# Tony Stark's Malibu Mansion – Harry's Bedroom – 6:47 AM PST
The morning light was still soft and hesitant when LILY's voice filtered through Harry's bedroom speakers with the gentle precision of someone who'd been calculating optimal wake-up protocols for weeks and had finally determined the exact combination of volume, tone, and timing that would rouse a sleeping child without causing unnecessary distress.
"Good morning, Harry," she said, her voice carrying warmth that somehow managed to sound both maternal and respectfully formal—a balance she'd been perfecting since her initialization. "Happy birthday, sweetheart. You're seven years old today."
Harry made a sound that could generously be described as half-awake acknowledgment and considerably less generously as the verbal equivalent of a question mark wrapped in blankets. His dark hair—already achieving impressive bedhead angles that would make physicists question gravity—was visible above covers that suggested he'd spent the night engaged in complex geometric experiments involving optimal sleeping positions.
"'m sleeping," he mumbled with the wounded dignity of someone whose circadian rhythms were being violated by well-meaning artificial intelligence. "Important research. Dream analysis. Scientific method requires... adequate rest periods..."
"I'm aware," LILY replied with gentle amusement that carried undertones suggesting she'd anticipated this exact response and had prepared accordingly. "However, I've been instructed to inform you that there are people downstairs who've been awake for approximately three hours preparing what Tony describes as 'the most elaborate birthday celebration in the history of seven-year-olds' and Pepper describes as 'organized chaos with excessive enthusiasm and insufficient adult supervision.'"
One green eye cracked open, followed by the other, as Harry's formidable intelligence processed this information through the fog of interrupted sleep and early morning cognitive function that was still loading its complete operational parameters.
"People?" he repeated, pushing himself up on his elbows with movements that suggested his body was operating on different time zones than his brain. "What people? It's barely dawn. Normal people are still asleep. Rational people respect circadian rhythm optimization and appropriate rest schedules."
"Normal and rational may not apply to the people currently decorating your living room," LILY observed with digital diplomacy. "Though I should mention that Fawkes has been supervising their efforts with what I can only describe as maternal approval mixed with occasional corrections when color coordination failed to meet her aesthetic standards."
Harry sat up fully now, his sleep-fogged brain beginning to engage with the implications of what LILY was describing. His bedroom—which Tony had designed to provide optimal sleeping conditions including blackout curtains, temperature regulation, and acoustic dampening that could probably withstand small explosions—had protected him from whatever chaos was apparently occurring elsewhere in the mansion.
"LILY," he said with the careful precision of someone whose intellectual capabilities were coming online in stages, "exactly what kind of decorating are we discussing? Because I specifically requested minimal fuss for my birthday. Simple celebration. Cake. Perhaps some intellectually stimulating conversation. Not..."
He trailed off, his analytical mind clearly filling in blanks about what Tony Stark's idea of "minimal fuss" might actually involve when given three hours of unsupervised preparation time and apparently willing accomplices.
"You did request minimal fuss," LILY confirmed with the tone of someone delivering news that would not be received with enthusiasm. "However, I should note that your definition of 'minimal' and Tony's interpretation of that term appear to have diverged significantly during the planning stages. Also, Sirius may have contributed suggestions involving what he described as 'proper birthday tradition' and Remus attempted to moderate but was overruled by democratic vote."
Harry pushed back his covers with the resigned determination of someone who'd learned that resistance to Tony Stark's celebratory impulses was futile and probably counterproductive to family harmony.
"Right," he said, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand with the careful movements of someone still coordinating motor functions with cognitive awareness. "I suppose I should investigate whatever birthday catastrophe has manifested in my living room. Though I maintain that proper celebration should involve reasonable sleeping schedules and respect for biological rest requirements."
"Your protest has been noted," LILY replied with warmth that suggested she found his morning grumpiness both endearing and slightly amusing. "Though I should warn you—the decorating includes elements that Pepper described as 'excessive even by Stark standards' and what Sirius called 'barely adequate for proper birthday magnificence.'"
Harry climbed out of bed—a custom-designed piece of furniture that probably cost more than most people's cars and incorporated technology that monitored sleep patterns, adjusted temperature automatically, and could probably achieve sentience if given proper encouragement—and padded toward his bathroom with the shuffling gait of someone whose brain was awake but whose body hadn't received the memo yet.
"Also," LILY added as Harry splashed water on his face with movements suggesting this was complex science requiring careful consideration, "you might want to prepare yourself emotionally. I believe there may be presents involved. Possibly excessive presents. Definitely presents that suggest multiple adults competed to demonstrate affection through material acquisitions and elaborate gift-giving."
Harry paused mid-splash, water dripping from his face as he processed this information with growing concern about what "excessive presents" might mean when the people involved included a billionaire genius, an exonerated aristocrat with newly restored financial resources, and various other adults whose gift-giving judgment was questionable at best.
"How excessive?" he asked with the careful tone of someone who suspected the answer would require psychological preparation.
"Let's simply say," LILY replied diplomatically, "that Pepper attempted to impose reasonable limits and was outvoted by a coalition of adults whose enthusiasm exceeded their common sense. Though I should note that Remus attempted to provide voice of reason and was described by Tony as 'adorably optimistic about restraining people who've been denied proper birthday celebrations for too long.'"
Harry dried his face with a towel that was probably made from Egyptian cotton worth more than its weight in gold, then studied his reflection in a mirror that could probably double as a computer interface if properly motivated.
His dark hair was attempting to achieve new heights of gravitational defiance, his green eyes were still slightly foggy with sleep, and he was wearing pajamas that featured periodic table elements arranged in patterns that suggested both education and comfort as design priorities.
"Right then," he said to his reflection with the kind of determined acceptance that suggested he was preparing for significant social performance. "Birthday celebration. Excessive decorating. Probably inappropriate gift-giving. I can handle this with appropriate grace and gratitude even if my preference would be sleeping for another three hours and celebrating with quiet dignity instead of whatever organized chaos Tony's unleashed."
He changed into clothes that were casual but neat—jeans that actually fit his small frame, a shirt that proclaimed "Science: It's Like Magic But Real" in cheerful blue letters, and sneakers that cost more than most people spent on formal footwear but looked comfortable enough for running if birthday celebrations became too overwhelming.
"You look very nice," LILY said with maternal approval as Harry finished dressing. "Though you might want to do something about your hair. It's achieving angles that suggest either recent electrocution or deliberate rebellion against conventional grooming standards."
Harry attempted to flatten his hair with both hands, achieved minimal success, and eventually gave up with the resigned acceptance of someone who'd learned that some battles couldn't be won through sheer determination.
"My hair has its own agenda," he informed LILY with dignity. "I've made peace with that reality. Besides, I inherited this particular feature from Dad, and Tony's never managed to control his hair either despite probably spending ridiculous amounts of money on expensive products that promise miracles and deliver modest improvements at best."
"A fair assessment," LILY agreed. "Shall I inform the assembled gathering that you're awake and approaching?"
Harry paused with his hand on the bedroom door, his analytical mind clearly working through social dynamics and optimal approaches to group interactions when he was still achieving full cognitive function.
"Give me thirty seconds," he said finally. "I need to prepare mentally for whatever excessive celebration has manifested. Also, is there coffee? Because if I'm expected to demonstrate appropriate enthusiasm and social grace before seven in the morning, caffeine might be medically necessary."
"Tony has prepared something he's calling 'birthday breakfast coffee' which I suspect violates several responsible parenting guidelines regarding caffeine consumption for children," LILY replied with what sounded like digital disapproval mixed with recognition that some battles weren't worth fighting. "Though Pepper has also prepared hot chocolate as a more age-appropriate alternative if you'd prefer avoiding Tony's questionable beverage experiments."
"Hot chocolate sounds excellent," Harry said with relief. "Preferably the kind that doesn't require explaining to concerned adults why a seven-year-old is consuming beverages that could probably power small aircraft."
He opened his bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, immediately noticing that something had fundamentally changed about the mansion's usual elegant simplicity. The air carried scents that suggested baking, coffee, and what might have been bacon achieving optimal crispiness through application of heat and possibly arcane culinary magic.
But it was the sound that made him pause—voices filtering up from downstairs, familiar and warm and carrying the particular quality of people who were trying to maintain surprise despite obvious excitement that threatened to compromise stealth operations.
Harry moved toward the stairs with careful steps, his naturally quiet footfalls making almost no sound on floors that probably cost more per square foot than most people's entire homes. As he descended, the living room gradually came into view, and his brain required several seconds to process the scope of what had been accomplished while he slept.
The transformation was complete, overwhelming, and somehow both excessive and perfect simultaneously—exactly the kind of contradiction that defined everything about his family's approach to celebration.
Streamers in blue and silver spiraled from ceiling fixtures with mathematical precision that suggested either Tony's engineering background or possibly JARVIS's intervention in ensuring aesthetic consistency. Balloons—apparently arranged according to some complex color theory that balanced visual impact with sophisticated restraint—floated at carefully calculated heights throughout the space. A banner proclaiming "HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY HARRY" stretched across one wall in letters that managed to be both celebratory and elegant, probably hand-painted by someone with actual artistic talent rather than purchased from generic party supply stores.
But it was the people gathered in the living room who made Harry stop entirely on the stairs, his analytical mind temporarily overwhelmed by the emotional impact of seeing everyone who mattered assembled specifically to celebrate his existence.
Tony stood near the kitchen entrance wearing jeans and a t-shirt that proclaimed "World's Most Awesome Dad" in letters that suggested either Pepper's gift-giving sense of humor or Tony's complete lack of shame about displaying parental pride. His hair was already achieving impressive disorder despite the early hour, and he was holding a coffee mug that probably contained enough caffeine to violate international beverage control treaties.
Beside him, Pepper looked elegant even in casual weekend clothes, her red hair pulled back in a style that suggested she'd been awake for hours coordinating logistics and probably preventing Tony from implementing ideas that crossed lines between "enthusiastic celebration" and "potential fire hazard."
Sirius sprawled on the couch with the kind of relaxed confidence that suggested he'd spent the morning contributing to decorating chaos and was deeply satisfied with the results. His dark hair fell around his aristocratic features in waves that somehow looked deliberately casual, and his gray eyes held warmth mixed with barely contained mischief that promised the day would include activities Pepper would probably not entirely approve of.
Remus sat in an armchair nearby, looking considerably more rested than he had upon first arrival but still carrying that particular quality of someone who'd spent years being surprised by good things and was still adjusting to having them be normal occurrences. His sandy hair with its premature silver was neatly combed, his clothes were casual but well-maintained, and his amber eyes held affection mixed with the kind of careful attention that suggested he was cataloguing every detail of this moment for future treasured memories.
Happy stood near the windows with his characteristic solid presence, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that suggested either a birthday-appropriate attempt at festivity or complete surrender to California's casual dress codes. His expression carried the satisfied air of someone who'd been tasked with security for a birthday party and had taken those responsibilities seriously while also managing to enjoy the preparations.
Rhodey, in civilian clothes that still somehow suggested military precision, leaned against the wall with a grin that indicated he'd been entertained by whatever chaos had unfolded during preparation and was looking forward to whatever additional entertainment the day would provide.
And Penny stood near Sirius with elegant composure that hadn't prevented her from wearing a party hat tilted at a jaunty angle, suggesting she'd been drafted into decorating activities and had participated with grace that survived being covered in glitter and possibly streamers.
"Surprise!" they shouted in ragged unison as Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, their voices carrying genuine enthusiasm mixed with the slightly self-conscious awareness of adults participating in traditions that were usually the province of significantly less sophisticated celebrations.
Harry stood frozen, his green eyes wide as he took in the assembled group, the decorations, the obvious effort that had gone into creating something special specifically for him. His analytical mind was temporarily offline, overwhelmed by emotional input that exceeded his usual processing parameters for group interactions and demonstrations of affection.
"You—" he started, his voice catching slightly as he processed the magnitude of what they'd done. "You did all this for me? While I was sleeping?"
"Kid," Tony said, setting down his coffee mug and moving forward with the kind of movement that suggested parental instinct overriding sophisticated adult dignity, "you turn seven once. Only once. This required appropriate celebration involving excessive decorating, probably too much sugar, and definitely more presents than Pepper thinks is reasonable."
"I objected multiple times," Pepper confirmed with dry amusement. "I was systematically overruled by people who claimed that first birthdays with family required establishing proper traditions of excessive gift-giving and organized chaos."
Sirius was grinning with pure delight, clearly enjoying Harry's overwhelmed expression. "Happy birthday, pup. Welcome to being seven. It's marginally better than being six, though still several years away from really interesting ages like eleven."
"Eleven being when you start school," Remus added with gentle warmth, "though I suspect your education is already considerably more advanced than what most eleven-year-olds encounter during first year."
Harry was still processing, his formidable intelligence temporarily derailed by emotions that didn't submit to logical analysis or systematic categorization. "I said minimal fuss," he managed finally, his voice carrying wounded dignity mixed with growing appreciation. "Simple celebration. Nothing excessive."
"And we took that under advisement," Tony replied cheerfully, "then immediately ignored it because you're seven, you're brilliant, you're ours, and we're celebrating properly whether you think it's necessary or not."
"Besides," Sirius added, "Remus and I missed your first six birthdays. We've got catching up to do, and we're planning to be excessively enthusiastic about every single one from now until you're old enough to be properly embarrassed by parental figures who refuse to act their age."
"I'm already properly embarrassed," Harry said, but his eyes were bright with tears that suggested the overwhelming emotions were considerably more positive than his words indicated.
Fawkes, who'd been perched elegantly on her golden stand near the windows, trilled with musical warmth that seemed to fill the entire living room with supernatural harmony and approval for the gathering that had assembled to celebrate someone she'd chosen as worthy of phoenix partnership.
*Happy birthday, Harry,* her crystalline voice echoed in all their minds with warmth that carried overtones of maternal affection and fierce pride. *You are loved by remarkable people who've made considerable effort to demonstrate that love through excessive decoration and probable sugar consumption. I suggest accepting their affection with grace even if their approach to celebration seems somewhat overwhelming to your preference for dignified restraint.*
Harry laughed—a sound that was half sob and entirely joy—and suddenly found himself moving forward without conscious decision, his small frame colliding with Tony's solid presence in a hug that somehow included Sirius and Remus joining in from both sides, creating a tangle of family that was warm and chaotic and absolutely perfect despite violating every principle of personal space and dignified social interaction.
"Thank you," he whispered against Tony's shirt, his voice muffled but carrying profound gratitude for people who'd made his seventh birthday something extraordinary instead of just another day marked on calendars. "Thank you for making this special. Even if the decorating is excessive and probably violated my specifications regarding appropriate celebration parameters."
"Kid," Tony said, his voice rough with emotion as he held his son close, "your specifications were terrible. This is much better."
"Definitely better," Sirius agreed, his hand gentle on Harry's dark hair. "Though I should warn you—the decorating is just the beginning. We've got a whole day planned involving activities that will probably exhaust everyone involved and definitely include things Pepper will describe as 'questionable judgment regarding age-appropriate entertainment.'"
"I've already prepared my objections," Pepper confirmed with warm amusement. "Though I've accepted that today I'm outnumbered by people whose enthusiasm exceeds their common sense."
As the group hug dissolved into more manageable individual affection and Harry was passed around for birthday wishes from each assembled family member, the living room filled with warmth that transcended expensive decorations or elaborate celebrations—the kind of warmth that came from people who'd found each other despite impossible circumstances and had decided that some things were worth celebrating with excessive enthusiasm and complete disregard for restraint.
"Now," Tony said once everyone had delivered appropriate birthday greetings and Harry had been sufficiently hugged by all available adults, "presents first, or breakfast? I'm inclined toward presents because I'm excited about what I got you and want to see your face, but Pepper insists proper nutrition should precede material acquisitions."
"Breakfast," Pepper said firmly. "With actual nutritious components rather than whatever sugar-based catastrophe you were planning to call 'birthday pancakes.'"
"They were going to have fruit," Tony protested.
"Chocolate chips are not fruit," Pepper replied with the patient authority of someone who'd spent years managing Tony's nutritional creativity.
Harry was grinning now, his earlier embarrassment about excessive celebration giving way to genuine happiness about being surrounded by people who cared enough to argue about breakfast timing and appropriate gift-giving sequences.
"Breakfast sounds excellent," he said diplomatically. "Though I should mention that if Tony's birthday pancakes include excessive chocolate, I'm willing to make nutritional exceptions for special occasions."
"That's my boy," Tony said with satisfaction. "Pepper, the child has spoken. Chocolate pancakes are scientifically necessary for proper birthday celebration."
"With fruit," Pepper insisted.
"With fruit," Tony agreed cheerfully. "Possibly even vegetables if you're feeling particularly ambitious about nutritional balance."
As the group migrated toward the kitchen where breakfast preparations were apparently already well underway, Harry found himself walking between Tony and Sirius while Remus followed close behind, and he felt something settle in his chest that he'd never quite experienced before—the absolute certainty that he belonged exactly where he was, surrounded by people who'd chosen him as completely as he'd chosen them.
Seven years old.
Surrounded by family who loved him.
Protected by a phoenix who'd deemed him worthy.
And about to eat probably excessive amounts of chocolate pancakes while opening presents that would definitely violate Pepper's reasonable gift-giving limits.
It was, Harry decided, exactly what birthdays should be.
—
# Tony Stark's Malibu Mansion – Kitchen and Dining Area – 7:23 AM PST
The kitchen had been transformed into what could only be described as a carefully choreographed breakfast production that somehow involved three separate cooking stations, enough food to feed a small army, and Tony wielding a spatula with the same focused intensity he usually reserved for arc reactor calibrations.
"The secret," he was explaining to Harry with the authority of someone who'd spent approximately fifteen minutes researching optimal pancake preparation before deciding he was now an expert, "is getting the griddle to exactly the right temperature. Too hot, and you get burned exteriors with raw centers. Too cold, and you get sad, anemic pancakes that nobody wants to eat."
"You're describing basic heat transfer principles," Harry observed from his seat at the kitchen island, watching the proceedings with obvious amusement despite his earlier protests about excessive celebration. His dark hair was still achieving impressive angles, and he'd acquired a party hat at some point—possibly through Sirius's intervention—that sat at a rakish angle suggesting both festivity and mathematical precision in its positioning.
"I'm describing *advanced* heat transfer principles applied to breakfast optimization," Tony corrected, flipping a pancake with theatrical flourish that suggested he'd been practicing. The result was actually rather impressive—golden brown, perfectly circular, and landing exactly where he'd aimed it. "See? Expertise."
"One successful flip does not constitute statistically significant expertise," Harry replied with the kind of deadpan delivery that made Remus choke on his coffee while trying not to laugh.
Pepper was managing the more practical aspects of breakfast with her characteristic efficiency—scrambled eggs that actually looked edible, bacon achieving optimal crispiness in the oven, fresh fruit arranged with aesthetic consideration that suggested someone cared about presentation even during chaotic family celebrations. Her movements carried the focused competence of someone who'd spent years ensuring that Tony Stark's various enthusiasms didn't result in either property damage or food poisoning.
Sirius had claimed responsibility for beverages, which meant there was an elaborate coffee station that looked like it belonged in an expensive café, plus hot chocolate for Harry that came with approximately seventeen different topping options including marshmallows, whipped cream, and what appeared to be actual shaved chocolate that probably cost more per ounce than most people's breakfast budgets.
"This is excessive," Harry observed, studying the hot chocolate station with the analytical attention of someone cataloguing exactly how many ways his family had interpreted "minimal fuss" to mean "create an elaborate production that requires industrial-scale ingredient procurement."
"This is *appropriate*," Sirius corrected, adding what was probably an unreasonable amount of whipped cream to Harry's hot chocolate with the satisfied air of someone corrupting youth through sugar-based bribery. "You're seven. Seven requires proper celebration including beverages that would make nutritionists weep but make children very happy."
"I'm not sure excessive sugar constitutes happiness," Harry said, though he accepted the hot chocolate with obvious appreciation. "Though I admit this looks remarkably well-constructed for a beverage that violates multiple dietary guidelines."
Remus had positioned himself near the fruit station where he could both contribute to meal preparation and maintain conversational proximity to the family chaos unfolding around him. His amber eyes held warmth mixed with the kind of careful attention that suggested he was memorizing every detail of this morning for future treasured recollection.
"You know," he said, slicing strawberries with the precise movements of someone who'd spent years teaching and had learned that even simple tasks could be opportunities for demonstrating careful attention to detail, "when James turned seven, his birthday celebration involved experimental spell-casting that nearly set fire to his parents' garden shed, followed by an elaborate apology that somehow made the situation worse."
"How does an apology make things worse?" Harry asked with genuine curiosity.
"By including a demonstration of improved fire-prevention charms that worked perfectly until James got distracted and accidentally transfigured his mother's prize roses into rather alarmed-looking chickens," Sirius supplied with obvious delight at the memory. "Euphemia Potter was remarkably patient about magical accidents, but she drew firm lines about poultry appearing in her garden without permission."
"So basically," Tony observed, sliding another perfect pancake onto the growing stack, "Harry's already more responsible at seven than his father was, given that he's only creating interdimensional rifts in controlled laboratory environments rather than transfiguring livestock in residential gardens."
"The interdimensional rifts were accidents," Harry protested with wounded dignity. "And we closed them very efficiently using proper safety protocols."
"'Very efficiently' being defined as 'before they consumed significant portions of the workshop,'" Remus added dryly. "Which admittedly represents considerable improvement over James's approach to magical experimentation."
Happy had taken up position near the dining table, ostensibly helping arrange place settings but actually positioned where he could maintain visual oversight of entry points while participating in family conversation—the eternal balance of professional security consciousness with personal investment in people he'd come to care about.
"Boss," he said, gesturing toward the elaborate spread of food that was rapidly covering every available surface, "I think you might have overestimated how much breakfast food eight people can consume."
"There's no such thing as too much breakfast food," Tony replied with absolute conviction. "Leftovers are tomorrow's victory breakfast. Besides, Harry's turning seven—this requires abundance."
"Everything requires abundance according to your celebration philosophy," Pepper observed with fond exasperation. "Though I admit the pancakes are turning out better than your previous attempts at elaborate breakfast production."
"That's because I've been studying optimal cooking techniques," Tony said with obvious pride. "JARVIS provided comprehensive analysis of heat distribution patterns, ingredient ratios, and timing protocols. Also, I may have watched approximately seventeen cooking tutorial videos last night while everyone else was sleeping."
"You stayed up researching pancake preparation?" Harry asked with the tone of someone who wasn't sure whether to be touched or concerned about Tony's priorities.
"You're seven," Tony replied as if this explained everything. "Seven requires perfect pancakes. I was simply ensuring optimal birthday breakfast through proper preparation and obsessive attention to detail."
Rhodey, who'd been quietly assembling a plate of food that suggested military-trained efficiency in resource acquisition, looked up with a grin that indicated he was enjoying watching his best friend demonstrate domesticity through complex breakfast engineering.
"Tony Stark, obsessive about pancakes," he observed with obvious amusement. "Never thought I'd see the day when weapons development took second place to breakfast optimization."
"Weapons development is important," Tony agreed, flipping another pancake with practiced ease. "But so is making sure your kid has excellent birthday pancakes. It's about priorities, Rhodes. Something you'd understand if you ever stopped being married to your career and actually developed personal relationships requiring breakfast coordination."
"I have personal relationships," Rhodey protested. "I just conduct them with people who don't require me to cook elaborate meals before seven in the morning."
Fawkes, who'd been observing the breakfast chaos from her perch near the windows, trilled with musical amusement that seemed to suggest she found the entire production both endearing and slightly ridiculous in ways that only beings who'd witnessed centuries of human behavior could fully appreciate.
*The child is loved by people who express affection through excessive breakfast preparation,* her crystalline voice observed with warmth that carried overtones of approval. *There are considerably worse problems to have in life than family members who become obsessive about optimal pancake construction.*
"Thank you, Fawkes," Harry said with obvious gratitude mixed with amusement at his phoenix's assessment of family dynamics. "Though I maintain that normal birthday celebrations probably involve less elaborate food preparation and more reasonable portion sizes."
"Normal is overrated," Sirius declared, setting Harry's elaborate hot chocolate in front of him with obvious satisfaction. "Extraordinary people deserve extraordinary celebrations, and you, my dear godson, are demonstrably extraordinary even by the elevated standards of people who casually redesign weapons technology before breakfast."
"The weapons redesign was after breakfast," Harry corrected. "I'm not completely inconsiderate of optimal timing for creative innovation."
The kitchen filled with comfortable chaos as the assembled family moved food from preparation areas to the dining table with the kind of coordinated efficiency that suggested this was becoming familiar routine rather than special occasion awkwardness. Plates were distributed, serving dishes arranged, and within minutes they were all settled around a table laden with enough food to feed significantly more than eight people.
Tony sat at the head of the table with Harry beside him, while Sirius and Remus claimed seats that provided maximum proximity to their godson while allowing them to participate in whatever conversational chaos developed. Pepper had positioned herself where she could both enjoy breakfast and maintain strategic oversight of proceedings, while Happy and Rhodey filled in remaining spaces with the comfortable ease of people who'd become part of extended family through years of professional relationships transforming into genuine affection.
"Right," Tony said, raising his coffee mug in what was clearly intended as a toast despite the hour and the beverage involved, "to Harry Potter-Stark. Seven years old today. Brilliant, creative, ethically minded, and remarkably patient with adults who express affection through excessive celebration and probable sugar overload. May this year bring continued innovation, fewer interdimensional rifts, and the kind of happiness that comes from being surrounded by people who think you're absolutely perfect."
"Here, here," Sirius agreed immediately, raising his own coffee with enthusiasm.
"To Harry," Remus added with gentle warmth that carried deeper emotion than his simple words suggested.
"To the kid," Happy said with gruff affection.
"To family," Pepper contributed with a smile that suggested genuine satisfaction at watching Tony's transformation from workaholic genius to devoted father who stayed up researching pancake techniques.
"To not accidentally destroying reality through experimental physics," Rhodey added with a grin.
Harry was looking around the table with those remarkable green eyes that seemed to hold more emotional depth than most children possessed at seven, his expression cycling through embarrassment, gratitude, and pure happiness that had no complicated qualifications or analytical frameworks—just the simple joy of being surrounded by people who loved him completely.
"To family," he echoed quietly, his voice catching slightly as he raised his hot chocolate in response to their various toasts. "Thank you. For everything. For making today special, for staying up researching pancakes, for excessive decorating, for—for choosing me."
"Kid," Tony said, his own voice rough with emotion, "we didn't choose you because you're brilliant or because you can redesign technology or because you've bonded with a phoenix. We chose you because you're *you*. The brilliance and the phoenix are just excellent bonuses."
"Though the phoenix is admittedly a very impressive bonus," Sirius added with characteristic inability to let emotional moments remain completely serious. "Not many seven-year-olds can claim supernatural firebird companionship."
Before Harry could formulate a response to this—probably involving statistics about phoenix bonding frequency among children or some other analytical deflection from emotional vulnerability—JARVIS's voice cut through the comfortable family chaos with the kind of alert precision that meant something was about to complicate their carefully planned birthday celebration.
"Sir," JARVIS said, his cultured British accent carrying undertones that suggested he'd calculated multiple variables and didn't like any of the resulting scenarios, "I'm detecting an approaching vehicle matching Mr. Stane's personal car. Based on current trajectory and speed, he should arrive at the front gate in approximately forty-five seconds."
The kitchen went completely silent except for the sound of bacon cooling on serving platters and coffee cooling in mugs that had been raised mid-toast.
Tony's expression cycled through surprise, calculation, and what might have been the early stages of irritation at having family celebrations interrupted by corporate visits during what should have been obviously personal time.
"Obie?" he said, setting down his coffee mug with careful precision that suggested he was working very hard to maintain calm despite being annoyed. "It's seven-thirty in the morning on my son's birthday. What the hell is he doing here?"
"Unknown, sir," JARVIS replied with the diplomatic neutrality of someone who had opinions but recognized they might not be appropriate to share during family breakfast. "Though I should note that his vehicle appears to contain what scanners suggest may be a gift-wrapped package of some kind."
"A gift," Pepper repeated, her expression shifting to something more professionally focused as she processed implications of Obadiah Stane appearing unannounced at Tony's residence on Harry's birthday with what appeared to be an offering designed to demonstrate personal interest in family celebrations. "That's... unexpected."
Sirius had gone very still in his chair, his gray eyes sharp with the kind of tactical assessment that suggested years of surviving complex political situations had taught him to recognize when social visits might carry agendas beyond surface courtesy.
"Is this normal?" he asked quietly, his voice pitched for Tony's ears but carrying enough that others could hear if they were paying attention. "Your business partner making unannounced social calls during family time?"
"Not particularly," Tony admitted, already standing and moving toward the living room with movements that suggested he was calculating how to handle this situation without either causing offense or allowing interruption to completely derail birthday celebrations. "Obie usually calls first. This is... unusual."
"We should probably hide anything obviously magical," Remus said with practical calm that came from years of navigating between magical and Muggle worlds. "If he's not aware of Harry's capabilities beyond technical innovation, maintaining that separation might be advisable until we understand his visit's purpose."
The family immediately shifted into coordinated action with the kind of efficient teamwork that suggested they'd developed nonverbal communication protocols through shared crisis management—each person automatically gravitating toward tasks that matched their particular strengths.
Harry grabbed his party hat—which featured small LED lights that were probably enchanted to respond to his mood—and stashed it behind a kitchen cabinet where it wouldn't be immediately visible. Fawkes, with the kind of supernatural awareness that came from being an immortal magical creature, simply vanished in a burst of flame that left no trace except slight warmth in the air and the faint scent of cinnamon.
*I will observe from alternate locations,* her voice echoed briefly in their minds with practical recognition that phoenixes tended to raise questions among people unfamiliar with magical creatures. *Though I maintain monitoring proximity should circumstances require intervention.*
Sirius had moved with aristocratic grace toward the living room, his hands casually adjusting decorations that might have had magical elements—streamers that moved in patterns without breeze, balloons that floated without helium, small enchanted lights that responded to proximity with color changes. Within seconds, everything looked festive but plausibly mundane, the kind of elaborate celebration that could have been achieved through expensive party planners and theatrical supply companies rather than practical magic.
Remus was gathering books from various surfaces where Harry had been reading—several texts on magical theory that would have been difficult to explain to someone expecting children to read age-appropriate literature about dinosaurs or space exploration rather than advanced Arithmancy and theoretical dimensional physics.
Pepper had shifted entirely into professional mode, her expression becoming the carefully neutral competence she employed during corporate negotiations when she needed to be simultaneously welcoming and strategically cautious.
"Tony," she said quietly, moving beside him as they approached the front entrance, "do you want me to handle this? I can be polite, accept whatever gift he's brought, and facilitate a brief visit that doesn't interrupt family celebration."
"No," Tony said with decisive firmness that suggested he'd made calculations and reached conclusions about maintaining control over his personal space and family time. "This is my house, my son's birthday, and my family gathering. Obie can come in, wish Harry happy birthday, and then leave so we can get back to excessive pancake consumption and probable gift-opening chaos."
---
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