The drive to Wayne Manor had been surprisingly comfortable, though Harry suspected that was largely due to Selina's impeccable taste in stolen vehicles—because he was absolutely certain this particular luxury sedan hadn't been acquired through conventional retail channels. The leather seats were too pristine, the electronics too cutting-edge, and there was a suspicious absence of any identifying documentation in the glove compartment he'd discretely investigated while Selina was focused on navigating Gotham's labyrinthine street system.
"Borrowed," she'd said when he'd raised an eyebrow at the vehicle's immaculate condition. "From someone who probably won't miss it for a few hours and definitely won't report it missing even if he does notice. Professional courtesy among the criminally inclined."
"How reassuring," Harry had replied, settling back into seats that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. "I'm developing quite an education in the practical applications of criminal ethics tonight. This is significantly more comprehensive than anything I learned in traditional educational settings."
Now they were pulling through gates that screamed "abandon hope all ye who enter here" in the most elegant possible way—wrought iron masterpieces that probably had their own insurance policies, set into stone walls that looked like they'd been designed to repel both invading armies and persistent door-to-door salespeople. The driveway stretched ahead of them like a paved ribbon through grounds that belonged in a fairy tale, complete with ancient trees that cast dramatic shadows and manicured gardens that probably required their own full-time staff.
"Subtle," Harry observed as Wayne Manor came into view, rising from the landscape like something that had escaped from a Gothic novel and taken up permanent residence in the real world. "Nothing says 'I'm just a regular person with regular problems' quite like a mansion that could house a small village and probably has its own postal code."
"Bruce has never been particularly good at subtle," Selina said with obvious fondness as she parked in front of steps that led to doors large enough to accommodate visiting giants. "He prefers to think of it as 'making a statement.' Though what statement that is, exactly, tends to vary depending on his mood and whether or not he's been sleeping properly."
The manor loomed above them in the darkness, windows glowing with warm golden light that suggested human habitation despite the building's imposing size. It was the sort of place that should have felt cold and forbidding, but somehow managed to convey the impression of being genuinely welcoming—a home rather than just an expensive architectural statement.
"It's beautiful," Harry said quietly, and for the first time since she'd met him, his carefully constructed adult demeanor cracked enough to reveal genuine wonder. He was, after all, still a child, and even children who'd seen too much of the world's cruelties could be impressed by fairy tale castles that turned out to be real.
"Wait until you see the inside," Selina said as they climbed the steps toward doors that probably weighed more than some cars. "Alfred has very strong opinions about interior decorating, and they all involve making sure visitors feel like they've stepped into the sort of place where important historical events happen on a regular basis."
Before Selina could reach for the bell, the massive door swung open with the kind of perfect timing that suggested either supernatural intervention or very sophisticated security systems. Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he'd been designed by committee to embody every "distinguished gentleman's gentleman" stereotype ever conceived—tall, silver-haired, impeccably dressed in a way that suggested his clothing budget exceeded the GDP of small nations, and possessed of the kind of bearing that made you want to stand up straighter and apologize for whatever you might have done wrong recently.
"Miss Kyle," he said in an accent that was so perfectly British it sounded like it had been crafted by the BBC's pronunciation department. His voice carried the kind of warm formality that suggested genuine affection carefully wrapped in layers of proper etiquette. "How delightful to see you again. Master Bruce mentioned you might be stopping by this evening, though I believe he expected you somewhat earlier."
"Hello, Alfred," Selina said with obvious pleasure, and Harry noticed that her entire demeanor shifted in the presence of this distinguished gentleman—becoming softer, more relaxed, as if she were in the presence of family rather than household staff. "Traffic was terrible, and I had to make an unexpected stop. This is Harry Potter. Harry, meet Alfred Pennyworth, who essentially runs Wayne Manor, Gotham City, and possibly several small countries from behind the scenes."
Alfred's keen gray eyes shifted to Harry, and his expression transformed from polite welcome to something much more complex—concern, recognition, and a particularly British kind of gentle assessment that made Harry feel like he was being evaluated by someone who actually cared about the results.
"Master Harry," Alfred said with perfect courtesy, inclining his head in a small bow that somehow managed to be both formal and genuinely respectful. "Welcome to Wayne Manor. I do hope your journey here was comfortable, despite the rather dreadful weather we've been experiencing."
"Very comfortable, thank you," Harry replied, unconsciously straightening his posture and modulating his voice to match Alfred's formal tone. Something about the man's presence suggested that proper manners weren't just preferred, they were practically mandatory. "Miss Kyle was an excellent driver, even if her vehicle acquisition methods might raise questions among more conventionally minded individuals."
Alfred's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, and Harry caught the ghost of a smile flickering around the corners of his mouth. "Indeed? How... resourceful of her. Miss Kyle has always been remarkably creative in her approach to transportation logistics."
"That's one way to put it," Selina said dryly as Alfred stepped aside to let them enter the foyer. The space opened up above them like a cathedral, complete with a staircase that belonged in a museum and enough marble to construct a reasonably sized temple. Paintings that probably had their own Wikipedia entries gazed down from the walls, and there was enough tasteful gold leaf accent work to fund a small educational institution.
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed, his carefully maintained composure finally cracking completely as he took in the sheer scale and elegance of his surroundings. "I mean... forgive me, that was terribly impolite. It's just that this is rather more impressive than my usual accommodations."
"Please, do not apologize for honest reactions, Master Harry," Alfred said with genuine warmth as he closed the door behind them with barely a whisper of sound. "The Manor can be quite overwhelming for first-time visitors. Even Miss Kyle required several minutes to close her mouth when she first saw the foyer, though she would undoubtedly deny this if asked directly."
"I would not," Selina said with dignity that was only slightly undermined by her obvious amusement. "I was simply conducting a thorough assessment of potential security vulnerabilities. For professional reasons."
"Of course," Alfred agreed with the kind of diplomatic neutrality that suggested he'd had extensive practice managing conversations between people with complicated professional relationships. "Purely professional interest in architectural accessibility. How very practical of you."
Harry was still turning in slow circles, trying to take in all the details of the foyer without appearing completely overwhelmed. The ceiling stretched impossibly high above them, decorated with moldings that probably required specialized conservation teams to maintain. A chandelier that belonged in Versailles cast warm light across everything, making the marble floors gleam and the paintings seem to glow with their own internal radiance.
"This is where you live?" he asked, his voice small with wonder. "All of you? In this entire... palace?"
"Manor, technically," Alfred corrected gently. "Though I suppose the distinction is rather academic when discussing buildings of this particular scale. And yes, Master Harry, this is indeed home to the Wayne family, such as we are. Though I should mention that we typically occupy only a small portion of the available rooms at any given time. The Manor was designed for entertaining on a rather grand scale, which modern life rarely requires."
"How many rooms?" Harry asked with the fascination of someone who'd recently been living in accommodations that could be measured in square feet rather than square acres.
"Forty-two bedrooms, thirty-seven bathrooms, a ballroom, a library that rivals several university collections, a fully equipped gymnasium, an indoor swimming pool, a conservatory, various sitting rooms and parlors whose specific purposes have been lost to time, and several other spaces that defy easy categorization," Alfred recited with the efficiency of someone who'd given this particular tour many times before. "Plus, of course, the kitchens, service areas, and certain... specialized facilities that Master Bruce requires for his various philanthropic activities."
"Specialized facilities?" Harry asked with the kind of polite curiosity that suggested he was filing this information away for future reference.
"Master Bruce maintains a rather comprehensive home office," Alfred said with the diplomatic vagueness of someone who'd perfected the art of answering questions without actually providing information. "He takes his charitable work very seriously, and sometimes that requires equipment and resources that wouldn't typically be found in conventional domestic settings."
Selina made a sound that might have been a suppressed snort of laughter, but when Alfred glanced at her, her expression was perfectly innocent. Harry, however, was looking between them with the sharp attention of someone who'd developed expertise in recognizing when adults were engaging in coded conversation.
"I see," he said with the kind of thoughtful delivery that suggested he saw considerably more than he was letting on. "The sort of charitable work that requires specialized equipment. How... philanthropic of him."
"Indeed," Alfred agreed, though his tone suggested he was beginning to suspect that Harry Potter might prove to be as perceptive as the rest of Wayne Manor's residents. "Master Bruce's approach to charitable work tends to be rather more hands-on than most philanthropists prefer."
"Where is he, by the way?" Selina asked, glancing around as if expecting Bruce Wayne to materialize from behind a conveniently placed column or possibly descend from the ceiling on a rope. "You said he'd be here shortly when you answered the door, but that usually means he's either in a board meeting that's running late or engaged in one of his more specialized charitable activities."
"Master Bruce is currently... reviewing some business documents in his private office," Alfred said with the kind of carefully neutral tone that made Harry's analytical mind start working overtime. "He should be available within the hour, assuming his review of said documents proceeds according to schedule."
"Business documents," Selina repeated with obvious skepticism. "At this hour. On a Wednesday night. During what appears to be a particularly active weather system that would make travel difficult but provide excellent cover for various types of outdoor activities."
"Master Bruce has always been a dedicated businessman," Alfred replied with unshakeable composure. "He often works quite late when important matters require his attention."
Harry watched this exchange with growing fascination, his emerald eyes darting between them as if he were watching a tennis match conducted entirely in subtext and meaningful glances. The adults were clearly discussing something other than what they were actually saying, and his recent experience with survival had made him extremely good at reading between the lines when adults were being evasive about potentially dangerous topics.
"Right," he said slowly, his voice carrying the kind of thoughtful uncertainty that suggested his mental gears were turning at maximum capacity. "Business documents. That require specialized equipment. For hands-on charitable work. During a storm. At midnight. On a Wednesday."
Both adults looked at him with expressions that suggested they were suddenly remembering that six-year-olds could be remarkably observant when their survival depended on understanding adult behavior patterns.
"Master Harry," Alfred said with gentle firmness, "perhaps you would care for some refreshments while we wait for Master Bruce to conclude his business? I suspect it has been some time since you've had a proper meal, and I find that most conversations proceed more smoothly when all participants are adequately nourished."
Harry's stomach chose that moment to emit a growl so loud it echoed through the marble foyer like a small earthquake. His cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, but he lifted his chin with the kind of defiant dignity that had become his signature expression.
"That would be... rather lovely, actually," he said with careful politeness. "Though I should mention that I have somewhat limited experience with proper meals as served in establishments of this caliber. My recent dining experiences have been more along the lines of 'whatever wasn't actively decomposing and didn't require a tetanus shot to consume safely.'"
Alfred's expression tightened almost imperceptibly, and Harry caught a flash of something that might have been anger in the older man's carefully controlled features. Not anger at Harry, he realized, but anger at the circumstances that had led a small child to develop expertise in urban foraging techniques.
"I see," Alfred said quietly, his voice carrying undertones that suggested several adults were going to be receiving very pointed letters from him in the near future. "Well, I believe we can certainly improve upon those dining standards. If you would be so good as to follow me to the kitchen, I shall prepare something more suitable for a young gentleman of discerning tastes."
As they walked deeper into the Manor, Harry found himself increasingly impressed not just by the scale and elegance of their surroundings, but by the way everything felt genuinely lived-in despite the museum-quality furnishings. There were books left open on side tables, comfortable throws draped over furniture that invited actual use rather than just aesthetic appreciation, and photographs scattered throughout that showed real people having real experiences rather than formal portraits designed for public consumption.
"How long have you worked here?" Harry asked Alfred as they passed through what appeared to be a sitting room decorated in shades of burgundy and gold that somehow managed to be both elegant and cozy. The furniture looked like the sort that would welcome you to curl up with a good book rather than worry about leaving impressions on the upholstery.
"I have been with the Wayne family for nearly thirty years," Alfred replied with obvious pride. "I began working for Master Bruce's parents when he was approximately your age, and I have been privileged to watch him grow from a rather precocious child into the man he is today."
"The man he is today being a billionaire philanthropist with specialized equipment for hands-on charitable work?" Harry asked with the kind of innocent curiosity that wasn't innocent at all.
"Among other things, yes," Alfred said with diplomatic composure that would have impressed seasoned negotiators. "Master Bruce has always been remarkably dedicated to making Gotham a better place for everyone who lives here. His methods may occasionally be unconventional, but his commitment to helping others is absolutely genuine."
They'd reached the kitchen now, and Harry stopped short in amazement. The space was enormous—larger than most restaurants, equipped with professional-grade appliances that gleamed like surgical instruments, and organized with the kind of efficiency that spoke of serious culinary operations. It was the sort of kitchen where actual chefs could prepare meals for small armies, but it also managed to feel warm and welcoming in a way that suggested it was used for more than just formal entertaining.
"This is where you cook?" Harry asked, his voice hushed with awe as he took in the scale and sophistication of the setup. "All of this, just for the family?"
"The Wayne family has always enjoyed entertaining," Alfred explained as he began moving around the kitchen with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent decades mastering this particular space. "Though these days, most of our dinner parties consist of Master Bruce, myself, and whichever young persons he's currently mentoring in various life skills."
"Young persons he's mentoring," Harry repeated thoughtfully. "Would those be the strays Miss Kyle mentioned? The ones he apparently collects with the dedication of someone building a particularly eclectic set?"
"Master Bruce has indeed provided homes and opportunities for several young people over the years," Alfred confirmed as he began assembling ingredients with the precision of a surgeon preparing for an operation. "Each of them had found themselves in circumstances where traditional support systems had proven... inadequate."
"Inadequate how?" Harry asked, settling himself on a stool at the massive kitchen island where he could watch Alfred work. The older man moved with a grace and efficiency that suggested decades of practice, but also with obvious pleasure in the work itself.
"Various ways," Alfred said diplomatically. "Some had lost their families to tragedy. Others had been failed by systems that were supposed to protect them. A few had simply found themselves alone in the world with nowhere else to turn and no one else to provide the support they needed."
Harry was quiet for a moment, watching Alfred's hands as he began preparing what appeared to be a sandwich of epic proportions—multiple layers of high-quality ingredients assembled with the kind of attention to detail usually reserved for architectural projects.
"And he just... takes them in?" Harry asked quietly. "No questions asked? No conditions or requirements or background checks or promises that they'll be grateful and well-behaved and not cause any expensive problems?"
Alfred paused in his sandwich construction, giving Harry a look that seemed to see directly through to his heart. "Master Bruce asks questions, certainly. He conducts background checks as thoroughly as anyone could reasonably expect. But the answers to those questions and the results of those investigations have never yet prevented him from providing help to a child who needs it."
"Even if the child in question might be... complicated?" Harry's voice was carefully neutral, but his hands were twisted together in his lap in a way that suggested the question was more personal than academic.
"Master Harry," Alfred said gently, setting down his knife and giving the child his full attention, "I have been with this family long enough to develop considerable expertise in the management of complications. Master Bruce himself was a rather complicated child—brilliant, determined, frequently stubborn, and possessed of a tendency to ask inconvenient questions at inappropriate times. Master Dick was complicated in his own ways, particularly given the traumatic circumstances that brought him to our family. Master Jason was..." Alfred's voice caught slightly, "Master Jason was perhaps the most complicated young person we've ever welcomed here, and he was loved absolutely and without reservation from the moment he walked through that door."
Harry's emerald eyes were very bright, and Alfred could see him processing this information with the kind of desperate hope that came from someone who'd been told too many times that love came with conditions and expiration dates.
"What sort of complications?" Harry asked quietly.
Alfred resumed his sandwich construction, but his movements were more deliberate now, as if he were choosing his words as carefully as he was choosing ingredients. "Master Dick had nightmares for months after his parents' death. Terrible nightmares that would wake the entire household. He also had a tendency to... wander at night, drawn by some need to process his grief through movement and solitude. We frequently found him on the roof of the Manor at sunrise, having somehow climbed there in the dark without anyone noticing."
"That sounds terrifying from a safety perspective," Harry said with the practical concern of someone who'd developed appreciation for the various ways children could accidentally harm themselves.
"Indeed it was. Master Bruce had a security system installed specifically to monitor such activities, and I developed a talent for providing warm beverages and understanding silence at unusual hours." Alfred's smile was fond despite the obvious worry the memories carried. "But we never considered sending him away because of these complications. We simply adapted our household routines to accommodate his needs."
"And Jason?" Harry asked softly.
Alfred's hands stilled for a moment, and his expression became more carefully controlled. "Master Jason had been living on the streets for quite some time before Master Bruce found him. He had developed survival skills that, while impressive, were not entirely compatible with conventional household living. He had trouble trusting adults, difficulty believing that food would continue to be available if he didn't hide portions for later, and a tendency to plan escape routes from every room he entered."
Harry went very still, recognizing descriptions that hit uncomfortably close to his own recent experiences and current mental state. "And that was... acceptable? To Mr. Wayne?"
"Master Bruce found Jason's survival instincts not only acceptable but admirable," Alfred said firmly. "We made adjustments—extra locks on Jason's bedroom door that only he could control, a small refrigerator in his room stocked with snacks he could access whenever he felt the need, and clear explanations of all household routines so he could predict what would happen next. We treated his cautious nature as wisdom rather than paranoia, because that's exactly what it was."
"What happened to him?" Harry asked quietly, though he suspected he already knew the answer wouldn't be a happy one.
Alfred was silent for a long moment, focusing intently on adding what appeared to be house-made roast beef to the sandwich with the kind of precision usually reserved for surgery. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled but couldn't quite hide the grief underneath.
"Master Jason died in an accident several months ago," he said quietly. "The details are... complicated, and painful, and not really suitable for discussion at this hour. But I can tell you that he died knowing absolutely that he was loved, that he belonged here, and that his particular brand of complications had made our family stronger rather than more difficult."
Harry was quiet for a moment, processing this information and what it might mean for his own situation. "Mr. Wayne must have been devastated."
"Master Bruce was... is devastated," Alfred corrected gently. "Losing a child is perhaps the most difficult thing any parent can endure, and Master Bruce takes his responsibilities as a father very seriously. He blames himself, of course, though the accident was not his fault in any way that matters."
"And now he's afraid to take in another child? In case something happens to them too?"
Alfred looked up from his sandwich construction, studying Harry's face with the kind of attention that suggested he was seeing more than just a six-year-old asking innocent questions. "What makes you think that, Master Harry?"
"Well," Harry said thoughtfully, "if I were a man who'd lost a child I'd promised to protect, I imagine I'd be rather reluctant to make that sort of promise again. Too much risk of failing twice, and humans generally aren't very good at handling that kind of repeated loss. Much safer to avoid the situation entirely than to risk another devastating outcome."
Alfred stared at him for a long moment, clearly recalibrating his assessment of Harry Potter's emotional intelligence and psychological insight. "You are a remarkably perceptive young man."
"I've had occasion to observe a lot of adult behavior recently," Harry said with matter-of-fact delivery. "Adults under stress tend to develop predictable patterns, and grief combined with guilt is a particularly potent stressor. I imagine Mr. Wayne's avoidance of potential new family members is less about not wanting to help and more about being terrified of failing another child the way he believes he failed Jason."
"And yet," Alfred said quietly, "Miss Kyle brought you here tonight. Which suggests she believes Master Bruce needs to remember that helping children is not the same as failing them, and that love is worth the risk even when the risk is real."
Harry considered this, absently accepting the sandwich Alfred offered him. It was a work of art—multiple layers of ingredients that probably cost more than his entire recent food budget, assembled with the kind of care that transformed a simple meal into an expression of genuine hospitality.
"Thank you," he said softly, looking down at the sandwich with something that might have been wonder. "This is... this is really rather magnificent. I don't think I've ever seen food assembled with quite this level of artistic attention."
"You are very welcome, Master Harry. It has been some time since I've had the opportunity to prepare a meal for someone who might truly appreciate the effort involved." Alfred's smile was warm and genuine. "Most of our residents have become rather blasé about culinary excellence, I'm afraid. Master Bruce in particular has a unfortunate tendency to consume meals as fuel rather than experiences to be savored."
Harry took a careful bite, and his eyes widened with delight. The flavors were complex and perfectly balanced, each ingredient contributing to something that was significantly greater than the sum of its parts. It was the sort of food that reminded you that eating could be about pleasure and comfort rather than just survival.
"This is extraordinary," he said after swallowing, his voice carrying genuine appreciation. "The bread alone is better than anything I've tasted in... well, possibly ever. Did you make this yourself?"
"I did indeed. Fresh this morning, using a recipe I've been perfecting for the better part of two decades." Alfred looked pleased by Harry's obvious enjoyment. "I find that good bread is the foundation of civilized society, and one simply cannot maintain proper standards while relying on commercial bakeries."
"I can see why the Wayne family keeps you around," Harry said with a slight smile that transformed his entire face. "If I could produce food like this, I'd probably rule a small country by now. People would wage wars for access to these sandwiches."
"You flatter me, Master Harry, though I must admit I do take considerable pride in my culinary accomplishments." Alfred began cleaning up his preparation area with the same efficiency he'd shown in the cooking process. "Now, while you enjoy your meal, perhaps you could tell me a bit about yourself? Miss Kyle mentioned that you're from England originally?"
Harry nodded, taking another bite of sandwich and making a small sound of appreciation that made Alfred beam with satisfaction. "London, technically, though my relatives lived in Surrey. Little Whinging, if you know it. Though I suspect someone in your position would be familiar with most of England's more notable suburban areas."
"Indeed, I am familiar with Surrey. A lovely part of the country, though perhaps not the most exciting location for a young person with intellectual curiosity." Alfred's tone was conversational, but Harry caught the underlying assessment in his words. "What brought your family to Gotham? It's rather an unusual destination for British tourists."
Harry's expression darkened slightly, and he set down his sandwich with the careful precision of someone buying time to formulate an answer. "My uncle had a business meeting here. Vernon Dursley—he works for a company called Grunnings. They manufacture drills, apparently, though I was never entirely clear on the specific details of their industrial applications."
Alfred went very still, his hands pausing in their cleaning motions. "Grunnings, you said?"
"Yes, that's right. Uncle Vernon was very excited about the potential contract—something about expanding into American markets and increasing their profit margins." Harry's voice carried the kind of careful neutrality that suggested this topic was fraught with complicated emotions. "He seemed to think it would be quite lucrative, though I gather the meeting didn't proceed as he'd hoped."
"I see," Alfred said quietly, though his tone suggested he was beginning to see quite a lot more than Harry realized. "And I take it the unsuccessful business meeting had some impact on your family's travel plans?"
Harry's laugh was bitter and entirely without humor. "You could say that, yes. Uncle Vernon has never been particularly gracious about professional disappointments, and he has a tendency to... seek blame for his failures in unconventional places. In this case, he decided that my presence during the business trip had somehow contributed to the negative outcome."
"How could your presence have affected a business meeting?" Alfred asked gently, though his expression suggested he suspected the answer wouldn't be entirely rational.
"Oh, the usual," Harry said with forced casualness, focusing intently on his sandwich rather than meeting Alfred's eyes. "Strange things tend to happen around me when I'm upset or frightened or angry. Electronics malfunction, lights flicker, glass breaks in inconvenient ways. Nothing dramatic, mind you, just... inconvenient. Very, very inconvenient if you happen to be staying in a hotel that prides itself on reliable electrical systems and intact fixtures."
Alfred was quiet for a long moment, processing this information with the kind of careful attention that suggested it wasn't entirely surprising to him. "And your uncle attributed his business difficulties to these... incidents?"
"Among other things, yes. The hotel management was rather upset about the repeated electrical problems, and the insurance company started asking uncomfortable questions about liability and damages. Uncle Vernon decided that the complications outweighed whatever family obligations he might have felt toward his late sister's son." Harry's voice was steady, but Alfred could see the careful control it took to maintain that composure.
"Master Harry," Alfred said quietly, "I must ask you something, and I hope you'll forgive the rather personal nature of the question. These electrical incidents—have they been happening for long?"
Harry finally looked up, meeting Alfred's eyes with a mixture of defiance and desperate hope. "All my life, really. Whenever I get emotional about things. Aunt Petunia always said it was because I was... abnormal. Freakish. Uncle Vernon preferred words like 'dangerous' and 'expensive to maintain.'"
"And what do you think?" Alfred asked gently.
Harry was quiet for a moment, considering the question with the kind of serious attention most adults wouldn't have bothered to give it. "I think," he said finally, "that I don't really understand what's happening to me, but I'm fairly certain it's not normal human behavior. I also think that whether it's abnormal or freakish or dangerous probably depends a lot on how the people around me choose to interpret it. Some people seem to think it makes me fundamentally broken. Others might think it makes me... different. Possibly even special, though I've learned to be skeptical of adults who use that particular word."
Alfred studied his face with the kind of attention that made Harry feel like he was being evaluated by someone who actually cared about reaching an accurate conclusion. After a moment, the older man's expression softened into something that might have been understanding mixed with a particularly British kind of determined protectiveness.
"Master Harry," he said quietly, "I have worked for the Wayne family for three decades. In that time, I have had occasion to meet a rather remarkable variety of individuals with unusual talents, unconventional abilities, and what might charitably be called 'non-standard approaches' to interacting with the world around them. I have learned that what most people call 'abnormal' is often simply 'extraordinary,' and that the difference between those two descriptions usually depends more on the observer than the observed."
"You don't think I'm dangerous?" Harry asked quietly, his voice small and uncertain in a way that reminded Alfred exactly how young he was despite his sophisticated vocabulary and adult-level analytical skills.
"I think you are a child who has been failed by the adults who were supposed to protect and nurture you," Alfred said with quiet intensity. "I think you have survived circumstances that would have broken most people twice your age, and I think you have done so while maintaining both your intelligence and your fundamental decency, which suggests remarkable strength of character. As for dangerous..." Alfred paused, considering his words carefully. "I think that depends entirely on how that strength is channeled and supported. With proper guidance and acceptance, I suspect your unique abilities could become quite extraordinary indeed."
Harry stared at him, something vulnerable flickering behind his carefully constructed walls. "You really think so?"
"Master Harry, in my considerable experience, the most remarkable people are often those who have been told they are too much trouble for conventional society to handle." Alfred's smile was warm and genuine. "Master Bruce himself was considered rather too much trouble by several educational institutions before he learned to channel his particular talents productively. I suspect you might find yourself in excellent company here."
Before Harry could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed from somewhere deeper in the Manor—confident, purposeful steps that suggested someone who owned the place and knew exactly where he was going. Alfred's expression shifted subtly, taking on the kind of alert attention that suggested the evening was about to become significantly more complicated.
"That would be Master Bruce," he said quietly, though there was something in his tone that suggested the situation was more complex than a simple homecoming. "Rather earlier than I expected, actually."
"Is that good or bad?" Harry asked, though he was already sliding off his stool and positioning himself with clear sight lines to multiple exits—a movement so automatic he probably wasn't even aware he was doing it.
"That remains to be seen," Alfred said diplomatically as the footsteps grew closer. "Master Bruce has been... rather intense lately, particularly when it comes to matters involving children and their welfare. He may have some questions about your situation that are quite thorough."
"Thorough how?" Selina asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway with the kind of timing that suggested she'd been monitoring the conversation from somewhere nearby. Her expression was alert and slightly wary, like a cat that had heard an unexpected noise and was evaluating whether it represented opportunity or threat.
"The kind of thorough that involves psychological assessments, medical examinations, educational evaluations, background checks on everyone who's ever interacted with the child in question, and possibly interviews with relevant social services departments," Alfred said with the weary tone of someone who'd been through this process before. "Master Bruce has become rather... comprehensive in his approach to child welfare since Jason's death."
"Comprehensive," Harry repeated thoughtfully. "That sounds simultaneously reassuring and mildly terrifying. Will there be forms to fill out? Because I should probably mention that my documentation situation is somewhat complicated at the moment."
The footsteps had reached the kitchen now, and Harry found himself face-to-face with Bruce Wayne himself—though this version bore little resemblance to the polished public figure he'd seen in newspapers and magazine articles. This Bruce Wayne looked tired, slightly disheveled, and was wearing what appeared to be expensive tactical clothing that had seen recent use. His dark hair was mussed as if he'd been wearing some sort of helmet, and there was a quality to his movements that suggested recent physical activity of the strenuous variety.
"Selina," Bruce said, his voice carrying warmth despite his obvious exhaustion. "Alfred said you'd stopped by. I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you—I was handling some urgent business downtown."
"Business that required tactical gear?" Selina asked with obvious amusement, though there was something fond in her expression as she looked at him. "The kind of urgent business that keeps you out past midnight on a Wednesday during a thunderstorm?"
"The kind of business that required immediate attention," Bruce said with the diplomatic evasiveness that seemed to run in the household. Then his eyes shifted to Harry, and his entire demeanor changed—becoming more focused, more alert, with the kind of intensity that made Harry understand exactly why this man had been successful in whatever business ventures had made him quite this wealthy.
"And you must be Harry," Bruce said, his voice gentling slightly as he crouched down to bring himself closer to Harry's eye level. It was a practiced movement that spoke of considerable experience talking to children, and Harry found himself impressed despite his natural wariness of adults who claimed to have his best interests at heart. "Alfred told me you might be staying with us for a while."
"Harry Potter," Harry said with careful politeness, offering his hand with the kind of formal courtesy that would have made his expensive private tutors proud. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Wayne, and I do hope my presence won't be too much of an inconvenience. I understand you have rather a lot of experience with inconvenient houseguests."
Bruce's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, and Harry caught the same expression of surprise and recalibration he'd been seeing on adult faces all evening. Apparently, six-year-olds weren't typically expected to engage in polite conversation with quite this level of sophistication.
"It's Bruce, please," Bruce said, shaking Harry's hand with the kind of serious attention usually reserved for important business transactions. "And you're not an inconvenience, Harry. You're welcome here for as long as you need to stay. Alfred's been telling me a bit about your situation, and I want you to know that you're safe here."
"That's very generous of you," Harry said quietly, studying Bruce's face with the same intensity Bruce was using to study him. "Though I should probably mention that my situation is somewhat more complicated than it might initially appear. I tend to come with rather expensive side effects."
"What kind of side effects?" Bruce asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he'd asked similar questions before and was prepared to handle whatever answers he received.
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