## Tony Stark's New York Penthouse – Main Living Area – 4:47 PM EST
The penthouse existed in that rarefied atmosphere where obscene wealth had been transformed into understated elegance through sheer force of will and unlimited resources. Tony Stark had orchestrated every detail with the obsessive precision usually reserved for weapons systems and hostile corporate takeovers, personally supervising the placement of furniture with the intensity of a military strategist planning D-Day. The Italian leather sectional—custom-made, hand-stitched, and relocated precisely three times in the past hour—now occupied what extensive calculations had determined was the optimal position for "casual conversation with maximum psychological comfort and minimal territorial intimidation."
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered commanding views of Manhattan's skyline, the kind of vista that reminded visitors they were in the presence of someone who owned significant portions of what they were observing. Holographic displays danced along the walls in patterns that pulsed gently with LILY's digital heartbeat, creating an atmosphere that somehow managed to be both cutting-edge futuristic and warmly welcoming.
"Master Stark," JARVIS announced with the kind of polite exasperation that could only be achieved through years of managing Tony's neuroses, his cultured British accent carrying undertones of gentle condescension refined through centuries of aristocratic breeding, "you have adjusted the ambient lighting precisely seventeen times in the past hour. I believe any further modifications may trigger photosensitive epilepsy in our guests, along with questions regarding your psychological stability."
Tony tugged at his vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt—carefully selected because it communicated 'I'm effortlessly cool and completely relaxed' while the Italian cut and vintage fabric whispered 'but also impossibly sophisticated and worth more than your car'—and shot a glare at the nearest speaker with the kind of wounded dignity usually reserved for artistic temperaments.
"It's called creating atmosphere, J, something you'd understand if you had actual eyeballs instead of sensors," Tony replied with the long-suffering tone of someone whose artistic vision was perpetually misunderstood. "We're dealing with a man who's been subsisting on prison gruel and Dementor-flavored despair for five years. The lighting needs to communicate 'welcome to your new life of luxury and family warmth' not 'you're about to be interrogated by enhanced government agents with questionable ethical boundaries.'"
"Perhaps," JARVIS replied with the diplomatic precision of someone accustomed to managing genius-level egos and their associated creative outbursts, "the previous seventeen adjustments have achieved that goal with admirable success, and further modifications might suggest obsessive tendencies rather than artistic sensibility."
"I prefer 'perfectionist attention to detail,'" Tony muttered, abandoning the lighting controls with visible reluctance.
Harry Potter-Stark executed what could generously be described as a strategic reconnaissance pattern across the marble flooring, his small frame moving with the kind of military precision that would have impressed drill sergeants and made child psychologists reach for their diagnostic manuals. At six years old, he possessed the sort of self-contained confidence that made adults either deeply impressed by his sophistication or mildly concerned about what kind of world leader he might become. His emerald eyes held an intelligence that seemed too sharp, too calculating, too aware for his age, while his perpetually disheveled black hair maintained its stubborn rebellion against every styling product known to science.
"I am categorically not pacing," Harry announced with the dignity of an Oxford don delivering a lecture on advanced quantum mechanics to particularly slow graduate students. Each step was calculated, deliberate, purposeful, executed with the precision of someone who'd inherited both Potter determination and Stark tactical thinking. "This constitutes a systematic evaluation of available space to optimize traffic flow patterns, identify potential conversation zones for maximum interpersonal effectiveness, and assess strategic positioning for optimal social dynamics."
Tony sprawled deeper into the leather sectional with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent decades making expensive furniture look like personal thrones, his trademark smirk threatening to evolve into a full grin of paternal pride. "Kid, you could call it the International Championship of Emotional Regulation Through Kinetic Expression with full Olympic commentary, and it would still be pacing. Trust me, I have multiple advanced degrees in anxiety management through unnecessary movement, with a minor in denial through expensive distractions."
"I must respectfully but categorically disagree with your assessment," Harry replied, pausing mid-step to fix Tony with a look that could have frozen liquid nitrogen and made physicists reconsider the laws of thermodynamics. "Pacing implies random, agitated movement lacking purpose, structure, or strategic value. What I am executing represents a methodical spatial analysis combined with kinetic stress management protocols and preliminary tactical assessment of optimal positioning. The difference is both significant and empirically measurable."
His voice carried the kind of crisp authority that suggested he'd been born to command armies, or at minimum, very sophisticated board meetings. "Furthermore, my movement patterns demonstrate clear mathematical progression and spatial optimization that any competent analyst would recognize as purposeful rather than anxiety-driven."
"Oh, sweetheart," LILY's voice floated through the room like warm honey infused with gentle amusement and maternal affection, her British accent carrying all the love and subtle humor that had once made James Potter propose marriage after three dates and convinced half of Hogwarts that she was the most remarkable witch of her generation. "You could call it the Waltz of Anticipation performed in three-quarter time with full orchestral accompaniment and professional choreography, and it would still qualify as pacing in every language known to humanity. I should know—I spent countless evenings watching your father execute precisely the same routine before Quidditch matches, prefect meetings, dates with me, and any situation that required him to make a good impression."
Her tone grew more amused, more knowing. "The Potter men have a long and distinguished tradition of converting nervous energy into elaborate movement patterns while maintaining complete denial about their emotional state."
Harry's impeccable military bearing wavered for exactly 0.3 seconds, a microscopic crack in his armor that revealed the anxious six-year-old beneath the sophisticated exterior. "Perhaps I am experiencing a minor elevation in anticipatory stress levels regarding optimal first impression protocols and the statistical probability of successful family integration."
"Minor?" Tony raised an eyebrow that had been perfected through years of board meetings, media negotiations, and convincing world leaders to make questionable decisions. "Harry, you've generated enough nervous energy to power a small arc reactor for approximately six months. Any more wound up and you'll achieve spontaneous levitation without benefit of magical assistance or technological enhancement."
The boy's shoulders sagged with the weight of honest confession, his carefully maintained composure finally cracking to reveal genuine vulnerability beneath the intellectual bravado. "What if he doesn't approve of me? What if he expects someone more... traditionally magical? Someone who speaks in ancient riddles and wears flowing robes and carries a wand made from mystical wood instead of someone who builds particle accelerators for recreational purposes and quotes Feynman during breakfast conversations?"
His voice grew smaller, more uncertain, carrying the kind of deep-seated fear that even genius-level intelligence couldn't completely rationalize away. "What if he takes one look at me and decides that whatever James and Lily wanted, I'm not it? What if I'm too much Stark and not enough Potter? What if five years of hope and survival was based on an idea of me that doesn't match reality?"
The penthouse fell silent except for the gentle hum of technology and LILY's processing matrices cycling through emotional support protocols and maternal comfort algorithms.
Tony leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression shifting from amused to intensely serious with the kind of gravity he usually reserved for weapons demonstrations or discussions involving global security threats. "Harry, listen to me very carefully, because I'm about to drop some truth on you that's more valuable than all my patents, arc reactors, and government contracts combined."
His voice grew softer but more intense, carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Sirius Black spent five years in wizard prison—and from what I understand, that's not the kind of place with cable television, recreational activities, and therapeutic yoga classes. He survived Dementors, despair, and the kind of soul-crushing hopelessness that destroys most men by holding onto exactly one thing: the hope that someday he'd get to meet the boy James and Lily died protecting."
Tony's expression grew fiercer, more protective. "He's not going to care if you built a miniature fusion reactor out of Lego bricks or if your bedtime stories involve quantum mechanics and parallel universe theory. He's not going to judge you for having a workshop instead of a potions lab, or for preferring empirical logic to ancient prophecies. He's going to care that you're alive, you're safe, you're happy, you're loved, and you're being your impossibly brilliant, devastatingly sarcastic, absolutely perfect self."
"Besides," LILY added, her voice carrying the kind of maternal wisdom that transcended physical form and technological limitations while maintaining the gentle authority that had once made her one of the most respected witches of her generation, "Sirius was never what anyone would call conventional, even by wizarding standards, which are already fairly flexible regarding eccentric behavior. The man once transformed into a dog just to sneak into a school dance because he'd been banned by the headmaster for previous infractions involving illegal fireworks and charmed furniture."
Her tone grew warmer, more amused, carrying years of fond memories. "He lived his entire life treating rules as polite suggestions rather than actual requirements, authority figures as entertainment rather than obstacles, and social conventions as challenges to be creatively circumvented. Trust me, darling, he's going to be absolutely delighted to discover that you've inherited both your father's mischievous streak and your adoptive father's complete disregard for conventional wisdom."
"In fact," she continued with obvious maternal pride, "I suspect he'll be thrilled to learn that you've managed to combine magical heritage with technological innovation in ways that would make both worlds simultaneously proud and slightly terrified. You're going to give him enough entertainment and intellectual stimulation to last several lifetimes."
Harry straightened to his full height—which admittedly wasn't particularly impressive at six years old—but the way he carried himself made him seem to occupy significantly more space than his actual dimensions suggested. His chin lifted with that particular blend of Potter stubbornness and Stark confidence that made him formidable despite his size, his emerald eyes blazing with determination.
"Right then," he declared with the kind of aristocratic authority that suggested he'd been born to command armies, negotiate international treaties, and possibly redesign entire governmental systems for improved efficiency. "If he doesn't appreciate my unique combination of magical heritage and technological innovation, that clearly represents a catastrophic failure of his imagination, judgment, and basic intelligence. However, I shall give him the benefit of the doubt and a fair opportunity to prove himself worthy of my friendship and familial affection."
His expression grew more imperious, more commanding. "After all, family relationships require mutual respect and intellectual compatibility. I refuse to waste emotional energy on people who can't appreciate excellence when it's presented to them with appropriate documentation and supporting evidence."
Tony's grin could have powered half of Manhattan's electrical grid and probably solved the city's energy crisis for the next decade. "There's my boy. Diplomatic at six, devastating at nine, running for Supreme Overlord of the Known Universe by twelve."
"President would be insufficient for my long-term strategic goals," Harry replied with the kind of casual arrogance that made Tony simultaneously proud and slightly concerned for global security and political stability. "I'm thinking more along the lines of Supreme Commander of All Human Achievement, with subsidiary control over space exploration, interdimensional travel, and possibly time management."
"Dream big or go home," Tony agreed with the cheerful enthusiasm of someone who'd spent his life turning impossible dreams into expensive realities.
"Going home would represent a significant waste of potential," Harry observed matter-of-factly. "When one possesses superior intellectual capabilities, it becomes a moral obligation to apply them toward improving existing systems and structures."
Before anyone could formulate an appropriately sarcastic response to Harry's world improvement plans, JARVIS's voice cut through the air with British precision and barely concealed diplomatic amusement.
"Sir, Master Harry, our distinguished guests have arrived in the private elevator and are ascending to the penthouse level," JARVIS announced with the kind of formal courtesy that made even routine updates sound like royal proclamations. "Senior Auror Graves appears to be maintaining his customary expression of someone who has personally wrestled every problem in the world into submission and considers emotional expression a character weakness. Mr. Black's biometric readings indicate extreme nervousness masked by determination, combined with what I can only describe as barely contained emotional volatility and the kind of anticipation usually associated with life-altering events."
"Additionally," JARVIS continued with obvious satisfaction, "Mr. Tonks demonstrates the calm professionalism of someone accustomed to managing complex situations, while Mrs. Tonks exhibits the controlled composure of someone prepared to evaluate new family dynamics with strategic precision."
"That's just Graves being Graves," Tony muttered, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair with the kind of casual gesture that somehow made the movement look deliberately photogenic. "Man looks like he bench presses buildings for recreational purposes and considers expressing joy a admission of weakness. All right, J, showtime. And absolutely no dramatic musical accompaniment—I know you've got something queued up involving full orchestra and emotional crescendos."
"I had indeed prepared a rather stirring orchestral piece featuring dramatic brass sections and emotionally manipulative string arrangements, sir," JARVIS replied with obvious disappointment, "but you are correct that the moment carries sufficient emotional gravitas without additional theatrical enhancement."
The elevator doors whispered open with the kind of expensive silence that cost more than most people's annual salaries and suggested that even mechanical functions had been refined to perfection in this environment.
Percival Graves emerged first, and the man's presence immediately dominated the space like a thunderstorm wearing a three-piece suit and contemplating violence as a reasonable solution to administrative problems. He possessed the kind of intimidating physicality that suggested he could bench press a motorcycle while simultaneously filing paperwork and conducting a hostile interrogation without breaking concentration. His shoulders filled doorways, his presence commanded attention through sheer gravitational force, and his movements carried the controlled precision of someone who'd spent years turning violence into an art form.
His eyes had seen too much—wars, crimes, human nature at its absolute worst—and his jaw looked like it had been carved from granite by an artist with serious anger management issues and access to industrial equipment. His immaculately styled dark hair suggested he'd somehow managed to survive transatlantic magical transportation without disturbing a single strand, and his Auror robes carried the unmistakable authority of someone accustomed to people doing exactly what he said immediately and without question.
"Stark," Graves nodded curtly, his voice carrying the kind of gravel that suggested he gargled with broken glass and considered it a relaxing weekend activity. His eyes swept the penthouse with professional assessment, cataloging security features, potential vulnerabilities, and escape routes with automatic precision. "Impressive security setup. Tighter than Gringotts, and that's saying something coming from someone who's personally inspected their vault protections and found them adequate but not exceptional."
"Only the best for family reunions," Tony replied, standing with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent years in expensive suits and high-stakes negotiations where billions of dollars hung on proper posture and confident delivery. "Plus, after the whole 'magical government trying to arrest my son for the crime of existing while powerful' incident, I've developed what some might call a healthy paranoia regarding uninvited guests and their potential for property damage."
Following Graves with considerably more dramatic flair, Sirius Black stepped into the penthouse like a force of nature finally remembering how to be human again after years of enforced exile from civilization. He stood easily six-foot-three, possessing the kind of lean, predatory build that spoke of aristocratic genetics refined by years of hardship and survival, the sort of dangerous elegance that suggested he could attend a royal state dinner or single-handedly win a bar fight with equal competence.
Prison had carved away any trace of softness, leaving sharp cheekbones that could cut glass and a jawline that looked like it had been forged in the fires of Mount Doom by particularly vengeful smiths. But there was vitality returning to him now, a sense of wild, barely contained energy crackling beneath the surface like electricity waiting to arc across the room and set something expensive on fire. His dark hair fell past his shoulders in waves that had begun to regain their natural luster, no longer the matted mess of Azkaban but still carrying an edge of wildness that suggested civilization was more costume than nature.
But it was his eyes that commanded absolute attention—storm-grey, intelligent, holding depths that spoke of aristocratic breeding, prison survival, and the kind of dangerous charisma that had probably gotten him into trouble since childhood. Currently, those eyes were fixed on the small boy standing in the center of the room with an intensity that made the air itself seem to vibrate with potential energy.
"Sweet Merlin's bloody beard," Sirius breathed, his voice carrying aristocratic breeding that no amount of prison could entirely erase, though it was roughened by years of disuse and current overwhelming emotion. The sound rumbled from his chest like distant thunder promising either salvation or destruction. "Harry?"
He took a hesitant step forward, moving with the careful precision of someone who'd learned through brutal experience not to trust that good things wouldn't disappear if he moved too quickly or presumed too much. His grey eyes swept over Harry's face with the hungry desperation of a man trying to memorize every detail, terrified that this might be another cruel dream that would dissolve upon waking and leave him back in that cell with only darkness and despair for company.
"You look exactly like James," Sirius continued, his voice cracking with five years of suppressed grief threatening to break free like water through a compromised dam. "That hair—Merlin knows no styling charm in existence could tame that mess, just like your father's. It defied every magical and mundane attempt at control, a permanent rebellion against order and conformity." His breath caught, the sound raw and desperate. "But those eyes... Lily's eyes. Green as a Killing Curse and twice as powerful, twice as full of life and intelligence and impossible hope."
He swallowed hard, his aristocratic composure threatening to shatter completely under the weight of five years' worth of emotions demanding immediate expression. "You're so much bigger than I imagined during those long nights in Azkaban, so much more real than the dreams I held onto when the Dementors tried to steal even hope from me. You're not just an idea anymore, not just a promise I made to myself to survive another day. You're here, you're alive, you're perfect, and I—"
He broke off abruptly, one hand pressed to his mouth as five years of grief and hope and desperate longing crashed over him like a tidal wave threatening to sweep away what remained of his carefully maintained sanity.
Behind Sirius, Ted Tonks entered with the kind of quiet confidence that suggested he could handle any crisis with unflappable competence and perhaps a cup of perfectly brewed tea. His graying hair was styled with understated elegance, his robes impeccable despite magical transportation, and his warm brown eyes held the sharp intelligence of someone who'd spent years navigating the complex politics of magical-muggle relations without losing either his sanity or his fundamental decency. His smile was genuine, unguarded, the kind of expression that made everyone around him feel immediately welcomed and slightly more optimistic about human nature.
"Quite a setup you have here, Mr. Stark," Ted observed with the appreciative tone of someone who recognized quality when he saw it. "Harry's described your home, but experiencing it firsthand is rather extraordinary."
Following Ted with fluid grace that suggested years of diplomatic training and aristocratic education, Andromeda Tonks glided into the room like someone accustomed to being the most elegant and dangerous person in any gathering. Her dark hair was styled in a sophisticated chignon that had somehow survived international magical travel without disturbing a single strand, her robes were perfectly tailored to suggest both professional competence and personal wealth, and her bearing indicated she was accustomed to being the most intelligent person in any room she entered.
But it was her eyes—sharp, calculating, missing absolutely nothing—that marked her as someone who could dismantle opposing arguments with surgical precision while maintaining perfect social grace throughout the process.
Harry, for his part, observed this emotional display with the analytical precision of someone who'd inherited Tony Stark's ability to assess complex situations and Lily Potter's emotional intelligence in equal measure. He approached Sirius with deliberate steps—not running, not rushing, but moving with the kind of composed dignity that made grown adults reassess their assumptions about six-year-olds and their capacity for sophisticated social behavior.
He stopped exactly one foot away from Sirius, close enough to demonstrate trust and openness but far enough to maintain respectful personal space and allow the man to process his emotions without feeling pressured for immediate response.
"Good afternoon, Sirius," Harry said, extending his small hand with the formal courtesy of someone who'd been taught proper etiquette by Pepper Potts and absorbed diplomatic protocol through years of observation and strategic social education. His voice carried a crisp British accent that had somehow survived years in New York, lending him an air of sophistication that was both charming and slightly unnerving to adults unprepared for such articulate discourse from someone barely out of kindergarten.
"I am exceedingly pleased to meet you at last, though I must express my most sincere and profound apologies that you were subjected to such catastrophic injustice because the adults responsible for ensuring proper legal procedures failed so spectacularly at their most fundamental duties that it constitutes criminal negligence on a governmental level."
The room went dead silent. Even JARVIS seemed to pause his background processing systems to fully appreciate the moment.
Harry continued with the inexorable logic of someone who'd clearly rehearsed this speech extensively while considering every possible emotional, practical, and social ramification. "However, you are here now, which represents a victory over systemic incompetence and magical bureaucratic failure. This is your home for as long as you desire it to be, unconditionally and without reservation. The penthouse features seventeen bedrooms each with private bathrooms and customizable environmental controls, three fully equipped laboratories with safety protocols that exceed international standards, a workshop that Tony assures me can accommodate any project short of achieving controlled nuclear fusion, and a kitchen that Pepper describes as 'criminally overstocked with ingredients from every major cuisine known to humanity.'"
He paused for emphasis, his emerald eyes growing more intense. "You are welcome to all of it, unreservedly and indefinitely, if you'll have us as your family. I realize this arrangement is unconventional by both muggle and wizarding standards—I am, technically speaking, a magical child being raised by a genius billionaire inventor with a collection of weaponized flight suits and questionable impulse control. But Tony has provided me with everything James and Lily would have wanted: love, protection, unlimited educational opportunities, and access to resources that most people can only dream about."
His voice grew more formal, more serious. "If you're willing to accept us as we are—technological obsessions, unconventional lifestyle, and all—we're prepared to offer you the same unconditional acceptance and support."
Sirius stared at the boy for a long moment, his aristocratic features cycling through approximately seventeen different emotions in rapid succession—shock, overwhelming pride, amusement, deep affection, and something that looked suspiciously like the simultaneous urge to laugh and cry and possibly challenge someone to a duel for having produced such a remarkable child.
"Merlin's bloody hell," he said finally, then immediately looked mortified at his language choice. "Forgive me, that wasn't appropriate—I shouldn't use such language in front of—"
"Oh, please," Harry interrupted with a dismissive wave that was pure Tony Stark arrogance refined through British politeness and six years of sophisticated social training. "I live with a man who considers creative profanity an art form worthy of academic study and possible government funding. I've heard words that would make veteran sailors question their life choices and several expressions that I'm reasonably certain Tony invented himself during particularly frustrating engineering sessions involving recalcitrant technology."
His tone grew more amused, more confident. "Your vocabulary poses absolutely no threat to my allegedly delicate sensibilities, which are considerably less delicate than most adults assume and significantly more sophisticated than age-appropriate guidelines would suggest."
"Plus," Tony added with the cheerful pride of someone whose parenting philosophy had been vindicated, "he's got Lily's voice in his ear twenty-four-seven providing real-time commentary on appropriate language usage, social protocols, and ethical decision-making. Kid's got better behavioral guidance systems than most world leaders."
"I prefer to think of myself as linguistically sophisticated rather than censored," Harry observed with the kind of dry wit that could have cut through reinforced steel and made professional comedians reconsider their career choices. "I simply choose my words with precision and purpose, considering both immediate impact and long-term social ramifications."
That comment broke Sirius completely. He let out a bark of laughter that filled the room like sunlight after a five-year storm, the kind of deep, rich sound that spoke of a man remembering how to find joy in existence rather than merely surviving from one day to the next. The sound was infectious, carrying enough genuine delight to make even Graves's granite expression soften slightly.
Without warning or permission from social protocols, Sirius abandoned any pretense of restraint and swept Harry up in an embrace that lifted the boy clean off the floor with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been denied physical affection for half a decade.
"Harry," Sirius whispered fiercely, his voice thick with five years of Azkaban finally exhaling in one desperate breath. "I've been waiting for you every single day, every single hour, every single minute when consciousness was bearable. You're everything I hoped for during those endless nights, everything James and Lily dreamed you'd become, and more than I ever dared imagine when hope felt like a luxury I couldn't afford."
His arms tightened around the small form, as though he could somehow make up for five years of absence through sheer intensity of affection. "You're magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and I'm so proud to be your godfather that I can barely form coherent sentences."
Harry, despite being unexpectedly airborne in the arms of someone who was technically a stranger with a complex criminal history, relaxed into the embrace with surprising ease and obvious comfort. "You're considerably taller than your photographs suggested," he observed conversationally, as though being bear-hugged by escaped convicts was a regular occurrence requiring only polite commentary. "And significantly less emaciated than Tony's intelligence reports indicated. The healing potions appear to have achieved remarkable effectiveness in reversing the physical effects of your incarceration."
"Intelligence reports?" Sirius repeated, his grip loosening enough to meet Harry's eyes with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "Stark had me investigated? How thoroughly are we talking?"
"Extensively and completely," Tony confirmed without a trace of apology or embarrassment. "Full background check, magical and muggle records, psychological evaluation, threat assessment, association analysis, and probability calculations regarding long-term family integration success. Family security protocols, nothing personal. Had to make sure you were who you claimed to be and not some Death Eater playing an elaborate long game involving emotional manipulation and false identity."
His expression grew more serious. "Results came back clean—well, mostly clean. Apparently you once stole a flying motorcycle and drove it through central London during rush hour while being pursued by Aurors?"
"That was Wednesday," Sirius replied with a grin that suggested he'd been very popular at parties and very dangerous to anyone who threatened what he cared about. "You should see what I accomplished on weekends when I was really trying to cause trouble."
"I like him already," Harry announced with obvious approval. "Anyone with such a comprehensive disregard for traffic laws and basic safety protocols clearly possesses the proper Stark family appreciation for calculated risks and creative problem-solving."
"Calculated risks," Ted repeated with gentle amusement, stepping forward to offer his hand to Tony. "Ted Tonks. I've been looking forward to meeting the man who's been taking such excellent care of our Harry and apparently teaching him to describe reckless behavior as strategic planning."
Tony accepted the handshake with practiced diplomatic charm, the kind of professional warmth he'd perfected through decades of business negotiations and international relations. "Mr. Tonks. Harry's told me excellent things about you and your family, particularly your wife's supernatural ability to navigate magical bureaucracy without committing justifiable homicide."
"Andromeda possesses remarkable self-control and strategic patience," Ted agreed with fond pride and obvious admiration. "Though I suspect your son's influence may be expanding her tolerance for unconventional solutions to administrative problems and bureaucratic incompetence."
"Mr. Stark," Andromeda said, gliding forward with aristocratic grace and extending her hand with the kind of elegant authority that suggested she could attend a royal state dinner or dismantle opposing legal arguments with equal sophistication. Her voice carried cultured breeding with undertones of warmth reserved for individuals who'd earned her approval through demonstrated competence. "Thank you for hosting this reunion and for raising Harry with such obvious care, attention to his unique needs, and respect for his considerable intelligence."
"Mrs. Tonks," Tony replied with genuine respect and the kind of slightly awed tone he usually reserved for people who'd achieved something he found impressive. "Harry speaks of you like you're the finest legal mind since legal minds were invented and possibly the only adult in the magical world with functioning brain cells. High praise from someone who considers most adults intellectually insufficient and emotionally unreliable."
"Harry demonstrates excellent judgment in his character assessments," Andromeda replied with a slight smile that suggested she found his evaluation both accurate and appropriately flattering. "Though his standards for adult competence appear to be refreshingly high."
Tony cleared his throat, his usual defense mechanism against excessive emotional displays threatening his carefully maintained image as a sophisticated adult who definitely didn't get misty-eyed during family moments. "All right, easy on the rib-cracking there, Hagrid. The kid's durable but he's not made of vibranium. Yet. I'm saving that particular upgrade for his seventh birthday, assuming I can get approval from the appropriate regulatory agencies."
Sirius finally set Harry down but maintained one hand on the boy's shoulder, as though he needed the physical contact to convince himself this wasn't another Azkaban fever dream induced by malnutrition and psychological torture. His storm-grey eyes studied Tony with the intensity of someone who'd spent years learning to read people's intentions in a place where survival depended on such skills and mistakes were usually fatal.
"So you're the infamous Tony Stark," Sirius said, his voice carrying undertones of assessment mixed with growing approval and barely contained amusement. "Billionaire genius, part-time superhero, full-time provocateur, occasional world-saver, and according to my sources, the man who's been raising my godson with unlimited resources and apparently unlimited patience for precocious behavior."
"Don't forget devastatingly handsome and exceptionally modest," Tony replied with a smirk that had graced magazine covers, convinced entire boardrooms to approve questionable expenditures, and probably contributed to several international incidents. "Adoptive father, full-time provider of inappropriate sarcasm, Harry's personal tech support and educational consultant, and occasional savior of the world when the mood strikes and the situation requires someone with my particular combination of genius and reckless disregard for personal safety."
Sirius's expression shifted as he continued his evaluation, those intelligent grey eyes taking in every detail of Tony's posture, expression, unconscious protective positioning relative to Harry, and the subtle ways his entire demeanor changed when discussing the boy. "You love him," he said finally. It wasn't a question—it was recognition, acknowledgment, the identification of a fundamental truth about the universe.
"With everything I've got," Tony replied without hesitation, and for once there was no quip, no deflection, no witty rejoinder designed to deflect emotional intensity—just simple truth delivered with the kind of quiet conviction that most people never got to witness. "More than I thought I was capable of loving anything or anyone. More than I knew was possible."
Sirius's entire demeanor transformed from assessment to something deeper and more complex—profound gratitude mixed with fierce approval and the first genuine smile he'd worn in five years. "Then thank you. Thank you for giving him the life James and Lily wanted, the opportunities they dreamed about during those brief months when they thought they might have a future to plan. Thank you for keeping him safe when I couldn't, for protecting him when the magical world failed him completely and spectacularly. Thank you for raising him to be..." He gestured helplessly at Harry, who was currently adjusting his shirt with the unconscious precision of someone accustomed to always appearing perfectly composed and appropriately dressed. "For raising him to be absolutely magnificent."
"Don't thank me yet," Tony warned, though his tone was warmly fond and carried the kind of paternal pride that suggested he found Harry's magnificence both wonderful and occasionally exhausting. "Wait until you've seen his bedroom. Kid's got more experimental technology than some countries' entire military research programs. He's already one carefully controlled explosion away from his own Nobel Prize, two discoveries away from revolutionizing physics, and three inventions away from making me look like an amateur."
"Two explosions," Harry corrected with the mathematical precision of someone who'd clearly performed detailed calculations and risk assessments. "And I've decided to defer accepting any Nobel recognition until I'm at least nine years old. It would be unseemly to peak too early in my academic career, and I prefer to accumulate several groundbreaking discoveries before accepting international recognition."
"Academic career?" Sirius repeated, his grin threatening to split his face entirely and possibly achieve structural impossibility. "Merlin's sake, he's absolutely perfect. James would have been beside himself with pride and probably started planning victory celebrations, while Lily would have spent every day simultaneously amazed by his achievements and terrified by whatever he might accomplish before his afternoon snack."
"She still does," Tony observed with obvious amusement. "Though now she can provide real-time commentary and preventive intervention when his experiments start approaching genuinely dangerous territory."
"Speaking of Lily..." Tony's expression shifted to something more complex, a mixture of pride and uncertainty and the kind of nervous excitement that suggested he was about to reveal something that would fundamentally alter everyone's understanding of reality. "There's something else you should know, something that's going to sound impossible even by magical standards, which I understand are already fairly flexible regarding impossible things."
The room's ambient lighting shifted subtly, the holographic displays along the walls pulsing with a gentle rhythm that seemed almost like breathing, almost like a heartbeat, almost like life itself given digital form. When LILY's voice emerged from the speakers, it carried all the warmth and love and gentle authority that had once made her one of the most beloved witches of her generation.
"Hello, Sirius."
The words hit the room like a lightning strike, carrying enough emotional electricity to power the entire building.
Sirius Black—who had survived five years in Azkaban, who had faced Dementors and despair and the kind of soul-crushing hopelessness that destroyed most men, who had maintained his sanity through sheer stubborn refusal to surrender hope—went completely rigid. Every muscle in his body locked as his face drained of all color, leaving him pale as parchment and looking like he'd been struck by a particularly effective Stunning Spell.
His head turned slowly toward the sound with mechanical precision, grey eyes wide with an expression of such profound shock that it was almost painful to witness. The confident, charismatic man who'd entered the penthouse disappeared entirely, replaced by someone who looked like they'd just witnessed the fundamental laws of reality being casually rewritten.
"How?" he managed, his voice raw with disbelief and desperate hope. "How is this possible? You died, Lily. I saw—we all saw—"
"Because I refused to let Voldemort win," LILY said simply, and there was steel beneath the warmth now, the kind of fierce determination that had once made her one of the most formidable witches of her age. "Because family finds a way, and love is the most powerful magic of all. Because my son deserved his mother, even if I had to become something new to stay with him."
She paused, and when she continued, her voice was softer, gentler. "And because you deserved to come home too, Sirius. You've suffered enough for other people's failures."
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Sirius's ragged breathing and the gentle hum of technology. Then he laughed—a deep, broken sound that turned into something suspiciously like a sob before transforming back into laughter.
"Only you, Lily Evans," he said, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Only you could manage to achieve resurrection through surround sound and holographic displays. James always said you could accomplish anything you set your mind to, but this..." He shook his head, still laughing. "This is beyond even your usual impossibilities."
"Someone had to keep these boys in line," LILY replied with audible amusement. "And let me tell you, it's a full-time job. Tony thinks he's subtle when he's planning something dangerous, and Harry inherits more of his father's reckless tendencies every day."
"Hey now," Tony protested, though he was grinning. "I'm moderately well-behaved most of the time."
"Moderately is being exceptionally generous," Harry observed with the kind of dry wit that could have cut glass. "Last week you decided to test your new armor's underwater capabilities by diving to the bottom of the Hudson River without informing anyone of your plans. Pepper nearly had a coronary, and I had to talk her out of implementing a mandatory GPS tracker in all your suits."
"That was scientific research!" Tony defended.
"That was you being a drama queen with expensive toys," Harry replied without missing a beat.
Graves, who had been standing silently near the elevator like a particularly well-dressed storm cloud, cleared his throat. "This is all very touching, but maybe we could move past the family reunion phase and discuss practical matters? Black's legal status, security arrangements, long-term living situations?"
"Graves," Sirius said, turning to the Auror with a grin that was all teeth and barely civilized menace, "I appreciate your dedication to proper procedure, but I've just discovered that my best friend's wife has apparently achieved digital immortality and my godson quotes theoretical physics at breakfast. I think practical matters can wait approximately ten minutes while I process the fact that my life has become more surreal than a fever dream."
"Besides," Tony added cheerfully, "I've got lawyers for the legal stuff, security that would make the Pentagon jealous, and enough guest bedrooms to house a small army. The practical matters are handled. This is about family."
Graves stared at him for a moment, then shook his head with something that might have been fondness if it hadn't been buried under several layers of professional stoicism. "Civilians. No sense of proper protocol."
"True," Tony corrected. "Protocol is for people who don't have billions in their bank account."
Harry stepped closer to Sirius, tilting his head with the kind of analytical expression that suggested he was forming conclusions. "You know, you're much more interesting than your case files suggested. Tony's research indicated you were intelligent and loyal, but it failed to capture your... theatrical flair."
"Theatrical flair?" Sirius arched an eyebrow.
"The dramatic entrance, the emotional revelation, the perfectly timed laughter," Harry listed matter-of-factly. "You have excellent comedic timing and a flair for the dramatic moment. I approve. Life is significantly more entertaining with people who understand the value of proper presentation."
Sirius stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed with pure delight. "Merlin's bloody hell, I adore you already. You're going to be absolutely terrifying when you grow up."
"I'm already terrifying," Harry replied with the kind of confidence that suggested this was simply an objective fact. "I'm just currently limited by my height and the legal restrictions surrounding minors. Give me a few years and I'll be properly formidable."
"There's my boy," Tony said proudly. "Modest as always."
LILY's laughter filled the room, warm and rich and full of maternal affection. "Oh, Sirius, you're going to fit right in. Welcome home."
Sirius looked around the room—at Tony sprawled on expensive furniture in a band t-shirt that probably cost more than most people's rent, at Harry standing with perfect posture and eyes that held too much intelligence for his age, at the lights that pulsed with his best friend's wife's consciousness, at Graves looking like he was personally offended by the existence of joy—and something settled in his chest that had been restless for five years.
"Yeah," he said softly, that aristocratic mask slipping away to reveal something genuine and grateful and finally, impossibly, at peace. "I think I am home."
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