Chapter Text
The Magic of Genetics
The last several months had been a literal hell for him, for all of them, but now that the war was over and Harry had killed Voldemort for good, Harry had been hoping that things would calm down. His terrible luck was not going to allow that to happen, however.
He was still recovering from the after-effects of the war. He was trying to come to terms with all that he had done during the war and what he’d had done to him. No easy feat when he was stuck in a hospital bed in Saint Mungo’s after being struck by an unknown curse courtesy of Voldemort during their final face-off, trying not to notice how the healers and orderlies were fussing over him with dewy eyes.
The wizarding world was slowly rebuilding after the destruction left behind by Voldemort and his Death Eaters and Harry was, selfishly, glad that the hospital had been left alone and intact given his incredible need for it in the aftermath of the war. He was being monitored closely, kept dosed on painkilling potions, and even then, he was still in pain, but it was nowhere near the agony of when those potions started wearing off.
The Ministry was by far the biggest mess to clean up, given that it wasn’t just building work that needed to be repaired, but people cleaned out too. So many Death Eaters had taken over the top spots in the end that it had created a vacuum of effective leadership once Harry had killed Voldemort and the Death Eaters were dismantled. The trials had already begun for the survivors. Harry had insisted upon it when the rest of the wizarding world had been all for throwing them straight into Azkaban, but Harry knew well the consequences of not allowing people a fair trial. Things might have been very different for him if Sirius had been given a fair trial, for example, instead of people assuming that he was guilty and throwing him to the Dementors, sentenced to life in Azkaban when he was, in fact, innocent. So, though he knew that none of them would get away with what they had done, and it seemed utterly pointless to hold a trial for any of the captured Death Eaters, Harry had insisted on it from his hospital bed and, what he wanted these days, he got without any sort of issue. He’d gone from the Boy-Who-Lived to the Chosen One, and now, post-war, he was being hailed as the Saviour. Harry hated all of the monikers he’d been given throughout his life and he was very glad that he was sealed off in a private hospital room where no one but his healing team and a very small list of select visitors could reach him.
Hogwarts was in a state of disrepair also, after the final battle. It was discomforting to think that the school had been desecrated in such a way. That so many people, more than fifty of them, including children, had been murdered there, but Professor McGonagall had come to see him and she assured him that the castle could, and would, be repaired by the teachers and, come the new term in September, they would be welcoming old and new students alike. It was a comfort, to him at least, to know that the school would endure after this war. That the Founders’ dream of a magical education for all magical children would persist through future generations of witches and wizards.
By far the worst upheaval, for him personally at least, came as part of his personal ‘reparations’ to Gringotts bank. Harry had been forced to explain his actions in relation to the break-in and theft during the war, from his hospital bed and drugged up on pain potions, his explanation of which hadn’t been deemed a good enough reason according to the goblins, who had wanted everything in his vault removed and his account shut down, and a permanent ban from Harry ever entering Gringotts again as payment for his actions…at least until they had actually started clearing out his vault ‘on his behalf’ as he was stuck in a hospital bed and they had found an unenacted will. They had opened it, realised they had made a grievous mistake in overlooking it for all these years, and then brought it straight to him at the hospital for him to read, in the hopes of making up for the will never being enacted. Frankly, Harry was in shock and he was too debilitated to take much of it in, but what he could understand…he was angry.
This will stated, very clearly, that it was to be read and enacted upon the deaths of Lily and James Potter. It stated that Harry was to receive all money, assets, and personal possessions of the deceased and he was supposed to be taken into the immediate custody of a muggle man named Anthony Edward Stark, his biological father…a man Harry had never met, didn’t know, and had never heard mentioned by anyone, not even Sirius and Remus, but James Potter had clearly known that he wasn’t Harry’s biological father as he had legally adopted him as his son and heir shortly after Harry’s birth.
Harry swallowed past the lump in his too-tight throat as he tried to force his foggy brain to concentrate.
“Are you saying that James Potter wasn’t my biological father?” He demanded of the goblin representative standing in his hospital room.
“That is correct.” The goblin answered in a clipped, bored tone, as if he hadn’t just torn Harry’s life apart even further.
“Why am I just hearing of this now?!” He demanded.
“The will of the Potters was never read.”
“Why not?!” Harry hissed through his teeth. “As the enforcers of the will, it was up to you to make sure their final…ah!”
Harry pressed a hand to his side and tried to breathe deeply through the sudden, stabbing pain of his lingering injuries.
“As a minor, you were unable to comprehend the contents of the will or give direction as to what should be done and it was up to your appropriate guardians to ask that the will be read on your behalf and they never did.”
Of course the Dursleys had never asked for the will to be read. Vernon would have rathered fuck himself with the stick up his arse than walk into a bank run by goblins.
“They were muggles and I didn’t even know about magic until I was eleven!” Harry hissed again, doubled over his middle, in pain, but also raging. “This is why you’ve all changed your minds about letting me keep my vault, isn’t it? It’s your mistake for not enacting the will! For not telling me of its existence! Gringotts was named as the enforcer of the will; it was supposed to be the bank’s responsibility!”
“Mistakes were made on both sides.” The goblin growled at him.
“My ‘mistake’ saved the wizarding world! Including the bank and the goblin nation!” Harry yelled. “Your mistake cost me sixteen years with a father I didn’t know about!”
The goblins’ mistake also meant that Harry had suffered needlessly, but he didn’t mention the abuse he’d endured at the hands of the Dursleys, it wouldn’t make any difference to them, but he might never have met the terrible people if the goblins had enacted his parents’ will the moment they’d died, as they were meant to. He didn’t know who this Anthony Stark was, but surely he had to be better than the Dursleys?
“We are willing to allow you to keep your vault and forgive your transgressions if you don’t press charges for the late will reading.” The goblin told him.
Harry wanted to throttle the ugly creature with his bare hands and if he was feeling better, he likely would have tried to do just that for all the grief the goblins had caused him.
“How dare you ask that of me!” Harry forced out. “As if one cancels out the other, it doesn’t and you know it! No one is going to care that I broke into a Death Eater’s vault to steal a Horcrux to destroy Voldemort, but your reputation is going to be in shreds if it comes out that my parents left a will that would have drastically changed my living situation and you never enacted it!”
The goblin sneered but said nothing, which, at the least, proved Harry right. The goblins might give a fuck if he broke into their bank to steal from a supposed highly secured vault in his quest to destroy Voldemort, but the wizarding population wouldn’t care as it had led to Voldemort’s defeat. They would, however, care if they had entrusted their own wills to the goblins and they found out that they weren’t being read or enacted upon death.
“What do you want from us?” The goblin almost snarled, sneering at him.
“There is nothing that you can do to make up for the sixteen years I’ve suffered without the knowledge that I have a living biological father! I still have a parent in the world and you kept me from him for my entire life!”
“If it is gold you are…”
“I don’t want your fucking gold!” Harry raged. “Do you not understand the damage you’ve caused? No amount of money can make up for the lost time.”
“If we perhaps sent the will to Mister Stark now…”
“What difference will that make? I’m of age. I’m no longer a child in need of a guardian.”
The Dursleys had been out of his life for ten months already and he didn’t know where they’d moved to, nor did he want to know, and he’d never have to see them ever again, let alone live with them and their abuses, so what did it fucking matter now if he had a biological father? It was too late. Sixteen years too late.
Breathing heavily, glaring at the goblin representative, Harry just wanted this all to go away. His head spiked with pain and he moved his hands from his abdomen to his head, trying to breathe through the debilitating pain the war had left him with.
“We at Gringotts would like to make up for this error by putting you in contact with Mister Stark, as per the terms of the will. We can help circumvent the no-contact clause so that you cannot be countersued for breaking it.”
Harry really was going to throttle this fucking goblin.
“An error? Is that how you’re going to spin this?!” Harry demanded, his head throbbing with his anger in time to his heartbeat. “I still don’t think you understand that you robbed me of sixteen years with my father! How is putting me in contact with him now going to help? How is it going to change anything?! What do I need him for now?”
“You could use him for his stem cells.” The goblin told him as blandly as if he were pointing out the weather. “As your biological father, it is much more likely that he is the best match possible to donate to you.”
Harry trembled in the hospital bed, rage warring with something akin to…relief?
It was true that he needed stem cells, but nothing suitable had turned up and the healers were hunting for a match to him. There had even been a plea in the Daily Prophet for donors to come forward for the Saviour, Harry Potter. Though they had, thankfully, not gone into any detail about his condition or exactly what he needed. But it was no secret that he had been very injured after the Battle of Hogwarts and was currently under the diligent care of the staff at Saint Mungo’s.
“If I write the letter and you can get it to him, then we will call our respective debts paid.” Harry said through gritted teeth, stressing the word debts because he did not see that what he did as being equal to what had been done to him by the goblins.
“This is acceptable.” The goblin answered quickly. Harry snorted. Of course it was acceptable to them; they were getting more out of this than he was…though, if Anthony Stark did end up being a match to him, then this information could, quite possibly, end up saving his life, which was deteriorating very quickly without a suitable stem cell donor.
Harry took a breath and, as politely as he could manage while he was still raging inside, he asked for a quill, ink, and parchment, which were hastily provided, likely in the case of him changing his mind.
It wasn’t ideal, telling someone they had a seventeen-year-old son they clearly knew nothing about in a letter, but Harry had to hope that this Stark was, at the least, a better person than the Dursleys were and that he did come to meet him, if only to donate the stem cells that Harry desperately needed.
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Tony stared at the letter in his hands, feeling like his stomach had just dropped out of his arse.
The letter had come via an express, international courier service and Tony had had to sign for it personally…Pepper couldn’t even sign for it on his behalf; it had to be him and the letter had been placed into his hands only.
Scoffing over the weird delivery, he’d been half-thinking that it was another villain for the Avengers to face, either bragging about their unnoticed plans or sending them a riddle to solve to find them. They’d had a few of those over the years, usually sorted out quickly and without fuss or any casualties because, let’s face it, if any villain was stupid enough to send them a heads-up then they probably weren’t a villain worth the Avengers’ time in the first place. One of those they had dealt with had actually been a kid who’d thought it had been funny to antagonise the Avengers; he had gotten a stern lecture from their good Captain America and had thoroughly regretted his actions when the lecture had finally ended more than an hour later.
“So, is it another totally badass villain who just has to brag that they’ve outsmarted the Avengers?” Sam Wilson asked him.
Tony said nothing as he forced himself to re-read the letter, as if the information it contained would somehow change.
“Tony?” Steve asked, gentling his voice.
Tony swallowed tightly.
“Is it blackmail?” Natasha asked him.
“Not really.” Tony answered, his voice so tight it shook. “It’s another paternity case.”
“Another one? Damn, that’s what…seventy kids you have now?” Clint teased.
“Does this one want money too?” Natasha asked astutely. “You pay up or they’ll go to the media with your baby?”
Tony was trembling, he realised. His hands shaking. He put the letter down quickly.
“Not quite.” Tony told them. “This one…this one might be real.”
“How so? You haven’t done anything with anyone in years, have you?” Clint asked him.
The questioning tone made him feel about an inch big, but his reputation was a hard thing to overcome and, despite that he was settled with Pepper now, his past reputation would always dog his footsteps and colour people’s perspective of him. Even those closest to him.
“No. The kid wrote the letter himself. He’s seventeen.”
“You’d have been late twenties.” Natasha said, working it out.
“I don’t really remember much of my twenties, not even the late twenties.” Tony admitted, sighing, trying to come to terms with this information and that it might actually be true.
“Why wait so long to come to you?” Clint asked.
“I don’t think he’s looking for a father.” Tony said a little stiffly.
“So, what does he want? Money? Fame? Acknowledgement?” Sam asked him, frowning.
“No.” Tony said, feeling relieved that if this was his actual child then he wasn’t asking for a payout. Though, given what he was asking for, Tony actually wished he was asking for money. “He’s sick and he needs stem cells and he’s asking if I’ll get tested to see if I’m a match.”
“That’s…that’s unusual.” Rhodey told him, laying a supportive hand on him.
“It actually makes it more likely that he is my kid, too.” Tony said, trying to ignore the panic trying to set in. “He’s not asking for money or even acknowledgement, public or otherwise, he just stated that he was my son and, if it’s not too much trouble, could I get tested to see if I was a viable donor for him.”
“What are you going to do?” Clint asked him.
“Get Pepper on it.” Tony said immediately. Any issue he’d ever had, Pepper had dealt with it. She would know how he could go about proving, or disproving, if this boy was his actual son or not…or if he was a viable donor for the stem cells his maybe son allegedly needed. “Pepper can sort anything; she can fix this.”
“What have you done now?” Pepper’s voice preceded her into the communal sitting room, a folder open in her hands and she’d clearly been reading it before she’d heard her name mentioned.
“Apparently fathered a son.” Tony told her.
Pepper scowled. “Another paternity suit?”
“Not the usual kind.” Tony told her, picking up the letter and handing it to her over the back of the settee.
Pepper rested the folder she was holding on the back of the settee and took the letter.
Tony knew she was done reading when she sighed heavily.
“A seventeen-year-old.”
“That he’s asking for stem cells too…” Tony trailed off and threw a hand through his hair. “He’s not asking for anything else. Not even a DNA test, it’s like he knows I’m his father before I even know who he is. All he wants is to know if I’m a viable donor because, as his father, the chances that I will be suitable is higher.”
“I’ll contact the person named in the return address and set the ball rolling.” Pepper assured him. “Be ready to travel, given that this boy is clearly unwell, it’s doubtful that he’ll be able to travel himself, which means that’ll fall on you, Tony.”
“The jet is ready when you are.” Natasha told him as Pepper left for the small office at the end of the hall.
“I can’t believe I’m only just finding out about this now.” Tony said, getting angry. “Through all of the false paternity cases I’ve suffered over the years and my actual child was never brought to light until he’s almost a legal adult!”
It was karma. It had to be. Some sort of cosmic joke that he was dragged through paternity case after paternity case for babies that were never his, only for what could potentially be his actual son to stay away and only contact him when he was allegedly very sick because he needed stem cells.
Tony needed more information, but there was very little to be had. He only knew his son’s name was Harry, no last name given, and that he was seventeen, no birthdate given. He didn’t even know what illness the kid had that needed donated stem cells, though his mind automatically supplied him with the thought that stem cell donation was usually for blood-based cancers. That thought did not calm him down in the slightest.
Pepper came striding back into the room, her look and movements urgent.
“Tony, we have to leave now.” She told him.
“Is it so bad?” He asked, even as he jumped up as if he’d been burned.
“I got in contact with the bank manager on the return address, and, though he refused to tell me much as I’m not you, I was told that the doctors haven’t found any other viable donor for your alleged son, so they used the closest match they had to hand, but the boy, Harry, didn’t react well to it. His body has rejected the donor cells and he’s very sick and if you are his father, if you are a match for him, he needs the transfusion now.”
Tony felt sick and the trembling in his hands increased. Rhodey’s hand on his arm increased its pressure, trying to comfort him.
“We have your back, Tones.”
“Thanks, honey bear. Hell, with a bit of luck, I’ve made you an uncle.”
“God preserve us.” Rhodey teased.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Tony asked with a weak grin.
“That if he’s anything like you at seventeen then the compound won’t be left standing.” Rhodey chuckled.
Tony tried to imagine being responsible for a little bastard who was drinking himself into an early grave, taking so many hard drugs that whole days were just blank spaces, and sleeping with whoever caught his interest and he cringed. No. No, he seriously hoped that his son was nothing like he had been at the same age.
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The goblins had informed him that his father, Anthony Stark, was on his way to take the test to see if he was a viable donor. If he’d felt better then he might have felt something, likely relief that there was one last thing to try before accepting the inevitable, some small piece of hope to still cling onto, but he currently didn’t have the capacity to feel much of anything. He was in so much pain. He was so terribly tired. He just wanted to go to sleep and never wake back up again.
The healers had gotten impatient with no reply from Anthony Stark and Harry had deteriorated to the point that they’d felt the need to try the transfusion process with the closest match they’d found. It hadn’t worked and Harry’s body had rejected the foreign cells, leaving him in a worse state than he’d been in before.
He cursed Voldemort and that last, desperate battle. He’d been hit with an unknown curse which had shattered his hastily cast shielding charm. The pain of that curse was unbearable. It felt like his body was against him and, in a way, it was.
After numerous diagnostic charms by expert healers, it was determined that the curse was actually tearing every single cell in his body apart and, worse, the curse was lingering despite Voldemort’s death and, not only was it getting more aggressive, but it was destroying his cells quicker each time too. The healers believed that the only way to help him was to sweep out the affected cells and replace them with ones his body would accept. The only problem with that was that there were none that were a close enough match to him, leaving him suffering and deteriorating in this damn hospital bed.
The goblins, likely aiming to make up for the exceptionally late will reading, had requested all information that could be found on Harry’s birth and the days preceding it and following after it.
Anthony Stark had signed away his parental rights almost the moment that Harry had been born, after a DNA test had proven unequivocally that he was Stark’s, which had then allowed James Potter to adopt him as his son and legal heir a few days later.
Harry had been given those documents, but what was raising red flags for Harry was that the ‘surrendering of rights’ form and the ‘final release for adoption’ form had been signed, not by Anthony Stark personally, but someone named Obadiah Stane, who was listed as Anthony Stark’s guardian. That had made Harry frown, just how old was his biological father that he’d needed a formal guardian himself when Harry had been born? Harry had no clue, he didn’t even know how this had happened, and he had no answers because Lily and James Potter were dead. The only other people who might have known anything about all of this, Sirius and Remus, or maybe even Dumbledore, were also all dead. He hoped that Anthony Stark stuck around for a while, not only to donate stem cells, but to answer a few questions…if he even could.
Grunting in pain and holding a hand to his abdomen, Harry hissed through his teeth to control the sharp, sudden pain and he, once again, cursed Voldemort for that last curse that had put him in this bed and was keeping him here. He might die in this bed yet. If his biological father wasn’t a match to him…Harry swallowed past his tight throat. If Stark wasn’t a match then it was very likely that this progressive curse would kill him, and sooner rather than later. He wouldn’t see eighteen, despite how close he was to his birthday.
There’d been a massive surge of the population to register as donors, all of them wanting the ‘prestige’ of being the one to match to the Saviour, to be able to say that they had saved his life, but the closest match that could be found had left him feeling worse than ever. If Stark wasn’t a match to him…he wouldn’t live much longer, he knew. It was a sobering thought, a sad thought, but stone-cold fact all the same. He was at the point where he didn’t even want to live anymore. Not like this. He just wanted all of it, and the pain, to just end.
Someone knocked on the door and then opened it. Hermione’s pale face peeked into the room hesitantly.
“Harry, how are you feeling?” She asked when she saw that he was actually awake, shuffling into the room, her shoulders rounded. She crinkled as she walked, wearing a full outfit of disposable plastic because Harry couldn’t get any sort of illness or infection now. It would kill him off. He also knew she had been cleansed with a charm and had a very high-strength antiseptic potion applied to her bare skin. It was so strong he could see the redness of the irritation it had caused her.
They had all suffered during the war and Hermione was still trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. Ron and the Weasleys were still grieving Fred’s death.
“Not great.” He said with a wry smile. “You?”
Hermione looked at him in the bed, grey-skinned and getting thinner, gaunt, skeletal, faded and washed-out, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m going for my first therapy session next week.” She admitted.
Harry nodded and he gave her a small, brittle smile of encouragement. “That’s great, Hermione. I’m happy for you.” He said sincerely. “How are the…”
Hermione’s hand jumped to her forearm, where that word lay, carved into her flesh as Harry trailed off.
“There’s nothing they can do to remove it.” Hermione said with more bravado than she was likely feeling.
“I’m sorry, Hermione.” Harry said and he truly was. He knew what it was like to live with a cursed scar you couldn’t get rid of.
She shook her head, her bushy hair moving with her.
“Don’t be. I wouldn’t change a thing, Harry. He’s gone and we’re safe.”
Harry considered that statement and he shook his head. It was true. It might cost him his life, Hermione was permanently scarred, and Fred had given his life for this war. Remus and Tonks had given their lives, and countless others had as well, but it had worked and Voldemort was gone for good. It had to be worth it, otherwise, people had died in vain. Their freedom may have come at a steep price, but they were now free. It had to be worth it. Harry closed his eyes and breathed in as deeply as he could when he felt like his throat and lungs were lined with sandpaper.
“I’d change a few things.” He joked weakly. “But never at the expense of changing the outcome. I would gladly die if it meant he stayed dead. I thought…in the forest, I thought I was going to die.” He swallowed hard. “I was willing to die to save everyone and I still am. If this next donor doesn’t work out…it’s the last chance for it to work.”
Tears fell down Hermione’s cheeks. “Is there nothing else that can be done?”
Harry shook his head. “No. I won’t survive another failed transfusion, I’m not strong enough and every moment they wait, I get weaker and less likely to survive the transfusion process.”
“When is the next transfusion?” Hermione asked him, her hands trembling with suppressed emotion.
“Hopefully, it’ll be in the next few days.” Harry said. He knew Stark was coming here from wherever he was in the world, so he should be here by the next morning, at least, maybe even that night, and he was going to be immediately tested for compatibility. The healers were desperate to save him, and they truly had done all they could, and Harry had no complaints about any aspect of his care. It wasn’t their fault that a close enough donor couldn’t be found. It was just sheer dumb luck.
“I’ll try again to get Ron to come and visit.”
Harry shook his head. “Don’t. Things were said and done and I forgive him. If he ever asks, please tell him I forgive him, but don’t force him to come, Hermione. I’m not strong enough to have a slanging match right now. I’m so tired, this is my last chance and if it goes badly, or it fails…” He trailed off into silence. They both knew what it would mean; he didn’t have to spell it out for Hermione. She knew.
Hermione’s pale, plastic-covered hand took his grey one and they just held hands in silence.
The war had all but destroyed them. Hermione could hardly bring herself to visit and she was keeping her distance from Ron too, insisting that she needed to focus on herself and her own healing and Harry understood and he didn’t begrudge her that space and time. The things they’d had to do, how they’d had to survive, the injuries they’d taken, both physical and invisible, of course they all needed some time to process it and heal from it all. He understood.
Ron and Harry had almost come to blows over Fred’s death, the both of them grieving and tempers and patience had been thin. Ron had needed someone to blame and he’d chosen Harry as a convenient target. Ron had always chosen Harry to be a target for his anger and jealousies. Harry hadn’t seen Ron since, not even when it came to light that Voldemort’s last curse was killing him. He understood that too, to an extent, which is why he’d forgiven Ron and told Hermione to tell him so in the, more likely, event now that Harry wasn’t around to do it himself.
They all just needed time and space to heal and Harry was sure that, if he wasn’t in this hospital bed dying, then he would be shutting himself away too, unwilling to see them, or face anyone as he tried to come to terms with everything he’d done to end the war. He had cast unforgivable curses during this war. He had tortured people, taken away their free will, and he had killed. It was a lot to try and stomach, and now, on the other side of the war, he had to reconcile the person he had been during the war to the person he was after it. It wasn’t going to be an easy thing…if he even survived that long, that was.
“How are the talks with the goblins?” Harry asked, unable to deal with his own thoughts in the silence, giving Hermione’s hand as much of a squeeze as he could manage when his grip was weaker than that of a lamb.
“You know I didn’t have a vault. I have a muggle bank account and it was my parents who exchanged pounds for galleons to buy my Hogwarts things.” Hermione said, subtly trying to wipe her teary eyes. “They tried to threaten me with a permanent ban, but it was always a hollow threat. It was you they were trying to make an example of. Ron and I might have been with you, helped you, planned it with you, but it was you they blamed for it.”
“They’ve changed their minds in the last few days.” Harry said a little stiffly. “I’m going to be keeping my vault and everything in it and I’m not being barred from the bank premises. We came to an agreement.”
“At least that’s some good news.” Hermione said, trying to smile, but it flickered at the edges and fell as quickly as it came.
Harry nodded and then he sighed. “I am sorry about everything, Hermione. I just wanted you to know that I have always valued our friendship.”
“Don’t, Harry.” Hermione said harshly.
Harry took in a breath and swallowed down all of the words he wanted to say, feeling like this might be his last chance to say them, but…if Hermione didn’t want to hear them, what right did he have to force them on her?
“I have to go.” Hermione said suddenly, woodenly.
She dropped his hand and stood up so quickly that she almost knocked over the chair. Harry watched her as she all but fled from his hospital room without another word or a backwards glance. It must have been hard for her, he reasoned, to see him like this and she was facing her own demons too, but that didn’t make his heart feel less choked as he watched her flee, leaving him feeling alone and abandoned when he needed company the most.
Feeling heavy and exhausted, now emotionally drained from the short visit too, Harry tried to let himself rest. Hopefully, tomorrow he would know if Stark was a match for him. Maybe if his imminent death wasn’t hanging over her, then Hermione wouldn’t feel so conflicted about coming to see him, perhaps if he recovered then it would help her own healing.
A selfish part of his brain whispered that it would be better for him if he just died, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with all of this pain and upset.
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Tony hated this weird hospital the moment he set foot in it. It just felt…off. Everything seemed backwards and, instead of pristine white overcoats, it seemed the doctors here were wearing an eye-watering shade of lime green. There were nurses rushing around in bright yellow smock scrubs, not sparing any of them a second glance. It was as if they were nobodies.
“Right this way.” The prim woman all but barked at them. There was no consideration for who they were, no awe, not even a hint of recognition that any of them were celebrities. No one here in Britain could give a fuck about them and it actually made Tony smile.
The woman escorting them was a representative of the bank that had contacted him about his potential son, Harry, and she had been waiting for them the moment they landed. Her name was Rhosyn, no last name given, and she had brought them directly to this hospital with no fanfare, no details, nothing.
The hospital had an oppressive atmosphere, as if a national disaster had just taken place, but everyone was calm enough. They didn’t even get a second glance as they were led through the sterile hallways.
“Please wait in this room.”
“You are going to perform a DNA test, right?” Tony asked, unable to keep silent as everything that was happening was creeping him out.
“Is that what you want?” Rhosyn asked him, a brown eyebrow raised as if she didn’t understand the need for it.
“Yes, that’s what I want.” Tony said, frowning. “I want to know if this boy is my actual son!”
“Wait here.” She said, giving him a last once over as if he were scum, before leaving.
“This place is so weird!” He complained to Pepper.
“It doesn’t seem to be a typical hospital.” Pepper agreed, looking around the large waiting room they’d been placed in as if the answers lay in the mint green walls that were meant to be calming but absolutely were not.
He only had Pepper, Natasha, and Steve with him on this trip, after Pepper had told him that it wasn’t wise to take a lot of people around a sick child. Natasha had flown the jet, Steve was here as the leader of the Avengers team, and Pepper was here for personal support. Happy had stayed with the jet, just in case.
“Good morning.” A young man greeted them politely as he stepped into the room. He was wearing a shade of yellow so bright it was eye-searing up close, like looking into the sun. “I will be taking your blood for a DNA test and a cheek swab for your HLA type.”
Tony nodded and sat down, letting the nurse do what he needed to. There was, again, zero recognition and no fawning as the nurse did exactly what he needed to in a calm, gentle manner, before giving him a generic smile and telling him that a doctor would be back with the results as soon as they were in.
“I don’t like this.” Tony said again, feeling antsy. “Maybe there isn’t a boy here, maybe they just wanted my blood. They didn’t even take me to an actual exam room, it was as if they couldn’t even afford that little bit of extra time before they took my DNA, they just did it right in the waiting room!”
Pepper sighed and laid a hand on his back, her thumb stroking. It eased something sharp and painful inside his chest and he breathed more evenly.
“I know you’re worried, Tony.” Pepper told him. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a boy here who is potentially your son, if it happens then it happens, and we will deal with it.”
Tony eased down, but it didn’t last as time stretched his nerves. He was up and pacing, his hands restless and he wasn’t able to keep still.
“What is taking so long?!” Tony growled.
“They are likely waiting for the results from both tests before coming back to tell you, Tony.” Natasha told him.
The circuits that Tony was pacing became tighter and he was so wound up that he was ready to snap when a doctor, of course wearing one of those odd lime green overcoats, stepped into the room.
“Well?!” Tony demanded.
The woman looked at him with scathing eyes, as if he wasn’t worth her time and it was that which actually helped settle Tony down. No one here seemed to know any of them and whether they did or didn’t, they certainly didn’t give a shit. It was…novel.
“It is good news on all fronts.” The doctor told him. “You are Mister Potter’s biological father with a parentage index of ninety-nine point nine per cent and your HLA typing has tested compatible enough to be a suitable donor for him.”
The doctor handed over both test results to him and Tony didn’t even cringe at being handed something as he quickly took the results and looked them through himself, seeing the breakdown of each tested locus and the alleles in the ‘paternal’ sample that perfectly matched up with those in the ‘child’ sample. There were no mismatches. Harry was his son. He actually had a son.
He sat down in shock and Pepper was there to give him a gentle touch and silent support.
Tony looked up at the watching doctor.
“I want to see him.”
The doctor didn’t react.
“I want to see my son!” He repeated more firmly.
“That isn’t going to be possible. Mister Potter’s immune system isn’t strong enough to withstand any infections at this time and it will delay the transfusion, which, at this time, might prove to be fatal.”
“What is wrong with him?” Tony asked then.
“I am not permitted to discuss my patient’s information with you.”
“I am his father!” Tony pointed out, his hand shaking the test results as if the doctor had forgotten that fact, despite that she had brought the results to him.
“Mister Potter is a legal adult.”
“He’s seventeen!” Tony said with an angry growl.
“Regardless of his age, he is a legal adult and he will be eighteen in a few months. He has not given his permission to share any details with you and I will uphold his wishes.”
“Ask him, please.” Tony begged. “I want to see him, speak to him, before the transfusion.” It was noticed, but went unsaid that he wanted to see him before the transfusion in case Harry didn’t survive it.
The doctor gave him a stern look, as if she would refuse outright without even asking, but then she nodded, just once.
“I will ask Mister Potter about his wishes once he wakes. You will remain here.”
That was it, she turned and walked out of the waiting room, leaving Tony trying to deal with the bomb she’d dropped by handing over the positive test results.
Tony sank back into his chair and he looked back at the test results in his hand.
“He’s mine. I never knew, I never received any word that I might have a son. Nothing came across your desk?”
“Nothing, Tony, I swear.” Pepper told him. “I’ve always brought all paternity cases to you.”
Tony slumped. “If he wasn’t so sick, I would never have known about him.”
And that was what was hitting him the hardest. The undeniable fact that Harry had only contacted him because he desperately needed a donor. He was seventeen…eighteen in a few months if the doctor was correct and he hadn’t once contacted Tony for anything. Not to acknowledge him as his father, not even to tell him that he existed. Not for money, attention, or something as inane as help with a school project. Nothing, and Tony was one hundred per cent sure that, if Harry hadn’t needed stem cells, then he would have gone on quite happily never meeting him.
Another nurse in yellow came in and she was smiling so brightly that Tony was expecting her to know who they were, but there was no fawning, nothing but bright professionalism.
“My name is Claire and I’m the one in charge of Mister Potter’s daily care. Mister Potter is awake and he has agreed to meet with you. I’m going to take you to a sterilisation room, please clean every part of your body and wear the provided clothing, and then I will take you to Mister Potter’s room.”
Tony nodded his agreement, his hand clenched tightly onto Pepper’s.
“None of us are unwell.” Steve assured the nurse.
She smiled brightly at Steve. “That is very reassuring to know. Please, follow me.”
The four of them followed Claire to a bright white, tiled room that was well stocked with medical-grade, alcohol-based antiseptic.
Tony followed the written directions on the wall obsessively, removing all excess clothing and accessories and smearing the cleanser on every inch of exposed skin, ignoring the prickle it caused, and the burning as it got into a tiny nick on his thumb, before taking the disposable gloves, hat, booties, and apron from the waiting boxes.
Claire was waiting for them outside the room and her smile was still bright as she led them to a room that wasn’t very far away.
Tony got a glimpse of jet-black, messy hair and a side profile that reminded him so strongly of his younger self that it was actually nostalgic. His heart started beating furiously and Tony had to clench his hands into fists to keep himself walking.
His son, Harry, looked dreadful through the little window. He was small and grey in the bed, looking gaunt and tired and just…he looked very sick and very vulnerable and Tony didn’t know how to deal with it.
“Now, just one more thing; Mister Potter is still very tired after the last transfusion. It…it didn’t go to plan, but he has said he’s willing to meet you, but please remain aware that he will tire very easily and is likely not up for much.” The nurse said, a hint of protectiveness in her voice. “Please, do not cause him any stress or emotional upheaval; it will exacerbate his condition. If he weakens much further…” She trailed off and swallowed painfully. “…there’s a chance he’ll be too weak for us to even consider performing the transfusion.”
Then, after that bombshell, she was opening the door, greeting the boy inside brightly, with so much enthusiasm and happiness, and Tony had to swallow and steel himself to take that step into the, rather large, hospital room to meet his son for the first time…he’d have liked to make a good impression with his personal style, but even that was taken from him as he was wearing so much disposable plastic that nothing much other than his face could be seen. He hoped Harry didn’t hold that against him.
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Harry looked up as the door opened and his favourite orderly, Clara, came back in, indicating it was time. He took a breath, steeling himself for this first meeting. He hadn’t told any of his friends about having a living father. He hadn’t wanted to add to their troubles, but dealing with this on his own, without advice, while also dealing with his potential impending death…it just felt like it was too much, but what else could he do? If he didn’t contact Stark then he would definitely die; he needed stem cells and blood. The two had to go hand in hand, so he would deal with it.
Four people shuffled into the room wearing the plastic outfits that were to protect him in his delicate state.
“Thank you for coming.” Harry said, hating that he sounded so tired and weak and not himself.
“Of course I came.” The man out front told him. “I came the moment I found out.”
Harry assumed that he was Anthony Stark. His biological father.
From what Harry could see, there was a strong resemblance. Anthony Stark and James Potter could have been brothers they looked that similar. It wasn’t a wonder to him now, looking at the man, that people had still told him he looked like James Potter, even though the man wasn’t his biological father.
“Are you feeling…I mean, you’re obviously sick, but are you alright?” Stark asked him.
Harry snorted softly through his nose. “Living the dream.” He answered with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
Stark gave a wry smile as he took the seat next to the bed and he seemed a little awkward.
Harry sighed heavily. “I do appreciate you agreeing to take the test.”
“Of course I agreed.” Stark assured him. “I don’t know if they’ve already told you, but I’m a perfect match and I will donate whatever you need, though, I hope you don’t need any part of a liver because I don’t think mine will be suitable, but if you need one, I will find you a liver.” The man rambled.
Harry laughed at the outlandish claim. “No, just bone marrow and blood, if you don’t mind.”
“Is it…is it cancer?” Stark asked haltingly.
Harry grimaced. “No, not exactly, but it’s acting like cancer and it needs to be treated like cancer. So, completely wiping out my malfunctioning cells and then replacing them with healthy donor cells. Only, the last donor wasn’t a close enough match and my body completely rejected the donor cells, so I’m dealing with that on top of my own cells dying off too.”
The silence was heavy, oppressive, following that lovely statement and Harry immediately felt the urge to break it with nervous rambling, but someone else beat him to it.
“So, how do you know about me?” Stark asked, his hands fiddling in his lap as if he couldn’t sit still.
“What do you mean?” Harry asked with a frown.
“You knew that I was your father. I didn’t even know you existed, but you knew about me.”
Harry’s frown deepened. “You didn’t know about me? How is that possible?”
“You tell me, because you seem to be the one here with all the answers.”
Harry’s mind went back to those documents that the goblins had given him. The red flags he’d felt as he read that Anthony Stark had signed away his rights to him via a man named Obadiah Stane…who the hell was Obadiah Stane? Had the Potters made him up? Had they never actually told his biological father about him? But no, they had stipulated in their will that if anything happened to them then Anthony Stark was to be contacted and Harry’s care and guardianship was to be passed to him. They must have been of the assumption that Stark knew about him to do such a thing. Harry swallowed heavily. He couldn’t take any more surprises. He just didn’t have the energy for it.
“Well, I found out about you a few days ago.” Harry confessed. “My parents’ will was never read because of…well, a series of blundering errors. So, I actually never knew that my father, James, had adopted me and that you were my biological father and, after their deaths, I was supposed to be offered to you, so that you could decide what was to be done about my care, but as their will was never read, their express wishes weren’t upheld and none of that happened.”
“He couldn’t have adopted you without my permission.” Stark said firmly, seriously.
Harry was beginning to consider that all of this heartache and pain was because of this Obadiah Stane. Who was he and why had he been allowed to speak on Stark’s behalf? Because, from what Harry could see, he certainly wasn’t young enough to have needed a guardian when Harry had been born. He looked older than both Lily and James would have been had they lived. It was time to see if the name meant anything to Anthony Stark.
“I have the documents that prove a DNA test was performed shortly after my birth and that the moment the results of that test came back as a match to you, you signed away your parental rights. You signed the forms that allowed my father, James, to adopt me under the condition that they, and I, was to never contact you and I wasn’t allowed to make any claim on your estate or assets, even in the event of your death. I suppose I’ve already broken that condition, though, seeing as I contacted you for stem cells.”
“I would never have done such a thing!” Stark burst out, his hands flailing and waving angrily. “I didn’t even know about you! Pepper…!”
He turned to one of the people standing quietly behind him almost beseechingly.
“I’ll find out exactly what happened, Tony.” A woman said seriously.
Stark, Tony, turned back to him, his eyes almost too wide, as if he were on the edge of panic.
“I promise, Harry, I would never have signed you away like…like a fucking business contract if I’d known you existed! Do you still have those documents? There’s no way I signed them, which means they’re forged!”
“They’re not forged.” Harry said gently. “They were signed in person, with legal witnesses from the bank where the will was kept and from your company, Stark Industries, but…but it’s not your signature on them.”
Stark was breathing heavily. “Then they’re not legally binding!” He said desperately. “Who signed them on my behalf?”
“Your guardian, a man named Obadiah Stane.”
Stark knew the name. He knew who had done it, Harry could see it in the pain and grief that suddenly swallowed his hazel eyes, he heard it in the choked-off sob he let free. It was impossible to miss when the woman he had called Pepper immediately stepped forward and laid a gloved hand on his shoulder, pulling Stark back to rest his head on her plastic-covered stomach. If Tony wasn’t wearing the plastic hat, Harry got the feeling that she would have been playing with his hair to soothe him.
From the reaction, Harry was betting he wasn’t the only one in the room who had had abusive guardians.
He turned slowly, painfully, in the bed to reach across to the bedside table, picking up the folder he’d been given by the goblins that contained the several documents, all signed by Obadiah Stane.
Harry let out a pained grunt as he shifted back, gasping and pressing his free hand to his chest. Just that small movement and his heart felt like it was beating so fast it would explode.
“Here.” He said hoarsely, breathless from the pain. “Whoever that Obadiah Stane was to you, he signed everything on your behalf. The severance of parental rights, the final adoption notice, the contract of disinheritance that prevented me from contacting you for anything or making any claim to your estate or assets, whether you were still alive or had died.”
Pepper took the folder and opened it, holding the documents and she looked through all of them, holding them low enough that Stark could read them with her, but he was trembling, Harry noticed. So close to a panic attack that it seemed too late to prevent it from happening.
“This needs to be undone.” Stark said to the woman. “We need to find a way to undo this.”
“Maybe you should ask me if that’s what I want first.” Harry said, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “You’re not the only one here who’s had a shock over this news. I had no idea that the man I thought of as my father, the man I am named after, had adopted me and wasn’t even my biological father.”
“I need to make this right!” Stark told him.
Harry gave him a wry smile. “Sometimes, it’s not about what you want. I don’t want my father’s adoption overturned. He died to protect me. He threw himself between me and danger, and he died willingly, unhesitantly, so that I had a chance to live on.”
“I…I just want the chance to know you.” Stark, Tony, said, still trembling.
“Why do you have to try to overturn my adoption and make this revelation harder than it needs to be to do that?”
“Because this isn’t what I would have wanted! I would have wanted to know you, to be able to call you my child and look after you if needed. How…how old were you when…?”
“When both of my parents were brutally murdered while protecting me? Fifteen months.”
“You said that…that I was supposed to be offered guardianship of you before anyone else.”
“If my parents’ will had been read and enacted, you would have been.” Harry nodded.
“Who is responsible for not enacting the will?” Tony asked with an edge of something dark to him.
“The bank where it was stored. The same bank whose representatives are desperately trying to make amends by helping me contact you despite the signed order that forbids me from doing just that.”
“We can’t let them get away with this, Harry.” Tony told him, trying desperately to sound calm and in control, but his hands were still trembling.
“I have to.” Harry said, smiling apologetically. “As part of my reparations to the bank, I’m not allowed to hold the unenacted will against them.”
“Reparations for what?” Pepper asked him. “Surely it is not so bad as not having your parents’ will read.”
“It’s not. Not in my mind, at least, but given my current state, I deemed contacting you for stem cells more important than trying to hold the will over their heads.”
“You could have contacted me yourself.” Tony burst out.
“With the signed order to never contact you for any reason? I didn’t want to risk that you might sue me for breaking those conditions, so I agreed to forgive the overlooked will if they handled it for me. Not that it would have gotten you very far if you had wanted to sue me, mind, as I’d have likely been dead before it ever got to court.”
“I would never have sued you for contacting me, I didn’t know what Obie had…I had no part in any of it; I didn’t know about you or any of it.”
“And how was I to know that before you told me? As far as I knew, you’d signed me away the moment I was born and never wanted contact with me. I hedged my bets that you would possibly be decent enough to be willing to donate some blood and bone marrow for me, but that’s all I was actually expecting and, even then, I was half expecting you to refuse.”
“You’re very candid about your condition and what not getting treatment could lead to.” One of the people Tony had brought with him said. She was a redhead too, and she was looking at him through serious eyes, scrutinising him, breaking the shocked silence his words had caused.
Harry shrugged a narrow shoulder that was now overly bony in his loose medical pyjamas.
“Would you prefer me to break down and sob over it? I almost don’t care if I do die now because I am in so much pain that the medicine they’re using to try and control it doesn’t last longer than a few hours. If my own mutated cells don’t kill me, then the overly strong medicine used to try and numb the pain for a brief bit of respite will.”
“That’s not going to happen…that…it’ll be over soon. I’m going to donate everything you need, for as long as you need. You’ll get better.” Tony rambled desperately.
Harry smiled. “Hopefully.” He said. “If it doesn’t work…” Harry swallowed, his first sign of vulnerability. “…if they ask you as my only next of kin…let me go. Just let me die. I can’t stand this pain anymore. If the transfusion fails for whatever reason, don’t let me wake up. The doctors already know my wishes, but if they legally have to ask you now it’s been confirmed that you’re my only living parent, don’t contradict my wishes.”
“No. I can’t do that, Harry. There has to be something else to try if this fails.” Tony said, that edge of panic back in his brown eyes.
Harry shook his head. “I don’t want to try anything else. I don’t want to live like this anymore, the pain is too much to bear. Promise me that if the transfusion fails, you won’t let me wake back up.”
“Euthanasia is illegal in Britain, the same as in America.” Pepper said seriously.
Harry shook his head. “This hospital is the exception. Euthanasia is legal within these walls as long as the patient is terminal and, I’m sorry to say, I am. If this next transfusion doesn’t work, I will die. It’s only a question of the manner of death I suffer; dignified and on my terms or slowly, painfully, drugged up to my eyeballs, until I finally give in to this condition.”
“That’s why you chose this weird hospital, isn’t it?” Tony asked him, his eyes too wide.
It wasn’t. He hadn’t chosen it at all as Saint Mungo’s was the only magical hospital in the country. But, if magical healing failed, if even magic couldn’t help a patient, it was deemed better to allow true death and, in that case, legal euthanasia was practised in wizarding Britain.
So many allowances had had to be made to allow several muggles into the hospital. All of Harry’s healers and orderlies were muggleborn and knew to use the muggle terms while these people were here. The human representative of Gringotts had also been chosen because they were muggleborn.
Harry had been moved as close to the entrance of the hospital as the healers dared, from his room five floors above, just so these muggles didn’t see anything they shouldn’t and the protections on the hospital had been removed for the few minutes it took them to get onto the street and into the building. All via special request from the new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.
“I felt that they would offer me the best care with my condition, even if, in the end, the best care for me is to let me go so I can finally be free of pain.”
“It’s so bad that you want to actually die?” Tony asked him carefully.
“It’s so bad that if I was strong enough, I would have done it myself already.” Harry confided. “I’m so heavily dosed now that it’s doing almost as much damage as the condition itself and it’s still not enough to completely take away the pain. I still feel it, like a constant grinding ache all over my body, but as the medication wears off, it gets sharper, it’s impossible to ignore, I can’t keep still or rest or sleep. I just want to rest.”
“Are you in pain now?”
“Yes.” Harry said simply. “It’s constant, but I was freshly dosed just before you came in, though, so it’s not as bad as it will be in an hour or so.”
“You are strong enough for the transfusion, aren’t you?” Tony asked desperately, his gaze sliding down to his blanket-covered body as if assessing him.
“I have to be, because if I’m not…I’m only going to get weaker from here on out. It might have been better if I hadn’t had the failed transfusion, but I had a dip in my cell levels and the doctors panicked and used the closest donor who matched to me in desperation. Despite that it was an almost perfect match, it still failed. They’re not even sure if you’ll be able to cure it, which is why I want you to swear that, if it fails this time, you will let me die in peace, before I wake back up to the grinding pain.”
This man, his actual father, was trembling so hard that he shook where he sat. They had only found out about one another a few days before, well, no, Harry had known a few days ago, for this man, it was yesterday. He’d known for a day and this was their very first meeting. Harry understood that he was asking for a lot from him, but it was a very serious matter. For him, it was life and death. He couldn’t live in such pain for much longer. This was going to be the last chance for him. If even this didn’t work, then he wanted to die.
“I’ll uphold your wishes.” Tony said softly, sounding like he’d rather scream that he wouldn’t do it, that he wouldn’t let Harry die, but he had said it and it meant everything to him.
Reaching out a grey-tinged hand, Tony met him very quickly with his own, holding his bony, skeletal hand in his larger, warmer hand that was covered in a plastic glove.
“Thank you.” Harry said seriously.
“I’m going to donate everything you need and, in the meantime, look over everything they have on your condition and what they’ve tried. I’m going to help you as much as I can.” Tony promised.
Harry hummed sleepily, feeling the exhaustion of everything that had happened dragging on him. He’d been awake for too long. He had done too much, felt too much, and now that he had a verbal promise from the man who was the only one who could potentially override his own wishes, he felt drained. Nothing else was left to be said; all he could hope for now was that the transfusion with a perfect match actually worked this time. He would either wake up from a perfectly successful transfusion…or he’d never wake up again.
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Tony watched as the tiny, skinny kid who was actually his son fell into an exhausted sleep that didn’t seem in the slightest bit restful if the deep black bruises surrounding his eyes were an indication.
Harry looked so damn tired, every inch of him stretched through pain and exhaustion. Holding his hand was like holding a bag of bones. All over his small body, Harry was all bones and no flesh, as if he had lost a significant amount of weight in a very short timeframe.
“It has to work.” He said into the silence of the room, feeling the stillness like an oppressive weight crushing into him.
No one said anything and that weight grew, his head started buzzing and he felt the panic clawing at him. He needed air, he needed out of these plastic clothes and out of the sterile, oppressive room, but he also needed to stay here and hold Harry’s tiny, bony hand because he felt that the moment he stepped away, that would be the end. He had to spend every single moment he could with Harry now because he had missed seventeen, almost eighteen, years with his only child and Harry was now so sick that if this transfusion didn’t work then he would never get a moment more with him.
“Tony, take a deep breath.” Steve coached him, standing away from him, not touching him, but still a steady presence at his shoulder.
“I can’t. He wants to die. It has to work because I can’t lose him now that I’ve found him.”
“There must be something else we can try if it fails again.” Pepper said softly, hopefully.
Tony swallowed and said nothing. He wouldn’t disrespect Harry by going against his wishes. He wouldn’t force Harry to carry on living with such pain, on medication that was so strong that it was also killing him. It wasn’t fair. He felt sick and he had to try hard not to clench Harry’s hand in his own.
“Obie knew.” He said, focusing on something, anything, else to distract himself from his dying son. “If I could kill him over again, I would.”
“I should have set someone to going through all of his papers and documents.” Pepper said sadly. “Perhaps there was something in them that would have led us to Harry.”
“That was my decision.” Tony said, feeling wretched for ordering all of Obie’s stuff to be incinerated without looking through any of it. He’d been too hurt at the time, but now, almost a decade on, Obie was still betraying him in the worst ways possible. “I might have known him from two thousand and eight if I’d just looked through those papers. He’d have been eight. I could have taken him in when he was only eight.”
Tony bowed his head and rested it on the fist of the hand that wasn’t holding Harry’s.
“I should have known him from birth!” He carried on angrily, sitting back up. “Obie should never have been the one contacted about it! He should never have been the one to make those decisions on my behalf!”
“He was trying to kill you off, wasn’t he?” Natasha asked and Tony turned to stare at her. “I just mean that it makes sense that he wanted Harry out of the way. He wanted to take over Stark Industries after he’d had you killed. He couldn’t have your confirmed biological child muscling in on your company or your assets when he wanted it all for himself, so he made sure that Harry couldn’t legally lay claim to any of it and he put in that clause about never contacting you for anything so that you’d never find out.”
Tony couldn’t breathe and he turned back to Harry, holding his hand with both of his own.
“It means that Stane was planning to have you killed as far back as nineteen-ninety-nine.” Natasha pointed out, but it wasn’t needed. Tony had already worked that out for himself.
The fresh betrayal ripped through him like a set of claws, but Tony refused to acknowledge the hurt. Harry had to come first.
“I can’t even be glad that he contacted me.” Tony whispered into the oppressive room. “Not like this. Not because he needs blood and bone marrow because he’s so sick that he…” He shook his head, he didn’t need to say it. Everyone in that room had heard the same conversation as he had; they knew that Harry was dying. That he might still die, either from the procedure itself or after, if it failed, and he was euthanised. He couldn’t bear the thought of it, but he had agreed because he didn’t want to be the one who forced Harry to keep living when he didn’t want to. He didn’t want Harry to hate him, or to spend any energy on hating him when he needed it to keep living.
The door knocked so quietly that Tony wondered if it was a figment of his imagination, but a nurse in yellow poked her head around the door. It was the bright, smiley one named Claire.
“Mister Stark? The team are ready for you if you’re ready.” She told him.
Tony trembled. Not at the thought of the donation process, which he knew wouldn’t be a walk in the park, the process was usually harder on the donor than the recipient, he knew, and he didn’t care about any of that. He couldn’t bring himself to leave Harry if this was it…if they took Harry to receive the stem cells straight after he donated them, then this could be the last he saw of his son alive. He swallowed hard, trying to remove his hands from Harry’s.
Pepper’s hand on his back helped and he inhaled deeply, bracing himself for what was to happen next. He had to leave Harry to help him. He prayed to a god that he didn’t believe in that this worked. That Harry came out of this and recovered. He had to recover. He had to come through it. He just had to.
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