The Battle Within
It had been a restless night for Harry. He tried to sleep off the anxiety that spread through his veins as he had just been set up with a pepper-up potion through an IV. At five Harry gave up, he got up and changed begrudgingly as he went out of his room with a yawn that made his dry eyes water.
It was the middle of summer so his wearing long sleeves had been odd, he knew but the potential of being asked questions about the jagged line on his arms and the words on his hand made Harry not care. He did his job and that was all the others in this house should be concerned about.
As he made his way down the spiral staircase he silently treaded to the kitchen to help Alfred make breakfast. When he got to the kitchen he noticed that the man wasn’t up. It was a Sunday so maybe he slept in. Harry just shrugged it off and began to make what he used to make for the Dursleys except he added ingredients and spices he had never heard of. With small test tastes, he found he didn't mind looking like he dreaded doing it in Surrey. It was calming and he didn’t feel pressured to hurry up and cook.
The ingredients he made were far better quality than the ones he had at his relative’s house. When he was finished he quickly brewed some tea and Alfred came down with a look on his face that Harry couldn't place.
“Why, Mr. Black I find it amazing that your instinct is to cook first thing in the morning. You saved me a workload this morning that is for sure. We all have family breakfasts on Sunday. It is a Wayne tradition. I can help you make more food for everyone but the way you are cooking it won’t take long. Why don’t I wake everyone up and afterward set the table while you finish up here?” Alfred suggested to Harry. The boy just nodded his head as he kept cooking the eggs and pancakes in neighboring pans. The smell of food was stuck in the air but it wasn’t foul it smelt quite good if Harry did say so himself.
By the time Harry was done cooking almost everyone was seated and clothed appropriately for the day. The man from last night wasn’t there so Harry was a bit less tense.
Harry kept his head down as he set the plates on the table with Alfred, methodically laying out the food he’d prepared. He wasn’t sure what to expect from this “Wayne family breakfast,” but everyone else seemed to fall into an easy rhythm of conversation. Bruce sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding yet understated. Dick was chatting animatedly with Tim about some new gadget they’d tested, while Damian sat quietly, a glare on his face that seemed to be his default expression.
Harry settled into a seat near the end of the table, his long sleeves pulled tight over his hands. He wasn’t sure where he fit in all this, but he figured keeping his head down and focusing on the food was the safest bet.
He had just started cutting into his pancakes when the door to the dining room swung open, and Jason walked in.
“Morning,” Jason said gruffly, his voice still rough from sleep. His hair was tousled, and he had the air of someone who didn’t care much about Sunday traditions. His gaze immediately landed on Harry, and his expression darkened ever so slightly.
Harry froze, his grip on his fork tightening. The memory of Jason pinning him to the wall last night resurfaced unbidden, and his stomach twisted. He forced himself to keep his breathing even, though his hand twitched slightly around the utensil.
Jason grabbed a plate and served himself without a word, then dropped into the chair directly across from Harry. The tension at the table became almost tangible.
“So, you’re the new guy,” Jason said finally, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp.
Harry nodded, keeping his focus on his plate. “Yeah. Harrison Black.”
Jason’s lips twitched, something between a smirk and a grimace. “Right. Black.” He didn’t press further, but the way his gaze lingered on Harry’s long sleeves and his carefully guarded posture made it clear he wasn’t convinced.
Bruce cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. “Jason, let’s try to keep this a pleasant breakfast.”
Jason leaned back in his chair, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Wasn’t planning to ruin it,” he said around the food, his tone flippant.
Harry felt his stomach churn. The unease from last night hadn’t left him, and the way Jason watched him now was like a predator sizing up prey. He hated the way it made his skin crawl. He wasn’t used to being scrutinized so openly—it reminded him too much of the press, or worse, of teachers who saw him as nothing but trouble.
“You cooked all this?” Tim asked, cutting into Harry’s thoughts.
Harry blinked, surprised by the question. “Yeah. Alfred wasn’t up yet, so I figured I’d make myself useful.”
“Smells great,” Dick said with a bright smile. “You’ve got skills. We might have to recruit you as Alfred’s sous chef.”
“I don’t mind helping,” Harry said quietly, his gaze flickering to Alfred, who gave him an approving nod.
The casual exchange seemed to break some of the tension, but Jason’s sharp gaze remained. Harry tried to focus on eating, but every movement felt hyper-aware.
Halfway through the meal, Jason set down his fork with a clatter. “So, Harrison,” he began, his tone too casual to be genuine. “What brings you here? Don’t tell me you just stumbled into Wayne Manor and decided to stick around.”
“Jason,” Bruce said sharply, a warning in his tone.
“What? Just asking a question.” Jason’s eyes never left Harry.
Harry’s grip on his utensils tightened. His mouth went dry, and he felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on him now. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “Alfred offered me a job, and I took it. That’s all there is to it.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the answer. “Uh-huh. Sounds legit.”
“Enough,” Bruce said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Jason smirked but said nothing more, turning his attention back to his plate.
The rest of the table tried to return to their conversations, but Harry could feel the tension radiating off Jason. He kept his focus on his plate, counting each bite to steady himself.
The breakfast table buzzed with light conversation, but Harry kept his focus on his plate. He avoided looking at anyone, cutting his food into small, manageable bites to keep his hands steady. Yet, no amount of effort could stop the tremor that began to creep into his right hand.
At first, it was subtle—a faint twitch of his fingers. Then his entire hand clenched on its own, his knuckles whitening with the involuntary movement. He pressed it against his thigh under the table, hoping no one would notice.
The reprieve didn’t last. His fingers spasmed again, clenching and unclenching erratically. He tried to grasp the fork, but his hand refused to cooperate, and the utensil slipped from his grip. It clattered loudly onto the table, the sharp sound cutting through the conversations like a knife.
The room went silent.
“Everything all right, Mr. Black?” Alfred’s voice was calm, but his sharp gaze took in every detail—the tightness around Harry’s mouth, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and the unnatural jerking of his hand.
Harry’s jaw tightened as he cradled his trembling hand with the other, trying to will it to stop. “It’s fine,” he muttered, though his voice sounded strained even to his ears.
Bruce leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concern. “Harry, are you in pain?”
Harry’s head snapped up at that. “No,” he said quickly, but the spasms in his hand made his denial ring hollow.
Jason, seated across from him, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied Harry with a mix of suspicion and irritation. “Doesn’t look fine to me,” he said, his tone blunt. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
“It’s nothing,” Harry bit out, his voice harsher than intended. “Just an old…nerve thing.”
“A nerve thing?” Jason repeated, clearly unconvinced. “That doesn’t just happen on its own. What caused it?”
“Jason,” Bruce said, his voice quiet but firm. “Let it go.”
Jason raised an eyebrow but didn’t back down. “Look, I’m just saying—if it’s something serious—”
“There’s nothing that can be done about it,” Harry cut in, his voice sharp and final. He flexed his hand, the tremors slowing but not stopping. “It’s…old damage. It acts up sometimes. That’s it.”
Alfred’s gaze lingered on Harry’s pale face and tight expression. “Mr. Black, if this is causing you discomfort—”
“I’m used to it,” Harry interrupted, softer this time. “It’s fine. Really.”
Jason didn’t look convinced, his blue eyes narrowing as he watched Harry like a hawk. “Doesn’t sound fine to me,” he muttered.
“Jason,” Bruce said again, this time with a note of warning.
Jason huffed but leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Harry. “Whatever you say.”
The table fell into an uneasy silence. Harry focused on his plate, pretending he didn’t feel their stares lingering on him. He hated the scrutiny, hated how his body betrayed him in front of strangers.
Bruce finally broke the silence, his voice measured but concerned. “If it gets worse, Harry, let us know. We’ll figure something out.”
Harry gave a short nod, though he didn’t look up. He doubted there was anything anyone in this house could do. This was just one more scar he’d learned to live with.
Jason, however, didn’t drop the matter entirely. He kept his sharp gaze fixed on Harry for the rest of the meal, suspicion etched into every line of his face.
As the meal drew to an end, Harry instinctively rose to start clearing the table. He gathered a few plates, carefully balancing them despite the lingering tremors in his hand. He felt the need to stay busy, to pull his weight in a household that wasn’t truly his.
“Harry,” Bruce’s calm yet firm voice stopped him mid-reach for a glass.
He straightened, blinking at Bruce in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve done enough this morning,” Bruce said, his tone leaving little room for argument. “Sit down. Rest.”
Alfred, who was already collecting some of the dishes with practiced efficiency, nodded in agreement. “Indeed, Mr. Black. You’ve been up early and quite industrious. There’s no need to overexert yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Harry replied, frowning slightly. “I don’t mind helping—”
“Rest,” Bruce repeated, his gaze steady.
Alfred stepped closer, giving Harry a small but reassuring smile. “We appreciate your effort, truly, but this is our routine. On Sundays, the family gathers in the living room after breakfast. It’s a tradition.”
Harry hesitated, feeling an odd sense of displacement. He wasn’t sure he belonged in something as intimate as a “family tradition,” but it was clear he wasn’t being given much of a choice. With a reluctant nod, he stepped away from the table and made his way to the living room.
The space was expansive yet warm, with plush couches arranged around a low coffee table. Large windows let in the morning sunlight, casting a golden glow across the room. Harry chose the edge of one of the sofas, sitting stiffly as he clasped his hands together, trying to steady the residual shaking.
He wasn’t left alone for long. Bruce entered first, settling into an armchair with a coffee mug in hand. Tim followed, nose already buried in his phone, while Dick sauntered in with his usual easygoing smile. Damian appeared a moment later, carrying a book under one arm and an air of mild annoyance at having to participate.
Harry kept his gaze down, unsure of where to look or how to act. He wasn’t used to this—casual, familial moments that didn’t come with an edge of tension or danger.
Jason arrived last, leaning against the doorframe for a moment before finally taking a seat in a chair across from Harry. His sharp eyes flicked to Harry briefly but said nothing, though the intensity of his scrutiny was hard to ignore.
Bruce glanced around the room, his posture relaxing slightly. “This is a quiet day,” he explained as if sensing Harry’s unease. “No work. Just time to decompress.”
Harry nodded faintly, his fingers tightening slightly where they rested in his lap. “Right.”
The group settled into the space, each falling into their rhythm. Tim and Damian bickered quietly over something trivial. Dick struck up a light conversation with Bruce, who responded with his usual measured calm. Jason stayed quiet but occasionally glanced at Harry with a look Harry couldn’t quite decipher.
As much as Harry wanted to relax, he couldn’t quite shake the tension coiled in his chest. This level of normalcy felt foreign, and he wasn’t sure how long he could maintain his place in it. For now, though, he stayed put, trying his best to blend into the background of their Sunday tradition.
The room settled into a comfortable rhythm, though for Harry, it felt more like walking on a high wire. He remained perched on the edge of the couch, trying to appear at ease while the others melted into the easy flow of conversation.
Bruce was speaking quietly to Dick about something that sounded work-related—city patrols, perhaps? Harry wasn’t entirely sure. He tried not to eavesdrop but found it hard not to catch snippets of the exchange.
“…we’ll need to reevaluate the west sector,” Bruce was saying. “Too many variables cropping up.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Dick replied. “It’s a mess, but manageable.”
Tim, still scrolling through his phone, broke in with a sarcastic quip. “You two make it sound like Gotham’s a group project that’s due tomorrow and nobody’s done their part.”
Damian snorted from his spot by the window, where he was leafing through a book. “Tt. Of course, you’d compare it to schoolwork. It’s far more serious than that.”
“Relax, Damian,” Dick said with a grin. “Tim’s just being Tim.”
“And you’re just being obnoxious,” Damian shot back, but there was no real venom in his tone.
Harry watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and discomfort. It was so… normal. He felt like an outsider peering into a world he didn’t quite belong to.
Jason, sitting across from him, finally broke his silence. “So, ‘Black,’” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “What’s your deal? You just show up here to cook breakfast and look nervous, or is there more to the story?”
Harry stiffened, his hands curling slightly into fists. The question wasn’t hostile exactly, but it still felt pointed. Jason’s sharp gaze didn’t help.
“Jason,” Bruce warned lightly, but Jason just raised a brow.
“What?” Jason said. “I’m just asking. You can’t tell me you’re not curious.”
Harry swallowed hard, his shoulders tensing. He didn’t look at Jason directly, instead focusing on a spot on the coffee table. “There’s not much to tell,” he said evenly.
“That so?” Jason pressed, but before he could say more, Alfred entered the room carrying a tray with fresh tea and biscuits.
“Master Jason,” Alfred said with a pointed look, “perhaps we could refrain from interrogating our guest.”
Jason huffed but didn’t push further. Alfred set the tray down, his movements precise and unhurried, and offered Harry a cup of tea with a reassuring smile.
“Thank you,” Harry murmured, taking the cup carefully.
The conversation shifted after that, steering away from anything too personal. Dick and Tim began debating the merits of some action movie they’d recently seen, with Damian chiming in occasionally to call their opinions ridiculous.
“You can’t seriously think that fight scene was realistic,” Tim argued. “The choreography was so over the top, it.
The conversation drifted as Dick and Tim’s argument over the movie heated up.
“I’m just saying,” Tim said, gesturing wildly with his hands, “that scene was ridiculous. No way someone gets hit with a chair, flips through a window, and keeps fighting like nothing happened.”
“It’s called cinematic flair, Tim,” Dick countered, grinning. “Not everything needs to be grounded in reality.”
“You’re both wrong,” Damian interjected, barely looking up from his book. “The fight choreography was absurd. No competent combatant would leave their left side so exposed in an actual fight.”
“Okay, expert,” Dick said, rolling his eyes. “Like you could do better.”
“I could,” Damian said, deadpan, which earned a chuckle from Tim and a huff from Dick.
Harry, who had been quietly sipping his tea and trying to blend into the background, suddenly found himself speaking without really meaning to. “They didn’t even hold their stances properly,” he muttered, almost too softly to be heard.
All heads turned toward him.
“What was that?” Dick asked, leaning forward with interest.
Harry flushed, gripping his cup tightly. “I just…uh, the way they fought. Their footing was all wrong, and they overextended with every strike. It’s…not very effective.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Oy? And you’d know because…?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably, realizing he’d inadvertently stepped into the spotlight. “I…I’ve seen a lot of fights,” he said vaguely. “And, um, it just—well, it doesn’t make sense to leave yourself open like that. You’d get floored in seconds if someone knew what they were doing.”
Tim tilted his head, intrigued. “That’s a surprisingly good point,” he said. “I mean, if you’re trained, you’d notice that stuff, right?”
Harry hesitated. “I guess.”
Damian, who had been listening with narrowed eyes, finally spoke. “You sound like you’ve had experience in combat.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was an edge of curiosity there.
Harry’s stomach twisted, and he quickly looked down at his tea. “Not really. Just… observations.”
Jason snorted, leaning back in his seat. “Observations, huh? You’ve got a keen eye for someone who’s ‘just observing.’”
“Jason,” Bruce said, his tone mild but firm.
Jason held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Just making conversation.”
Harry didn’t respond, keeping his eyes firmly on his cup. His nerves were prickling, his fingers tapping against the porcelain in a subconscious rhythm.
To Harry’s relief, Dick jumped in to steer the conversation back to lighter territory. “Okay, but seriously, if you had to pick, what’s the best fight scene in a movie? And don’t say something boring like Rocky.”
The room erupted into playful debate once more, leaving Harry to quietly sip his tea, thankful the attention had shifted away from him.
Dick suddenly turned to Harry with a friendly grin. “Okay, Harry, we’ve been talking about fights and movies and all that. But what about you? What’s your favorite piece of media—movie, TV show, book, whatever? Something you can’t get enough of.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. His grip on his teacup tightened, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. The room quieted slightly as the others turned to him, waiting for his answer.
“Well…” Harry started, his voice soft. He glanced down, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I… wasn’t allowed to watch much television growing up.”
Tim frowned. “Seriously? Like, not at all?”
Harry shrugged, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not really. Sometimes, I’d… hear bits of shows or movies through the door when my relatives were watching. But that’s about it.”
Jason leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “What do you mean, hear? They didn’t let you watch with them?”
Harry shook his head, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of his cup. “No. I wasn’t allowed in the room when they watched TV. I just… listened through the cracks in the door sometimes. Made up the rest in my head.”
The silence in the room felt heavy, and Harry immediately regretted saying anything. He looked up briefly and noticed the various reactions—Tim’s brows knit in confusion, Damian’s mouth slightly open as if he wanted to ask something, and even Jason’s usual sarcasm seemed muted, replaced by a dark expression.
Bruce’s gaze was steady but tinged with concern. “That must have been… difficult,” he said carefully.
Harry shrugged again, trying to brush it off. “It wasn’t so bad. I got pretty good at imagining what was going on. Sometimes I even liked my version better than what I found out later.” He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle.
Dick’s usual cheerful demeanor had shifted, his expression now serious but kind. “That sucks, Harry. Really. You deserve better than that.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably, not knowing how to respond. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “It’s in the past.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Tim said, attempting to lighten the mood. “And we’ve got all the media you could ever want. Seriously, there’s a ridiculous amount of stuff in the library and on the servers. You name it, we’ve got it.”
Dick nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, we can have a movie marathon sometime. You pick the theme, and we’ll make it happen.”
Harry offered a faint smile, appreciating the effort to make him feel included. “Maybe,” he said softly, not entirely sure how to handle the warmth of their responses.
The conversation began to pick up again, shifting to what movies they’d pick for Harry’s introduction to a “proper” media experience. But Harry sat quietly, a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort settling in his chest.
The living room was comfortably cozy, the light from the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. It was peaceful. The quiet, the camaraderie—it was something he hadn’t had in so long.
Dick sprawled out on one of the armchairs, looking over at Harry with a grin. “All right, no way to avoid it. We’re starting with The Hobbit. Harry seems like a kid who enjoys fantasy and magical stuff.”
Harry, sitting on the couch next to Bruce, couldn’t help but feel out of place in a way. He wasn’t used to just sitting and watching a movie with others. But there was something oddly comforting about the whole situation. It wasn’t dangerous, there were no stakes here. It was simply a film. He glanced at Bruce, who seemed calm, and Alfred, who stood by the snack table with a small, quiet smile.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Black. It’ll be fun,” Alfred said with a gentle nod as he set down a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
Harry simply nodded back, though he didn’t quite believe it. He wasn’t sure what to expect.
The film started, and Harry watched, quiet and distant at first. As Bilbo meets Gandalf and the dwarves, the beginning of the journey unfolds, and Harry finds himself comparing it to his own life—how he had been thrust into a world of danger when he hadn’t even known it was coming. He could understand Bilbo’s reluctance, his hesitance to join this group of warriors who seemed so much more capable, so much more prepared for the journey ahead. Harry found himself almost laughing bitterly.
“They’re just like me… no choice but to face what’s coming,” he muttered under his breath, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t alone in the room.
Dick looked over at him with raised eyebrows. “What was that?”
Harry blinked, realizing he had spoken aloud. “Oh… just that, uh… I understand Bilbo, you know?” He tried to brush it off, but the words had already left his mouth. “Thrust into something bigger than himself. No choice but to go along with it.”
Bruce’s gaze was sharp but understanding. “It happens to the best of us,” he said quietly as if he knew more than he was letting on.
Harry nodded in return, though he didn’t have an answer to that. He didn’t want to dig any deeper right now. He just wanted to watch the movie.
As they continued watching, Harry found himself strangely invested in Bilbo’s journey. The dwarves were an odd but oddly compelling bunch, each with their quirks and characteristics. Harry couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of kinship with Bilbo, the smallest one in the group, always a little out of his depth but finding courage as he went.
When the trolls appeared, Harry’s stomach tightened. The way they ambushed Bilbo and the dwarves reminded him of his narrow escapes from danger—times when he had been outnumbered and outmatched but had somehow found a way to survive.
“Yeah, this… this is what it’s like,” Harry muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “That feeling of being completely out of your depth, but just trying to hold on.”
Jason, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
Harry just shook his head. “Nothing. Just reminded me of some…experiences.” He chuckled dryly, trying to shrug it off.
Bruce, though, didn’t let the comment slide. His eyes were sharp as he glanced at Harry, but instead of pressing, he simply nodded. “Life has a way of throwing unexpected challenges at us.”
The movie moved on, and Harry stayed relatively quiet for a while, watching intently. But as the company traveled through the Misty Mountains and encountered more dangers, something in Harry seemed to click. The company was facing all these threats together, and even though they were divided at times, their shared goal kept them moving forward. Harry found himself thinking about his own experiences—how he had fought alone for so long but never really wanted to. It had always been easier to be alone, yes, but there was something about a group that made everything feel a little more manageable.
“They’re not so different from a lot of us,” Harry spoke up again, his voice quiet. “Fighting all the time, sure, but they’re doing it because they have no choice. They’re not perfect, but they keep going. Even when they don’t want to.”
Jason, who had been distracted with his phone for most of the movie, glanced over at Harry, surprised by the insight. “You always gotta fight, huh?” he asked, voice rough.
Harry hesitated for a second before nodding. “Sometimes it’s the only option you’ve got.”
There was a brief silence, and then Alfred’s soft voice cut through. “That’s right. It’s not always about winning the fight, but standing your ground.”
The words hit Harry in a way he didn’t expect. It was almost like Alfred could see right through him. He wondered for a moment if anyone else had noticed how much he’d been carrying for so long, the weight of his past. But instead of saying anything more, Harry just nodded and focused back on the screen.
When the scene with the spiders in Mirkwood came up, Harry stiffened. The sight of the massive spiders closing in on the group had a strong effect on him, and he unconsciously clenched his fists. It reminded him too much of the giant spiders in the Forbidden Forest.
Jason, noticing the sudden shift in Harry’s posture, looked at him carefully. “Hey, you okay?”
Harry forced himself to relax, shaking his head. “I’m fine. Just… spiders.” He let out a half-laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Just… makes me think of something from my past.”
Dick, who had been absorbed in the movie, glanced over at him. “Something from your past? Spiders?”
Harry gave a small, awkward smile. “Yeah, something like that. Long story.”
Bruce, noticing the brief flicker of discomfort in Harry’s expression, looked at him curiously. He said nothing but kept an eye on him, the gears in his mind turning.
As the movie continued, Harry found himself laughing at the ridiculousness of the tap-dancing spiders, remembering Ron’s nightmare about them. It was a ridiculous memory, but for some reason, it helped lighten the mood.
“Ron had this nightmare about tap-dancing spiders once,” Harry said with a chuckle. “It was the weirdest thing. He was terrified, but it was pretty funny in hindsight.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Tap-dancing spiders? That’s a new one.”
Harry just shrugged. “Yeah, well, he was never too great with spiders.”
The tension that had been building in Harry’s shoulders seemed to lift a little with the lightheartedness of the conversation. It was strange, how a silly memory could pull him out of the darkness, but in that moment, it did.
By the time the movie reached the final scenes and the dwarves confronted Smaug, Harry found himself more absorbed in the journey than he had expected. The dragon’s immense power, his smug attitude—it reminded Harry of the people he had faced in his own life, those who seemed to think they were untouchable, who thought nothing could stop them.
“Smaug’s too sure of himself,” Harry said under his breath. “He’s never even thought about failing. It’s like he can’t imagine it.”
Bruce, who had been listening, gave a small nod. “That’s the problem with people like that. They never expect to lose until they do.”
Harry didn’t answer right away, but he thought about Bruce’s words, and how they applied to so much of what he had gone through. It was easy to become complacent in power, to think nothing could hurt you. But eventually, everything came crashing down.
The movie ended, and Harry was quiet for a moment, thinking over everything that had been said.
Dick, ever the one to lighten the mood, grinned. “Well, I’ll say this much. You’ve got some opinions for someone who doesn’t say much.”
Harry blinked, realizing he had spoken more than he had in a long time. “I guess I do,” he said, a little surprised.
Bruce gave him a small, approving smile. “I’m glad to hear them.”
It felt strange but in a good way. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt like he was part of something—a family who didn’t judge, who let him just be. And maybe that was enough for now.
The living room was still, save for the soft hum of the TV as The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug began to play. The whole family had settled in, the mood lighter after the earlier discussions. Bruce had poured a round of drinks, and Alfred sat quietly in the armchair, already lost in the film. Harry sat on the couch, still unsure of his place in this comfortable, seemingly normal family dynamic.
As the opening scenes unfolded Harry felt a bit more at ease this time. The movie was familiar, and there was something about the music, the characters, and the ever-growing sense of adventure that drew him in. But even as he watched, his mind began to make comparisons, picking out bits of the journey that mirrored his own.
The dwarves were still facing so much adversity, fighting for their home and their treasure. Harry couldn’t help but think of all the times he’d fought for something, whether it was a cause or just for survival. He couldn’t ignore the thought that they were all much like him in some ways—just trying to survive, no matter how big or small the fight.
“That dragon is a lot like the people who think they’re invincible,” Harry muttered under his breath as the company made their way toward Erebor.
Jason looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “What’s that?”
“Smaug,” Harry explained, turning his gaze to the screen. “He’s got all this power, but no real reason to fear losing it. You can see it in how he talks, and how he carries himself. It’s like he believes he’s untouchable. People like that, they don’t realize how fragile they are until it’s too late.” He looked down at his hands briefly before glancing back up at the screen.
Bruce’s expression remained steady, but there was something in his eyes that told Harry he had caught the weight of what he said. “You think people like that can’t be beaten?”
Harry shook his head slightly, his voice quiet. “Everyone can be beaten. It’s just a matter of when.”
There was a pause before Dick leaned in, sensing an opportunity. “You’ve seen that firsthand, haven’t you?” His voice was casual like he was just making an observation, but there was a knowing tone to it.
Harry hesitated, unsure how much to share, but then he found himself nodding. “Yeah. I’ve seen it. People who thought they were on top, who thought no one could touch them. And then they fall.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment. “Sometimes, you can see it coming.”
Alfred shifted in his chair, glancing between Harry and the screen. “It’s funny how those with power can so often be their downfall,” he remarked, his voice soft but deliberate.
Harry nodded, looking at the screen but not seeing it anymore. “Yeah, it is.” He thought of the people in his life who had held so much power over him, the ones who had seemed invincible. And then there were the ones who were more subtle, the ones who believed in manipulation and control. He could relate to Bilbo and the dwarves, too, in a way—outnumbered, underestimated, but still carrying on. “It's a self-fulfilling prophecy of defeat."
Jason, noticing Harry’s quiet moment, asked, “So, what about the rest of this group? You think they’ll make it?”
Harry’s eyes flickered back to the screen as the dwarves entered Mirkwood. “They’re strong,” he said, almost to himself. “But they’re not perfect. And that’s why they’ll make it.” He glanced at Jason. “Perfection Isn't a thing. You just keep going. Even when it feels like it’s all falling apart.”
Bruce watched him closely, but he didn’t press. Instead, he gave a slight nod. “You’re right. It’s the journey that counts, not whether you stumble along the way.”
Harry let out a quiet breath. This was the most he’d talked about his feelings since he arrived, and yet, it didn’t feel so foreign. He hadn’t realized how much he missed simply speaking out loud, expressing the things that weighed on his mind.
The movie carried on, and they reached the scene where the company was captured by giant spiders. Harry’s stomach tensed. He had faced so many threats in his life, but there was something about the spiders, the idea of being trapped and outmatched, that hit too close to home. He saw Bilbo struggling, terrified, and alone—no different from how Harry had felt so many times.
“They’re not that much different from us, are they?” Harry spoke again, his voice a little quieter, but still sharp.
Jason glanced at him again, his tone more inquisitive this time. “What do you mean?”
“I just… I’ve had my close calls, too.” Harry clenched his hands, watching as the dwarves were ensnared by the spiders. The sensation of being caught, of having nowhere to turn, was too familiar. “It’s different, sure, but sometimes it feels the same.”
Alfred, sensing the shift in Harry’s mood, leaned forward. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if you ever do, we’re here.”
Harry looked at the older man and gave a tight nod, though he didn’t quite know how to explain everything that was running through his head. He simply returned his gaze to the movie.
As the scene progressed and Bilbo found courage in the face of the spiders, Harry couldn’t help but think of how many times he had faced fear head-on. He had fought off his demons, both literal and figurative, time and time again. But it never felt easy, even if the outcome was victory.
Dick, noticing Harry’s discomfort, lightly nudged him. “You okay there? You’re kind of stiff.”
Harry forced a laugh. “Yeah, it’s just… spiders. Not a fan.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Really? Spiders?” He glanced at Bruce, then back at Harry. “Guess everyone’s got their thing, huh?”
Harry smiled tightly. “Yeah. Spiders are mine.”
The conversation shifted again as the group continued watching, but for Harry, the movie had become more than just a film. It had become a mirror, a reflection of his struggles. He saw himself in the journey the dwarves were taking, in their attempts to reclaim what was theirs. He saw the danger, the fear, the fight, and the persistence. And in that moment, Harry realized something. Maybe he wasn’t so different from them, after all.
They were all fighting their own battles, and Harry was just one piece in a much larger puzzle. Maybe the journey ahead didn’t have to be faced alone. And maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to find peace along the way.
The movie carried on, but Harry remained deep in thought. At the end there the credits rolled and Harry sighed. He was tired from the lack of sleep he had gotten last night.
The third movie, The Battle of the Five Armies, began to play as the afternoon sun dipped low, casting golden light into the Wayne living room. The family had settled in again, refreshed from brief intermissions to stretch and grab snacks. Harry, however, hadn’t moved much. He was still perched on the end of the couch, his posture tense and his eyes fixed on the screen.
His exhaustion weighed heavily on him, the sleepless night and emotional toll of the day catching up. Yet he remained vigilant, his mind refusing to let him rest. It was a reflex at this point—to stay alert, to keep watch. Even though he was surrounded by people who posed no threat, his deeply ingrained instincts didn’t allow for relaxation.
As the battle unfolded onscreen, Harry’s heart began to race. The chaos, the desperation, the sheer brutality of the fighting—it all hit too close to home. His jaw clenched as he watched Thorin and his company prepare for war, their expressions grim yet resolute. Harry knew that look all too well. He had seen it on the faces of his friends and on his reflection far too many times.
The clash of armies, the sound of steel against steel, and the cries of the wounded filled the room. Harry’s hands gripped his knees tightly, his knuckles white. He couldn’t look away, even though every fiber of his being screamed at him too. The imagery was too familiar, too real. The organized chaos of the battlefield reminded him of the war he’d fought in—the losses, the sacrifices, the overwhelming sense of being outnumbered and outmatched.
“Damn,” Jason muttered, leaning forward as Azog’s army surged. “You’d think they’d learn not to charge headfirst into a trap like that.”
“It’s not about the trap,” Harry said before he could stop himself. His voice was quiet but steady. “It’s about doing what needs to be done, no matter the cost. You don’t think about winning—you just think about surviving.”
The room fell silent for a moment as everyone glanced at Harry. His eyes remained glued to the screen, his expression unreadable.
Bruce tilted his head slightly. “You sound like you’ve seen something similar.”
Harry hesitated, his hands twitching slightly on his knees. “You could say that.” His tone was clipped, as though the subject wasn’t open for discussion.
Dick broke the tension with a light chuckle. “Still, they could use a bit more strategy, don’t you think? Charging into battle without a plan isn’t exactly the smartest move.”
Harry nodded faintly, but his mind wasn’t on Dick’s comment. He was lost in the memory of the Battle of Hogwarts, the frantic rush to defend his friends, the feeling of spells whipping past his head, and the sound of screams echoing through the castle. It wasn’t swords and shields, but it was war all the same.
“Sometimes you don’t have time. Sometimes you’re rushed and the only thing you can do is fight for your life. Survival is the best plan.” Harry said as he mulled over the memories in his mind.
As the film progressed, Harry’s exhaustion became more apparent. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes grew heavy, though he fought to keep them open. Every loud clash, every anguished cry from the screen jolted him back to attention. The weariness only amplified the memories that played alongside the film in his mind, making it harder to distinguish between the fictional battle and the real one he had lived through.
When Thorin faced Azog on the ice, Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. The raw determination, the willingness to sacrifice everything for a greater cause—it struck a chord deep within him. He knew that kind of desperation, that kind of courage. It was the same resolve he had carried when he walked into the Forbidden Forest, knowing he might not come out alive.
“They’re just trying to do what’s right,” Harry murmured, almost to himself.
Damian, sitting closest to him, glanced over. “What’s right isn’t always what wins, though.”
Harry turned his head slightly, meeting Damian’s gaze. “No, it’s not,” he agreed. “But it’s what keeps you going.”
The family exchanged subtle glances, noting how much more Harry had spoken today than in the weeks since he’d arrived. Though his words were cryptic, they were enough to give them glimpses of the battles he had fought—literal and otherwise.
As the credits finally rolled and the movie came to an end, Harry let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His body was taut with tension, his mind racing with memories he couldn’t push away. Yet, there was a sense of closure, too, as though he had faced something he hadn’t dared to before.
“You look dead on your feet,” Jason remarked, though his tone lacked its usual bite.
“I’m fine,” Harry said automatically, though his sagging posture and darkened eyes betrayed him.
Bruce leaned forward, his expression neutral but his voice firm. “You’ve done enough today, Harry. Why don’t you call it a night?”
Harry hesitated, then nodded, too tired to argue. As he stood and made his way toward the door, he paused, glancing back at the family that had, in their way, accepted him into their circle. “Thanks,” he said quietly before disappearing down the hall.
The room remained silent for a moment after he left, the weight of his words lingering in the air. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And for the Waynes, it was enough.
As the sound of Harry’s retreating footsteps faded, the family lingered in the living room, the credits of The Battle of the Five Armies still rolling in the background. The atmosphere was subdued, the weight of Harry’s quiet presence and cryptic words settling over them.
Tim was the first to break the silence, his analytical mind working overtime. “He’s been in a war,” he said flatly, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
Jason raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “That’s a bold leap, even for you.”
“It’s not a leap,” Tim countered, leaning forward in his chair. “It’s a conclusion. Think about it: the way he talks about battle, about survival—he’s not quoting movies or books. That’s a lived experience. He didn’t just watch those scenes; he felt them. You saw it, right? He was reliving something.”
Dick frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I noticed that too. It was like every fight scene was triggering something for him. He was tense the entire time, but especially during the bigger battles.”
Bruce nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “He knew exactly what to say. The way he described fighting wasn’t abstract—it was personal. You don’t talk like that unless you’ve been there.”
Damian crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “He hides it well, but he’s been trained. No ordinary person would describe a fight like that—or look as exhausted as he does without showing weakness.”
Jason scoffed, though his expression was tight. “He’s a kid. What kind of war could he have been in?”
Tim shrugged, his voice calm but firm. “I don’t know, but it’s not just the way he talks. The tremors in his hands, the scars, the way he avoids certain questions—he’s carrying something heavy. And it’s not just a bad childhood. It’s deeper than that.”
Bruce leaned back in his chair, his mind already piecing together what little he knew about Harry. “He said he’s been on his own for a while, and he doesn’t trust easily. That kind of isolation, combined with what we’ve seen today… He’s been through more than he’s letting on.”
“Way more,” Tim agreed. “And I’m guessing it wasn’t just one battle. It was sustained, like a war or a long campaign. He’s fought, survived, and—if I’m right—lost people along the way.”
Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It makes sense why he’s so closed off, then. Whatever he’s been through, it’s probably not something he thinks we’d understand.”
Damian’s scowl deepened. “Then he’s a fool. We’ve all fought battles. We’d understand better than anyone.”
Jason shook his head. “Maybe, but he doesn’t know that. And honestly, I can’t blame him for keeping it to himself. You don’t just spill your guts to strangers, even if they’re trying to be nice.”
Bruce remained silent for a moment, his gaze distant. He’d noticed Harry’s careful deflection of personal questions, the way he stayed on the edges of conversations, observing but rarely participating. Today had been the most he’d spoken, and even that was minimal. It wasn’t shyness—it was self-preservation.
“He’s not ready to share,” Bruce finally said, his voice low but resolute. “And we’re not going to push him. If he’s been through what we suspect, the last thing he needs is us prying into his past. He’ll talk when he’s ready.”
“Or not,” Jason muttered, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.
Dick tilted his head. “Did you guys notice how he seemed interested in the movie, though? I mean, for a while there, he was almost… comfortable.”
Tim nodded. “It’s a good sign. He might not say much, but he’s listening. Watching. He’s trying to figure us out as much as we’re trying to figure him out.”
Damian huffed. “Then we should give him something worth figuring out. If he’s staying here, he should understand what kind of people we are.”
Bruce gave Damian a small, approving nod. “Exactly. Actions speak louder than words. If we want him to trust us, we have to show him he can.”
Jason snorted, standing up and stretching. “Great. So we’re all playing happy family while we wait for the mystery kid to open up. Sounds fun.”
Tim shot him a look. “It’s not just about him opening up. It’s about letting him see he doesn’t have to carry whatever this is alone.”
Jason shrugged, though he looked thoughtful as he headed for the door. “Well, good luck with that. He seems like the kind of guy who’s been carrying it alone for a long time.”
As the others began to disperse, Bruce remained seated, his gaze lingering on the empty spot Harry had occupied. There was no doubt in his mind that Harry had seen and done things no one his age should have. The question was how and why. Whatever the answers, Bruce knew one thing for certain: Harry wasn’t just some lost young man looking for a fresh start. He was a survivor, and survivors always carried scars—both the kind you could see and the kind you couldn’t.
For now, Bruce decided, it was enough that Harry had let them in, even a little. The rest would come in time—or it wouldn’t. Either way, he’d make sure Harry knew he didn’t have to face his battles alone anymore.