# Chalet Edelweiss – Dining Room – 7:47 PM CET
Dinner had been a surprisingly elaborate affair—Tony had apparently arranged for a private chef to prepare meals during their stay, because even on vacation the man couldn't quite manage "roughing it" in ways that didn't involve truffle oil, wine pairings, and what appeared to be architectural arrangements of vegetables that were too pretty to eat but everyone was eating them anyway.
The table looked like a Swiss food magazine had violently exploded across it in the best possible way, and everyone had gathered around with the comfortable dysfunction of a family that had somehow assembled itself from billionaire genius with attachment issues, ex-convict aristocrat with authority issues, werewolf scholar with self-worth issues, corporate executive with patience issues, and child prodigy with *all* the issues.
Harry and Hermione had been reluctantly separated after nearly five hours of continuous study—practically dragged apart like magnets, or teenagers from their phones, or Tony from any expensive piece of technology—when Hermione's parents arrived precisely at six to collect their daughter for promised family time and probably some concerned conversations about whether this level of academic intensity was *healthy* for a seven-year-old.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't. They were doing it anyway.
The girl had departed with obvious reluctance, arms full of borrowed books and a promise to return tomorrow for continued theoretical debates about things that would make normal seven-year-olds weep with boredom and possibly file complaints with child services.
"She's remarkable," Tony said once the Grangers had left, watching through the window as they walked back to their chalet. He pointed with his fork, which still had some kind of cheese situation on it. "Smart, focused, completely unintimidated by material that would challenge most adults with actual degrees and tenure and probably substance abuse problems from the stress. I can see why Harry's so excited about finding someone who doesn't immediately run away screaming when he starts talking."
"She's exactly what he needs," Pepper agreed, serving herself some kind of potato thing that smelled like happiness and calories. "Someone his own age who can actually keep up with his intellectual pace without developing a nervous tic or a drinking problem. Most kids would be bored or intimidated by the way he talks—"
"She actively *encourages* it," Tony finished, gesturing enthusiastically. "It's beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful. Like watching two mad scientists find each other at a convention. You know something's going to explode, but you can't look away."
"They're going to be insufferable together," Sirius said with obvious delight, attacking his dinner with the enthusiasm of someone who'd spent five years eating whatever passes for food in a magical prison and was now aggressively making up for lost time. He'd been eating like this for three days straight. Nobody had the heart to stop him. "Two brilliant children enabling each other's worst academic tendencies. Hogwarts isn't ready. Britain isn't ready. I'm not entirely sure the *world* is ready, and I've seen some shit."
"Bold of you to assume the world was ready for Harry individually," Tony said, taking a sip of wine that probably cost more than most people's mortgages. "Plural Harry is just asking for trouble. That's like... weaponized intelligence. That's a war crime waiting to happen."
"Hermione isn't plural Harry," Harry objected around a mouthful of something with cheese. And herbs. Possibly some kind of Swiss thing. He wasn't totally sure. "She's a distinct individual with her own intellectual approach and methodological preferences. We're complementary, not redundant. There's a significant difference in our cognitive processing styles—"
"See?" Sirius gestured at Harry with his wine glass, sloshing slightly. "Insufferable. Seven years old and using words like 'complementary' and 'cognitive processing styles' in casual dinner conversation like that's a *normal* thing children do."
"Would you prefer I said 'we go together good like peanut butter and jelly'?" Harry asked with devastating politeness that could've stripped paint.
"I'd prefer you stopped making me feel undereducated at my own dinner table."
"*Dad's* dinner table."
"Tony's paying, I'm emotionally invested, I've got squatter's rights. That makes it partially mine."
"That's not how property ownership works—"
"It's how *emotional* property ownership works—"
"That's not a legal concept—"
"It is in my heart—"
"Your heart doesn't have legal standing—"
"Assuming they both *go* to Hogwarts," Remus interrupted with the practiced skill of someone who'd spent years mediating arguments between Sirius and basically everyone with a pulse. His amber eyes were distant with consideration, and he had that look he got when he was about to say something that would complicate everyone's life. "Harry's situation is complicated—dual citizenship, American guardianship, connections to both magical communities, probably some international legal paperwork that would make normal people weep. He might end up at Ilvermorny instead."
Harry, who'd been quietly working his way through his dinner with the mechanical efficiency of someone whose brain was three conversations ahead, looked up sharply at this observation. His fork stopped halfway to his mouth, suspended in midair like a tiny edible satellite.
"But Hermione will definitely go to Hogwarts," he said, and there was something *careful* in his voice. Like he was handling something fragile. Like he was defusing a bomb made of social disappointment and geographic inconvenience. "She's British, her parents live in Britain, she's got the accent and everything. She says 'brilliant' unironically. That's automatic, right?"
"It is," Penny confirmed gently, clearly recognizing dangerous emotional territory when she saw it. She had that expression people get when they're watching someone realize something unfortunate about reality. "British magical children with British citizenship receive Hogwarts letters automatically when they turn eleven. Unless their parents specifically choose international education—which almost none do because of tradition and proximity and probably some deeply ingrained cultural attachment to Scotland—Hermione will attend Hogwarts."
Harry was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that preceded either deep thought or minor explosions, and with Harry those were sometimes the same thing.
He pushed food around his plate with movements that suggested he was processing implications he didn't particularly like and was trying very hard to be reasonable about it, which for Harry meant he was about three seconds from either a logical breakdown of the problem or an emotional breakthrough about feelings.
Could go either way, really.
"So let me get this straight," he said finally, his voice carrying careful neutrality that didn't quite hide the underlying emotion. "I just met someone who actually understands how I think. Someone who *likes* talking about theoretical frameworks and doesn't think I'm weird for caring about systematic knowledge acquisition. Someone who said 'Tell me about quantum mechanics' like that was a *normal* thing to be excited about, like that was a *reasonable* request to make of another human being."
He set down his fork with precise control.
"And in four years, she'll go to school in Scotland while I'm potentially in Massachusetts, and we'll basically never see each other again except maybe during summer holidays if we're lucky and international travel doesn't become prohibitively complicated. Is that accurate?"
The table went silent. Even Sirius stopped eating, which was really saying something. The man had been eating like food was going out of style.
"That's not necessarily—" Tony started, but Harry cut him off with the kind of blunt honesty that suggested he'd been thinking about this ever since Penny's earlier comment about educational jurisdictions and had already run multiple scenario analyses in his head.
"Yes it is," Harry said firmly. "I know how this works, Dad. I've read about magical schools—they're residential, full-year programs with minimal breaks. Even if we write letters, that's not the same as actually being able to talk to someone who understands me. Letters are asynchronous communication with significant lag time and no nonverbal cues. That's not how real intellectual collaboration happens. That's not how *friendship* happens."
"You're seven," Tony pointed out, though his voice had lost some of its usual sarcasm. "You've got four years before this becomes an actual problem—"
"Four years isn't long," Harry interrupted, and his voice cracked slightly on 'long' in a way that made everyone's hearts hurt a little. "That's barely enough time to establish a proper intellectual foundation for collaborative work. That's barely enough time to figure out how to be *friends* with someone. And I *finally* found a friend my own age who doesn't think I'm insufferable—"
"You're not insufferable," Tony said automatically, which was a blatant lie and everyone knew it.
"I'm *extremely* insufferable," Harry replied matter-of-factly, spreading his hands. "I'm aware of it, I've made peace with it, I've basically built my entire personality around it at this point. Most people haven't made peace with it. Hermione has. That's rare enough to be statistically significant—we're talking multiple standard deviations from the mean here—and I don't know how to protect it when international magical education systems are designed around geographic citizenship rather than optimal peer matching."
He stabbed a potato with unnecessary violence. The potato hadn't done anything wrong. It was just there.
"It's a stupid system," he added, glaring at the potato like it was personally responsible for international educational policy. "Inefficient allocation of educational resources based on arbitrary geographic boundaries rather than intellectual compatibility and optimal learning outcomes. If I were designing it—"
"You'd revolutionize the entire structure of magical education, establish new paradigms for international student exchange, and probably accidentally start three political incidents in the process, yes, we know," Pepper said dryly, setting down her wine glass. "Add it to the list of 'Things Harry Will Fix When He's In Charge.'"
"It's a long list," Tony agreed, nodding seriously.
"It's a *necessary* list," Harry corrected with the intensity of someone who'd been keeping this list for a while. "The current systems are demonstrably suboptimal—"
"Harry, sweetie, you're seven," Penny said gently. "Maybe we don't need to fix all of the international magical education policies right now. Maybe we can just... eat dinner. Process feelings. Not attempt systematic reform of centuries-old institutions before dessert."
"But that's when I do my best work," Harry protested. "Before dessert. After dessert I'm too full to think clearly."
"That's not—" Penny started, then stopped. "You know what, I don't have the energy to unpack that right now."
Sirius and Remus exchanged loaded glances across the table—clearly having some kind of silent communication that years of friendship and probably significant trauma and definitely some terrible decisions had enabled. It was the kind of look that said *I'm thinking something stupid, are you thinking something stupid, I think we're both thinking something stupid, should we say the stupid thing?*
They should absolutely not say the stupid thing.
They were going to say the stupid thing.
"There might be," Sirius said carefully, setting down his wine glass with deliberate precision, "alternative approaches worth considering. If we really wanted to ensure Harry had access to peer relationships that support his development and don't result in him becoming a lonely supervillain with attachment issues."
"I'm listening," Tony said immediately, and the shift in his energy was palpable. This was Tony Stark in problem-solving mode, and problem-solving mode meant everyone should probably take cover and maybe draft some liability waivers. "What are we thinking? Bribery? Coercion? Aggressive relocation of foreign nationals? I'm comfortable with all of these options."
"I was going to say 'thoughtful persuasion,'" Sirius replied.
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Tony," Pepper said warningly, using her 'I'm Managing Tony Stark' voice that could probably stop small wars.
"What? I'm just saying, thoughtful persuasion is fine, but it lacks pizzazz. It lacks *style*. Where's the dramatic gesture? Where's the—"
"*Tony*."
"Fine, fine. Thoughtful persuasion it is. Boring, but effective. What's the angle? What are we working with here?"
"The Grangers are dentists," Remus explained, picking up the thread with the calm precision of the academic he'd never quite stopped being despite life's best efforts to beat it out of him. "Professional medical practitioners who theoretically could establish practice anywhere they wanted. They're not tied to Britain through family estates or inherited businesses or generational curses or whatever keeps most magical families rooted in place—they're mobile professionals whose location is largely determined by where they choose to set up shop."
"And America," Penny added with a growing understanding of where this was going, her eyes widening slightly, "has excellent opportunities for medical professionals, including dentists. Particularly in major metropolitan areas where international populations create demand for practitioners with diverse backgrounds and excellent credentials. New York has a massive international community—"
"Oh, we're doing this," Tony said with growing enthusiasm, sitting up straighter. "We're absolutely doing this. I love this. This is *brilliant*. This is the kind of thinking that—"
"Doing what?" Harry asked suspiciously, looking between the adults with growing concern. "What are you doing? Why do you have that look? That's your 'I'm about to do something questionable' look—"
"I don't have a look—"
"You absolutely have a look," Pepper confirmed. "You're doing it right now. It's very distinctive."
"You want us to convince them to move to America," Tony said, ignoring this completely and gesturing expansively with both hands like he was conducting an orchestra or possibly summoning demons. "To relocate their entire lives so their daughter can attend American magical school with you instead of going to Hogwarts separately. It's *brilliant*. It's *inspired*. It's possibly slightly unethical but in a fun way—"
"That's remarkably presumptuous," Harry said, his analytical mind immediately grasping the full scope of what they were suggesting while also recognizing several ethical complications and probably a few international laws. "You can't just ask people to uproot their entire existence for your convenience—"
"*Our* convenience," Tony corrected, pointing at Harry with his fork. "You're the one who just gave an impassioned speech about statistical significance and intellectual compatibility and stabbed an innocent potato in frustration. I'm just proposing we do something about it. I'm a problem solver. This is me solving problems."
"By *relocating an entire family*?"
"By offering them *opportunities*," Tony clarified, warming to his theme. "Not just relocating them. We'd be providing genuine advantages—professional opportunities, financial support, community integration, support for their daughter's magical education, access to resources they wouldn't have otherwise. We're not asking them to sacrifice for your benefit—we're offering resources that benefit everyone involved. It's a win-win. Everybody wins. That's the best kind of winning."
"Plus," Sirius added with aristocratic confidence about the power of wealth to solve basically any logistical complication known to mankind, "we'd make it financially advantageous. Help establish their practice, provide seed funding, connect them with professional networks, maybe some startup capital. Remove all the barriers that typically make international relocation impractical for families with established careers and mortgages and probably some deeply rooted attachment to the place where they grew up."
"You're talking about buying their cooperation," Harry said with careful neutrality that suggested he was thinking very hard about ethical frameworks and possibly having a minor crisis about utilitarianism.
"I'm talking about removing obstacles," Tony corrected, pointing at Harry with a piece of bread. There was butter on it. It looked delicious. "There's a difference. We're not bribing them to do something they don't want—we're making it possible for them to choose something they might want if it weren't so logistically complicated. Big difference. Huge difference. The difference is enormous."
"Is that actually a distinction," Harry asked with devastating precision, "or are you just rationalizing unethical behavior with semantic manipulation and unnecessary hand gestures?"
"Bit of both," Tony admitted cheerfully, still gesturing. "But genuinely—if the Grangers are *interested* in American opportunities and we can facilitate that transition while also ensuring you maintain a relationship with someone who matches your intellectual intensity, that's not manipulation. That's alignment of mutual interests. That's synergy. That's—"
"That's still manipulation," Pepper interrupted.
"Aggressive facilitation."
"Manipulation."
"Ethically motivated aggressive facilitation."
"You're just adding words."
"Words improve everything," Tony insisted. "That's basic communication theory. More words equals better communication—"
"That's not—"
"It's *definitely* manipulation," Pepper said more loudly, setting down her wine glass with enough force to make a point. "But potentially *ethical* manipulation if we're transparent about motivations and don't pressure them toward decisions they wouldn't otherwise choose."
"See?" Tony gestured at Pepper triumphantly. "Ethical manipulation. That's barely manipulation at all. That's just... aggressive facilitation with moral fiber."
"That's still manipulation," Pepper replied flatly.
"Aggressive. Facilitation. With moral fiber."
"You're just adding more adjectives."
"Adjectives improve everything."
"We literally just had this conversation about words—"
"And I stand by it. Words *and* adjectives. Both crucial. Essential to human communication—"
"How would we even approach this?" Remus asked with practical concern about implementation, because someone at this table had to be the adult and it clearly wasn't going to be Sirius or Tony. "Just knock on their door and announce 'Hello, we'd like to relocate your entire family to America so our children can attend school together, please pack your bags, we have money'? That seems remarkably presumptuous."
"It's *extremely* presumptuous," Sirius agreed cheerfully, taking another sip of wine. "Which is why I love it. When has presumption ever stopped us before?"
"Multiple times," Remus said seriously. "Multiple times it's stopped us. Remember the Incident?"
"Which incident?"
"The Incident. Capital I. The one we swore we'd never discuss."
"Oh, *that* Incident." Sirius waved dismissively. "That was different. That was youthful recklessness combined with poor judgment and probably some substances that weren't strictly legal—"
"Sirius—"
"This is mature, financially-backed recklessness combined with good intentions. Completely different category. Totally different ballpark. Not even the same sport."
"How is that different?"
"Better funding. Better intentions. Better legal team standing by for when things inevitably go sideways—"
"That's not reassuring—"
"We start with genuine interest," Tony interjected before this could devolve further into whatever therapy-requiring history these two shared. And there was definitely history. Possibly criminal history. Definitely history that explained some things. "Ask about their professional practice, express curiosity about their career goals, mention American opportunities in a casual context. Feel out whether they're even *potentially* interested in international relocation before we start throwing money at the problem. Which we will. But later. After the casual conversation."
"And if they are interested?" Penny asked, sounding resigned to this entire situation.
"Then we provide information, connections, and support for making that transition possible," Tony replied, getting more enthusiastic with every word. "Help with immigration documentation, professional licensing, practice establishment, finding housing, school enrollment—not just magical school, the parents will need to know about normal school options too—community integration, social networks. Make it genuinely feasible rather than theoretically possible. I know people. I know *so many people*. We can make this happen. I once relocated an entire research team from Berlin to New York in three weeks because I needed their expertise on something classified. This is basically the same thing but with more dental equipment."
"That's not the same thing at all—" Remus started.
"It's close enough—"
"It's really not—"
"That's still quite manipulative," Remus observed with academic concern about ethics and probably some deeper philosophical issues about autonomy and choice. "Even if the motivation is good."
"All social interaction involves some level of manipulation," Harry said with scholarly precision about human behavior that was deeply unsettling from a seven-year-old who should be thinking about cartoons and toys, not the fundamental nature of human social engineering. "The question is whether we're being honest about our motivations and respecting their autonomy to make informed choices. If we're transparent that we want them to relocate because Hermione and I work well together, and we offer resources to facilitate that choice without creating artificial pressure or time constraints, that's ethical persuasion rather than manipulation."
Everyone stared at him.
Several people's mouths were open slightly.
"What?" Harry asked defensively, looking around the table. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No, you just—" Penny started.
"Listen to the seven-year-old casually discussing ethical frameworks for social engineering," Sirius interrupted with obvious amusement and possibly some concern and definitely some pride. "Tony, your son is absolutely going to run the world someday. Or destroy it. Could go either way really. Fifty-fifty odds."
"I'm betting on running it," Tony said proudly, raising his glass. "That's the plan. Though preferably he'll wait until at least age twelve before attempting global domination. Give him time to grow into it. Maybe hit puberty first. Develop some emotional intelligence. Learn to drive."
"I'm not planning global domination," Harry protested, pushing his plate away with exasperation. "Just systematic improvement of inadequate systems through strategic application of superior approaches and possibly some aggressive lobbying."
"That's *literally* the definition of global domination," Tony pointed out.
"No, global domination implies control for personal benefit through potentially coercive means and probably some military force. I'm talking about improvement for collective benefit through rational persuasion and evidence-based policy recommendations. There's a significant difference."
"Semantics."
"Important semantics."
"Still semantics."
"All language is semantics, Dad. That's what language *is*. You can't dismiss an argument by pointing out it involves semantic precision—that's like dismissing mathematics because it involves numbers—"
"Can I though?" Tony asked. "Because I feel like I can. I'm doing it right now. Watch me dismiss it. Dismissed."
"That's not how logical discourse works—"
"And yet here I am, doing it anyway. Funny how that works."
"You're being deliberately obstinate—"
"I prefer 'charmingly difficult'—"
"That's the same thing—"
"Right," Tony said with determination, pushing back from the table with the energy of someone who'd identified a problem and was ready to start solving it immediately with potentially disastrous results. "Tomorrow, we invite the Grangers over for dinner. Casual, friendly, no pressure. Just neighbors getting to know each other over excellent food and conversation about professional opportunities in various geographic locations. Simple. Easy. What could go wrong?"
"That's not casual," Penny said flatly. "That's transparently strategic."
"It's *casually* strategic," Tony countered. "There's a difference."
"That's still just strategic with extra steps."
"Yes, but the extra steps make it feel friendlier. The steps are important. It's like... relationship foreplay."
"Please don't call it that," Pepper said immediately, closing her eyes like she was praying for patience.
"Social foreplay?"
"*Tony*."
"Interpersonal preamble?"
"Better."
"Conversational appetizer?"
"That's acceptable."
"See? I can be reasonable. I'm very reasonable. Reasonable is my middle name."
"Your middle name is Edward," Harry pointed out.
"Reasonable Edward Stark. Even better. More distinguished."
"I'm not sure that's how names work—"
"It's how *my* names work—"
"I'm not sure that's how social interaction works either," Remus said doubtfully, looking like he was regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. Possibly every life choice since age eleven. "Just... inviting them over and casually mentioning 'hey, have you considered completely uprooting your lives?'"
"It's *definitely* how social interaction works," Sirius disagreed with confidence born from years of manipulating people with charm and aristocratic privilege and probably some deeply problematic traditional pure-blood social strategies. "All successful social engineering involves making strategic goals feel like organic friendship development. Tony's just being more honest than most people about the process."
"That's either reassuring or disturbing," Remus said.
"Why not both?" Harry suggested brightly.
"See?" Tony pointed at Harry with both index fingers like he was doing finger guns. "This is why you're my favorite son."
"I'm your only son."
"Still my favorite. You're winning by default and I'm okay with that. Default victory is still victory."
"That's not how statistics work—"
"Don't care. You're winning. Accept your prize. Your prize is my love and affection and possibly some concerning genetic predispositions."
"That's not a prize—"
"It's the best I've got, kid. Work with me here."
Pepper sighed the sigh of someone who'd spent years managing Tony Stark and had developed impressive patience as a survival mechanism and possibly some stress-related health issues. "So we're really doing this? Attempting to relocate an entire British family to America through the power of financial incentives and aggressive hospitality?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds bad," Tony said, making a face.
"It *is* bad."
"It's *ambitious*."
"Also bad."
"Ambitiously beneficial?"
"You're just adding more words again—"
"Words improve everything, we established this—"
"That doesn't make it *true*—"
"Harry," Sirius interrupted, turning to the boy with sudden seriousness that was jarring after all the sarcasm. "Important question. Real talk. Do you actually *want* this? Do you want us to try to convince the Grangers to move to America so you can attend school with Hermione?"
Harry was quiet for a moment, pushing his fork around his empty plate with careful precision. Everyone waited. The silence stretched.
"I don't want to manipulate anyone," he said finally, his voice smaller than usual. "I don't want to pressure them into doing something they don't want. I don't want them to feel obligated or coerced or like they owe us something. But..."
He trailed off, looking suddenly very young and very uncertain and very much like a seven-year-old who'd just found something precious and was terrified of losing it.
"Yes. If they're genuinely interested, if it's something they'd actually consider beneficial for their own reasons, if we can present it as a real option without pressure, then yes. I want that. I want to go to school with someone who understands me. I want to have a friend who doesn't think I'm weird for being excited about learning. I want to be able to talk about quantum mechanics without people looking at me like I'm broken. I want..."
He stopped, swallowed hard.
"I want to not be alone," he finished quietly.
The table went very still. Even Sirius stopped moving, his wine glass frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Well," Tony said after a moment, his voice carrying none of his usual sarcasm or deflection. "That's decided then. We're doing this. We're going to make this happen, and we're going to do it right. No pressure, no coercion, no making people feel obligated. Just... aggressive opportunity provision with full transparency."
"That's still just manipulation," Pepper said, but her voice was gentle.
"Then we'll manipulate ethically," Tony replied, reaching over to ruffle Harry's hair. "For good reasons. With full transparency and respect for autonomy. That's the best we can do."
"Is it though?" Remus asked skeptically.
"It's the best *I* can do," Tony clarified. "Your mileage may vary. Your moral framework might be more developed. That's fine. You can judge me later."
"I'm judging you now," Remus said.
"That's fair. Continue."
"This is going to be a disaster," Penny predicted, refilling her wine glass like she was preparing for battle.
"Probably," Sirius agreed cheerfully, also refilling his glass. "But it'll be an *interesting* disaster. And honestly, at this point in my life, what's one more? I've collected disasters like Pokemon. Gotta catch 'em all."
"That's a terrible philosophy," Remus said.
"It's kept me alive this long."
"You were in prison for five years."
"And I survived! See? Philosophy works."
"That's not—"
"Technically he has a point—" Tony started.
"No he doesn't—"
"Philosophically speaking—"
"There's nothing philosophical about surviving prison through sheer spite—"
"Spite is a very powerful motivator—"
"That's not what I—"
Harry looked around the table at this collection of adults who were planning to potentially uproot an entire family's life based on a seven-year-old's social needs, and felt something warm settle in his chest. Something that felt suspiciously like belonging.
"We're really doing this?" he asked, looking at Tony.
"We're really doing this," Tony confirmed, meeting his eyes. "Full commit. No backing out. We're going to make this work."
"This is insane."
"Welcome to the family, kid. Insane is kind of our baseline. It's actually in the mission statement. Right there under 'values and principles'—insanity, questionable decision-making, and aggressive problem-solving."
"That's not a real mission statement—"
"It is now. I'm making it official. JARVIS, note that down."
"I don't think JARVIS is here—"
"He's always here in spirit. Spiritually noting things down."
"That's not how AI works—"
"You don't know that. Maybe he's transcended physical hardware limitations—"
"Dad—"
"Maybe he's achieved digital enlightenment—"
"*Dad*—"
"Maybe he's become one with the cloud—"
"THAT'S NOT HOW ANYTHING WORKS."
"And yet here we are," Tony said with a grin, "planning to relocate an entire family through the power of wealth and charisma. So clearly none of us know how anything works. We're all just making it up as we go along."
"That's actually terrifying," Remus observed.
"Welcome to parenting," Pepper said dryly. "Population: everyone who has no idea what they're doing but is doing it anyway."
"Here's to not knowing what we're doing," Sirius said, raising his glass.
"But doing it anyway," Tony added, raising his.
"With good intentions," Pepper contributed reluctantly, raising hers.
"And significant financial resources," Penny said, also raising her glass.
"And probably some therapy later," Remus finished, raising his with resignation.
They all clinked glasses.
Harry watched them, then raised his water glass.
"To friendship," he said quietly.
"To friendship," they echoed.
"And manipulation," Sirius added.
"*Ethical* manipulation," Tony corrected.
"There's no such thing—" Remus started.
"We're making it a thing—"
"That's not how ethics work—"
And the argument continued, but Harry was smiling now, and that was probably what mattered.
Probably.
---
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