One Shot: Along Came A Spider.

Hi all, 

Here’s the third chapter of the week. I’m struggling with the Resurgence chapter, so I posted another one of my story ideas instead.

Chapter 1 

Albus Dumbledore sat on the floral sofa, his purple robes a stark contrast to the beige décor. Sitting across from him were the Dursleys. They were in the middle of a difficult conversation.  

"I must be clear, Mr and Mrs Dursley." Dumbledore's blue eyes lost their characteristic twinkle. "Harry's name hasn't appeared in the Book of Admittance."

A muscle twitched in Vernon's jaw. His face flushed purple, then drained white, then purple again. Beside him, Petunia wrung her hands in her lap, her neck craning upward every few seconds.

"So the boy's a—" Vernon's voice cracked.

"A Squib, yes. A non-magical person born to magical parents." Dumbledore stroked his silver beard. "This presents us with quite the predicament. Harry's rather famous in our world, you see. The news of his... condition will cause quite the stir."

A soft thump came from somewhere above their heads. Petunia's eyes darted to the ceiling again. Dumbledore followed her gaze, catching sight of a spider making its way across the white expanse.

"Surely there must be something," Vernon said, his voice oddly strained. "Some way to help the boy?" 

His words suggested concern, but his clenched fists told a different story.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Harry will need to attend a normal school."

Another thump.

"Is everything all right upstairs?" Dumbledore asked.

"Fine!" Petunia squeaked. "The house... settles. Old pipes, you know."

"Indeed." Dumbledore rose from his seat, smoothing his robes. "I'll take my leave now. I'm truly sorry I couldn't bring better news."

Vernon scrambled to his feet. "I'll show you out."

As they reached the front door, Dumbledore paused. "Despite everything, Harry remains under the protection of his mother's sacrifice. He must stay here until he comes of age. Magic or no magic."

Vernon nodded stiffly, already closing the door.

Dumbledore stepped into the cool evening air, his mind heavy with thoughts of the boy who lived—the boy who should have been destined for greatness at Hogwarts. 

Had he looked up at that moment, he might have spotted young Harry Potter himself, crouched upside down on the ceiling of the entrance hall, defying gravity with an ease that would have put any levitation charm to shame.

Harry watched the old wizard disappear. His hands pressed flat against the ceiling, fingers sticking perfectly to the surface. He might not have been able to perform typical magic, but life had given him something different – something extraordinary. And unlike the wizard who had just left, Harry knew exactly what he could do with it.

"Boy! Get down from there this instant!" Vernon hissed through clenched teeth.

Harry grinned. "Sure, Uncle Vernon." He lifted his right hand, aiming his wrist at the far wall. A silvery strand shot out—not quite spider silk, not quite magic, but something in between. It stuck fast to the wallpaper.

"Don't you dare—" Petunia's warning came too late.

Harry launched himself across the entrance hall, swinging in a wide arc. The rush of air ruffled his messy black hair. His aunt's prized crystal vase wobbled on its pedestal as he whooshed past. For a split second, Harry thought it might survive.

It didn't. The crash echoed through the house. Petunia's shriek followed close behind.

"Oops." Harry landed in a crouch on the bannister. "Sorry about that. Still working on the steering." 

He wasn't sorry at all. 

"But look what else I can do!" He shot another strand at the ceiling, ready for another demonstration.

Vernon's face achieved a new shade of purple. "If you break one more thing—"

"You'll what? Tell Dumbledore?" Harry smirked. "I thought you'd be happy. The freak can't do proper magic after all."

His words carried more bite than intended. The conversation he'd overheard still stung. Magic. A whole world of it, hidden away. A world where he was famous, of all things. And apparently, he didn't belong there either.

"Don't push us, boy," Vernon growled, but his step backwards betrayed his fear. "We've kept your... abnormality secret. Protected you—"

Harry laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Protected me? By keeping everything from me? I had to find out about magic by hanging from the ceiling like a—" 

He stopped, an idea striking him. Petunia always hated it when he transformed. "Want to see how much I have improved?"

Before either Dursley could protest, Harry's form shimmered. His body contracted, limbs shrinking and multiplying. Where a ten-year-old boy had stood, a small black spider now clung to the bannister.

Petunia stumbled back with a strangled gasp. "He's getting better at it. Freak!"

The spider that was Harry scuttled across the wooden railing, eight legs moving in perfect coordination. He remembered the first time it had happened, two months ago. The panic, the disorientation, the discovery that he could change back. Now it was as natural as breathing.

His tiny spider eyes caught movement in the corner—one of his old friends from the cupboard. He'd never minded sharing his space with them. While Aunt Petunia shrieked at the sight of cobwebs, Harry had welcomed his eight-legged roommates. They'd kept him company during the long, dark, lonely nights.

The first time he'd transformed, they'd approached him, their movements almost curious. He couldn't understand their silent communications, but they'd managed to show him how to adapt to his new form. 

He transformed back, perching easily on the narrow railing. "This is why you didn't tell him, isn't it? You're scared of me. The great wizard Dumbledore thinks I'm powerless, but I'm not. I'm just... different."

Vernon's face had lost all colour. "We've given you a roof over your head, food—"

"And a cupboard under the stairs." Harry shot another strand of silk-magic to the ceiling. "Maybe it's time for an upgrade. The second bedroom sounds nice." 

He pulled himself up, hanging upside down again. "Unless you'd rather explain to the neighbours why there's a spider the size of a dinner plate in their gardens?"

The threat hung in the air between them. After all these years of the Dursleys holding power over him, the tables had turned. Harry wasn't sure how to feel about that. Part of him relished their fear and wanted to push it further. Another part of him thought that they weren’t the effort. 

But they'd lied to him. Hidden an entire world from him. A world where his parents had been heroes, not drunks who died in a car crash. A world that apparently didn't want him either.

Well, they'd all see what Harry could do. Magic or no magic.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The plane journey had been pure torture for Harry. Eight hours trapped in a metal tube, his spider-senses picking up every baby's cry, every cough, every whispered conversation. The recycled air tasted stale on his tongue, and the confined space made his skin crawl with the need to climb, to move, to escape.

Dudley's constant fidgeting in the seat beside him didn't help. His cousin's elbow jabbed into his ribs for the hundredth time, but Harry bit back his retort. 

Uncle Vernon had been clear—one wrong move, one hint of his "freakishness," and he'd regret it. The threat rang hollow now that Harry could easily bench-press his uncle's weight, but old habits died hard.

"Stop squirming," Aunt Petunia hissed from across the aisle. 

Her eyes darted nervously between Harry and the other passengers, as if expecting him to reveal his ‘freakish’ abilities to the public. 

Harry pressed his forehead against the cool window, watching clouds drift past. The Atlantic stretched below, an endless expanse of blue that reminded him how far they were travelling from Surrey. The announcement of Uncle Vernon's business trip to Brooklyn had blindsided him completely. In ten years, the Dursleys had never taken him further than Mrs Figg's house, yet here they were, crossing an ocean.

He'd overheard snippets of Vernon's late-night phone calls, and hushed conversations about American contracts and expansion opportunities. Each time Harry entered the room, the discussions stopped abruptly. He assumed it was normal Dursley behaviour—their usual attempt to exclude him from anything important. 

The descent into JFK, allowed Harry to get his first glimpse of the city. The sun glinted off countless windows, turning skyscrapers into towers of gold and bronze. Excitement surged through him, feeling the urge to explore the city.

Uncle Vernon hustled them through customs and baggage claims with unusual efficiency. They made straight for the car rental desk, where Vernon haggled aggressively over insurance rates.

Their rental car, a modest sedan that smelled of artificial pine and stale cigarettes, crawled through the afternoon traffic. 

The city thrummed with life at every level, from street to sky. Yellow taxis wove between lanes with reckless precision. Street vendors called out prices for hot dogs and pretzels. Cyclists darted through impossible gaps in traffic. Above it all, the buildings rose higher and higher, creating urban canyons that seemed perfect for someone with his particular abilities.

His gaze fixed on Stark Tower, its distinctive architecture dominating the skyline. The building screamed of innovation and future possibilities, its clean lines and gleaming surfaces a stark contrast to the older structures surrounding it. 

Harry's mind wandered to the newspapers he'd read, articles about Tony Stark and his Iron Man suits. A man who'd built himself into a superhero without having any superhero powers. It would be cool to meet the guy. 

"Stop gawking like an idiot," Uncle Vernon snapped from the driver's seat. 

Harry ignored him, his mind already cataloguing possible routes across the rooftops. The buildings were closer together here than in Surrey, their heights varying enough to create perfect swinging arcs. His fingers itched with the urge to shoot a web, to launch himself into that urban canyon.

A bike messenger wove through traffic, causing Uncle Vernon to slam on the brakes. Harry's spider-sense had warned him seconds before—he'd already braced himself, but Dudley wasn't so lucky. His cousin face-planted into the back of Petunia's seat.

"Bloody cyclists!" Vernon roared out the window. "Think they own the road!"

The hotel sat wedged between a Chinese restaurant and a convenience store. Nothing like the glossy photos Vernon had shown them back in Surrey. The room was small but clean—two double beds, a bathroom with temperamental plumbing, and a view of the brick wall next door. Aunt Petunia's lips pursed as she ran a finger along the windowsill.

"We're going to freshen up," she announced. "Don't touch anything. Don't leave the room." 

Her eyes narrowed. "And no... funny business."

Harry perched on the edge of the bed furthest from the door, watching them disappear into the bathroom. The water started running, and hushed voices drifted through the thin walls. His attention was drawn to the window, to the slice of sky visible between buildings.

The brick wall outside wasn't just a wall to Harry—it was an invitation. Five minutes. He'd wait five minutes after they started showering, then...

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry slipped through the window, his movements fluid and silent. The brick wall —so imposing from the street—might as well have been a ladder. His fingers and toes found purchase in the smallest cracks, his enhanced strength making the climb effortless.

The rooftop opened up before him like a new world. Harry breathed in deeply, tasting the city—car exhaust, cooking food, salt water from the distant harbour, and something uniquely New York.

"Right then," he murmured, stretching his arms. "Let's see what you've got."

The first webshot caught the corner of a neighbouring building. Harry tested the strand's tension—another habit from his early days of practice. Those first attempts in Surrey had led to more than a few bruises and one particularly memorable landing in Mrs Figg's rosebush.

He backed up three steps, took a running start, and launched himself into empty air.

The swing started with a stomach-dropping plunge before the web caught, transforming his fall into a graceful arc. The wind rushed past his ears, carrying away his quiet whoop of joy. At the peak of his swing, he released the strand and shot another, transitioning seamlessly into his next arc.

Each movement flowed into the next. Jump, swing, release, shoot, swing again. His spider-sense guided him around obstacles —flagpoles, satellite dishes, water towers. The city became a three-dimensional playground. Why walk through crowds when you could soar above them?

A flock of pigeons erupted from a ledge as he passed. "Sorry!" 

Harry called, though he couldn't stop grinning. 

He landed on a gargoyle's shoulder, pausing to catch his breath. From this height, the city stretched endlessly in every direction. 

Movement caught his eye —a flash of red and gold streaking across the sky. Harry's breath caught. Iron Man. The armoured hero flew past, repulsors blazing, heading straight for Stark Tower. 

"Wicked," he whispered, watching the hero disappear into his tower. 

Harry checked his battered watch—he'd been out longer than planned. Time to head back before the Dursleys noticed his absence. He didn't fancy explaining where he'd been.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The first sign something was wrong hit Harry before he even reached their floor. His spider-sense tingled—not the sharp warning of immediate danger, but a low, persistent buzz of wrongness. He quickened his pace down the fire escape, slipping through the window of what should have been their room.

Empty. Not just unoccupied—completely vacant. No luggage. No Dudley's sweets wrapper on the floor. None of Aunt Petunia's travel-sized cleaning supplies were arranged obsessively on the bathroom counter. The beds were made, pristine and untouched.

"No," Harry whispered. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. "No, no, no."

He burst into the hallway, nearly colliding with a cleaning cart. The room number swam before his eyes—412. This was their room. Had to be their room.

His trainers squeaked against the lobby's polished floor as he approached the front desk. The receptionist looked up, her professional smile already in place.

"Excuse me," Harry's voice cracked. "The Dursley family in room 412?"

The receptionist's fingers danced across her keyboard. "They checked out an hour ago."

The words hit him like a physical blow. "Checked out?"

"Is there a problem?" The receptionist's smile faded as she took in his appearance—a scruffy eleven-year-old, alone, panic written across his face.

"I'm their nephew. They... they were supposed to..." The words stuck in his throat. They were supposed to do what? Care for him? Love him? They never had before. Why had he expected America to be different?

Understanding dawned in the receptionist's eyes, followed by pity. Her hand moved towards the phone. "Let me call security. We'll sort this out."

"No!" Harry backed away. Security meant questions. Questions meant the authorities. 

The revolving doors spun in a blur as he bolted through them. The evening had settled over Brooklyn, streets still busy with commuters heading home. Harry ran, his trainers slapping against the pavement, ducking into the first alley he found. 

They'd planned this. All of it. What was the best way to abandon a kid? Just take them across the Atlantic to an unfamiliar city and run off the first chance you get.

His hand slipped into his pocket—eight dollars and some loose change. Everything he owned was in the backpack he'd fortunately taken with him on his rooftop excursion.

A police siren wailed in the distance. Harry pressed himself against the brick wall, mind racing. Tears threatened, but he blinked them back furiously. He couldn't cry. Couldn't break down. Not here, not now.

He wasn't helpless. He could climb walls, spin webs, and lift several times his body weight. He could survive this.

Harry straightened up, shouldering his backpack. Above him, the New York skyline stretched endlessly, a maze of possibilities now tinged with new purpose. The Dursleys thought they'd left him in an unfamiliar city, but they'd set him free. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry crouched on the pizzeria's rooftop, watching through the skylight. Once the alley cleared, he shot a web at the ventilation duct and lowered himself head-first. The evening rush had ended—perfect timing. A stack of delivery orders waited near the counter.

Making sure no one watched, Harry slipped through the back door he'd unlocked earlier. The kitchen's warmth wrapped around him, heavy with the scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese. He pressed himself against the wall, counting seconds between staff movements.

Three steps to the counter. The pizzas sat in their insulated bags, delivery tickets attached. Harry grabbed two bags, already calculating his escape route. A cook turned towards the counter.

Harry "accidentally" knocked a stack of empty boxes. They clattered to the floor, and in the moment of distraction, he slipped out the back door. No one saw him scale the wall in the shadows —they never did.

Ten minutes later, he pushed through the broken window of his warehouse home, making sure to enter normally through the makeshift door they'd created. "Dinner!"

"Harry!" Tommy, the youngest at eight, bounced up from his nest of blankets. His ginger hair stuck up in all directions. "How'd you get past Miguel this time?"

"Trade secret," Harry winked, setting down the pizzas. 

He never told them how he really got the food. Let them think he was just quick with his hands and feet.

Sarah looked up from where she sat cross-legged, teaching Maya to read by torchlight. At twelve, she'd appointed herself everyone's big sister, even though she wasn’t the oldest. Maya, who hadn't spoken a word in the year since Harry found her, offered a small smile.

"One day you'll have to teach me your tricks," Marcus said from his lookout position. 

He was a year younger than Harry; thirteen, with close-cropped black hair and eyes that had seen too much.

"No tricks," Harry lied, setting the pizzas on their makeshift table—a wooden cable spool rescued from a construction site. "Just good timing."

The kids fell on the food like wolves, and Harry watched them with fierce protectiveness. Three years had carved this family from necessity and trust.

Those first weeks alone in New York had nearly broken him. Eleven years old, sleeping in alleys, scrounging food from bins. His spider abilities kept him alive, but he learned quickly to hide them. People feared what they didn't understand—the Dursleys had taught him that lesson well enough.

He'd found Tommy shivering behind a dumpster. The boy had just run away from his third foster home. Harry almost revealed himself then but stopped. Instead, he offered something simpler—protection, and companionship.

They found the warehouse together, cleared out one floor, and slowly others joined them. Sarah came next, escaping an uncle whose touches lingered too long. Then Marcus, whose mother's boyfriend used him as a punching bag. Maya appeared one night, silent and scared, and simply never left.

They became more than survivors. Harry used his abilities secretly—stealing when needed, though he preferred odd jobs that wouldn't raise suspicion. 

He always had a plausible explanation for how he managed these things. The others contributed too. Sarah was brilliant at spotting loose change and dropped wallets. Marcus could sweet-talk shopkeepers into giving them day-old bread and bruised fruit. 

"I need to go out again," Harry said, grabbing a slice of pizza and folding it in half the way he'd learned from watching New Yorkers. "Maya, you're in charge."

Maya's dark eyes widened slightly—her version of enthusiastic agreement. She nodded once, solemn as a judge.

"Why her?" Marcus challenged, straightening up from his slouched position. "I'm the oldest after you. Plus, I've been here longer."

"Maya's smarter," Harry said, already heading for the door. "You tend to rush headlong into things.”

He left the building to the sound of Marcus’ complaints. 

=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry balanced on the edge of the electronics store roof, watching the security guard's familiar pattern through the skylight. Every night at 11:15, the guard would do his rounds, predictable as clockwork. The portable gaming console he wanted to get for Sarah’s birthday sat on the shelf near the back of the store.

He'd done this dozens of times. Get in, get out, no trace left behind. His fingers tingled, ready to shoot a web, when a metallic whine behind him sent his spider sense blazing.

"You know, most kids your age just shoplift candy bars."

Harry spun around, heart hammering. Iron Man hovered three feet away, the arc reactor's blue glow reflecting off the wet rooftop. 

"I've been hearing interesting stories," Stark continued, his mechanised voice carrying a hint of curiosity. "A thief who can scale walls and disappear into thin air. Been quite the mystery these past few months."

Harry didn't wait to hear more. He launched himself off the roof, shooting a web at a streetlight in one fluid motion. Iron Man's surprised curse followed him as he swung low under an overpass.

"Well, that answers a few questions!" Stark called out behind him.

The chase was on.

Harry zigzagged between buildings, using every trick he'd learned in three years of urban survival. He swung through a narrow alley Iron Man couldn't fit through, the brick walls so close they brushed his shoulders. Mid-swing, he transformed into his spider form, slipping through a partially open window barely wider than a handspan. Inside, he changed back to human, sprinting across an empty office floor, cubicles blurring past.

The whine of repulsors never faded completely. Stark was playing with him, Harry realised. Testing him.

"Impressive moves, kid!" Stark's voice carried over the rush of wind. "But I've got radar! And heat signature tracking. And about forty other ways of keeping tabs on you."

Harry dove under a delivery truck, its driver oblivious to the chase above, then crawled up the other side. In one smooth motion, he shot two webs simultaneously—one at each adjacent building. The strands went taut, and he slingshot himself high into the air, flipping over a water tower with a grace that would have made an acrobat jealous.

For a moment, blessed silence. Harry landed on a gargoyle, breathing hard, the stone creature's snarling face matching his mood. His heart pounded against his ribs. Had he lost him?

"That was quite a show."

Iron Man hung in the air directly in front of him, faceplate retracting with a mechanical whir to reveal Tony Stark's raised eyebrow and impressed smirk.

Harry tensed, ready to run again. 

"Kid, I just want to talk." Stark raised his hands, repulsors powering down with a soft whine. "I'm not going to turn you in. Fancy some shawarma?"

So, what do you think? I love Harry Potter/Avenger crossovers, so here’s my poor attempt at writing one.

Thanks for reading.