appearance of either government agents or very well-coordinated cultists. They were led by a woman whose perfectly tailored burgundy coat and commanding posture suggested she was accustomed to being in charge of whatever situation she encountered.
Both groups had apparently materialized simultaneously, and both were now staring at each other with obvious suspicion and barely concealed hostility.
"JARVIS," Tony said slowly, his voice carrying the kind of dangerous calm that his friends had learned to recognize as a prelude to either brilliant problem-solving or spectacular property damage, "please tell me you have some record of how these people got past our security perimeter."
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Stark," JARVIS replied, his own tone suggesting a level of concern that was deeply unsettling from an AI that normally treated impossible situations as interesting puzzles. "One moment the grounds were clear, the next moment both groups were simply... present. I have no recorded data on their arrival methods."
"People don't just appear from thin air," Pepper said, though she was looking at Harry as if suddenly reconsidering her understanding of what was and wasn't possible.
"Well, clearly they do," Rhodey observed, his military training evident as he automatically began assessing potential threats and escape routes. "The question is whether they're here for Tony, for the kid, or just happened to pick the worst possible time for a costume party."
Harry had gone very pale, his green eyes fixed on the display screen with an expression of growing recognition. "They're here because of me," he said quietly. "They're here because of what just happened. Because of the strange things."
"How could they possibly know about what just happened?" Tony demanded. "We're in a secure facility with military-grade surveillance countermeasures. Even if someone was watching the house, they couldn't have detected—"
He stopped, his engineer's mind finally catching up with the implications of what they'd just witnessed. If Harry could make objects float and change the temperature of a room through pure emotion, who knew what other impossible things might be possible? And if such things were possible, then maybe their understanding of surveillance, security, and the basic laws of physics needed some serious revision.
"Boss," Happy said grimly, checking his weapon and moving toward the window for a better view, "I think we need to assume these people have capabilities we don't understand. And that means we're way out of our depth."
Tony looked at his son—this remarkable, impossible, terrified child who could apparently defy the laws of physics when he was upset—then at the mysterious figures who had materialized on his property, and felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that always accompanied moments when his carefully ordered world suddenly revealed new depths of complexity.
"Right," he said, his voice shifting into the tone of command that had built empires and launched revolutions. "JARVIS, initiate security protocol seven. All non-essential systems on lockdown, all external communications monitored and recorded. Pepper, get on the phone with legal—I want our best people on standby in case this turns into some kind of custody issue. Happy, Rhodey—with me. We're going to go find out exactly what these people want with my son."
"What about me?" Harry asked quietly.
Tony looked down at him—this brilliant child who was somehow capable of impossible things, who was clearly the reason for whatever was happening outside, and who was trying so hard to be brave despite being obviously terrified.
"You," Tony said firmly, "are going to stay right here with JARVIS until we figure out exactly what we're dealing with. JARVIS, full protection protocol for Harry. Nothing and nobody gets near this room without my express authorization."
"Understood, Mr. Stark. Master Harry will be completely secure."
As the adults prepared to confront whatever waited outside, Harry remained in his perfect room, surrounded by all the wonderful things his new father had given him, and tried very hard not to think about the possibility that the strange things that followed him might be about to take it all away.
Outside, storm clouds were gathering over Malibu, and in the distance, thunder rumbled with the sound of worlds about to collide.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!