Tomorrow (on indefinite break)

Harry had missed lunch. Alfred had to take care of an injury that a boy named Duke had obtained. So Alfred had forgotten in his haste to remind Harry to eat. The man seemed to look disappointed that Harry hadn’t fixed anything for himself. 

“The kitchen is always open Mr. Black, there are no restrictions, it is a part of our agreement as you being my assistant.” Alfred seemed to pause in thought at the mention of that, “After dinner, we will discuss your pay and care plan. I know you know you must stay housed here but certain things need to be laid out on paper with a signature.” Alfred explained to the other. He noticed that the tremors in the boy's body seemed to have grown worse after the laundry incident.

“We will discuss matters with Master Bruce. He is the one paying you after all.” Alfred said with a cheeky smile and Harry couldn’t find any energy to fight the man. He would be a Gryffindor if he were to be a student of Hogwarts, Harry figured. 

“Now why don’t you help me set up the table? An old man like me could use some assistance now and again,” Alfred told the boy. 

Harry stood alongside Alfred, helping set the long dining table. The soft clinking of dishes and silverware filled the quiet room as Alfred hummed under his breath. It was a comforting sort of silence, one that allowed Harry to lose himself in the rhythm of the task. He appreciated Alfred’s lack of probing questions or judgment, but Harry wasn’t naive—he knew that the calm would not last once dinner began.

By the time everything was ready, the family began to filter into the dining room. Bruce entered first, his commanding presence filling the space without effort. Damian followed closely behind, his sharp gaze immediately locking onto Harry, as if continuing the silent observation he’d begun earlier in the day. Tim and Duke came next, chatting softly until their conversation trailed off as they noticed Harry at the table.

“Good evening, everyone,” Alfred announced, his tone smooth as he began serving. “Dinner is served.”

Harry found himself seated near the end of the table, flanked by Duke on one side and Tim on the other. Bruce, of course, sat at the head, with Alfred taking his usual position just behind him, ready to oversee the meal.

The first few moments of dinner passed without incident. The family’s usual banter filled the air, and Harry did his best to remain unnoticed, quietly eating and focusing on his plate. But it didn’t take long before Damian turned his attention toward him.

“Why do you need to work for Alfred?” Damian had asked bluntly, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork and eyeing Harry like an opponent in a chess match.

Harry hesitated, the fork in his hand pausing mid-air. “I needed a fresh start,” he replied carefully, his voice calm but guarded. “Alfred gave me that chance.”

“Where did you live before this?” Damian pressed, ignoring the subtle shake of Bruce’s head to let it go.

Harry felt a tightness in his chest. “I lived in Surrey most of my life but once I turned eleven I went to a boarding school during the year,” he said shortly, cutting off any further details. “I lived with my relatives when I was on summer break.”

Damian raised an eyebrow at the clipped answer. “What kind of relatives? Parents, grandparents?”

Harry’s hand trembled slightly, and he quickly set down his fork, pretending it was intentional. “An aunt and uncle,” he said, his tone flat. “And a cousin.”

Tim, who had been scrolling through something on his phone, glanced up at the tension in Harry’s voice. “What was Surrey like?”

“It’s quiet, a place with perfect hedges, and everyone there acts like it's the 1950s over in America. Happy American Dream families even though we lived in Britain,” Harry replied, forcing his voice to stay neutral. “Not much to talk about.”

Damian wasn’t satisfied. “If it was so quiet, why leave? What’s wrong with Surrey?”

Harry’s fingers clenched against his napkin, but he didn’t look up. “Sometimes a place isn’t right for you,” he said simply.

Tim, watching the exchange, finally spoke up. “Ease up, Damian. Not everyone’s life is your business.”

Damian frowned, but his gaze stayed on Harry, as though dissecting him. “I’m just trying to understand,” he muttered, sounding more defensive than apologetic.

Harry didn’t respond, focusing instead on pushing his food around his plate.

After a moment, Damian shifted tactics. “You said you went to a boarding school. What did you learn there?”

Harry seized on the change in topic, though it didn’t feel like much of a reprieve. “The usual,” he said with a shrug. “Math, science, English. Physical Education was a bit different, though. It was more about self-defense and handling dangerous situations.” Harry couldn’t help but rave about his favorite class a bit. 

“Self-defense?” Duke chimed in, his tone curious but not accusatory. “Like martial arts?”

Harry hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Sort of. More about strategy and reacting to threats.”

“That’s cool,” Duke said with an easy smile. “Not the kind of gym class I had, but it sounds useful.”

“You must have been good at it if it stuck out to you,” Tim added, his tone neutral but thoughtful.

Harry gave a half-shrug. “I managed. I wasn’t great at science or history, so I guess I just focused on what I could do. I’ve always been more of a hands-on learner.” Harry’s answers were tense and he knew everyone in the room could tell.

Bruce, silent until now, finally interjected to steer the conversation away. “Harry’s made it clear he’s here to focus on his work. Let’s not put him on trial during dinner.”

Damian opened his mouth to argue but stopped when Bruce’s look silenced him. The conversation shifted after that, and Harry was grateful for it.

The family’s reactions had been varied. Damian had wanted to push further, and Harry could feel the boy’s curiosity lingering even after the questions stopped. Tim had seemed analytical, filing Harry’s responses away without judgment. Duke and Tim had been more laid-back, their comments disarming some of the tension, while Bruce’s intervention had been a clear effort to give Harry some breathing room.

But despite the shift in focus, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that every word he said had been dissected, cataloged, and stored for later. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and the tremors in his hands had only grown worse by the time dinner ended.

Bruce exchanged a glance with Alfred, who gave a subtle nod as if to say, Let it go for now.

“Well,” Bruce said finally, his tone lighter, “it sounds like you’ve had an interesting life so far. And now you’re here, helping Alfred keep this place running. We’re lucky to have you.”

As dinner concluded and the family began to disperse, Alfred placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t forget, Mr. Black,” he said with a small smile. “We still need to go over your care plan and arrangements.”

Harry nodded, feeling the familiar exhaustion settle over him. He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but he knew there was no avoiding it. For now, he would follow Alfred’s lead and hope that the questions about his past wouldn’t press too far.

When the last of the plates were cleared and everyone began dispersing, Alfred placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, steering him toward Bruce’s office. Harry’s stomach churned at the thought of sitting across from the man again, the heavy air of authority already pressing down on him as he followed.

Bruce’s office was even more intimidating now that it was just the two of them. Harry stood awkwardly near the door until Bruce gestured to the chair across from his desk. There were dark wood shelves filled with books and little knickknacks. His desk was large and his chair seemed to fit the giant man perfectly as he sat there. The darkness of the night made the warmth of the lamps unimportant as the man’s cold eyes looked at him.

They reminded Harry of when Dumbledor had been killed by Snape. The twinkle was gone, the joy and happiness brushed away by deaths awaiting hands.

“Take a seat, Harry,” Bruce said evenly, his voice calm but commanding.

Harry sat down stiffly, his hands gripping his knees to keep them from shaking. He stared at the edge of the desk, avoiding Bruce’s gaze.

“I wanted to go over a few details about your arrangement here,” Bruce began, his tone measured. “Alfred mentioned earlier that we’d discuss your pay and other logistics. I also thought this might be a chance for us to get to know you better.”

Harry tensed, his fingers digging into his jeans. He nodded, keeping his eyes down.

“You’ve been doing well so far,” Bruce continued, his voice steady. “Alfred speaks highly of you. But I want to make sure you’re comfortable here. If there’s anything you need—supplies, clothes, or anything else—don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I don’t need much,” Harry mumbled quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just a place to stay and food. That’s enough.”

Bruce studied him, his expression unreadable. “I understand, but I want you to know that you don’t have to go without. We’ll provide you with a weekly stipend for your work, and if you ever need something, Alfred or I can help arrange it.”

Harry nodded again, the tension in his shoulders only growing. His hands were trembling, and he shoved them into his pockets, hoping Bruce wouldn’t notice.

“There is the probability of attack. We are a well-known family among the people of Gotham. We have old money and everyone knows this,” The way Bruce spoke of his money didn’t remind Harry of Draco when he bragged but more of Sirus, he knew he had it but it mattered little to him.

“I can defend myself and others when need be,” Harry told the man. He didn’t dare look at the man in his cool blue eyes. Didn’t dare look up to the stare of what would be pity and sadness. Harry bit the inside of his cheek as Bruce hummed.

“Be as that may I just wanted to warn you that attacks will very likely happen on this estate. We have security but the rouges of this city are dangerous. They are crazed and dark. It is your job as an assistant butler to keep my family safe, to protect them. They go to martial arts training and often spar each other but that does not mean they are invincible. Can I trust you to protect my children?” Bruce leaned in on his desk and this time Harry looked Bruce in his eyes. They were hardened with something Harry recognized. It was the eyes of a father who wanted nothing more than to protect his children. Harry knew Mr. Weasly carried this look in his eyes once. Before the Death Eaters got to him. The bile rose in Harry's throat but he swallowed it.

Harry’s eyes reflected the same hardness. His back was straightened like a soldier and his hands were finally still in his pocket. “I will protect your family with everything I can, sir.” the tone Harry’s voice carried was strong and held no room for argument. 

Bruce’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the boy's response and nodded. “Good, I am glad we are on the same page. Now, we do have a gym so on your off time you are welcome to use any of the facilities we have there.” Bruce offered 

Harry just nodded.

“Last thing,” Bruce said, his voice softening. “Alfred mentioned you’ve been having tremors. Are you sure there’s nothing you need? Medical attention, perhaps?”

Harry’s chest tightened. He shook his head quickly. “No, sir. It’s…nothing can be done about it.”

Bruce didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “All right. But if you want a different opinion from a doctor we can schedule a meeting. Even if a brace would help with the tremors we can get you one easily.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, his voice barely audible.

Bruce let the conversation end there, leaning back and folding his hands on the desk. “You’re free to go for the night. Alfred and I will finalize everything tomorrow.”

Harry stood quickly, his legs stiff as he moved toward the door. He paused briefly, glancing back at Bruce. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” he said, his voice low.

Bruce’s response was a quiet nod, and Harry slipped out of the office, his hands still trembling as he made his way down the hall. The weight of the conversation lingered, and though Bruce’s words had been kind, Harry couldn’t shake the unease that came with being under scrutiny.

He let out a shaky breath as he reached his room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it. The tremors in his hands hadn’t stopped, and he clenched his fists, willing himself to calm down. This is just a job, he reminded himself. Just another place to survive.

But as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his mind buzzed with everything left unsaid. There was no escaping the feeling that Bruce Wayne was trying to see through him—and that he might not like what he found.

Harry sighed and let himself sink onto the bed, the springs creaking faintly beneath him. He had planned to start unpacking, but now the thought of pulling out the contents of his battered trunk felt too overwhelming. Instead, he sat in the dim light of the room, staring at the wall as his mind raced.

The tremors in his hands had lessened, but he still clasped them together tightly to keep them steady. Bruce’s words replayed in his head—“Can I trust you to protect my children?” Harry had answered without hesitation, but the weight of the promise felt heavier now. He’d spent so long running on instinct, surviving one moment at a time, but this was something different. This was a life with structure and expectations.

After several minutes, Harry forced himself to move. He couldn’t sit still any longer. He opened his trunk and began unpacking, methodically arranging his sparse belongings in the drawers and closet. A few worn shirts, an extra pair of jeans, and a threadbare sweater. He hadn’t brought much from Surrey—there hadn’t been much to bring.

At the very bottom of the trunk, hidden beneath a stack of books, was a small, weathered photo album. Harry hesitated before pulling it out. The leather binding was scuffed, and the pages were slightly warped from years of wear, but the photos inside were intact. He flipped through it slowly, his chest tightening as he stared at the moving images.

His parents smiled back at him from the first page, waving as they stood in front of a house Harry had never known. The sight of them was both comforting and painful, a reminder of everything he’d lost and fought for. He closed the album quickly, not wanting to linger on the memories.

The silence in the room felt oppressive. Harry rubbed his eyes, exhaustion pressing down on him, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. His nightmares always found him eventually, dragging him back to the horrors of the war.

After what felt like hours of restless tossing, Harry gave up and decided to go to the kitchen. A warm drink might help, and the manor was quiet enough that he doubted anyone would notice him. He padded down the hallway, his socked feet making no sound on the polished floors.

The kitchen was dimly lit, the faint glow of the refrigerator casting long shadows across the room. Harry moved automatically, filling the kettle and setting it to boil. He reached for the tea canister Alfred had shown him earlier, his movements quiet and deliberate.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

The sudden voice made Harry jump, nearly dropping the tin. He turned quickly to see a figure leaning casually against the doorway.

It was one of Bruce’s sons—Dick, if Harry remembered correctly. He’d only seen him in passing, but there was no mistaking the easy grin and relaxed posture.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Dick said, stepping into the kitchen. “I just got back from Blüdhaven. Thought I’d grab a snack before crashing.”

Harry nodded stiffly, clutching the tea canister like a lifeline. “I was just making tea,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Mind if I join you?” Dick asked, opening a cabinet and pulling out a mug. He didn’t wait for a response, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. “Alfred’s tea stash is legendary, by the way. He’s got some blends in here that you can’t find anywhere else.”

Harry stayed silent, focusing on preparing his tea. He poured the hot water over the leaves, watching the steam rise.

Dick leaned against the counter, studying him with a curious expression. “So, you’re the new assistant Alfred’s been talking about.”

Harry nodded, gripping his mug tightly as he took a cautious sip.

“Relax, I’m not here to interrogate you,” Dick said with a chuckle, sensing Harry’s unease. “I just wanted to say hi. You’ve got the whole family buzzing, you know.”

Harry frowned slightly. “Buzzing?”

“Well, Damian’s already sizing you up like you’re a potential rival, Tim’s probably got a file on you by now, and Bruce…well, he’s doing his whole ‘silent observation’ thing. Classic Wayne behavior.”

Harry managed a small smile at that, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You don’t have to be so tense,” Dick added, his tone gentler now. “We’re not as scary as we look.”

Harry glanced at him, unsure how to respond. His past experiences with authority figures—adults in general—had taught him to tread carefully. Trust didn’t come easily.

They fell into a companionable silence for a few moments, the only sound the quiet ticking of the kitchen clock.

“Nightmares?” Dick asked suddenly, his tone casual but laced with understanding.

Harry stiffened, the mug halfway to his lips. “What makes you think that?”

“Been there,” Dick said simply, his expression softening. “You don’t need to tell me, but I can recognize the signs.”

Harry hesitated, then nodded slightly. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Dick didn’t press him. Instead, he grabbed the kettle and poured himself a cup of tea, his movements unhurried. “This house can be a lot, especially at first. But it grows on you.”

Harry gave a noncommittal hum, staring into his tea.

“If you ever need to talk—or just want to make tea in the middle of the night without someone bothering you—I’m around,” Dick said with a grin, raising his mug in a mock toast.

Harry’s lips twitched into a faint smile, the gesture almost imperceptible. “Thanks,” he murmured.

They stood there for a while longer, sipping their tea in silence. For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry didn’t feel entirely alone.

When Harry finally arrived back in his room he still felt jittery and noncomplacent as he paced in his room back and forth just trying to let his body calm down. He was then reminded of the fact that he had been allowed to go into the gym and work out. When Harry knew it would be a bad day he would take a run around the Black Lake so he was too tired to dream. Maybe he should start working out again.

The gym was quiet, a sanctuary of steel and solitude after the long day. Harry had thrown himself into his workout, trying to let the repetition of lifting weights distract him from his thoughts. Clad in a short dove-gray shirt and a pair of shorts, he ignored the scars on his skin—the one from Pettigrew’s knife and the ugly, jagged words carved into his hand. Long sleeves would have hidden them, but Harry couldn’t bear the heat.

The rhythmic clink of weights and his steady breathing were the only sounds until the door swung open with a sharp creak. Harry stilled, glancing toward the source of the noise, and froze when he saw a broad, shadowed figure standing in the doorway.

Jason Todd stepped in, his sharp blue eyes narrowing the moment he spotted Harry. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Harry set the barbell down slowly, caution flashing in his green eyes. He didn’t recognize this man, and the tone of his voice sent alarm bells ringing in his mind. “I’m working out,” Harry said carefully, his voice steady despite the unease creeping up his spine.

Jason’s eyes swept over Harry, taking in his wiry build and unfamiliar face. “Who are you?”

“Harrison Black,” Harry answered, his posture stiffening.

Jason’s gaze turned icy. “Bullshit.”

Before Harry could react, Jason stormed forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him back against the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of Harry’s lungs, and the cold press of the wall against his back sent him spiraling.

He wasn’t in the gym anymore. He was fourteen again, back in that damned office with Dumbledore towering over him, face livid, voice sharp.

“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?!” Dumbledore’s hands had been like vices on his shoulders, shaking him hard enough to hurt, his piercing eyes filled with disbelief and anger.

“I didn’t—” Harry tried to say, but his words had been drowned out by the weight of authority pressing down on him.

Now, in the gym, the suffocating feeling came rushing back, freezing him in place. He gasped for air, his vision tunneling as Jason’s grip tightened on his shirt.

“Start talking,” Jason demanded, his voice harsh and cutting. “Why are you here?”

Harry’s mind fractured between past and present, and panic gave way to anger. It always did. His breath hitched, his muscles tensing as adrenaline surged through him. He shoved Jason back with a desperate burst of strength, his hands shaking violently.

Jason stumbled but quickly caught himself. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Harry pressed himself against the wall, his green eyes wide and wild, flickering with a faint, eerie glow. His chest heaved, and his hands were balled into trembling fists at his sides. “Don’t touch me,” he growled, his voice trembling with fear and fury.

Jason frowned, taking a cautious step back. “Whoa, hey—”

“Don’t!” Harry shouted, his voice cracking. He was shaking all over now, his breathing ragged as he tried to ground himself, to pull himself out of the memory threatening to swallow him whole. But it was too much—the cold press of the wall, the anger in Jason’s eyes, the feeling of being cornered.

His thoughts spiraled, and he felt like a caged animal, a bad dog backed into a corner. His heart thundered in his chest as he barked out, “I work here! Bruce hired me! Go ask him if you don’t believe me!”

Jason held up his hands in a placating gesture, his expression softening as he took in Harry’s state. The glow in Harry’s eyes caught Jason’s attention, but he didn’t mention it. He didn’t need to; he recognized the look of someone caught in their trauma, too raw to be poked at.

“Okay,” Jason said slowly, his tone calmer now. “Okay. I didn’t know. Bruce didn’t say anything.”

Harry stared at him, still trembling, his breathing shallow and uneven. His fists stayed clenched as if ready for another fight, but Jason made no move to approach him again.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jason added after a beat. “But you don’t just… show up here without people knowing.”

Harry didn’t respond. He turned away, pressing a hand to his chest as he tried to slow his breathing. His mind raced, but he forced himself to focus on the room around him—the hum of the air conditioning, the faint metallic scent of weights.

Jason lingered for a moment longer before stepping back toward the door. He glanced at Harry one last time before leaving, his expression unreadable.

When the door clicked shut, Harry let out a shaky breath. He sank to the floor, resting his head in his hands as he fought to pull himself together. His hands were still trembling, his heart still pounding.

The anger was gone now, replaced by a deep, aching exhaustion. He hated how easily he fell apart, how quickly fear turned to rage. He hated being reminded of the moments that had left him like this.

For a long time, he stayed there, breathing in the silence and trying to find his footing again.

Harry stayed on the gym floor longer than he cared to admit, knees pulled up to his chest as he focused on calming his breathing. He replayed the encounter over and over, Jason’s accusing voice blending with memories he didn’t want to face.

Why had he panicked like that? He’d fought Death Eaters and survived battles no one else his age should have, but one wrong move—a cornered feeling, a raised voice—was enough to unravel him.

He wiped at his face harshly, though no tears had fallen. His fingers brushed over the faint scar etched into the back of his hand, I must not tell lies, and the sensation sent a shiver down his spine.

After a while, he forced himself to stand. His legs felt unsteady, his mind still foggy, but he wouldn’t let himself stay crumpled on the floor like a child. Get up. Move. Don’t let them see how weak you are. The mantra had carried him through years of war, and it wasn’t going to fail him now.

But his resolve wavered as he caught his reflection in the mirror lining the gym wall. His face was pale, his eyes hollow and shadowed with exhaustion. The eerie green glow that had sparked in his panic was gone, but he could still feel its phantom presence, like an ember burning in the back of his mind.

What was that?

He ran a hand through his messy black hair, his fingers catching in the tangles. He didn’t have an answer. All he knew was that Jason’s grip, the wall at his back—it had been too much.

As Harry slipped out of the gym and into the hallway, he nearly collided with Alfred, who was carrying a tray of tea.

“Master Harrison,” Alfred said, his voice calm as always, though his sharp gaze immediately picked up on Harry’s disheveled appearance. “I trust your workout was… productive?”

Harry forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, it was fine. Just, uh, heading to my room now.”

Alfred tilted his head slightly, setting the tray down on a nearby table. “If I may, you appear rather shaken. Is there anything I can do to assist you?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, I’m good. Really.” He started to walk away but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Thanks, though.”

Alfred’s keen eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before he inclined his head. “Very well. Should you require anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

Back in his room, Harry locked the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. The walls felt closer now, the shadows darker.

He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, running his hands over his face. His fingers trembled, and the scarred skin on his hand caught the dim light.

His thoughts wouldn’t quiet. Jason’s accusation, his tone, the sheer force behind his grip—it had been a misunderstanding, sure, but that didn’t make it any easier to shake.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He hated this. Hated how the past followed him everywhere, clawing its way back to the surface when he least expected it.

Meanwhile, Jason stood in the hallway outside the gym, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He replayed the encounter in his head, frowning.

Something about the kid didn’t sit right with him, and it wasn’t just that Bruce hadn’t mentioned him. The way Harry had reacted—eyes wide with panic, trembling like a cornered animal—wasn’t something Jason could ignore.

And those glowing green eyes…

Jason’s jaw tightened. He didn’t know what Harry had been through, but he recognized the signs of someone carrying heavy scars. Physical, sure, but mostly the kind you couldn’t see.

With a grunt, he pushed off the wall and headed toward Bruce’s study. He didn’t trust easily, but if this Harrison Black was sticking around, Jason needed answers—and fast.

Jason stormed into Bruce’s study, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls. Bruce glanced up from his work, his expression calm despite the sudden disruption.

“Jason,” he said, setting his pen down. “What’s the issue?”

Jason stalked up to the desk, his movements sharp and full of tension. “The kid. Harrison Black. Care to explain why you forgot to mention him?”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I told you Harry would be staying here for a while.”

“No,” Jason snapped, “you didn’t tell me that he’s got enough scars to put me to shame and that he freaks out if you so much as move too fast. Or that his eyes do this thing.” Jason gestured wildly, frustration crackling through his voice. “They lit up green, Bruce—like Lazarus Pit green.”

Bruce’s expression darkened slightly. “Harry’s been through a lot, Jason. More than he’s shared with me. Whatever you saw, it’s not related to the Pit. He’s not like you.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “You sure about that? Because the way he looked at me—like he was about to fight for his life—says otherwise.”

Bruce stood, his posture deliberate and calm. “Harry doesn’t know about the Lazarus Pit. He doesn’t know about you, Jason.”

Jason scoffed, pacing the room. “Doesn’t know about me? Then what the hell was that back there? He practically went feral when I grabbed him.”

Bruce’s voice softened. “I told you—We think he’s been through significant trauma. His reaction wasn’t about you, Jason. It was about whatever’s haunting him.”

Jason stopped pacing, his shoulders taut. “And you’re okay with that? Letting some kid with glowing eyes and a hair-trigger freak out stay here?”

“I’m not okay with it,” Bruce admitted. “But I’m not going to force him to talk, either. He needs space to feel safe.”

Jason ran a hand through his hair, his frustration bleeding into his every movement. “You’re trusting a stranger with a temper and some kind of Lazurus Pit thing going on?”

“I’m trusting a young man who’s been hurt,” Bruce replied evenly. “And I’m asking you to do the same.”

Jason exhaled sharply, turning away. “Fine. But if he loses it again, don’t expect me to stand there and take it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bruce said simply.

Back in his room, Harry sat on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest. His hands trembled as he stared at the faint glow lingering on his fingertips. His chest ached, each breath coming shallow and uneven.

The moment Jason had pinned him against the wall replayed in his mind, merging with memories of Dumbledore’s furious accusations in the fourth year. The towering figure, the way the older man’s presence seemed to suffocate him—it all came rushing back.

Harry bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to ground himself. The coppery taste of blood distracted him for a moment, but the anger and fear kept surging back like a tidal wave.

I’m like a bad dog, he thought bitterly. I bite when I’m scared.

His magic stirred again, the glow in his eyes intensifying as it reflected in the mirror across the room. He clenched his fists, willing it to stop. But he didn’t understand it, didn’t know how to stop it.

A soft knock on the door broke through his spiral. Harry flinched, his head snapping up.

“Harry?” It was Alfred’s voice, steady and calm. “I thought you might like some tea.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to force the panic down. “Come in,” he said, his voice cracking.

The door opened, and Alfred stepped in, carrying a tray. His sharp eyes took in Harry’s hunched form and pale face, but he didn’t comment.

“I find that tea has a way of settling the nerves,” Alfred said gently, placing the tray on the nightstand.

Harry gave a faint nod, his hands still trembling as he reached for the cup. The warmth seeped into his fingers, grounding him a little.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Alfred’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “If anything is troubling you, Mr. Black, you know you can speak to me.”

Harry hesitated, his grip tightening on the cup. “It’s nothing. Just… a long day.”

Alfred didn’t press further. “Very well. Rest well, Mr. Black.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Harry let out a shaky breath. He took a sip of the tea, the heat warming him from the inside out.

But the fear and anger still lingered, coiled tight in his chest. And no amount of tea would make that go away.

Harry stayed on the floor long after the tea had gone cold, staring at the faint glow that still lingered in his eyes. The reflection in the mirror was unfamiliar—a boy with hollow eyes, his magic crackling like a storm beneath his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight, the memories, the panic still crawling under his skin.

What’s wrong with me?

He thought of Jason’s face, the way his eyes had glowed green as he loomed over him. It was impossible to forget. The moment Jason’s hand had gripped his shirt, pinning him against the wall, something primal had snapped inside Harry.

His magic had reacted before he could think, pushing outward in sharp, defensive waves. And those eyes…

He shivered, drawing his knees tighter to his chest. The resemblance to the Killing Curse haunted him.

Jason, meanwhile, was pacing in his room thinking of this Harrison Black. He was hurt and a danger to him and everyone else in the manor. 

The glowing green eyes—so similar to his own when the Lazarus Pit’s rage flared—kept circling back in his thoughts. He didn’t buy Bruce’s insistence that Harry wasn’t connected to the Pit. That glow wasn’t normal.

And then there was the fear in Harry’s eyes. Jason had seen a lot of fear in his time—some justified, some not—but Harry’s reaction wasn’t just fear. It was raw, animalistic terror. Like he’d been back into a corner too many times and learned to bare his teeth to survive.

What the hell has that kid been through?

Jason leaned against the wall, closing his eyes briefly. He’d lost his temper, sure—but he hadn’t expected Harry to break so quickly. The trembling, the wide eyes, the way he had lashed out—it reminded Jason of himself, fresh out of the Pit, fighting ghosts in his mind and enemies on every side.

He exhaled sharply, pushing off the wall. Whatever was going on with Harry, it was a problem. And Jason didn’t like problems he couldn’t solve with his fists.

Bruce found Alfred in the kitchen, putting away the remains of the tea tray.

“How is he?” Bruce asked, his voice low.

Alfred turned to him, his expression carefully neutral. “Shaken but intact. It would seem Master Jason’s… abrupt approach did little to endear himself to young Mr. Black.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve warned Jason. I just didn’t expect him to run into Harry tonight.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said mildly. “It might do Master Jason good to learn some restraint when dealing with those more vulnerable than himself.”

Bruce nodded absently, his thoughts already elsewhere. Jason’s reaction had been expected; he was all fire and impulse, especially when caught off guard. But Harry’s reaction—that had been something Bruce hadn’t anticipated.

Jason had seen fear before, even terror. But he said Harry’s was different. It was the fear of someone who’d been pushed too far, too often and had learned to defend himself with every ounce of his being. It was fear laced with survival instinct, and it made Bruce’s chest tighten.

He didn’t know the full extent of Harry’s past—only what the boy had reluctantly shared. And now, more than ever, he realized just how much Harry wasn’t telling him.

In his room, Harry finally stood, his legs shaky beneath him. He set the empty tea cup back on the tray and moved to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face.

The reflection in the mirror still didn’t feel like his own. His green eyes stared back at him, dull and lifeless.

Get a grip, he told himself.

But his thoughts spiraled back to Jason, to the way he had erupted out of control. He pressed his hands to the counter, gripping it tightly.

“Not here,” he whispered. “Not again.”

He didn’t know what was happening to him. He didn’t know why he and his magic felt so unstable, why it responded to his emotions like it had a mind of its own. And he sure as hell didn’t know why Jason’s eyes had glowed like that…just like him. 

The one thing he did know was that he couldn’t let this happen again. Not here, not with Bruce, not with these strangers who already seemed to be watching his every move.

Harry straightened, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He would figure this out on his own. He had to.

Because the alternative—trusting someone else with his secrets—wasn’t an option.