The first thing Harry noticed wasn't the crying—his own, high-pitched wails that seemed to echo in a sterile room that reeked of antiseptic and the peculiar brand of desperation that came with industrial-grade hope—but the overwhelming sensation of *smallness*. Everything felt compressed, limited, as if someone had taken his perfectly adequate adult-sized soul and attempted to stuff it into a space roughly the size of a particularly stingy teacup while blindfolded and possibly drunk.
*This is bloody impossible,* he thought, though the thought itself felt strange, too complex for what his new body should be capable of. Rather like trying to perform advanced arithmancy while wearing boxing gloves, a blindfold, and possibly someone else's shoes. The memories were there, crystal clear and stubbornly persistent: Ginny's weathered hand in his as she'd passed first, three years ago, her last words a typically dry observation about him "probably finding some way to make dying dramatic too, you absolute prat." His own peaceful final breath in the garden of their cottage, surrounded by children and grandchildren, great-grandchildren even, all of them weeping in that satisfyingly theatrical way that would have made him roll his eyes if he'd possessed the energy for proper eye-rolling.
One hundred and twenty-seven years of life, full and rich and complete, with only the usual amount of mortal peril and world-saving nonsense that apparently came standard with being Harry Potter.
So why, in the name of Merlin's moldy left sock, was he here?
*Right then. Someone's having a laugh at my expense. Probably Death herself. She always did have a twisted sense of humor.*
"He's absolutely perfect, Martha," came a voice from somewhere above—deep, resonant, with the kind of measured authority that suggested its owner had never met a boardroom he couldn't dominate, a hostile takeover he couldn't orchestrate, or a dramatic pause he couldn't deploy with surgical precision. "Look at those eyes—they're the most extraordinary shade of green I've ever seen. Like emeralds, but somehow more... intense. Almost as though he's already seen far too much of the world for someone who arrived approximately four minutes ago."
Harry attempted to focus on the speaker, but everything was frustratingly blurry, as though someone had smeared petroleum jelly over the world's most expensive camera lens and then charged him admission to see through it.
*Brilliant. Reincarnated with the eyesight of a particularly myopic mole. This cosmic joke just keeps getting better.*
"Thomas, darling," came a second voice, and if the first had been authority personified, this was seduction given voice—smoky and rich as aged whiskey, with the kind of precise diction that spoke of expensive European finishing schools, dangerous liaisons, and the unshakeable confidence that came from never having to check one's bank balance or wonder if one's lipstick was properly applied. "He's so terribly small. Are you absolutely certain he's healthy? He arrived with such unseemly haste after Bruce—one might think he was rather eager to make his entrance into the world."
The accent was subtle but unmistakable—cultured, with hints of something that might have been French or Italian, or perhaps simply the international language of women who could kill you with a smile and make you thank them for the privilege.
*Oh, bloody hell. That's the voice of someone who's definitely murdered at least three people and made it look like an accident. I've been reborn to a family of impossibly attractive sociopaths. This should be interesting.*
"Twin births are notoriously unpredictable affairs, my love," Thomas replied, and Harry could practically hear the fond smile in his voice—the kind of smile that probably melted boardroom executives and terrified his competitors in equal measure. "The second one often arrives with rather more enthusiasm than dignity strictly allows. But listen to those lungs—he's got the voice of a Wayne already. Loud, demanding, and utterly convinced that the world should reshape itself around his immediate needs and personal convenience."
"How delightfully presumptuous of him," Martha purred, and there was genuine affection in her tone, underlaid with something that sounded suspiciously like approval. "He'll fit right in with the family tradition of cosmic arrogance and charming megalomania."
"I prefer to think of it as healthy self-confidence and appropriate recognition of our superior qualities," Thomas replied dryly.
"Darling, we literally named our other son Bruce because it means 'forest' and you thought it sounded 'appropriately mysterious and brooding.' We're not exactly subtle about our intentions."
*Martha? Thomas?* The names floated in his consciousness like uninvited dinner guests who'd somehow managed to charm their way past the butler, seduce the cook, and convince the gardener to help them hide the bodies. They meant absolutely nothing to him, but the voices carried warmth, love, and a fierce protectiveness that reminded him achingly of Molly Weasley's particular brand of determined mothering—if Molly Weasley had been crossed with a particularly elegant predator and given access to unlimited funds.
These were his parents, then. His new, entirely foreign, presumably non-magical parents who apparently had enough money to name their children like they were planning to establish their own small monarchies and enough confidence to discuss family traditions of megalomania as though it were perfectly normal dinner conversation.
*Wonderful. From the Boy Who Lived to... what, exactly? The Infant Who's Vaguely Concerned About His New Family's Mental Health?*
"Bruce," Thomas continued, and Harry caught the shift in his tone—still fond, but with an underlying note of something that might have been concern. "Our firstborn. Arrived exactly on schedule, as though he'd consulted a calendar and decided punctuality was the appropriate way to make his debut."
That must be his twin. Harry attempted to turn his head—an action that required roughly the same amount of effort as single-handedly moving Hogwarts castle using nothing but a particularly determined attitude and possibly some very creative swearing—and caught a glimpse of another small bundle nearby.
Through the blur of his unfortunately defective infant vision, he could make out dark hair and what appeared to be blue eyes—a sharp, intelligent blue that seemed to take in everything with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for chess masters, particularly paranoid Aurors, and people who were definitely planning something that would end in explosions.
*Blue eyes. Interesting. So we're not identical then. That's probably for the best—the world isn't ready for two of me.*
"What shall we call him?" Martha asked, her voice dropping to that particular tone women used when discussing matters of earth-shattering importance. "We can hardly refer to him as 'the other one' for the next eighteen years, though I suspect Thomas would find that amusing in that peculiar way he finds everything amusing when he thinks he's being clever."
"Terribly tempting, I admit," Thomas agreed with mock solemnity. "But sadly impractical. The social pages would have a field day. 'Wayne Heir Remains Mysteriously Unnamed; Family Suspected of Creative Breakdown.'"
"Darling, the social pages already think we're eccentric. Last month they suggested I might be part vampire because I look 'unnaturally beautiful for someone who's supposedly human.'"
"Are you not part vampire?" Thomas asked with interest. "Because that would explain so much about your nighttime habits and your relationship with garlic."
"Thomas Wayne, I am a perfectly normal human woman who simply happens to possess exceptional bone structure and a healthy appreciation for the dramatic arts."
"And an extensive collection of very sharp knives."
"Those are for cooking, darling."
"All forty-seven of them?"
"One can never be too prepared."
*Right. Definitely sociopaths. Charming, wealthy, presumably loving sociopaths, but sociopaths nonetheless. I'm beginning to see a pattern here.*
Martha's face swam into view above Harry, and he had to admit, even through his frustratingly inadequate eyesight, that she was rather more than striking. She was devastating. Dark hair swept back with the kind of effortless elegance that probably required three hours and a small army of professionals, skin like porcelain but somehow managing to avoid looking fragile, and eyes the most extraordinary shade of emerald green he'd ever seen—exactly like his own, he realized with a start.
But where his eyes had always held the weight of too many battles and too much loss, hers held something entirely different: intelligence sharp as a blade, amusement at the world's various inadequacies, and a kind of predatory grace that suggested she could reduce grown men to stammering idiots with a single glance and frequently did so for sport.
*Bloody hell. She's magnificent. And terrifying. Magnificently terrifying? Is that a thing? It's definitely a thing now.*
There was something almost feline in her beauty, Harry thought—not malicious, but certainly the kind of woman who might play with her prey before dispatching it with elegant efficiency. The kind of woman who could kill you with a smile and make you write her a thank-you note from beyond the grave.
"Hadrian," Thomas announced with the air of a man unveiling a particularly impressive piece of artwork that he'd commissioned specifically to make his neighbors feel inadequate. "After your grandfather. Hadrian Wayne has the proper sort of gravitas, don't you think? Distinguished. Strong. The kind of name that opens doors and terrifies one's enemies in equal measure."
"Grandfather was a fascinating man," Martha mused, her voice carrying notes of fond reminiscence and what might have been mild concern. "Brilliant strategist, devastatingly handsome, completely ruthless when necessary, and possessed of the kind of charm that made people forget he'd just bankrupted them until after they'd signed the papers."
"He once bought an entire hotel chain because he didn't like the thread count in the sheets," Thomas added with obvious admiration. "Then fired everyone and had the bedding replaced with Egyptian cotton before selling the whole thing back to the original owners at twice the price."
"Such a romantic gesture," Martha sighed happily. "I do hope our Hadrian inherits some of his... creative approach to problem-solving."
*Creative approach to problem-solving. Right. That's one way to describe what sounds like systematic economic warfare conducted with luxury linens.*
"Hadrian Wayne," Martha repeated slowly, as though testing the weight of it on her tongue like a wine sommelier evaluating a particularly expensive vintage. "Yes, I rather like that. It suits him. He has the look of someone destined for great things. Probably terrible things too, knowing our family's luck and genetic predisposition toward dramatic complications, but great nonetheless."
*Hadrian Wayne.* The name settled over him like an expensive coat that didn't quite fit right—impressive, certainly, but somehow foreign against his skin. He'd been Harry Potter for over a century, a name earned through blood and tears and a frankly unreasonable amount of running toward danger when any sensible person would flee in the opposite direction at maximum velocity while screaming.
But Harry Potter was gone, had lived his full life and earned his rest. This was someone new, someone who would apparently grow up in a world where people discussed terrifying their enemies as though it were a perfectly normal consideration for naming newborns and where family traditions included things like "charming megalomania" and extensive knife collections.
*Well, I suppose it could be significantly worse. At least they didn't name me Percival. Or worse yet, Gilderoy. Or god forbid, Albus Dumbledore Wayne. The universe does occasionally show mercy.*
"Thomas," Martha said, her voice taking on a tone that suggested she was about to make an observation of considerable import, "look at his expression. He's positively glowering. As though he's already judging our conversational skills and finding them distinctly lacking in both substance and style."
"Indeed," Thomas leaned closer, and Harry caught a glimpse of sharp blue eyes—intelligent, assessing, with the kind of intensity that suggested their owner missed very little and remembered absolutely everything. Dark hair swept back with careless precision, strong jawline that probably made boardroom negotiations significantly easier and caused considerable trouble at social functions, and the sort of face that belonged on magazine covers and wanted posters in equal measure.
*He looks like he could sell you your own shoes and make you feel grateful for the privilege. Definitely related to the woman who may or may not be part vampire.*
"He does have rather an impressive scowl for someone who's been breathing independently for less than ten minutes," Thomas continued with obvious pride. "Very Wayne-like. The family genetics are clearly strong with this one. I'm almost impressed."
"Almost?" Martha's voice carried a note of mock offense that would have made lesser men grovel for forgiveness. "Thomas Wayne, that is your son you're discussing with such casual indifference and damning with such faint praise."
"My dear Martha, any Wayne worth the name should be capable of proper intimidation from birth. It's practically written into the family charter, right there between 'accumulate vast wealth through morally questionable means' and 'develop mysterious hobbies that worry the servants and fascinate the press.'"
"You make us sound like a collection of charming villains, darling."
"Are we not charming villains? Because I've been rather operating under that assumption for the past several decades."
"We're entrepreneurs with flexible moral boundaries and excellent taste in real estate."
"Ah yes. Much better. Very respectable-sounding."
*Oh, I definitely like these people. Even if they are completely barking mad and possibly running some sort of elaborate criminal enterprise disguised as a legitimate business concern.*
The grief hit him then, sudden and sharp as a blade between the ribs, unexpected in its intensity. He would never see Hermione's brilliant smile again, never endure Ron's appalling table manners or his tendency to speak with his mouth full of whatever unfortunate food had crossed his path. Never feel the chaotic warmth of the Burrow during Christmas morning mayhem, never watch Luna drift through conversations like she was listening to music only she could hear, never engage in verbal sparring matches with Severus Snape that left both of them feeling oddly satisfied.
The entire extended Weasley clan, Neville with his quiet strength and unexpected spine of steel, even Draco Malfoy with his gradually improving personality and continued struggles with basic human decency—all of them were gone, not just dead but existing in an entirely different reality. The life he'd built, the world he'd helped save, the legacy he'd carefully left in the capable hands of his descendants—none of it existed here.
*Right then. Self-pity session officially concluded. Time to sort out this new cosmic arrangement before I start weeping like a character in a particularly melodramatic novel. I'm a Wayne now, apparently. Time to start acting like one.*
But as Martha's finger gently traced his cheek with the kind of reverent care usually reserved for priceless artifacts or particularly dangerous explosive devices, as her voice began to hum something soft and lilting—definitely French, because of course she spoke French, she had exactly that look about her—Harry felt something else stirring beneath the grief.
Curiosity, sharp and familiar as an old friend returning from a very long and thoroughly interesting journey.
"You know," Martha murmured, her voice dropping to that intimate tone people used for sharing state secrets or discussing where they'd hidden the bodies, "I have the strangest feeling about this one. As though he's already lived a dozen lifetimes and found them all rather amusing in their own peculiar ways."
"Dangerous thinking, my love," Thomas replied, though his tone was fond rather than concerned. "You'll have the poor child believing he's destined for adventure and cosmic significance before he's learned to hold his head up properly or developed basic motor skills."
"Darling, he's a Wayne. Adventure is going to find him whether he wants it or not, probably while he's trying to eat breakfast or attend a perfectly normal social function. The question is whether he'll have the good sense to enjoy it and the proper training to survive it."
*Adventure. Right. Because that worked out so brilliantly the first time around. Though I suppose it did keep things interesting.*
This was a second chance, wasn't it? An opportunity to live again, to love again, to perhaps make a difference in this new world as he had in his old one. And really, how difficult could it be? He'd defeated the most powerful dark wizard in history, survived the Dursleys' creative interpretations of child care and basic human decency, and managed to keep Ron and Hermione from murdering each other for seven years straight while simultaneously preventing the apocalypse on multiple occasions.
Surely he could manage one lifetime as a presumably wealthy child with presumably loving parents who spoke in complete sentences, possessed functional social skills, and hadn't tried to lock him in a cupboard or starve him for the crime of existing.
*Famous last words, Potter. Or should I say, Wayne. This is absolutely going to end in tears, explosions, and probably some form of mortal peril. It's practically inevitable at this point.*
The crying had stopped, Harry realized. Both his own and his brother's. In the sudden quiet, he could hear the steady beep of medical equipment, the soft murmur of voices in the hallway discussing mundane concerns like insurance forms and birth certificates—normal, boring human worries that had nothing to do with prophecies or dark wizards or magical hospitals where the portraits offered unsolicited medical advice and the beds sang lullabies that may or may not have been cursed.
Just... ordinary concerns for ordinary people living ordinary lives.
*This is going to require some significant adjustment. And possibly therapy. Do they have therapists for reincarnated wizards? That seems like a very specific niche market.*
"Look," Martha whispered, and Harry felt himself being shifted with the kind of careful precision that suggested she'd handled valuable things before—probably because she was valuable herself, he thought. Everything about her suggested someone accustomed to being treated like a precious work of art, a dangerous weapon, and a force of nature all rolled into one magnificently terrifying package.
"I think they want to see each other. How wonderfully dramatic of them. They're already staging scenes and creating meaningful moments. Such natural performers."
Suddenly, he was looking directly into another pair of infant eyes—blue as winter sky and twice as sharp, alert in a way that seemed distinctly unusual for a newborn. Bruce. His twin was staring at him with an intensity that felt almost adult, and for a moment, Harry wondered if Bruce too carried memories of another life, another cosmic joke played by entities with too much time and too little sense.
But no—there was curiosity in those eyes, intelligence certainly, but no recognition of a life already lived. Bruce Wayne was exactly what he appeared to be: a newborn with his whole future ahead of him, blissfully unaware of whatever cosmic joke had landed them both in this particular situation.
*Hello there, brother. You have no idea what you're in for, do you? Well, neither do I, really, but at least I have some experience with impossible situations and mortal peril. You're going to need that, I suspect.*
*I'll watch over you,* Harry found himself thinking, though he wasn't entirely certain how he'd manage that as an infant himself. The logistics were admittedly challenging, involving as they did his current lack of motor skills, verbal abilities, and basic understanding of this world's rules. *Whatever this world decides to throw at us, whatever we end up facing—you won't face it alone. Fair warning though: I have a rather unfortunate history with people trying to kill me, cosmic forces taking personal interest in my existence, and generally being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hopefully that's not hereditary.*
Those blue eyes continued to study him with disturbing intensity, as though Bruce was trying to memorize every detail of his face for future reference. There was something calculating in that gaze, something that suggested Bruce Wayne was going to be far more complicated than your average infant.
*Oh, this is going to be interesting. We're both going to be trouble, aren't we? You in whatever way you're naturally inclined toward, and me with my delightful history of attracting cosmic attention and mortal enemies. Our parents have no idea what they've signed up for.*
"Martha, darling," Thomas said, his voice warm with wonder and the particular satisfaction of a man whose carefully laid plans had worked out exactly as intended, "I do believe they're communicating."
"Plotting, more likely," Martha replied, and Harry could hear the smile in her voice, rich with anticipation and what sounded suspiciously like pride. "Look at those expressions. They're definitely plotting something. Probably world domination or at least regional conquest."
"The very best kind of children," Thomas added with obvious delight. "The kind that change the world and look magnificent doing it."
"The kind that give their parents premature gray hair, excellent stories to tell at dinner parties, and the sort of legacy that gets mentioned in history books," Martha agreed. "Though knowing our family, probably in the sections dealing with 'Unexplained Phenomena' and 'Individuals of Questionable Sanity but Undeniable Impact.'"
*Oh, if you only knew,* Harry thought as sleep began to claim his tiny new body with all the subtlety of a falling anvil wrapped in velvet. *If you only knew what you've gotten yourselves into.*
"Thomas, look at little Hadrian's expression," Martha murmured, her voice soft with affection and something that might have been maternal pride mixed with professional admiration. "He looks positively smug. As though he knows something we don't and finds our ignorance thoroughly amusing."
"He's four minutes old, Martha. What could he possibly know that we don't?"
There was a pause, pregnant with the sort of dramatic tension that suggested Martha was about to make an observation that would prove prophetic in ways none of them could possibly imagine.
"Everything, darling," she said finally, her voice carrying a note of amused certainty that sent shivers down Harry's tiny spine. "I suspect our Hadrian knows absolutely everything and is simply waiting for the rest of us to catch up to his level of cosmic awareness."
*Well,* Harry mused as consciousness faded like morning mist, *at least someone has the right idea. This is going to be so much more complicated than they think.*
The last thing he remembered was Martha's voice, soft and full of delighted anticipation that somehow managed to sound both maternal and slightly predatory:
"I think they're going to be magnificent together, Thomas. Absolutely impossible to manage, completely unpredictable, utterly uncontrollable, and magnificently effective at whatever they decide to put their minds to. The world won't know what hit it."
*You know what, Martha? I think you might be absolutely right. And that terrifies me more than I care to admit.*
---
Three days later, Harry was beginning to suspect that being a Wayne infant came with its own particular set of challenges, not the least of which was the seemingly endless parade of visitors who seemed to think cooing at him was somehow an appropriate use of their valuable time and his extremely limited patience. He'd been poked, prodded, photographed by what appeared to be half of Gotham's social elite, subjected to more conversations about his "adorable little scowl" than any person—regardless of age—should reasonably have to endure, and forced to listen to discussions about his "remarkable eyes" and "unusual presence" that made him want to hex someone on general principle.
*If one more person calls me 'precious' or 'darling' or uses that ridiculous baby-talk voice, I'm going to find a way to hex them. Somehow. Eventually. When I figure out how magic works in this universe. If it works at all. Which it bloody well better, because otherwise I'm going to be very put out about this entire cosmic arrangement.*
The current visitor was particularly insufferable—some sort of society matron with an unfortunate tendency toward excessive jewelry and the sort of voice that suggested she'd spent her formative years attempting to communicate with particularly slow-witted livestock.
"Oh, Martha darling, he's absolutely divine! Such beautiful eyes! And that serious little expression! He looks like he's contemplating the mysteries of the universe!"
*I am contemplating the mysteries of the universe, you ridiculous woman. Specifically, I'm contemplating the mystery of why the universe thought it was amusing to subject me to your presence and your insufferable cooing.*
"He certainly does seem to have strong opinions about things," Martha replied diplomatically, though Harry caught the hint of amusement in her tone. She was perched on the edge of the sofa with elegant grace, looking like she'd stepped out of a particularly expensive fashion magazine despite having given birth less than a week ago.
*Strong opinions. That's one way to put it. Another way would be 'growing existential dread about the current state of his circumstances and the intellectual capacity of his visitors.'*
"And little Bruce! Oh my goodness, those eyes! So intelligent! He watches everything, doesn't he?"
Bruce, for his part, was indeed watching everything with the sort of focused attention that would have been impressive in an adult and was frankly unnerving in an infant. Those sharp blue eyes tracked every movement, catalogued every detail, and somehow managed to convey the impression that he was filing everything away for future reference.
*My brother, the infant surveillance expert. This family just gets more interesting.*
"Master Thomas, if I may," came a new voice from the doorway—crisp, unmistakably British, with the kind of accent that suggested proper tea service, intimate knowledge of exactly seventeen different ways to fold a napkin, and possibly extensive experience with things that exploded when handled incorrectly.
Harry managed to turn his head—a feat that was becoming marginally less Herculean with each passing day, though it still required more effort than seemed strictly reasonable—toward the speaker.
What he saw made his infant heart skip several beats in rapid succession.
The man standing in the doorway was perhaps fifty, impeccably dressed despite the early hour, with silver hair swept back with military precision, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles, and the sort of bearing that spoke of military service, unshakeable competence, and the quiet confidence that came from having seen the worst the world had to offer and emerged victorious.
But it wasn't just his appearance that made Harry's breath catch. It was the way he carried himself—alert, watchful, with the sort of relaxed readiness that suggested he could shift from perfect butler to lethal operative in the space between heartbeats. The way his eyes swept the room, cataloguing exits and potential threats with automatic efficiency. The way he positioned himself so that he had clear sight lines to both the windows and the door.
*Oh. Oh, bloody hell. That's not a butler. That's military. Special forces, if I had to guess. What the devil is a special forces operative doing masquerading as domestic help for the Wayne family?*
"Alfred, thank God," Martha said, and there was genuine relief in her voice that suggested she'd been hoping for rescue from the social obligations currently cluttering her sitting room. "I was beginning to think we'd have to barricade ourselves in the nursery to get five minutes of peace and quiet."
"Indeed, Madam. I took the liberty of informing the remaining visitors that the young masters require their rest, and that future appointments should be arranged through the proper channels and with appropriate consideration for the family's need for privacy during this delicate time." Alfred's tone was perfectly polite, but there was an undercurrent of steel that suggested he'd brook no argument on the matter and was fully prepared to enforce his suggestions through increasingly creative means.
*Ah. And there's the threat. Delivered with such beautiful British politeness that the recipient probably thanked him for the privilege of being diplomatically threatened.*
"What he means," Thomas said with obvious amusement, settling into his chair with the relaxed posture of a man who was thoroughly entertained by his employee's methods, "is that he terrified them into submission with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and the strategic deployment of British disapproval mixed with subtle implications of unspecified consequences."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Master Thomas," Alfred replied with perfect composure, though Harry caught the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I was merely... diplomatically firm in my suggestions regarding appropriate visiting hours and social protocols."
*I like him already. Anyone who can clear a room of insufferable society types through sheer force of personality and thinly veiled threats is definitely someone I want on my side.*
The society matron, clearly recognizing that her welcome had been politely but firmly rescinded, gathered her things with the sort of flustered dignity that suggested she wasn't entirely certain what had just happened but was quite sure she should leave immediately.
"Well, I should be going anyway. Such adorable children, Martha dear. You must bring them to the charity gala next month!"
"We'll certainly consider it," Martha replied with the sort of smile that promised absolutely nothing while appearing to be perfectly agreeable.
After the woman had been diplomatically escorted out—Alfred managed to make it look like an honor guard rather than an eviction—the room fell blissfully quiet.
"Alfred," Martha said with obvious gratitude, "you are absolutely invaluable. How do you do that thing where you make people leave without them realizing they've been asked to go?"
"Years of practice, Madam. And a thorough understanding of the psychology of social obligation and the strategic application of polite intimidation."
*Strategic application of polite intimidation. I definitely need to learn that technique.*
Alfred approached the twin bassinets with the careful, measured steps of someone accustomed to handling precious things—or dangerous things, Harry thought with growing suspicion. When he looked down at Bruce first, his expression softened considerably.
"Master Bruce," he said quietly, as though introducing himself to a particularly important dignitary whose cooperation would be essential for the success of a delicate international operation. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I do hope we shall get along famously."
Bruce, for his part, seemed to study Alfred with the same intensity he brought to everything else, those sharp blue eyes taking in every detail with the sort of methodical thoroughness that suggested he was compiling a comprehensive dossier. After a moment, he made a small sound that might have been approval—or possibly a tactical assessment.
*Bruce likes him. Or at least, Bruce has decided he's not an immediate threat. Coming from my paranoid infant brother, that's practically a ringing endorsement.*
"I believe he likes you, Alfred," Martha observed with obvious delight. "How wonderful. He's been rather... selective... in his responses to people."
"The young master shows excellent judgment," Alfred replied with gentle approval. "A valuable trait in any Wayne."
*Excellent judgment. Right. Because apparently being suspicious of strangers and analyzing potential threats is considered good parenting in this family. I'm definitely beginning to like these people.*
Alfred turned his attention to Harry, and those kind eyes seemed to grow even warmer—but there was something else there too. Something sharper, more assessing. Something that made Harry feel like he was being evaluated by someone who had seen far more of the world than a simple domestic employee should have.
"And you must be Master Hadrian," Alfred said, and there was something in his tone that suggested he was greeting someone whose reputation had preceded him. "Another pleasure indeed, sir."
*Master Hadrian. Well, that's certainly better than 'Boy' or 'Freak' or any of the Dursleys' other charming endearments. I could get used to being addressed with actual respect.*
"Alfred," Thomas said, settling deeper into his chair with the sort of relaxed contentment that came from being rescued from social obligations by competent subordinates, "meet the future heartbreak of Gotham society. Both of them, I suspect."
"Indeed, sir. Though I suspect 'heartbreak' may be understating their potential impact considerably."
"You haven't even been properly introduced to them yet," Martha pointed out with amusement. "How can you possibly have formed an assessment of their future social influence?"
Alfred's gaze sharpened as he looked down at Harry, and there was something in those intelligent eyes that made Harry feel distinctly exposed—as though Alfred was seeing far more than an infant should be capable of revealing.
"Call it professional intuition, Madam. I've learned to recognize certain... qualities... in people. And these young gentlemen possess them in abundance."
*Professional intuition. What profession, exactly? Because 'butler' is definitely not the complete job description here.*
"What sort of qualities?" Thomas asked with interest.
Alfred was quiet for a moment, his gaze moving between the two bassinets with the kind of careful consideration usually reserved for chess masters planning several moves ahead or military strategists evaluating complex tactical situations.
"Intelligence, certainly. Determination. The sort of presence that suggests they'll make their mark on the world whether the world is prepared for it or not." His eyes lingered on Harry. "Master Hadrian, in particular, has the look of someone who's already seen a great deal of life and found it... educational."
*Oh, bloody hell. He knows. Somehow, he knows there's more to me than meets the eye. This is either very good or very bad, and I'm not entirely certain which.*
"That's... remarkably specific for someone you've just met," Martha said, though she sounded more intrigued than concerned. "Alfred, exactly what sort of professional experience gives you insight into infant psychology and future potential?"
"I've been in service with the Wayne family for nearly twenty years, Madam. One develops certain... observational skills... when working with Waynes. They tend to be a rather exceptional group of individuals."
*Twenty years with the Wayne family. And he's clearly more than just domestic staff. Security, definitely. Possibly intelligence work. Definitely military background. The question is: what sort of threats require a Wayne family to employ someone with Alfred's particular skill set?*
"Alfred's being modest," Thomas said with obvious fondness. "He's practically raised half the Wayne men in this family, and somehow managed to keep us all alive and relatively law-abiding in the process."
"An ongoing challenge, I assure you," Alfred replied dryly. "Master Thomas, your tendency to treat board meetings as opportunities for creative problem-solving and social experimentation has provided considerable excitement over the years."
"I prefer to think of it as keeping things interesting."
"Yes, sir. 'Interesting' is certainly one word for it."
Martha laughed, and the sound was pure music—rich, warm, with just enough edge to suggest that she found the world's various absurdities thoroughly entertaining.
"Alfred, you're going to fit in perfectly with our little family. We specialize in interesting."
"So I've observed, Madam. And if I may say so, I believe Master Hadrian and Master Bruce are going to exceed even the family's rather elevated standards for... creative complexity."
*Creative complexity. I like that. Much better than 'constant mortal peril' or 'cosmic magnet for impossible situations.'*
Alfred reached down and gently adjusted Harry's blanket with practiced ease, his movements efficient but careful. There was something almost military in the precision of the gesture, but also something unmistakably gentle—as though he'd had considerable experience caring for people who were both precious and potentially dangerous.
"Besides," he added with the barest hint of a smile that suggested he was looking forward to the challenge, "I suspect Master Hadrian and Master Bruce are going to require... specialized attention... as they grow older."
"Specialized how?" Thomas asked, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know the answer.
"Let's simply say that I have a feeling traditional childcare methods may prove... inadequate... for these particular young gentlemen. They're going to need guidance that takes into account their... unique potential."
Harry felt another chill, this one accompanied by a growing certainty that Alfred Pennyworth was far more than he appeared. The way he moved, the way he spoke, the way those sharp eyes seemed to miss absolutely nothing—this was not a man whose only qualification was knowing which fork to use for the fish course.
*What exactly have I gotten myself into this time?*
"Well," Martha said, settling back against Thomas with obvious contentment, "I suppose we'll find out together, won't we?"
"Indeed we shall, Madam. Indeed we shall."
And as Harry drifted off to sleep, lulled by the quiet conversation of his new family, he couldn't shake the feeling that Alfred Pennyworth was going to play a far more significant role in his new life than anyone yet realized.
*This,* he thought drowsily, *is going to be interesting.*
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!