New York.
Forty-three floors above Fifth Avenue, the afternoon summer sun flooded through the southern floor-to-ceiling windows of a magnificent penthouse, spilling across the polished floor and the vast room beyond, with the city stretching endlessly in every direction.
The living room seemed to take up the better part of the space, easily several times the size of one average. And there, against the far wall, hung a television that didn't lose in scale either, sixty-seven inches at least, its screen alive with movement.
A short way off stood a low sofa facing the screen directly. A young couple sat side by side, occupying barely a fraction of its massive size, the man meanwhile cradling a glass of wine that had gone largely forgotten in his hand.
Both in fact watched with the same intent absorption, neither taking their eyes from the screen.
"…and today, after centuries of hiding, we have decided that it is time for the two halves of humanity to stop pretending that the other does not exist—"
Like everyone else on the planet at this moment, it was the live address from the United Nations headquarters that held their attention.
"How about that…" said the young man, then raised his glass, draining the last of it in one go. He looked to be in his mid-twenties at most, with a face handsome enough to notice even in passing.
He lowered the empty glass with a quiet exhale, "I was expecting little green men with oversized heads and bug eyes, but it turns out we've had an entire civilisation of circus freaks living under our noses the whole time..."
"Didn't the Queen mention something about aliens as well?"
The woman was every bit as striking, draped in nothing but a shirt that clearly wasn't hers, her hair in a state that suggested the day had started rather earlier than either of them had let on, and that the television had only recently become the room's main attraction.
"She did, didn't she…" The young man turned his head, meeting the woman's eyes with a warm, almost affectionate smile.
If one didn't know better, the look between them and the ease with which they interacted might have made them seem like a genuine couple, like two people who had been together and in love for years.
Only—
"Right, I think we're finished. Off you go."
Just as quickly, he turned back towards the television, giving her shoulder a light push as he rose from the sofa.
"Remember to say hello to the old man outside on your way out. He'll…" He scratched the back of his head, apparently searching for the appropriate word, then shrugged a moment later, as though even that was a chore. "He'll compensate you generously, I'm sure. Oh, and you can keep the shirt."
After saying that, he walked towards the staircase leading to the upper level of the penthouse without so much as looking back.
The woman, meanwhile, remained on the sofa.
For several seconds, she simply stared after him, looking as though someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water over her head.
"Are you fucking serious?" she finally snapped.
"Hmm…" The young man paused mid-step, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned around. "I'm quite fond of dirty, actually. Just not when you're talking."
"You son of a bitch!" She was still on the sofa, still too stunned to stand. Her voice rose as she stared at him. "Are you seriously implying that I'm a prostitute?"
The young man walked backwards up another step, his smile never leaving his face.
"We had a good time…" He gave her a pointed gesture with his hand, a smug grin still on his face.
If he had hoped to calm her down, the effect was quite the opposite.
"You piece of shit... You're a total piece of shit, Staaaark!"
"You're welcome..."
His voice carried down from somewhere above before fading entirely, leaving the living room to the television, the afternoon sun, and the woman on the sofa, who sat in silence for a moment with the particular stillness of someone deciding whether to break something.
And she did.
The young man, now revealed as Stark, Anthony Edward Stark, though the world knew him simply as Tony Stark, heard several things shatter downstairs before the penthouse fell silent. He didn't react. Not even a flicker crossed his face, as though the sound of broken glass was hardly unusual in his home.
Just his snark was gone now, replaced by the look of someone deep in thought.
"Aliens and circus freaks, huh…" he muttered under his breath.
The words lingered as he stood shirtless before the long mirror, studying his reflection with a thoughtful expression before finally turning towards the bathroom.
Several minutes later, now clad in a white bathrobe, he emerged from his room and descended the stairs once more.
The not-so-happy woman was no longer there, but the living room wasn't empty. An old man dressed rather elegantly was crouched beside the remains of what appeared to have once been a very expensive vase, carefully gathering what was left of it.
He noticed Tony and immediately released a tired breath, almost without thinking.
"The young lady declined any remuneration, sir. She departed, though not before leaving behind a rather colourful selection of vocabulary."
"Don't they all…" Young Stark offered little more than a careless shrug as he walked past.
The older man looked... disappointed, perhaps would be the right word.
"I believe this particular individual was quite different..." he insisted, crouching down once again.
In the massive living room, there was, of course, a private bar as well. Tony Stark opened the refrigerator, took out a glass of orange juice, and poured himself a drink, his eyes having already fallen back to the screen.
"Never mind that, Jarvis. I want a complete rundown on these..." He leaned against the cabinet, waving vaguely towards the television with his empty hand. "What did they call themselves... magics?"
"I believe it is 'magicals,' sir."
"Whatever. Do whatever you have to do. I want to know everything there is to know about these people."
"If I may ask, sir, what exactly do you intend to do with this information?" said the older man, now identified as Jarvis.
He was well into his late seventies, hardly an age at which one would expect a man to still be tending to household chores. Of course, Jarvis did not do all of it himself. If the Stark name lacked anything, it certainly wasn't money, and there were more than enough staff to look after the penthouse. Heck, the building itself for that matter, belonged to the Stark name entirely.
Jarvis's role, though, was something rather more personal than that of an ordinary member of staff. He had been Tony's caretaker for years, and, if one were feeling generous, perhaps something close to a father figure as well.
In any case, Jarvis was the one entrusted with the more private corners of Tony's life, the sort of things that couldn't simply be left to ordinary household staff. And given Tony's rather... adventurous lifestyle, there were more than a few reasons why access to his private quarters had to be kept selective. Jarvis had long since taken care of that particular responsibility.
Tony Stark continued watching the screen, barely acknowledging him. "What's with the twenty questions?"
"I strongly suggest you don't try to spy on them, sir." Jarvis gave Tony a pointed look. Having spent most of his life in Howard Stark's service, he was hardly ignorant of the stranger side of the world. He had seen enough, and knew enough, to understand that some things were better approached with caution.
"They seem rather..." He hesitated for the briefest moment. "Formida—"
"Jarvis!" But who was Tony Stank... Stark to listen to anyone's advice once his mind was made up?
He finally looked towards the older man, "you're not my father, so don't tell me—"
He caught himself, the words already out before he could stop them. Perhaps he realised he had gone a little too far, and for a moment, he said nothing.
"Just do as I say," he said finally, then turned his attention back to the broadcast.
Jarvis's expression didn't change, or none that Stark could see, at any rate.
Inwardly, however, the older man, who had looked after the boy since he was a baby, felt those words sting rather more than he cared to admit, and his eyes trembled, just slightly.
He let out a weary breath, and a moment later crouched down to gather the last of the broken vase.
"I shall speak with your uncle, and see about getting in touch with the Pentagon." After saying, he offered Tony no further glance, simply turning and walked unhurriedly towards the door.
Tony watched him go, a good many thoughts crossing his mind, though he gave voice to none of them. After a moment, he once more turned his attention back to the broadcast.
"Mr. Dumbledore…"
"Mr. Albus Dumbledore, over here…"
"Over here, sir…"
Tony's thoughtful expression remained fixed on the screen.
"Mr. Dumbledore, over here!"
The voice continued, now no longer coming from the television.
Inside the United Nations Headquarters, a forest of raised hands filled the chamber, reporters calling out frantically towards the long table where the seven people sat.
"Please, ladies and gentlemen. One at a time. All of your queries will be addressed," the Secretary-General advised for what must have been the nth time, though it seemed to be falling on deaf ears.
Dumbledore let out a weary sigh and pointed towards one of them.
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