Chapter Text
“How long do you think I have?”
Severus took a deep breath in through his nose. If he was being optimistic…? “I cannot tell,” he admitted, “Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually; it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time.”
Dumbledore gave Severus a pitiful smile that seemed so terribly grateful for a man who was slated to die within the year. “I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus.”
“If you had only summoned me a little earlier,” Severus pointed out, speaking through clenched teeth, “I might have been able to do more, buy you more time! Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?”
Dumbledore avoided his gaze, which was always an obvious tell that the great wizard was troubled by something. His own death, presumably. “Something like that…I was delirious, no doubt…” Severus could think of a dozen words that described Dumbledore, but ‘delirious’ had never been an option. No, if Dumbledore had made such a move, it was on purpose.
“Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward,” Dumbledore said brightly, and Severus couldn’t help but note the way the man’s cursed hand shook. “I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me.”
It was a careful ploy to change the topic, and Severus was about to argue as much when Dumbledore held up his left hand and cut him off.
Fine, then, he thought to himself. Be that way. He took the seat across the desk and sat down with a scowl. “The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price.”
Dumbledore finally looked the slightest bit concerned, but that was probably because it was someone else in danger.
Severus’s assumptions were validated when Dumbledore said, “In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have.” He nodded at Severus. “Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?”
Severus clenched his fist in his robe. There was no way to describe the cold that had rushed through his veins when the Dark Lord had insinuated that Severus would eventually be the one to murder Dumbledore.
“I will likely need someone…closer to Dumbledore to finish him off.”
The mental walls Severus had to put up to shield his terror at the thought of laying a finger on Albus Dumbledore were stronger than almost any he’d ever erected in the Dark Lord’s presence (he still wasn’t sure how the Dark Lord hadn’t caught on to his horror when he learned of Her death). Albus Dumbledore, the man who had offered him, for the first time in his life, a reprieve from daily beatings, a bed that was all his own, and a way to fend for himself. Albus Dumbledore, who had trusted him when no one else would and gave his life some purpose after She died. Albus Dumbledore, who continued to put up with him despite the fact that Severus was aware that everyone else hated him or, at the very least, would never consider him a friend, because he was just so angry all the time and things got on his nerves that didn’t seem to bother anyone else and yes it felt kind of nice to be the one handing out punishments for once… Albus Dumbledore, the only person to have ever seen him cry besides his parents.
“That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan,” Severus said in reply. No, there was no describing his terror…
“Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?” Dumbledore asked, the slightest bit of urgency in his voice.
“He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes.”
“And, if it does fall into his grasp, I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students at Hogwarts?” Dumbledore said this far too casually, like he wouldn’t have been surprised if it happened. If he was truly to die within the year, he might have been right. Severus nodded seriously. Of course he would protect those weak-willed, spineless dullards, they were his kids!
“Good,” Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. “Now then,” he continued, “your first priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself,” Dumbledore remarked, giving Severus a look the younger wizard couldn’t quite parse. “Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you— ”
Severus cleared his throat and cut in. “—much less since his father has lost favor. Draco blames me—he thinks I have usurped Lucius’s position.” And, technically, Severus was partially to blame for the attack on the Death Eaters that night, so Draco’s feelings were not entirely unfounded.
“All the same, try,” Dumbledore implored him. “I am concerned less for myself than for accidental victims of whatever schemes might occur to the boy.”
Of course you are, Severus thought. You stopped caring for your own well-being long ago. Why else would the staff have a secret chart that indicated who was supposed to make sure Dumbledore wasn’t staying up late? Why else would Rubeus constantly ask for seconds and thirds, specifically for dishes on Severus’s side of the high table, if not to ensure that Dumbledore would have to get his hands on multiple dishes and maybe eat a full serving? Why else would the house-elves be specifically instructed to report to Minerva at the first signs of illness?
“Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath,” said Dumbledore.
Severus gave Dumbledore a dry look. “Are you intending to let him kill you?”
“Certainly not,” Dumbledore said. “ You must kill me.”
Severus pressed steepled fingers to his lips and tried not to scream. Apparently it wasn’t enough for Dumbledore to not care for himself. No, the man had to actively desire his own end.
It took a long time for Severus to compose himself enough to shoot back, “Would you like me to do it now, or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?” God, first the Dark Lord was saying he was going to kill Dumbledore, now Dumbledore was saying that he was going to kill Dumbledore?
“Oh, not quite yet,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “I daresay the moment will present itself in due course.”
There will never be a moment when the world will be ready for the death of you, Albus Dumbledore.
“Given what has happened tonight, we can be sure that it will happen within a year,” Dumbledore remarked.
Fuck, he was right. He was going to die anyway, wasn’t he? Because he’d been too stubborn to ask for help, because apparently he didn’t realize how important he was, how much positive change he’d brought into the world simply by existing.
“If you don’t mind dying,” Severus ended up asking, “why not let Draco do it?”
Dumbledore shook his head with a sigh. “That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged. I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”
Severus wanted to scream again. “And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?” If Severus wasn’t hated enough, this would ensure it, ensure that he was just what people thought he was, another Slytherin who couldn’t contain his lust for power.
“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said Dumbledore, his voice gentle. Severus hadn’t known an authority figure’s voice could sound gentle until he’d met Dumbledore.
“I ask this one great favor of you, Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year’s league,” he continued, like those were synonymous in his mind, like this truly was just a ‘favor.’ “I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved—I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it.”
That was when Severus realized something that Dumbledore had implied throughout this whole conversation, implied merely by them being the only two people in the room.
“You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you,” he said, not a hint of doubt in his voice.
Dumbledore smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, the more who know, the more chances of someone unsavory catching wind of my predicament and taking advantage of it. No, it will be best for everyone if this is kept between us.”
“So, you want me to kill you and then not tell people why? ” Severus hissed, his voice nearly cracking by the end of the question.
“Now, that would ruin the plan, wouldn’t it?”
“What plan?” Severus roared, slamming his hands on the table. “Dumbledore, you never tell any of us what’s going on? How are we supposed to help you?”
“You can help me,” Dumbledore said softly, “by trusting me.”
Severus clenched his fists and looked up as though asking God, ‘Why did you make this great wizard so fucking stupid?’
“Fine,” he growled out, sitting down with a huff. “I’ll kill you. But you have no control over what I do and who I tell once you’re dead.”
“No… I suppose I don’t…” Dumbledore muttered.
“And for the record?” Severus added. “Drake-Wayne will find out about this. Not through me, but he will. That boy is clever in ways neither of us can imagine, and I’m certain he’ll piece things together like he always does. And I am not going to be the one to try to explain to a—a child why you want me to murder you. That is on you.”
Dumbledore let out a sigh. “If it comes to that, I assume full responsibility.”
“Good!” Severus snarled, standing up again and making to leave the room. Before he exited, he spun around and pointed at a half-eaten scone on Dumbledore’s desk. “And finish that before the house-elves take it away, you fool.”
“Thank you, Severus…” he heard Dumbledore whisper as he left.
Tim spent the month of July with a leaf under his tongue. It made eating…difficult, to say the least, and Tim only spoke to his family in ASL, but neither of those were particularly distracting to Tim. Tim had, after all, decided about a week prior that he wanted to do this.
Become an Animagus, that is.
He’d read about them, talked with Sirius and McGonagall (or was it Minerva now that she wasn’t his teacher?) about their respective transfigurations, and planned everything to a tee. It seemed like a useful ability, especially when doing undercover work (not that that was much of an issue anymore), so Tim decided it was something worth pursuing.
Really, he was killing two birds with one stone because the other thing Tim wanted to do over the summer was perfect non-verbal spellcasting, and what better way was there to do that than with a leaf in your mouth?
There were a lot of better ways to do it than with a leaf in your mouth. But that’s beside the point.
The point was that, even though Tim wasn’t catching up on four years of magical knowledge this summer, that didn’t make him any less busy. Without the luxury of verbal speech, Tim had started teaching himself British Sign Language, which he knew from experience to be less like American Sign Language than he’d initially hoped. He wanted to learn the basics for extension charms (and how to make them undetectable, that was important). And he’d already sent the formal acceptance letter back to Diana that officially marked him as the Justice League’s ambassador. Wizard Liaison for the Justice League International. It was a mouthful, but Tim would bear it.
Becoming a political figure was not how Tim saw his previous school year ending. His goal had been to defeat Voldemort by the end of the summer at the latest.
That was, of course, before the Battle at the Department of Mysteries. Before Albus basically signed Tim up to be a diplomat between two world powers.
Tim knew politics. He’d been the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, a multibillion-dollar company, and he was a superhero. That meant that a lot of people listened to him, and his words held a lot of power. He knew how important it was how he phrased things and how he acted in public and private. However, the paperwork was new. Not the idea of paperwork, Tim had had enough of that at Wayne Enterprises, but the kind of paperwork. As CEO, Tim was usually the one signing off on things that other people wrote and occasionally offering his own suggestions. He’d never been on the other end, writing said documentation. There was a lot of legalese he needed to learn.
This is where Tim found himself the last week of July, looking up the difference between ‘ownership’ and ‘possession,’ when there was a tapping at his window. By this point, Tim was used to the sound, and he leaned over and unlatched the window with one hand while still typing with the other. He then reached into the drawer of his desk and retrieved the owl treats he’d purchased from Honeydukes a couple months ago. As the tawny owl swallowed his offering, Tim slipped the scroll from its leg and unrolled the parchment.
Dear Timothy,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to let you know of some additional news regarding the matter of your potential new operative.
First off, I would like to inform you that I have at last secured a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I am pleased to inform you that Severus has agreed to take up the position, as I have just hired a new Potions teacher, Professor Horace Slughorn. Well, I say new, but he has actually taught before at Hogwarts. This is a part of why I have hired him. He taught Potions and was Head of Slytherin House during the time that Tom Riddle attended Hogwarts, and thus has a particular knowledge of the man’s inner mind which I do not possess. Because of this, I would like to ask that whomever you decide to send our way try as much as possible to warm up to Horace. I have asked the same of Harry, as Horace has already taken a particular interest in the boy, but I would still like to have all of my bases covered.
I know that you must possess a great level of intelligence to be considered a detective by your peers, and I can only assume that your knowledge of interrogation is vast as well. To that end, I am hoping that you will help your colleague help me understand Horace better and understand his past with Tom Riddle, which will certainly help in a certain quest which I find myself pursuing.
(Tim didn’t need to be told this to know it had something to do with the ongoing horcrux hunt)
Additionally, I will need to be informed of any lesson plans your operative might have for their Self-Defense course if you choose to send a teacher. They will have many freedoms as it pertains to said curriculums, but it would certainly bring me peace of mind to have some documented record of such. I will also need to know their credentials, as I am most certain the Ministry will have something to say about ‘untrained’ teachers at Hogwarts.
I feel hesitant to disclose some of the more sensitive information regarding the movements of the Order and its plans via written communication. I would like to request your presence at the Burrow or Headquarters as soon as you are able. Please send word of when you might next be available, and I will send you a Portkey for the journey there.
I am, yours most sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Tim studied the letter, having been thrown off by the unusually illegible writing.
He’s writing with his non-dominant hand, Tim realized. His left hand, if the way he carries his wand is any indication. Tim remembered that it had looked like Dumbledore had injured his hand during the period he was kicked out of Hogwarts last semester, but he hadn’t realized it was this bad. And if he hadn’t fixed such a blaring issue with magic, did that mean that the injury itself was magical?
And then there was the issue of keeping an ‘operative’ at Hogwarts. Time was running short to find a suitable agent to go to Hogwarts, and Tim’s first choice, Donna Troy, had had to decline his offer due to an unexpected but apparently not unwelcome pregnancy she found herself having. So, Tim needed to find a superhero he could trust to keep an eye on Hogwarts, preferably one with a magical background or lineage, and who could keep up with Tim’s whole…everything.
The only other candidate he had in mind was Damian, and Tim didn’t know how he felt about that.
Tim was reading through wixen-Muggle interaction laws when his phone went off and a familiar face popped up on the screen.
“Hey, Billy,” he said, capping his pen and spinning around in his chair so that he wasn’t tempted to keep on working while he was talking. “How’re you feeling?”
“Oh, uh, great, thanks! I haven’t felt anything off since I woke up, so I think that’s a good thing? Anyways, so…um…okay, this is actually crazy, but, uh, an owl came to our house today to drop off a letter, but, like, it wasn’t for me, which was weird, and it was addressed to Darla, and, uh…so, she was accepted into Hogwarts?”
Tim’s eyes widened. “No shi—shoot, really? She’s going into sixth grade?”
“I know, time flies, right? Anyways, so this really stern but also nice witch showed up, like, two hours ago to expose the fact that magic exists, and it was really awkward because mamáandpapáhad to pretend like they didn’t know about magic, but anyways, Darla really,really wants to go, but I told her that it was kind of dangerous right now, but also she has magical superpowers, so she should be okay, but also—”
“I see,” Tim said, cutting Billy off before he could spiral further. “Was she accepted into any other wizarding schools?”
“Nope. I’ve got no idea why Ilvermorny didn’t contact her, but it’s just Hogwarts.”
“Okay, got it.” Tim spun his chair with his feet as he contemplated the situation at hand. If he was being honest with himself, he’d absolutely love to have a Shazam on-scene at Hogwarts to help defend the place and Harry, even if it was the youngest of the family. But he understood Billy’s reservations. The place was the center of a lot of conflict and was kind of dangerous, regardless of what wixen had to say about how it was the ‘safest place to be.’
“Can’t you guys all open doors to the Rock of Eternity through magical wards?” Tim asked him.
“Yeah, why?”
“So, if she’s in real danger or gets super homesick or needs to contact you all, can’t she just open a door at Hogwarts and go to the Rock of Eternity?” he pointed out.
Billy was silent on the other end for a moment. “Actually, yeah. That’s a good point. And she knows when to ask for help. And, like, she really wants to go. I don’t think people understand how hard it is to say no to that girl.”
Tim laughed. “So, does that help?”
“Definitely. Thanks for picking up, Tim.”
“Anytime, Billy.”
Tim really wished that Albus had sent him news about the current political state of the British wizarding world. There was a downside to being so far away, namely that all of the news was about a week old. There was a new Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, and the newspapers found some way to rope Harry into everything, even going so far as to continue calling him the ‘Chosen One’ long after the epithet was coined. Other than that, though, Tim was lost. This only fueled his desire to head over to the Burrow (whatever the hell that was) and check things out. Tim ended up sending a letter back stating he’d be available on the second of August, at which point he’d finally be able to talk with his mouth mandrake leaf-free. He felt a little guilty about missing Harry’s birthday, but he’d already sent the boy a gift in the mail (a three-year subscription to Seeker Weekly and a box of Alfred’s legendary chocolates), so he felt like he hadn’t completely let his friend down.
Friend. Tim had never thought he’d end up calling the students he’d met undercover ‘friends.’ And yet, here he was, sending letters back and forth with Hermione and getting the occasional home-cooked meal from the Weasleys (Tim needed to invest in that Food-Preserving Packaging, then he could finally ship Jason’s éclairs to the Weasleys).
Burrow, right, that’s the Weasley’s address.
Out of all the friends he’d made, the only ones who liked sending letters were Hermione and Purdie, but that didn’t mean that Tim didn’t get to hear from anyone else. Cordelia and Harry both had actual smartphones now, which meant that Tim was constantly texting them (the concept of social media still seemed to scare Harry) about random things in his life. Tim probably wouldn’t have learned about Sirius and McGonagall being Animagi if not for Harry, and Cordelia sent Tim really poorly-made memes that never failed to make him laugh.
It was about two weeks into July when Tim finally realized that Harry was living in an abusive household, and he felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. But it was in the little things Harry texted, things like “cant talk Vernons mad”or “no problem i was already awake mking everyone breakfasst” that set Tim off. Eventually, Tim flat-out asked Harry if he’d want to stay at the Manor over the summer, but after overcoming the initial shock at Tim’s deduction, Harry assured Tim that he was headed to the Weasley’s within a week, which calmed Tim down substantially.
Next summer, he’s coming straight to the Manor before he goes to the Burrow, Tim had thought to himself with a strong resolve. When he finally went to visit the Burrow, he understood why Harry was so eager to stay there.
Albus had indeed sent Tim the Portkey (an old tin can) within a week, having set it to go off early the morning of the second of August.
Tim woke up early, placed his wand to his throat, and whispered, “Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus.” This was the incantation he was supposed to say every morning and night for his Animagus transformation. It sounded like a butchered recital of Latin conjugations, but apparently it did the trick, so Tim kept at it. He made sure to bring the armored briefcase that held his Red Robin gear—just in case he was needed for an Order mission—but otherwise brought nothing except for a chocolate pudding Jason and Alfred had made for the Weasleys to show their appreciation for the other family taking him in like they had. None of the Waynes had ever met any of the Weasleys before, but they’d already decided Tim was in good company with the Weasleys, which suited Tim just fine, as he’d known that within ten minutes of meeting Molly.
The Burrow was nothing short of an architectural miracle. With all the awnings coming off of it jutting in different directions, Tim was strongly reminded of Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Fallingwater,” that is, if Fallingwater was thrice as tall and a functioning farm. A couple chickens clucked around Tim’s feet as he carried his briefcase in one hand and the pudding in the other, wondering how he was going to knock on the door.
The situation was taken care of for him. When Tim was less than a few feet away from the door, it burst open, revealing the plump form of one Molly Weasley, who looked like Christmas had come early to her home.
“Tim!” she smiled, waving her wand at the bowl of pudding. “It’s so good to see you again, dear!” She levitated the bowl onto a counter and then did the same with Tim’s briefcase, setting it off to the side.
“Hi, Molly,” Tim greeted, accepting her warm embrace and practically melting into it. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long, if you ask me,” she told him frankly and ushered him into the house. “Come in, come in! You haven’t been to the Burrow, have you?” Tim shook his head. “Well, it’s not much, but it’s home.”
“I think it’s lovely,” Tim admitted, looking around. The place was messy in some areas, organized in others, some surfaces clean, some covered in unknown substances. It had the same feel as the Kent’s farm—warm and inviting and ready to envelop you in its homely atmosphere.
Molly blushed, waving her hand in front of her. “Oh, Tim!” She glanced over at the glass bowl now perched rather precariously on the tiled counter. “And what’s this you brought?”
“Ah, yeah, my older brother and my grandfather made that for you all,” said Tim. “It’s chocolate pudding, apparently.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Molly gasped, giving Tim a quick kiss on the head. “You’re a real sweetheart, aren’t you, Tim?”
Normally, Tim would respond with something like, “That’s what they tell me,” or, “Oh, I know,” but it was different with Molly. With Molly, Tim felt all warm and fuzzy inside and whispered a small, “Thanks.”
Tim heard the floorboards creak just as a crowd came thundering down the stairs. Harry was the first one down, and he immediately hurried up to Tim and patted him on the back.
“Good to see you, Tim,” he grinned.
“Tim!” Hermione squealed, barreling into him for a hug. “We missed you!”
Ron gave Tim a much harder thump on the back than Harry. “Nice to see you, mate.”
Ginny nodded in Tim’s direction and simply said, “’Sup?” Tim shot her a pair of finger guns. Though they weren’t sending letters to each other, Tim felt like he’d bonded with Ginny more towards the end of the last semester, so seeing her was just as welcome as the others.
“Did you bring your suit with you?” Hermione asked, glancing over at the briefcase.
Tim shrugged. “You never know when you might need it.”
“You gotta show me how that thing works,” Ron said, eyeing the briefcase. Ginny nodded eagerly behind him.
“Sure. After I meet with Albus, we can—”
“Is this Timothy?” a new voice asked in heavily accented English. Tim saw Hermione and Ginny roll their eyes almost in unison as someone appeared from the living room, a young woman with long blond hair and a faint glow about her. She rounded the table and came up close to Tim, grabbing his shoulders.
“Bill ‘as told me all about ‘ow you save ‘is life,” she told him, her voice trilling, and she leaned forward towards Tim. He, of course, recognized the beginnings of la bise and immediately leaned in as well. Somewhere off to the side, Hermione gasped, like she was fully expecting them to start making out then and there.
She really had nothing to worry about. Tim and the woman went cheek-to-cheek twice, as Tim knew was customary in most of France, though he made sure to be prepared if she was hoping to perform a third or fourth.
The woman pulled back, looking shocked. “You know how tofaire la bise?”she said in French.
“I spent a month in Paris,” Tim explained back in French. “I thought I’d learn just enough to not look like a tourist.”
There were tears in the woman’s eyes now, and she initiated another la bise between the two of them. “It has been months since I last heard my native tongue. English is so hard.”
Tim nodded in agreement. “It’s a tough language. Hard to pronounce . But, I must admit, French isn’t easy to master.”One of Tim’s favorite things about knowing multiple languages was the face non-native English speakers made when they realized that their native language was being spoken to them. There was a kind of unadulterated joy in it that Tim couldn’t quite understand as a native English speaker.
“You know French?” Ginny asked, looking aghast at the two of them.
“Yeah, I’m fluent,” Tim told her. One glance at the faces of his friends in the room was enough to tell Tim that this woman was not as welcome in the house as he was. Tim felt a pang of sympathy for the woman, who was far from her homeland and learning a new language on her own.
“Tim Drake-Wayne,” he introduced himself with a slight bow of his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Fleur Delacour,” she replied, hastily wiping away a tear. “I hope you find yourself more welcome in this house than I am.”
That made Tim frown. The idea of Molly Weasley being anything but friendly to an outsider was ridiculous—that is, until he thought about the way Fleur spoke of Bill and the implications of her presence in the house. Either she was seriously dating or was already engaged to Bill Weasley, and, him being the eldest child, Molly was probably being extra protective of him, even to the point of rudeness, whether knowingly or not.
“Give them time,” Tim told her. “I promise they’ll warm up to you. ”
“Can we speak English, please,” Ron whined, and Tim sent him a sharp glare.
“Oh no, it must be terrible not understanding a language that’s being spoken in front of you,” Tim said dryly. “Imagine that being someone’s every day.” Ron didn’t seem to get the implication fully, but Tim saw Hermione bite her lip and avoid eye contact with him.
“How about I start making some lunch?” Molly broke in awkwardly, waving her wand and setting the kitchen utensils to work. “How does some shepherd’s pie sound?”
“It sounds lovely, Missus Weasley,” Fleur said. “Would you care for some ‘el—”
“No, no, I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” Molly immediately set off to the kitchen, giving Fleur an odd look before turning around.
“So, what’s the deal with Fleur?” Tim asked, the moment they were behind closed doors.
Ginny groaned, tugging at her hair. “God, I can’t standher! She’s just—just—”
“Just what?”
“Well, for starters, she treats us all like we’re idiots,” Hermione said hotly.
“How so?” If they were going to openly insult someone like this, Tim at least wanted to know why.
“‘Let me ‘elp you weeth zat,’” Ginny mocked in a horrible French accent that made Tim cringe on reflex. “ ‘Don’ touch zat, eets so ‘ot!’ Like, seriously, woman, I’m not a toddler!”
“So you don’t like her because she cares about your well-being?” Tim summed up.
Ginny’s face turned almost as red as her hair, and Hermione shot Tim a disapproving look. “T-that—that’s not all!” Ginny stammered, lifting up a finger. “She’s so full of herself, and she won’t shut up about the preparations for her wedding, and she always repeats what we say back to us, and—and she—ugh!” Hermione patted her on the back comfortingly.
“Let me get this straight,” Tim said slowly, trying to keep his voice from rising beyond normal conversational levels. “Fleur’s excited to get married, and you’re all the only people she can talk to about it, so she’s obviously going to want to share. And you’re also mad that a non-native English speakeris parroting your words to, presumably, better comprehend the language?”
Ginny looked both ashamed and livid at the same time. “That’s—she—I told you, she’s just so full of herself!”
“So am I, but you’ve never treated me differently because of that,” Tim pointed out.
“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Hermione quickly countered, looking concerned. “You know that’s not—”
“My point,” Tim interrupted, “is that we all have our shortcomings, and that shouldn’t dictate how we treat one another.”
“You’re probably just as enamored with Phlegm as Harry and Ron are,” Ginny decided, folding her arms over her chest.
Tim rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. If that’s your best argument, it’s obvious you’re making excuses.”
“She has a point, though,” said Hermione. “Why are you so defensive of Fleur anyways?”
“None of you have been to another country without an interpreter, have you?” Tim said, and the others all shook their head. “Then you have no idea what it’s like to be treated like an idiot simply because you can’t understand another language as well as your own. Have any of you ever been engaged before?” Again, they all shook their heads. “Then you obviously can’t understand how hard Fleur must be trying to leave a good impression on all of you. You’re going to be family soon, whether you like it or not,” he added, seeing Ginny’s face of disgust. “Is this how you treat your family? Talking behind their backs, calling them by stupid nicknames, blatantly refusing any of their help—you’re better than this. And I mean all of you.”
Tim turned to Harry and Ron. “Ron, Harry, neither of you have said anything mean about Fleur, but I saw you checking her out earlier when we did the la bise earlier. I know you’re just a pair of teenage boys, but really? Start treating her more like a person and less like an object of your awkward fantasies and maybe Ginny’ll stop thinking you two are head-over-heels for her.” Ron and Harry gaped at Tim and turned to each other, but they both looked thoroughly ashamed of their actions.
“And you two,” he continued, turning to Ginny and Hermione, “listen, I know how hard it is when someone you care for is getting married. After my birth mother died, my birth father eventually remarried, and it was tough for me to accept her into the family at first. But I respected my father’s decision and gave this new woman time to grow on me. And she did. Hell, my oldest brother is about a month away from proposing to his girlfriend. Listen, Fleur’s not ‘competition’ for your brother’s affections, Ginny. And I know I’ve only known her for a little bit, but if I can give her a chance, the rest of you can as well.” He took a deep breath after he finished. He hadn’t meant to get so passionate about the whole matter, but there was something about the way everyone seemed to be treating Fleur that just set Tim off.
Hermione was the first to react, biting one of her fingernails. “I mean—well—I suppose we might have been a little harsh on her…”
“I’m not asking you to be best friends with her,” Tim clarified. “Just treat her like you would anyone you’re trying to get to know.”
Ginny pulled her knees up to her chest. “Mum doesn’t like her either,” she muttered, making sure to avoid any and all eye contact with Tim.
“Then maybe I need to have a talk with her next,” Tim sighed, having definitely recognized Molly’s hostility towards Fleur from before. Honestly, these people had been so kind to him when he’d first showed up, what made Fleur any different? The fact that she was a foreigner? The fact that she was more conventionally attractive than any of the other women in the house? Were either of those really worth alienating someone who was already in such a vulnerable place?
Albus, as always, had impeccable timing, arriving just as lunch had finished and the pudding was being passed around. Tim had secretly suspected that the man had a sixth sense for when sweet treats were being served, and this only provided further evidence that, if there was some kind of dessert around, Albus would be there in time to eat it.
He was the one who actually suggested doing some chores while they talked, and so Tim found himself feeding a brood of chickens alongside his former headmaster, who held the seed in his injured hand and tossed it with the other.
“So,” Tim asked, “how’s the hunt for the horcruxes?”
Albus looked a little taken aback by how fast Tim jumped to the topic, but he nonetheless answered. “It is…far better than I anticipated. It seems that my many years of solitude made me forget the benefits of working with others. We have good reason to believe that Voldemort may have made the goblet of Helga Hufflepuff into a horcrux, following a pattern of making powerful artifacts into horcruxes. However, John tracked this item’s presence to the Lestrange vault at Gringotts, which will make retrieval far more complicated that I would like. We’ve also finally located and destroyed the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, which, amusingly, hid itself in a place you would be quite familiar with—the Room of Requirement.”
Tim nodded, ticking off his fingers for the horcruxes they’d accounted for: Voldemort’s diary, destroyed; Ravenclaw’s Diadem, destroyed; Slytherin’s Locket, destroyed; Hufflepuff’s Cup, located; Voldemort’s snake Nagini, located; a sixth item which was located by John but never identified, and then a mysterious seventh item which had not yet been located.
“So, three down, four to go. Have we identified the last two horcruxes yet?”
Albus looked down at his hand and nodded slowly. “Yes, I—you asked a ways back how I got this injury?” Tim nodded, staring at the withered hand. “A result of carelessness taken in retrieving another horcrux. Thankfully, it has been destroyed, but I seem to have paid the price.”
“Is it a permanent injury?” Tim asked, thinking about possibilities for prostheses.
Albus chuckled sadly. “Yes, I do believe it shall stay with me until I pass.”
Tim frowned. He didn’t like the idea of an injury that modern medicine and magic couldn’t fix. “Well, if you want your mobility back, I can always hook you up with a prosthetic hand or arm. You don’t have to live with this.”
Albus sighed, giving Tim a sad smile. “The offer is much appreciated, Mister Drake-Wayne, but I do believe I will keep this hand—at the very least, as a reminder of my own hubris and its consequences.”
Oh. This was how Tim sounded to other people, wasn’t it. Self-deprecation poorly disguised as something nobler.
“Yeah, well, don’t think I won’t keep pushing it,” Tim warned, playfully yet not betraying the truth behind his words. You didn’t have to ‘keep’ injuries that you didn’t want to as some sort of punishment to yourself. People were perfectly free to refuse treatment that ‘healed’ them from something that didn’t need healing in their mind, but it was obvious that that wasn’t Albus’s train of thought. He was trying to prove some kind of point to himself, and Tim didn’t support that.
“Any word on the last horcrux?” Tim asked, opting to bring the topic up at another time when he might have a better chance of getting through to the old wizard.
Albus shook his head. “None. It is as elusive as it is mysterious.”
“Got it.” And Tim did get it. He knew that Albus was lying to him.
According to John Constantine, the occultist had discovered the location of the last horcrux quite easily, and Albus had made him swear not to tell anyone. He told Tim anyways, because verbal promises meant nothing to John without invoking literal demons.
It was Harry. Harry was the seventh horcrux. Or, at least, some part of him was.
After learning of this, Tim completely understood why Albus would lie about it to everyone. Knowing it was an incredible burden, and it was easier to push it aside and pretend like he’d never heard anything than think about the implications of making a human into a horcrux, what ‘destroying’ that horcrux would look like.
Tim had talked with John about ways to keep Harry alive while still destroying the horcrux part of him, but John had yet to discover a way to make that happen.
Basically, if John couldn’t find some ritual or other method of doing it, then Harry was slated to die if Voldemort was.
Neither can live while the other survives. A month ago, Tim had told Harry that the prophecy basically confirmed that he was going to come out on top. Now, all Tim could think about was that single word: can. Not ‘will,’ ‘can.’ That implied that it was possible for them to both die and still fulfill the prophecy.
So, yeah, Tim still asked Albus so he wouldn’t alert the man to his own knowledge on the matter, but Tim was basically doing the same thing he was and pushing the issue off for another time. If not, he’d be spending every waking hour looking for a cure for this problem, which was what John was already doing. Tim wished he could say that he didn’t have anything else to worry about, but he did. He didn’t have time to think about Harry becoming a sacrificial lamb to end decades of war.
He didn’t have the emotional energy to think about it either. So he brought it up every now and then to Albus, and then he promptly shut the thought away in his father’s wardrobe in the mental Drake Manor he’d built for himself.
And he was locking the doors….aaaaaaand it was gone. Next topic.
“You cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on your suitcase?” Ron gasped. “Mate, that’s insane. If Mum caught wind of this…”
“—she’d do nothing, because it’s literally just a false bottom suitcase,” Tim told him dryly, showing them all how the mechanics worked. It wasn’t a particularly complex piece of equipment, but his friends seemed to think it was incredible.
“Did you design it yourself?” Hermione asked, watching with fascination as he undid the latch again.
“Uh, no,” Tim admitted. “I bought it online.”
“Shit,” Ginny hummed, “Muggles can get anything on a line, can’t they?”
“Sure can,” Tim nodded, electing not to correct her this time. “This, however, I designed myself,” he said, flipping over the case so he could show them his folded-up gear. “With some help.” He slowly unpacked each item and disassembled as much of his suit as possible so that they could get a full picture of what he worked with. Each piece seemed to impress them, whether it was the fact that he could remove his grappling line from its gun to use it manually, or his newly-added compartment of healing potions.
“Being able to use magic on patrol is a real game-changer,” Tim admitted. “Apparating can really be hidden in plain sight, Bruce taught us how to sneak away from a target long before I learned how to Apparate. It’s all about sticking to the shadows.” It also didn’t hurt that the sound on gunshots at night was a staple of Gotham, so the loud bang of Apparition was concealed.
“That’s brilliant,” Harry grinned. “I can’t wait until we learn how to do that.”
“Trust me, it’s harder than it looks,” Tim told them.
Hermione snorted. “Coming from you, that makes it sound practically impossible.”
“I mean, I only really picked it up while I was falling to my death, so adrenaline was a big factor.”
“You what?” Ginny hissed.
Tim blinked. “Did I…not tell you guys about going to the Lazarus Pit and fighting Death Eaters?” He received four disbelieving faces as a response.
“No, Tim,” Hermione said slowly, her voice cracking. “No, you did not .”
Tim scratched the back of his head. “Damn, I could have sworn I…really?”
Hermione placed her head in her hands. “Tim, if I’d known that you’d been to an actual, real Lazarus Pit, I wouldn’t have spent the last several months wondering why Voldemort was apparently chasing down a fairy tale.”
“But I’d already been to one when Ra’s al Ghul kidnapped me, remember?”
Another stunned silence followed this one.
Huh. Apparently, Tim had been keeping way more secrets than he’d remembered.
“Wait, you were kidnapped?” Ron practically screeched. “Like, from Hogwarts? Is that even possible?”
“Oh yeah, very possible. Ra’s is a genius, he could be in and out of the school long before I knew he’d been there.”
“And—and you were kidnapped?” Harry repeated. “H-how long? When were you…?”
“Uh…” Tim traced back through his mental calendar, “it was like…mid-November? Like, right after one of those late-night talks we used to have in the Room of Requirement when you all would ask me about being a vigilante. I think it was a Friday night, so that’s why I didn’t miss any classes or anything.”
Hermione folded her hands together and leaned forward onto her knees. “All right, first question. Who the hell is Razzle Ghoul, and why would he kidnap you from a famously-secure institution?”
“Ra’s al Ghul,” Tim corrected, “is, like, this crime lord who leads an organization of assassins and is obsessed with living forever, correcting humanity’s sins, and me.”
“And if the Lazarus Pit isn’t just a fairy tale…how old is he?”
“Uh, like, around 700 years old? Even he’s not quite sure.”
“Damn,” Ginny whistles. “Voldemort wishes, right?”
“Exactly,” Tim nodded. “Basically, Ra’s was trying to protect the Lazarus Pits he controls, and he needed someone to bounce ideas off of, so he kidnapped me. Oh, and Neville and Aruna.”
“Merlin’s fucking beard,” Ron whispered. “How does shit like this always happen under our noses?”
Tim shrugged. “I tried to be subtle when I snuck us all back in so we wouldn’t have to explain anything. Still had a secret to keep. Anyways, yeah, that was the first time.”
“He kidnapped you twice?” Harry gasped.
Tim thought it prudent not to mention that Ra’s had kidnapped him way more than two times before. “Sort of. The second time he just crashed my Valentine’s Day date with Luna so he could recruit me to protect a different Lazarus Pit that was going to be attacked. I went with the Order and a friend from the Justice League, and we blew up the pit so Voldemort wouldn’t be able to use it to become immortal. That was when I was falling to my death and learned how to Apparate.”
Ron took a deep breath and said, “Mate, I mean this in the kindest way possible, but what the fuck?”
Quidditch was exactly what everyone needed to process everything Tim had dumped on them, and Ginny and Ron were particularly aggressive in their plays today. Ron had already hyped her up to Tim as an incredible Chaser, but Tim hadn’t seen her in action until now. Tim had volunteered to be the referee for their little two-on-two match, which everyone had agreed to until Hermione let it slip that Tim had never actually ridden a broomstick, which Ron, Ginny, and Harry were appalled to discover, and then the rest of the afternoon was dedicated to teaching Tim how to fly.
It wasn’t that Tim was opposed to learning how to fly, per se, but he’d never had the time to do so and had never thought it an important skill to know. It wasn’t as though he could even use a broomstick outside of the school grounds, anyways, so Tim didn’t really understand the necessity of learning how to use one. He could teleport, for Christ’s sake.
That was before Tim actually got onto the broom and was suddenly zooming through the air. Due to Tim’s natural athleticism and general knack for picking up on things he’d watched other people do, he’d had no trouble learning to fly. By the end of the afternoon, he was probably flying better than Hermione, and he’d even joined in on passing their makeshift Quaffle around.
“You’re a natural,” Harry told him as they headed inside for dinner. “You should try out for Ravenclaw’s Quidditch team.”
“You’re just saying that so you’ll have some easier competition,” Tim grinned. “No can do.”
“So, Tim, how did you do on your O.W.L.S.?” Hermione asked as they sat down around the table.
Tim shrugged. “No clue.”
Hermione looked quite worried by this response. “Did they forget to send you the scores?”
“No, I definitely got them, but I tossed them into our fireplace without opening the envelope,” Tim admitted simply.
Harry nearly spat out his pumpkin juice. “You what?”
“Burnt them,” Tim repeated, blowing on his soup before taking a small sip.
Across the table, Hermione was clearly absolutely appalled by this new information. “Why would you do that?”
Tim shrugged again. “I talked about it with my therapist, and we agreed that I can’t be disappointed about my grades if I never found out what I got.”
“That’s mental, mate,” Ron breathed, looking oddly jealous of Tim.
“How are you going to know what classes you can take next year?” asked Ginny.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Tim replied, “Because I’m not going to be a student at Hogwarts next year.”
This time, Harry actually did spit out his pumpkin juice, which Ginny barely managed to avoid as she ducked her head under the table.
“What?” the four children screeched.
Ron quickly turned to Molly at one end of the table. “Mum? Did you know about this?”
Molly nodded, smiling in Tim’s direction. “I’m very proud of him.” Tim blushed under her praise, so simple and yet so meaningful.
“For dropping out?” Ginny said. “Fuck, I guess none of us got the memo. No wonder Fred and George have been so successful, they’ve got Mum’s blessing.”
“That’s not at all what I meant,” Molly snapped, narrowing her eyes at Ginny as if daring her daughter to get herself expelled and see how well that went. “Tim is—well, I’ll let him explain,” she finished, winking in his direction.
“I’m, ah…” Tim scratched the back of his head, feeling a little more embarrassed at everything he’d kept from his friends, whether or not he really meant to. He really should have told them earlier. “I’m going to be working with the Order and the Ministry.”
Poor Harry had chosen this moment to take another sip of his pumpkin juice, and it must have gone down the wrong windpipe, because Harry was suddenly coughing up a storm next to Tim. Ron leaned over and whacked Harry’s back multiple times as if that would help clear his throat.
“You—what?” he choked out, tears in his eyes.
“I’m the official ambassador for the Justice League,” Tim explained. “I’m basically mediating between them and the wixen while also working with the Order on the side.”
“Damn, you’re moving up in the world,” Ginny said.
Tim laughed. “Trust me, if you knew how much paperwork and legal jargon was involved, you wouldn’t be so excited.”
Harry winced. “Yeah, I get enough papers at school. Not really planning on doing more when I graduate.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “If you expect to be an Auror and not have to fill out reports, you’re in for a surprise.”
“And that’s why I’m never going to become an Auror,” Ron announced. “I’m gonna go pro.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned,” Ginny drawled. “Let me know when a team actually picks you up.”
“You’ve got the reflexes, I bet you could,” Harry told Ron, clapping him on the back. Tim nodded along—since he didn’t have a comprehensive knowledge of professional Quidditch, he really couldn’t say what Ron’s chances of success were, but from what he’d seen on the pitch and earlier today, when Ron wasn’t worrying about who was watching him, he made quite the competent player no matter what position he was put in. Ginny, though, Ginny had a real sense for the game. Tim was almost certain she could pick up a dozen different Muggle sports and excel at all of them.
“Tell you what,” Ginny said. “If you go pro, I’ll attend every single one of your games. As long as you comp the tickets,” she added under her breath, although the comment apparently escaped no one’s notice, judging by the giggles that were passed around.
“You’re got a deal, sis,” Ron grinned, and the two shook hands on it before bursting out laughing.
Overall, the trip was a success in Tim’s books, and he’d recommend the Burrow to anyone looking for good food and better company. Despite the little hiccup at the beginning regarding the family’s treatment of their future in-law, it seemed like the Weasleys really thrived when they were hosting others.
By the time he’d gotten home and was back to his paperwork, the sky had gotten cloudy. It was only the first peal of thunder that shocked Tim out of his work, and it took another flash of lightning before Tim remembered the phial currently sitting in the Batcave full of mandrake and hair and an assortment of odd ingredients. Without so much as saving his document, Tim sprinted down the stairs to the grandfather clock and put in the code. He raced down the metal staircase, his bare feet clanging against the mesh, and rushed into the lab, where Bruce was in the middle of examining something for some case or another, probably that Penguin one from last week.
“Hi, Bruce! Bye, Bruce!” he called out as he rushed over to the cubby, grabbed the phial, and booked it out of the lab into the training room. Jason and Damian were currently sparring at one corner of the room, but the two of them stopped when Tim rushed in and pulled out his wand.
“Is that it?” Jason gasped for air, but he looked exhilarated at Tim’s project. “The animal juice?”
“Don’t call it that, Todd,” Damian drawled, though he looked equally intrigued. “Do you know what animal you’ll become?”
Tim shrugged. “You don’t really get to choose. Apparently, it’s sometimes the same as your Patronus.”
“Meaning…” Damian raised an eyebrow.
“Meaning we’re about to find out,” Tim said, uncorking the phial. It was sanguine and seemed to even have the consistency of blood, something which would have made Tim gag had he not closed his eyes before taking the potion shot-like, swallowing it before he had the chance to taste it.
“Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus,” Tim told himself, placing his wand to his throat for what would hopefully be the last time if he’d done everything correctly.
“What the fuck is that supposed to…?” The rest of Jason’s words were lost on Tim, as his ears were suddenly filled with the pounding of his chest, like a double heartbeat.
This is normal, Tim reminded himself, feeling a sharp pain in his chest like someone had stabbed him and twisted the knife. This is normal, you read about the symptoms.
Tim had just thought to himself how dumb it would be if this failed when he suddenly opened his eyes to find that the world had literally taken on an entire new hue. That, and he was lower to the ground than he’d ever felt in his life.
“A crow,” he heard Damian say, and Tim felt weirdly able to pinpoint exactly where that sound had come from.
“At last,” Jason announced dramatically, “we have a better name for Tim than Red Robin.”