Chapter 2
There was an owl staring down at Tim from the roof of Wayne Manor. Distracted trying to catch Harry with his water gun, Jason hadn’t noticed it yet but he knew that Harry had. Their eyes met over the lawn and Harry purposely slowed down, letting Jason drench him with water. Harry fired back with his own water gun, forcing Jason to keep all his focus on him.
While Jason was looking in the opposite direction, Tim called up to the bird, beckoning it down. The barny owl fluttered down onto his arm, stretching out its leg. Tim saw that it held a copy of the Daily Prophet and dug into his pockets for a knut.
“Thanks,” Tim said. The owl ruffled its feathers and took off, leaving eight pin pricks of blood on his arm. “Or no thanks,” Tim grouched, rubbing his arm. He stuffed the newspaper under his shirt and looked over at Harry.
“Stop, stop!” Harry giggled from on the grass. He was now soaking wet with Jason standing over him.
“Do you surrender?” he said, grinning wickedly.
“I surrender.” Harry held up his hands. Jason reached down to help him to his feet but jerked away when Harry shook his head like a dog.
“Ugh,” Jason complained, “do you know how expensive these clothes are?”
“Do you?” Tim asked, walking over to them.
“No,” Jason shrugged, “but Alfred bought them so they’re probably ridiculously expensive.” He looked down at his white hoodie, jeans and boots covered in damp patches.
“I better go get changed,” Harry said, glancing at Tim.
“I’ll come too,” Tim said.
“But you didn’t even get wet,” Jason called out to Tim who was pulling Harry over to the Wayne Manor’s side entrance. They ducked inside, Harry shivering at the burst of air conditioning. Harry hurried up to the stairs to his room and grabbed a new shirt and pants from inside the closet. Tim closed the bedroom door and turned his back to give Harry some privacy. He slid the Daily Prophet out from under his shirt and started at what was written across the front page.
The Boy-Who-Disappeared?
By special correspondent Rita Skeeter.
He scanned the article. It talked about how Harry Potter had never turned up to the opening feast at Hogwarts and hadn’t been seen all year. There was a statement by some wizard Dedalus Diggle who reported shaking hands with Harry when he was a child and another from a man who had asked for his autograph after meeting him in the muggle world. Below these anecdotes were theories about where the Boy-Who-Lived was now. Some people thought he was off doing some secret training while others feared that Death Eaters had already found him.
“You can turn around,” Harry said now dressed in a green t-shirt and denim shorts. Tim passed over the newspaper and Harry’s eyebrows steadily rose as he read it.
“Well they’re not exactly wrong about the special training,” Harry said, “though I wonder why it took this long for an article to come out.”
“I thought Dumbledore was stopping it,” Tim took the newspaper back and flipped it open to the other stories. “It was really his fault you disappeared in the first place, it wouldn’t look great for his image if people found that out.”
“Guess he couldn’t hide it forever,” Harry said, “let’s just hope this writer doesn’t find out where I actually am. I don’t want people trying to shake my hand and get my autograph all the time.”
“Or Voldemort appearing on our doorstep.” Tim added, scanning the other articles. The rest of the paper mostly dealt with a celebrity couple that had split up and pregnancy rumours about one of the Weird Sister’s partners.
“Who do you think would win? Voldemort or Batman?” Harry pulled off his wet socks and threw them into his laundry basket. Tim paused, considering the question.
“Well…Batman doesn’t kill and V does. Then again, Voldemort relies heavily on his magic. If Batman could find a way to supress it, I doubt Voldemort could take him in a fist fight, especially as he doesn’t have a body.”
His musings were interrupted by the doorbell ringing downstairs.
“That must be Dick,” Harry bounced over to the bedroom door. He flung it open and rushed downstairs. Tim stuffed the Daily Prophet under Harry’s mattress and rushed after him. They skidded to a stop in front of the high front door. Tim pulled it open expecting, looking up and expecting to see Dick.
At first he thought that no one was out there. He scanned the driveway, noting that the only cars were Alfred’s modest black one and a red sports car that belonged to Bruce. It wasn’t until Tim looked down that he saw who had rung the doorbell.
“Hello,” Tim said to a young boy with tanned skin, dark hair and green eyes, dressed in long button up robe with gold trim. “What can I do for?”
The boy stuck out his hand. “I am Damian Wayne,” the boy said haughtily, “I am here to see my father.”
***
Hundreds of miles away from Wayne Manor, an emaciated man huddled against the corner of his cell. His paper-thin prison jumpsuit did nothing against the cold that had long since sunk into the man’s very soul. He pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the screams and banging around him from other prisoners. The man had no since given up on screaming. He knew that no one was coming for him.
Through his closed eyelids, he saw a flicker of white light. He mustered up the strength to open his eyes and pull himself to his feet, using the craggy rocks walls for support. The man limped over to the bars of his cell and peered out. He saw a leopard patronuses prowling forwards. As it came closer, the noise seemed to die down and the cold retreated. Behind the leopard walked four men. Through the darkness, he couldn’t recognise three of them but there was no doubt who the lime green bowler hat belonged to.
The Minister for Magic reached his cell and the man’s eyes were drawn to the newspaper in his grasp.
“If you’re done with that, can I have it?” The man’s voice was raspy from disuse.
At the sound of his voice, the Minster recoiled. The man gestured to the paper in the Minister’s hand.
“I’m afraid I’m a little behind on the news.” Looking both shocked and disgusted, the Minster thrust the paper at the man and hurried away. The man held the treasure close to his chest. He slid down the wall, peering through the dim light at the front page.
His dull eyes sharpened as he read. The air grew colder but he hardly noticed it.
“Harry,” he said, tracing over the article, “what have I done?”