A Messy Start
It had been a year since the war had ended. It was a year since he had died and been brought back to life. A year since he had lost everyone and everything he had grown to love. Harry knew deep down that the happiness he had grown used to would be shoved out of his hands like he had been pushed into the cupboard.
As Harry awoke once more in that forest alone, he felt numb. There had been a moment of peace that he missed dearly from the afterlife. Sometimes, Harry wished to return, but he knew it would be like blowing himself to the Dark Lord a year after his defeat.
After the war, Harry was admired by others and loved by the public, who had called him a killer in his fourth and fifth years. Good deeds could override a past of terror and blood.
As soon as the war ended Harry moved, Harry left everyone alive because he knew it could be the only way for death to loosen its cold grip on their necks. Harry had been a nomad for years but he had found himself in an American city that felt familiar. In a way, the Gothic architecture reminded Harry of Hogwarts. The darkness that seeped into the corners reminded him of the secret halls he had discovered with his past friends.
Harry had changed his civilian name as well as his wizarding one. No longer was he Harry Potter, he was now Harrison Black. His heart had hurt when he took Sirius' name, in a good and bad way.
Harry had grown as a man during and after the war. No longer was he the boy with knobby knees; now, he was a man with scars all along his body. Once the fourth year had hit, he had begun to prepare for war. He had started to eat and work to try to build muscle, and it had worked. He was still shorter than most, but he had a muscle that had built up over years and years of hard work.
Harry’s face was still hallowed from the hunger of his childhood, but now it gleamed with maturity and angles that shadowed his tanned skin. His eyes were still green, yet after reservation, they seemed to gleam an unnatural green when he felt angry. His hair had also gotten a white streak in it. It contributed greatly to his black hair, which had grown longer and shaggy throughout the years. He had been too busy to get a decent haircut.
As Harry explored Gotham there was a breath of ease as he blended into the shadows, he felt at home. He entered a coffee shop and ordered tea. Then he bumped into an elderly man who was wearing a tailored suit.
“Oh my, I am sorry my dear boy let me buy you another drink as an apology.” He had a British accent as well. There was a certain anxiousness that Harry felt when hearing that accent once more. He wondered if someone had sent the old man for him.
“I…If you wish to sir,” Harry agreed. He had said with a gentle voice. He looked at the man with a wariness that made something in Alfred’s caring heartache.
Alfred’s brow furrowed slightly as he observed the other with a critical but not unkind eye. The boy–man, rather–carried himself with a quiet unease, the kind that only years of hardship could foster. Alfred had seen it before, in soldiers returning from war and in the young Master Bruce when he’d first taken him in.
“Forgive my impertinence,” Alfred said, his crisp British accent gentle but deliberate. “You seem rather… disoriented, if I may be so bold. Might I inquire as to what brings you to Gotham?”
Harry hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He’d learned long ago that honesty was often a dangerous gamble, but something about this man–his poise, his precision–put Harry somewhat at ease. “I’m just… passing through,” he said finally, taking a sip of his tea to avoid elaborating further. “Gotham feels… familiar, I guess.”
“Ah, yes. A city of shadows, secrets, and second chances,” Alfred replied knowingly. “It has a peculiar way of drawing in those who feel lost, though I suspect you’re no ordinary wanderer.”
Harry stiffened, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “What makes you say that?”
Alfred allowed himself a faint smile. “It is in your posture. You carry yourself like someone accustomed to battle. Someone who’s endured much, perhaps more than one should.” He paused, noting Harry’s guarded expression. “I mean no offense. It’s simply an observation.”
Harry relaxed slightly but didn’t respond. Alfred’s words hit too close to home.
“You remind me of someone I once knew,” Alfred continued after a moment, his voice softening. “A young man who, like you, sought refuge in the shadows. He, too, carried scars invisible to the eye.”
Harry glanced at Alfred, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “What happened to him?”
Alfred’s gaze turned distant, his thoughts drifting to the young Master Bruce. “He found purpose, though not without guidance. I’d like to think I played a small part in helping him along the way.”
There was a long silence between them, broken only by the hum of the coffee shop. Finally, Alfred cleared his throat.
“You strike me as someone in need of a place to rest, if only for a while,” he said. “Gotham is no place for a man to wander. If I may be so bold, I could offer you a position.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. “A position?”
“At Wayne Manor,” Alfred clarified. “I serve as butler to the Wayne family, though my duties often extend beyond that title. I could use a capable assistant—someone who understands discretion, diligence, and, above all, the importance of second chances.”
Harry stared at him, stunned. “You’re… offering me a job?”
“Indeed,” Alfred replied with a small nod. “Though I would expect your full commitment. Master Bruce is not an easy man to work for, and the Manor has its… quirks. But I believe you may find it a suitable place to regain your footing.”
Harry hesitated, the weight of the offer settling on him. He’d spent so long running, so long keeping to the shadows. The idea of staying in one place, of working alongside someone who seemed to understand his unspoken burdens, was both terrifying and strangely appealing.
“I’ll… think about it,” he said finally.
“Take your time, Mr. Black,” Alfred said with a faint smile. “The Manor has stood for over a century; it can wait a few more days for your decision.”
With that, Alfred inclined his head politely and turned to leave. But before he reached the door, Harry called out.
“Why me?” he asked.
Alfred paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Because I see potential in you, Mr. Black. Potential that ought not to be wasted.”
And with that, Alfred departed, leaving Harry to grapple with the unexpected offer—and the flicker of hope it kindled within him.
Harry looked at the table realizing that the man had left a paper card with a phone number on it. There was the man’s name on it, Alfred Pennyworth, such a servant's name. Ron would have made fun of it.
Harry trudged back to his apartment as Gotham’s misty rain began to fall, softening the edges of the city’s jagged architecture. The streets were slick with water and grime, reflecting the pale glow of streetlights. His breath misted in front of him as he made his way through the labyrinth of alleys, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn leather jacket.
The apartment was as dismal as ever. The paint peeled from the walls, and the faint scent of mildew clung to the air no matter how much he tried to ignore it. A single lamp illuminated the space, its yellow glow casting shadows that danced on the cracked plaster. Harry tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and sank onto the rickety bed with a weary sigh.
His thoughts wandered even as the boy tried to push them away, they never listened, never did what the boy asked of them to do. They wandered as they so often did when the silence closed in around him. The memory of Alfred’s offer lingered at the edges of his mind, but it was quickly swallowed by the familiar ache of loneliness.
The loneliness was always there, like a dull throb at the base of his skull. It was the same emptiness he’d felt at the Dursleys’ house, locked in that cupboard under the stairs. No matter how many years had passed, that hollow ache was a shadow that refused to let him go.
The war had intensified it.
He could still see their faces–Ron, Hermione, Ginny, even Neville and Luna–lit by the fires of battle. They had all fought so bravely, so fiercely. And yet, when it was over, when Voldemort had finally fallen, Harry had decided to leave them behind.
He told himself it was for their sake. That they would be safer without him. That they deserved lives untouched by the shadow of his past. But deep down, Harry knew it was because he couldn’t bear to stay. He couldn’t bear the weight of their smiles, their attempts to bring him back into the fold when all he wanted was to disappear.
Now, sitting in this cold, empty room, he wondered if he’d made the right choice. The isolation gnawed at him, a constant reminder of what he’d lost–and what he’d willingly given up.
His thoughts turned to the wizarding war, to the faces of those who hadn’t made it. Fred. Lupin. Tonks. Sirius. Dobby. Even Snape. They were ghosts that haunted him, their voices sometimes echoing in his mind when the nights were particularly quiet.
You survived, they seemed to say. Now what are you doing with it?
Harry ran a hand through his hair, his fingers brushing against the white streak that stood out starkly against the black. It was a reminder of the battle, of the spells that had burned through his skin and the magic that had nearly taken his life.
He let out a shaky breath, his gaze falling to the wand on the table beside him. He hadn’t used it in weeks, maybe months. Magic felt like another life, another world that he couldn’t touch anymore.
The rain continued to patter against the window, a steady rhythm that filled the silence. Harry closed his eyes, the weight of the past pressing down on him like a leaden blanket.
And yet, Alfred’s words lingered in his mind.
“I see potential in you.”
It was strange to hear those words from a man he’d just met. But there had been something in Alfred’s tone, in the way he’d looked at Harry, that made him feel…seen. Not as the Boy Who Lived or the Savior of the Wizarding World, but as Harrison Black—a man trying to piece together the fragments of his life.
For the first time in a long time, Harry considered the possibility of staying. Of finding a purpose, however small, in a place where no one knew his name or his past.
He opened his eyes, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. The loneliness was still there, as heavy as ever. But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to stay that way forever.
Without even letting his thoughts let him rethink his decision Harry headed back outside the house and went to the nearest pay phone.
The phone booth stood on the corner of the dimly lit street, its glass scratched and smudged with the wear of years. Harry stepped inside, his reflection ghosting faintly on the grimy panes as he pulled the door shut behind him. The sound of the rain grew muffled, leaving only the hum of the streetlight above and the distant rumble of passing cars.
His fingers hovered over the keypad, hesitating. In his pocket was the small card Alfred had slipped him in the café, the name “Pennyworth” printed neatly alongside a phone number. Harry stared at it for a moment, feeling a strange pang of uncertainty.
This is a bad idea, he told himself. You don’t belong in someone else’s life, not after everything.
But another part of him, quieter yet more persistent, urged him to try. He hadn’t felt warmth or connection in so long, and Alfred’s offer, as unexpected as it was, had felt genuine.
He slid a few coins into the slot and dialed. The tone droned in his ear, slow and steady, each ring stretching out the seconds.
Finally, the line clicked, and Alfred’s voice came through, calm and composed as ever. “Pennyworth speaking.”
Harry’s throat felt dry. He swallowed hard before speaking. “It’s… Harrison Black. From the café.”
There was the faintest pause, and then Alfred’s tone softened with recognition. “Ah, Mr. Black. A pleasure to hear from you. Have you given thought to my offer?”
Harry took a breath, trying to steady his voice. “I have. If it’s still open… I’d like to take the job.”
“Excellent,” Alfred replied warmly, and Harry could almost picture the faint smile that accompanied his words. “I assure you, you won’t regret it. We can discuss the finer details when you arrive, but I must inform you—this position will require you to live at the Manor. Is that agreeable?”
Harry nodded, then realized Alfred couldn’t see him. “Yeah. That’s fine. I don’t have much to bring, anyway.”
“Very well,” Alfred said, his voice brightening slightly. “Why don’t you come over for dinner this evening? It will allow us to get you settled, and you can start your duties tomorrow morning. I’ll ensure everything is prepared for your arrival.”
Harry hesitated for a moment, the idea of sitting down for dinner in someone’s home feeling almost alien. But he forced himself to agree. “All right. Dinner sounds good.”
“Splendid,” Alfred said. “I’ll send a car to collect you. Where shall I direct it?”
Harry glanced around at the empty street, unsure of how to respond. “I’m… at the corner of 8th and Tennyson. There’s a phone booth here.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Black. The car will arrive shortly. And please, take your time—there’s no rush.”
Harry managed a small, awkward smile at that. “Thanks, Alfred. I’ll see you soon.”
“Indeed. I look forward to it.”
The line disconnected with a quiet click, and Harry stepped out of the phone booth into the rain once more. The weight that had settled on his shoulders earlier felt a little lighter now, though he wasn’t sure why.
The city blurred around him, its dark corners and narrow alleys fading into the background as his thoughts wandered. For the first time in what felt like years, he had something resembling a plan, even if it was only for tomorrow.
Harry then headed back to his apartment and looked at it with a frown. Hermoine would be disappointed that Harry had been living like this.
With the thought of starting fresh, he packed his little belongings into one suitcase. The smell of mildew wasn’t one he would miss, or the dust bunnies he saw under his bed as he grabbed the luggage bag he had under there. It had all of his Hogwarts things in there. The reminders of the past he was trying too hard to run away from.
At Least the Dursleys had prepared him for this job. He had been their servant for his whole childhood and when he came back for summer breaks. The scars he had from them still ached some days. A sigh went through Harry as he rubbed at his face.
With heavy steps, Harry made his way back to the phone booth and waited for the car that was supposed to pick him up to arrive. The thoughts of anxiety and indecisiveness seemed to buzz through him like a swarm of wasps in their hive.
And as the headlights of a sleek black car pulled up to the curb a few minutes later, Harry realized he wasn’t afraid of what came next. For the first time in a long while, he was stepping toward something instead of away. Harry realized that he had grown numb to the feeling of dread as it used to gnaw at him like a beaver to wood.
The drive was silent as the driver kept his head straight and drove to the manor. Harry saw Gotham pass him as the car drove on in the traffic.
The sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of the wrought-iron gates of Wayne Manor. Harry leaned forward, his breath catching at the sight of the sprawling estate beyond. The Gothic spires of the mansion reached toward the night sky, bathed in the soft glow of warm lights from within. It was grand—intimidatingly so—and for a moment, Harry thought of Hogwarts. The familiarity was both comforting and unsettling.
The driver opened the door for him, and Harry stepped out, clutching his luggage tightly. He hesitated at the gates, but the sight of Alfred standing at the open front doors spurred him forward.
“Mr. Black,” Alfred greeted him with a polite nod. “Welcome to Wayne Manor. I trust the journey was uneventful?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat and forced a polite smile. “Thanks for sending the car.”
“Think nothing of it,” Alfred replied smoothly. “Now, if you follow me, dinner is ready. You’ll also have the chance to meet the family this evening.”
Harry’s stomach tensed. “The family?”
“Indeed,” Alfred said, his tone light but firm. “Master Wayne and his wards have expressed interest in welcoming you properly. It’s customary here, and I assure you, they’re all quite friendly.”
Harry wasn’t so sure about that but nodded, following Alfred through the grand front doors and into the Manor’s interior. The warmth hit him immediately, as did the subtle scent of wood polish and something savory wafting from further inside.
The dining room was even more overwhelming. A long, polished table stretched across the room, set with a modest but elegant spread of food. The sight made Harry’s chest tighten—a roast, golden potatoes, steamed vegetables, and even a dish of Yorkshire pudding. It was eerily similar to the meals served at Hogwarts, and the familiarity brought a pang of homesickness he hadn’t felt in years.
The people seated at the table quickly pulled him from his thoughts.
At the head sat Bruce Wayne, the man’s sharp blue eyes giving him an air of authority. To his left was a dark-haired young man with a charming smile and a relaxed posture—the most outgoing of the group. Beside him sat another young man, this one with a laptop open in front of him, typing away even as Alfred entered. Finally, at the far end was a boy who couldn’t have been older than thirteen, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he assessed Harry with unmasked curiosity.
Alfred cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the room with practiced ease. “Master Wayne, Masters Grayson, Drake, and Damian, may I present Mr. Harrison Black. He has graciously accepted the position I mentioned earlier.”
Bruce rose first, offering his hand. “Harrison, welcome. Alfred speaks highly of you, and I trust his judgment.”
Harry shook his hand, though his grip was a touch hesitant. “Thanks, Mr. Wayne. I… I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”
Bruce nodded, his expression warm but unreadable. “We’re glad to have you.”
The outgoing young man stood next, flashing Harry a grin. “I’m Dick Grayson,” he said, shaking Harry’s hand with a firm grip. “You’re in for a ride here, but Alfred’s got it under control. Don’t let the size of the place intimidate you.”
“Right,” Harry murmured, unsure how to respond to the casual friendliness. He had lost many friendly connections after the fifth year, after the year of Sirus’s death.
The boy with the laptop finally closed it and made his way to Harry. “Tim Drake,” he said, his handshake quick but polite. “Don’t let these guys scare you. They’re mostly harmless.”
Harry gave a faint smile. “Good to know.”
Finally, the youngest at the table barely looked up, his sharp gaze unwavering. “Damian Wayne,” he said curtly, not offering his hand. “You look… unpolished.”
“Damian,” Bruce warned, his voice quiet but firm.
“It’s fine, sir,” Harry said quickly, shifting awkwardly. “He’s not wrong. I don’t have many nice clothes.”
Damian smirked faintly at that before returning to his plate.
Alfred gestured toward an empty chair. “Please, Mr. Black, take a seat. Dinner is served.”
Harry sat, glancing at the spread in front of him. The roast glistened with gravy, and the potatoes looked perfectly crisp. It was so much like Hogwarts that for a moment, he almost expected Dumbledore to appear at the head of the table.
He hesitated as the others began to serve themselves. The smell, the warmth of the food—it was too close to the Great Hall, too close to memories he wasn’t ready to face. A feeling of nausea rolled through him as he thought of the nights in Hogwarts where terrible things had happened during dinner.
“You all right?” Dick asked, leaning slightly toward him. The man had tanned skin and his black hair was silky. He and Harry looked very similar, although Dick was far taller and built differently than the boy. Harry had muscle but it would always be lean and stringy due to his upbringing yet Dick has bulk upon bulk.
Harry blinked, realizing he’d been staring. “Yeah,” he muttered, forcing himself to reach for a plate. “Just… been a while since I’ve had a meal like this.”
Bruce studied him briefly, but whatever he thought, he kept to himself.
The conversation around the table flowed easily among the others. Harry stayed quiet, answering when addressed but otherwise keeping to himself. Socializing had never been his strength, and after the Triwizard Tournament, he’d only retreated further into himself.
Still, he couldn’t help but notice the dynamic between the Waynes. Damian’s sharp remarks were balanced by Tim’s calm observations, while Dick’s humor lightened the mood. Bruce remained mostly silent, but there was a quiet authority in the way he listened, his presence grounding the group. It reminded Harry of Ron and Hermione. A feeling of heartache went through him looking at the scene.
And then there was Alfred, moving with practiced ease, ensuring everyone was taken care of without ever drawing attention to himself.
By the end of the meal, Harry felt slightly less like an intruder. The food, though a painful reminder of his past, had warmed him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
As the plates were cleared, Alfred turned to him. “Shall I show you to your quarters, Mr. Black? You’ll find them modest but comfortable.”
Harry nodded, grateful for the excuse to leave the table. “Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.”
“Very well.” Alfred glanced at the family. “Gentlemen, thank you for your hospitality this evening. Mr. Black will begin his duties in the morning.”
As Harry followed Alfred out of the dining room, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d taken the first tentative step toward something resembling a new life. Whether he deserved it was a question he’d save for another time.
The walk to Harry’s room was quiet, save for the soft click of Alfred’s polished shoes against the marble floors. Harry trailed slightly behind, his eyes wandering up to the intricate arches of the ceilings and the grand paintings lining the halls. It all felt like stepping into another world—a world too familiar and too foreign all at once.
The Manor wasn’t Hogwarts, but the way the shadows danced in the corners of the hallways, the sheer vastness of the corridors, the weight of the history imbued in the very walls—it was close enough to unearth memories Harry had tried to bury.
His hand brushed lightly against the smooth banister of a staircase, and for a moment, he could almost feel the cold stone of Hogwarts beneath his fingers. He half-expected to hear the distant hum of students chattering or the sharp click of Professor McGonagall’s heels echoing down the hall.
“Mr. Black?” Alfred’s calm voice broke through the haze, pulling Harry back to the present.
Harry blinked, realizing he’d stopped walking. His hand gripped the banister tightly, his knuckles white. “Sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Got distracted.”
Alfred gave him a measured look, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “Quite understandable. The Manor has a way of doing that.”
They continued in silence, but Harry’s unease didn’t abate. The memories clung to him like cobwebs, pulling him back to the castle he’d once called home—to the friends he’d laughed with, the battles he’d fought, and the losses that had carved scars into his heart.
When Alfred finally stopped in front of a heavy oak door, Harry braced himself. The butler opened it with a gentle push, revealing a spacious bedroom that looked like it had been plucked from a catalog.
The room was impossibly large, with a king-sized bed draped in rich navy linens, a sitting area near the window, and a desk that could have belonged in a professor’s office. The window itself overlooked the sprawling gardens, the city’s distant lights twinkling like stars.
Harry froze on the threshold, his throat tightening.
“This is…” His voice faltered as he stepped inside, his duffel bag hanging limply at his side. “This is too much.”
Alfred tilted his head slightly. “I assure you, Mr. Black, this is one of our more modest guest rooms. I thought it appropriate, given the permanence of your stay.”
Harry turned to face him, shaking his head. “I don’t… I don’t need this much space. Honestly, I’m fine with something smaller. A lot smaller.”
Alfred’s gaze sharpened, though his tone remained calm. “You seem to underestimate what you deserve, Mr. Black.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue but stopped. He didn’t have the energy to explain—how could he put into words the years spent in a cupboard or the suffocating guilt that followed him like a shadow? Instead, he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… a lot.”
Alfred studied him for a moment longer, his expression thoughtful. “If you find the accommodations unsuitable, we can revisit them at a later time. For now, I suggest you settle in and rest.”
Harry nodded stiffly, stepping further into the room but not moving to unpack.
“I’ll expect you at six o’clock sharp tomorrow morning,” Alfred continued. “Breakfast will be served in the kitchen, and I’ll meet you there to begin your duties. Shall I provide a wake-up call?”
Harry shook his head. “No, I’ll manage.”
“Very well,” Alfred said with a small nod. He lingered for a moment, as though considering his next words. “If you find yourself in need of anything, do not hesitate to let me know. I’ll leave you to your evening.”
With that, Alfred stepped out, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Harry stood in the middle of the room, the silence pressing down on him. The grandeur of the space only seemed to amplify the hollow ache in his chest, the kind of emptiness that no luxury could fill.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the far wall. The room was warm, inviting even, but Harry felt more out of place than ever. He dropped his luggage onto the floor, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands gripping his hair.
The ghost of Hogwarts lingered in the corners of his mind, and with it came the faces of people he’d left behind. He wondered, not for the first time if he’d made the right choice in walking away. But then again, what other choice had there been?
Tomorrow, he thought, letting out a slow breath. Tomorrow he’d begin again.
Alfred paused just outside the door, his hand resting briefly on the polished wood, his mind still on the young man he had just left behind. Harrison Black was a young man with a heavy past, weighed down by the things he could not escape.
He could feel the remnants of the tension in the air, the unease that had followed Harry throughout the evening. Alfred had noticed it the moment the young man had walked through the doors, that tightness in his posture, the way his eyes darted around the room as if half-expecting it to vanish. The awkwardness had only deepened over dinner, where Harry had remained mostly quiet, his answers polite but distant.
Alfred had seen this kind of thing before—people carrying burdens they were not yet ready to share, walls built up over years of hardship. But there was something about Harrison, something far deeper than the usual guard people put up. The boy was, trying to hide from himself. The same way he tried to hide from his past.
He was not the first young man Alfred had cared for in his long service, but there was something about Harrison’s isolation that stirred a particular concern in Alfred’s chest. His upbringing, or lack thereof, seemed to hang over him like a fog. The way he’d hesitated in the room, the quiet insistence that he didn’t deserve such comfort—it was all too familiar.
Alfred had taken in the boy’s hesitation with careful patience. He wasn’t foolish. He knew the type of trauma one carries after certain things. Alfred had gone through war; he knew what happened to you after the war—after living through something so destructive. But it was more than that. It was the subtle way Harrison tried to minimize everything about himself. He wouldn’t say it aloud, of course, but there was a sense of self-deprecation, an unwillingness to accept kindness, or perhaps, to trust it.
And yet, Alfred could see the glimmer of something beneath the surface—the same kind of determination that had helped the boy survive when so many others hadn’t. That had kept him fighting when it seemed there was no fight left to give.
With a quiet sigh, Alfred moved down the hall, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the vast, space. As he reached the stairs, he paused for a moment, looking back at the door to the room that now housed the young man.
Tomorrow, he would begin.
The morning would bring something new. A new role for Harrison Black, a new purpose to fill the silence that he had carried all these years. But Alfred knew the boy wouldn’t be able to run from the ghosts forever. He would need time—perhaps more than he realized. Time to adjust, to accept what was offered, to understand that there were people here who would not abandon him, no matter the weight he carried.
With a deep breath, Alfred turned, his mind already shifting to the morning. There would be things to do—meetings to attend, tasks to oversee—but in the back of his mind, he would keep one thought steady: Harrison Black would find his place here, just as they all had.
The Manor was not just a home for the Wayne family—it was a place to rebuild, to heal. And Alfred would make sure that Harrison would find that, in time.
As he descended the stairs, the faint sounds of the night settling into quiet were the only things that accompanied him. The Manor had its rhythm—its heartbeat—but for now, it was silent, awaiting the morning when life would begin anew.