The morning of Norman Osborn's funeral broke with inappropriate sunshine, golden light streaming through the penthouse windows as Harry knotted his tie for the third time. His fingers, normally deft according to the memories floating in his head, fumbled with the silk.
"Allow me, sir." Bernard materialized at his side, as if summoned by his incompetence.
Harry dropped his hands and let the butler fix his tie, studying the older man's face. Bernard had served the Osborns for decades. Had he known about Norman's secret life? About the glider, the bombs, the costume? In the comics and movies, Bernard always seemed to know more than he let on.
"Is everything alright, sir?" Bernard asked, finishing the perfect Windsor knot.
"Just wondering what he'd think," Harry replied, testing the waters. "My father. About all of this."
Something flickered across Bernard's face, there and gone in an instant. "Your father was a complicated man, Master Harry. But he loved you. Never doubt that."
Bullshit, Harry thought, while Harry's memories simultaneously supplied evidence both supporting and contradicting Bernard's statement. Norman Osborn had been many things, but a loving father wasn't high on the list.
"The car is waiting," Bernard said, stepping back. "Mr. Parker called. He'll meet you at the cemetery."
Peter. Right. His supposed best friend, who he now knew had a secret identity and had been present when Norman died. The thought of facing him sent a fresh wave of anxiety through Harry's body.
"Thank you, Bernard."
The drive to the cemetery passed in blur. Harry stared out the window at New York, a city he knew intimately from both Harry's memories and from countless films, comics, and TV shows. It was surreal seeing landmarks he recognized but had never visited, feeling familiarity with streets he'd never walked.
When they arrived, he was surprised by the turnout. Hundreds of people stood in somber clusters around an ornate casket poised above an open grave. Business associates, Oscorp employees, society figures, and politicians, all there to pay respects to a man who'd secretly terrorized the city in a green costume.
"What a fucking joke," he muttered under his breath, then immediately felt guilty, though he wasn't sure why. This wasn't really his father. Hell, he wasn't really Harry Osborn. But the emotions felt genuine anyway.
"Harry."
He turned to find Peter Parker approaching, exactly as Tobey Maguire had portrayed him, earnest face creased with concern. The sight was so bizarre that Harry almost laughed.
"Pete," he managed, accepting Peter's awkward hug. Up close, the sensory details overwhelmed him. Peter smelled like cheap aftershave and darkroom chemicals. His jacket was worn at the elbows. This wasn't an actor on a screen. This was a living, breathing person with a life and history.
And he's Spider-Man, Harry thought, the knowledge buzzing in his brain like a live wire.
"I'm so sorry," Peter said, stepping back. "I know how much you wanted to make things right with him."
Harry nodded, uncertain how to respond. The original Harry had been desperate for Norman's approval, always falling short of expectations. He felt the echo of that pain like a phantom limb, memories of disappointments that weren't really his.
"Thank you for coming," he said finally. "It means a lot."
More people approached to offer condolences. Harry shook hands and accepted sympathies on autopilot, trying to match names and faces with both Harry's memories and his knowledge of the Marvel universe.
J. Jonah Jameson, somehow louder and more abrasive in person than any actor who'd portrayed him.
Otto Octavius, pre-tentacle accident, earnestly discussing Norman's contributions to science.
Robbie Robertson, quietly dignified, offering a simple handshake and genuine sympathy.
And then a hand clasped his shoulder with unexpected strength.
"Mr. Osborn. My condolences on your loss."
Harry turned to find himself face to face with Tony Stark.
Holy shit. Iron Man. Except not yet, if his timeline calculations were correct. This was pre-Afghanistan Tony, the weapons manufacturer playboy, not the superhero.
"Mr. Stark," he managed, shaking the offered hand. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Stark smiled, all white teeth and practiced charm. "Your father and I had our differences, but I respected his intellect. We were supposed to meet next week about a potential collaboration."
Harry's mind raced. This wasn't right. Tony Stark hadn't appeared in the Raimi films. The universes were bleeding together, creating something new. Which meant his knowledge might not be as reliable as he'd thought.
"Perhaps we could still discuss it," he heard himself say. "After an appropriate mourning period, of course."
Stark's eyebrows rose slightly. "I was under the impression you were more interested in the social aspects of wealth than the business side."
The comment stung in a way Harry hadn't expected. Not his ego, but Harry's, bubbling up with indignation.
"People often underestimate me, Mr. Stark," he replied coolly. "Sometimes that's useful."
Stark studied him with new interest. "Clearly. We'll talk soon, Osborn." He moved away through the crowd, already greeting someone else.
The funeral service itself was a blur of religious platitudes and corporate eulogies. Harry stood rigid beside the grave, aware of hundreds of eyes on him. Someone had thrust a handful of earth into his palm, and when the time came, he let it fall onto the casket with a hollow thud.
"Ashes to ashes," the priest intoned. "Dust to dust."
Harry stared at the gleaming casket. Inside was the body of Norman Osborn, the Green Goblin, one of Spider-Man's greatest enemies, a man who'd murdered countless people. A man who, in this reality, was his father.
He felt nothing. No grief, no relief, no closure. Just a spreading numbness and the increasingly urgent need to escape the weight of all these stares.
The reception afterwards was held at the Osborn penthouse. Harry moved through rooms filled with people eating canapés and drinking expensive Scotch while discussing Norman's "tragic accident." He shook more hands, accepted more condolences, and tried not to scream at the absurdity of it all.
"How are you holding up?" Peter appeared at his side, offering a glass of water.
"Fine," Harry lied, accepting it gratefully. "Just ready for all these people to leave."
"I can imagine." Peter shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, about your dad... about what you said at the hospital..."
Harry tensed. Right. He'd apparently accused Spider-Man of killing Norman while drugged and confused at the hospital.
"Pete, I was out of my mind," he said quickly. "Grief and drugs talking. I know Spider-Man isn't responsible for what happened to my father."
The relief on Peter's face was almost comical. "I'm glad to hear that, Harry. I was worried you might..."
"Swear vengeance and become a supervillain?" Harry suggested with a hollow laugh that clearly disconcerted Peter. "Sorry. Inappropriate gallows humor."
"It's okay," Peter said, though his expression suggested it wasn't. "Just know I'm here for you, whatever you need."
The irony was thick enough to cut with a knife. Here was Peter, living a double life, clearly worried Harry might discover his secret and blame him for Norman's death. Meanwhile, Harry was living an altogether different kind of double life, one Peter couldn't begin to imagine.
"I know, Pete," he said softly. "You're a good friend."
The words tasted strange in his mouth. Peter wasn't his friend. Peter didn't even know who he really was. Nobody here did. He was an impostor wearing Harry Osborn's life like an ill-fitting suit, surrounded by fictional characters who didn't realize they were fictional.
The panic that had been building all day suddenly crested. The room seemed too hot, too crowded, the voices around him too loud.
"Excuse me," he mumbled to Peter, making a beeline for his father's, no, his study.
He closed the door behind him, leaning against it and taking deep breaths. Through the window, he could see the New York skyline, a view straight out of the movies. This was real. This was happening. He was Harry Osborn now, and these people expected him to step into Norman's shoes, to run Oscorp, to be someone he wasn't.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Master Harry?" Bernard's voice came through the door. "There are board members asking to speak with you. Shall I tell them you're indisposed?"
Harry closed his eyes. The vultures were already circling, eager to pick apart Norman's company while his body was barely cold. The thought sparked something protective in him, something distinctly Harry-like.
"No," he replied, straightening his tie. "Tell them I'll be right out."
Maybe he wasn't really Harry Osborn. But for now, at least, he was all they had. And he'd be damned if he'd let them take what Norman had built, what should by rights be his now. Harry's now. Whatever.
He opened the door, shoulders squared, face composed into a mask of grieving dignity.