Chapter Text
Harry’s palms were sweating, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t get nervous often—not anymore, not after everything he’d been through. But today was different.
‘What could Harry Potter possibly have to be nervous about?’ you might ask.
Well, he was about to meet his father for the first time.
Yes, his father.
But wait! Isn’t his father dead? Hasn’t he been dead for 31 years, almost Harry’s entire life?’
Turns out, that was wrong. Very, very wrong.
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Flashback – 7 years ago – 2005
The faint bubbling of the cauldron was the only sound in the small room. The potion’s surface shimmered, shifting between hues of silver and gold as tendrils of steam curled into the air. Harry wrinkled his nose at the earthy, metallic scent that filled the space.
“Hermione,” he said, squinting at the parchment in his hands, “are you sure we brewed this right?”
“Of course, I’m sure!” Hermione replied, exasperation tinging her voice. She adjusted her bushy hair, which had been tied back in a messy ponytail to keep it out of the ingredients. “We followed every step of the recipe precisely. And look—mine turned out perfectly!”
She proudly held up her own parchment, which displayed her heritage in an intricate family tree. Names glowed in various colors: black for Muggles, red for Squibs, green for witches and wizards, and blue for Hermione herself.
Harry’s parchment, however, wasn’t glowing. It was sitting limply in his hands, the bold red letters scrawled across the page catching his eye like a blaring siren.
“Hermione,” he said again, his voice quieter this time, “this has to be wrong.”
Hermione sighed and crossed the room, peering at the parchment over Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. We used the same potion—” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening as she read the name that had Harry frozen in place.
“No… no, that can’t be right,” she whispered, grabbing the parchment from him. Her eyes scanned the list again and again, but the name didn’t change. Right there, above Harry’s name in blue and next to Lily’s in green, was a name written in vivid red:
Anthony Edward Stark.
Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Harry… I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked as she looked up at him, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
Harry didn’t move. He stood there, stiff as a board, staring at the parchment as if willing it to change.
“It has to be a mistake,” he whispered hoarsely, but the tremor in his voice betrayed the desperation in his denial.
Hermione pulled him into a tight hug. “Harry, I’m so sorry,” she said again, her voice thick with emotion.
For a moment, Harry didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he lifted his arms and hugged her back, clinging to her as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.
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Later, long after Hermione had left and the potion’s cauldron had been cleaned and stowed away, Harry sat alone in his room, the parchment spread out on the table before him.
It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. How could his mother have kept something like this from him? Why had she kept it from him? And why, after everything he’d been through, did he have to find out like this—with no chance to ask her for answers?
His gaze drifted back to the name on the parchment.
Anthony Edward Stark.
The name meant nothing to him. He had no idea who this man was, and yet, according to the potion, this stranger was his father.
Harry’s fists clenched. He didn’t want another father. He already had one—the man who had raised him for the first year of his life, who had sacrificed everything to protect him.
James Potter was his father.
And yet…
Harry stared at the parchment, the bright red letters taunting him with their finality.
Somewhere deep inside, a tiny voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to know more.