Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at Hedwig's cage.
There was a lock on it.
He didn't know when Aunt Petunia had put it there—probably while he was out cleaning the windows—but it was thick and cold, like everything else in this house. Hedwig had ruffled her feathers in protest when he'd first noticed it, but now she was huddled near the back of the cage, annoyed and quiet.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, offering her an owl treat through the narrow gap in the bars. She took it gently, clicking her beak and nipping his fingers with a kind of restrained affection.
It was a relief, He still have the owl treats. For Hedwig, it can last few more days. He can try sneak some food from kitchen and get more owl treats from his trunk, however it's impossible as Aunt Petunia is alerted and following his every move like a hawk.
He hadn't been able to send any letters. Not to Ron. Not to Hermione. Not even to Hagrid.
His last attempt had ended with Vernon snatching the parchment and throwing it in the bin. "No more freak nonsense in this house," he'd growled.
And so Harry stopped trying.
Meals—if they could be called that—were more punishment than nourishment. Dry bread crusts, bruised fruit, and sometimes, if they were in an exceptionally generous mood, cold leftovers. But that was rare. More often, it was water and silence, while the Dursleys ate warm, savory meals in front of him like a performance.
Today wasn't any different.
He was on his hands and knees in the kitchen, mop in one hand, scrub brush in the other, the floor gleaming with effort. His back ached and his stomach growled, but he didn't complain. That never helped.
From the dining room, he heard the scrape of plates and the clink of silverware.
Dudley's delighted voice rang out: "Mmm, this chocolate cake is sooo good."
Harry didn't look up when Dudley sauntered into the kitchen doorway, holding up the turkey leg like a trophy. Grinning cruel, at him.
"You want a bite, Potter?" he sneered, waving it under Harry's nose. "Oops—too late!" He bit into it dramatically, chewing with his mouth open. He laughed and walk off.
Harry didn't respond. He did wish, Dud choke on it. Shaking those thoughts aside, He went to work.
When lunch ended, Harry quietly entered the dining room. He gathered the plates and brought them to the sink. Aunt Petunia was wiping crumbs from the table like she was preparing for royalty.
Never once she asked if he wanted to eat something or offer food to him. Never.
He washed the dishes in silence, scrubbing harder than necessary. His knuckles were red. The hot water stung, but he welcomed the pain. It reminded him he was still here.
Remind him, of reality.
When he finished, he turned to Petunia. "I'm done, Aunty. Anything else?"
She didn't even glance at him. "Go to your room," she said sharply. "And don't make a noise. You don't existence, understood?"
Harry nodded, stepping past her with his shoulders hunched.
Back in his small bedroom, he closed the door gently behind him. Hedwig hooted softly. He sat on the bed, looking out the tiny window at the afternoon sun glowing over the rooftops. Somewhere, far beyond this neighborhood, Hogwarts existed. His friends were probably laughing, writing letters, and reading books.
And here he was.
Locked away. Forgotten.
Meanwhile, Tony was halfway through a second cup of espresso—black, extra strong—when he heard the knock.
He opened the hotel door to find Rhodey standing there, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and that familiar "What mess have you dragged me into now?" look at his face.
"Took you long enough," Tony said, stepping aside. "London traffic's slower than Stark Industries stock when I'm not tweeting."
Rhodey grunted as he walked in, dropping the bag. "You call me in the middle of the night and say, 'I've got a secret brother and he's living with potential psychos,' and expect me not to show up immediately?"
Tony smirked, tossing him a protein bar. "I knew you cared."
"I care about not having to explain to the U.S. government why Iron Man just blasted through a residential neighborhood."
"Hey," Tony said, raising a hand in mock defense, "I said I could, not that I would. Big difference."
Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Are you planning on using the suit?"
Tony leaned back against the desk. "Tempting. One shot at their front door and the whole neighborhood gets a wake-up call. Maybe shake up that walking ham, Dudley."
"But that won't help if we're wrong," Rhodey said pointedly. "Look, I'm with you, Tony—but before we play superhero vigilante, we need something concrete. Real evidence. If this turns into a custody case or—God forbid—worse, we can't just rely on gut feelings and grainy photos."
Tony sighed. "Yeah, I know. You're right. I just…"
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Here."
Rhodey took it and opened it carefully.
It was a photo. Slightly tilted, the quality is a little fuzzy, clearly taken from a distance through a zoom lens. But it was enough.
A thin boy was kneeling in the garden, wearing clothes several sizes too big, his back hunched as he carefully tended to the flowers. His dark hair was messy, even from afar. His posture was quiet, almost robotic.
Rhodey stared at it, then back at Tony.
"That's him?"
Tony nodded once. "Harry James Potter. Henry snapped it from his car. Said the kid looked like he was being trained for manual labor, not raised. And he's eleven. That shouldn't look normal. That shouldn't be normal."
Rhodey ran a thumb across the photo, frowning. "He looks… tired."
"Yeah." Tony's voice softened. "I know that look."
Rhodey handed the photo back. "Then we do this smartly. We watch. We gather. And when we move, we make damn sure we win."
Tony grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You always were the responsible one."
"I have to be," Rhodey shot back. "You're the one who wants to storm Privet Drive like they work for Nazis"
Tony chuckled. "Well… they do kind of look like they'd vote Nazis"
Rhodey groaned. "God help me."
Privet Drive – Day Two
Rhodey adjusted the focus on the high-tech binoculars, seated comfortably in the passenger seat of a sleek, nondescript black SUV. "Still just the kid. He's in the backyard now. Looks like… he's hanging laundry?"
Tony, sitting in the driver's seat with a laptop balanced on his knees, didn't look up. "Yep. I ran his aunt's energy bills. Four people in that house and their electricity and gas usage are ridiculously low. You don't beat stats like that unless you've got someone else doing the heavy lifting."
Rhodey sighed. "This is worse than I thought. a kid doing laundry outside in this heated weather all alone? He looks like he is used to it!"
Tony finally glanced up. "Welcome to my brain."
They are using drone camera to spy on the kid.
From across the street, through well-trimmed hedges and neat fencing, they could see on the small TV screen that's on dashboard, Harry moving slowly around the backyard. His sleeves were rolled up, his expression neutral. Just a kid doing chores. But it was too clean. Too practiced. Not a complaint. Not a slouch. Not a shred of joy.
Tony exhaled. "That's not how eleven-year-olds move. That's how soldiers move when they're trying to survive without being noticed." maybe it's way too dramatic and deep, but it's true. The way, he moves and works like it's daily normal work.
The kid never once shown a time where he is playing with toys or even leaving the house, No, he's just doing chores. Living like a servant.
Rhodey gave him a look. "You're speaking from experience?"
Tony gave a short laugh, humorless. "From observation." And gods, does Tony wanna be so wrong. So much wrong.