Author's note: …So I got distracted… By Good Omens. It was worth it. So worth it.

In Our Bones: Chapter 4

September 1st, 1991. Scotland.

Somewhere up there, somebody had a really sick sense of humour. They must do, else why would his life be such an endless chain of bizarre unpleasantnesses?

"At least this is still better than being at home," Harry thought grimly… "for now."

He smirked a little as another gawking goldfish rattled the compartment handle ineffectually. After the first three, Harry had given up on making acquaintances or having anything resembling intelligent conversation during the train ride, locked and hexed the door, and fished one of the more interesting books out of his trunk. He knew, of course, that he'd have to get used to his future classmates sooner or later, but for the time being, at least he could enjoy some relative peace.

An hour and a half into the journey, the disturbances slowed to a trickle. After purchasing a couple of pastries from the trolley witch, Harry shut his book and exchanged it for a hardcover journal, so new that the binding creaked when he opened it. He fished out one of three identical fountain pens that wrote in an elegant navy ink, and held it poised above the fourth page.

If anyone else had been able to read the script already on the paper, they would have seen a neat table with three columns titled "Question", "Topic", and "Page". On the first row, under "Question", was written, "Why did no one search for Harry Potter?" The spaces for topic and page were blank. The following several rows read:

"Standardized equivalents of my abilities? – Magic – 6"

"Standardized magic I can adapt? – Magic – 9"

"Voldemort's true identity? – Voldemort – 14"

"Cultural expectations of 'Harry Potter' as 'Boy-Who-Lived'? – Wix Society – 16"

"Cultural expectations of 'Harry Potter' as Potter family heir? – Wix Society (c/r Potter Family) – 17, 20"

"Albus Dumbledore's involvement in war against Voldemort? – Dumbledore (c/r Voldemort) – 26"

"Potter family's friends and allies? – Potter Family – 23"

Taking a moment to arrange the words in his head, Harry lowered the pen and added:

"Hogwarts curriculum vs other schools of magic? – Hogwarts"

"Hogwarts statistics vs other schools of magic? – Hogwarts"

"Subjects not covered at Hogwarts? – Hogwarts (c/r Magic) – 12"

Then, after several seconds of hesitation, he moved the pen up to the blank spaces after the very first question. His hand jerked a little in uncharacteristic clumsiness, scratching the nib across the paper and leaving a blot of ink that obscured two of the letters, but the words were still legible.

"Dumbledore – 28"

April 27th, 2009. Somewhere over the eastern US seaboard.

"I want to hold a press conference," Tony started without preamble. He and Harry were alone in the back of the private plane, finally on their way home. Or Tony's way home, at least – Harry had never been to the Malibu mansion, and Tony was sure his younger sibling didn't intend to stay long enough to consider the place 'home'.

"A press conference?"

The last two days (it felt like much more, but apparently it had indeed been the 25th by the time they'd been rescued from the desert) had been a whirlwind of German hospitals and debriefings, but Tony was far from exhausted. A constant low level of adrenaline hummed through his body (likely a remnant of his ceaselessly on-edge existence of the past couple months – the doctors had mentioned PTSD – but he didn't care about that right now) and the sand and heat and metal and battle-excitement had drained from his mind, leaving a cold, focused clarity and a different kind of primed anxiety.

"As soon as we get to LA," he confirmed. "I'm… I want to pull Stark Industries out of weapons manufacturing, effective immediately."

He watched intently for his brother's reaction. The move was well within his power as CEO, but Harry had never relinquished his shares and technically still had major voting rights in the company, although Obie had been acting as his proxy. And… damn him, but Harry's opinion mattered.

The younger man mulled it over.

"About bloody time," he said finally, and Tony gave a minuscule sigh of relief, lips quirking into a tight smile. "But," he added, leaning forward to rest elbows and folded hands on the table between them, and Tony's spine tightened again, "I'm not sure an immediate press conference is the way to go."

"…Why's that, then?"

"Obadiah," Harry intoned.

Tony blinked at him.

"Oh, come on," the younger man exclaimed in exasperation, "don't tell me you haven't pieced it all together yet – you're smarter than that!"

"No, I have," Tony defended, "It's just, I didn't realize that you…"

"What," Harry spat, "that I was smart enough to do it, too?"

"No, of course you are!" Tony backpedaled quickly from the dangerous territory. "I just… didn't think you'd… y'know… kept up to date on the company, and all."

Harry deflated immediately. His mouth and shoulders tightened in a tiny shrug, half response and half apology. "I never stopped," he mumbled.

It took two to make the careful dance around old issues, and they were pros. Tony gave a clipped sideways nod and soldiered on as if the entire altercation hadn't happened. "And I'm not entirely sure what he has to do with the press conference."

Harry nodded, and if he was grateful for the avoidance that was the only sign. "If we're to make a move against him, we'll need to gather up some rock solid evidence first. If we just try to pull the rug out from under his feet in one go, things could get messy fast. Plus, there's the board to contend with, as well as SI's partners and patrons. We drop a big change like that on everybody, there'll be a riot."

Tony took a moment to work through all of that – his brain kept snagging on Harry's use of 'we'. Eventually, though, he frowned. "So, what – we keep producing weapons? I'm getting some mixed signals here, man."

Harry shook his head. "I'm just saying you need a plan and some subtlety."

Tony's frown deepened. "Any suggestions?" he asked sardonically.

Harry, unfazed, rubbed his thumbs together thoughtfully. "Draw up a proposal for a six month action plan to phase out weapons. Sit down with the board – make sure Obadiah is occupied elsewhere. Be professional. Explain that some things have come to light that you're concerned about, that you believe have put the reputation of the company and all its representatives at risk. Emphasize how bad it would make everyone look; how much they stand to lose.

"Then tell them you've devised a way to sufficiently distance SI from any potential fall-out. Be frank with them; tell them about your experiences with the Ten Rings, preferably with photographic evidence of their or other terrorist organizations' possession of Stark weaponry. Tell them you are personally looking into how they came to be there.

"Then go over your action plan. They'll probably want to extend it to two years; talk them back down to one. Let them argue over details and minor adjustments for a while. The more they discuss it, the more they'll consider it their idea and the less trouble they'll give you."

Tony raised his eyebrows skeptically, unwilling to admit that he was impressed and surprised by his brother's business insight. "Then what?"

"Implement the business plan. Let the word get back to Obadiah. Wait for him to make a mistake. Keep your eyes open and your guard up."

Tony pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. "And… where will you be," he ventured, "while I'm doing all this?"

Harry copied the motion, snagging his glass of water to take a sip along the way. "Snooping," he drawled. "And installing a few wards, if you'll let me."

"Mm. JARVIS won't like that."

Harry's eyes flashed up to him in surprise.

"Oh." Tony cleared his throat. "My AI. Runs the house. 'S… s'posed to stand for 'Just A Rather Very Intelligent System'. Y'know… in… I dunno… honor or something."

"Ah." Harry gave a jerky little nod, noncommittal. He swapped out the water glass for a flask, summoned from his hip pouch, from which he took a generous swig. Tony held out a hand, smirking hopefully.

"'S not alcohol," Harry muttered with a smirk of his own, "you wouldn't want it." The flask disappeared back into the pouch, and Tony pouted.

He fidgeted briefly, then leaned over to push a button on the wall. A panel popped open, revealing a small but well-stocked cooler. He let his fingers dance over the bottles for a moment, selected the Scotch, a tumbler, and some ice, then relaxed back into his seat, the smirk returning with triumphant force.

Harry rolled his eyes. Tony took a sip, then passed the bottle and a second tumbler.

In less than three hours, he'd be home, with Pepper and Happy and real American cheeseburgers and an actual plan and – for the first time in over a decade – his baby brother, who hadn't even alluded to leaving.

The knot in his gut unwound, just a little.