Boy Soldier
The early afternoon sun filtered through the dense canopy of skyscrapers, casting dappled shadows on the bustling streets of Gotham’s upper district. Harry walked in step with Tim and Damian, trying to ignore the awkwardness that came with being in an unfamiliar place. Despite the warm sunlight, he kept his sleeves rolled down, his hands shoved into his pockets as though shielding himself from a nonexistent chill.
The outing had started innocently enough. Alfred had gently insisted Harry join the younger Waynes for a "supply run," a mundane task meant to offer some sense of normalcy. But Harry wasn’t so easily fooled. He had caught the knowing look in Alfred’s eye, the subtle encouragement to bond.
Not that Damian made it easy.
“I don’t understand why I was dragged along,” Damian grumbled, his voice tinged with irritation. He carried a small bag of art supplies they’d just picked up from a specialty store, holding it as though it were beneath him.
“Because you never leave the house willingly,” Tim replied with a smirk. He had a bag of his own, though he carried a mix of stationery and some snacks he had insisted were the best in Gotham. “And Bruce thought it would be good for us to spend time together.”
“Spending time together doesn’t mean catering to your terrible taste,” Damian shot back, his green eyes narrowing. “You’re dragging us across the city for overpriced garbage.”
“They’re artisan pastries,” Tim corrected, unfazed. “And you’ll thank me when Alfred doesn’t confiscate them for being junk food.”
Harry trailed a step behind, quietly observing their dynamic. It was fascinating in a way—how easily they bickered without any real malice. He couldn’t imagine having this kind of relationship with anyone growing up.
“You’re quiet back there,” Tim said, glancing over his shoulder at Harry. “What do you think, Harry? Team artisan pastries or Team Damian’s endless complaints?”
Harry shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I think I’ll stick to tea. Less chance of offending either of you.”
Damian sniffed, unimpressed, while Tim chuckled.
Despite the lighthearted banter, Harry couldn’t shake a nagging feeling of unease. His sharp green eyes flicked over the crowd, lingering on shadows that didn’t seem quite right. Years of experience had honed his instincts, and right now, every nerve in his body was on edge.
Once they finally left the bakery Harry still couldn’t shake the feeling do impending doom that seemed to crawl on his skin like a centipede.
“Alright, let’s head back,” Harry said abruptly, his tone calm but firm.
Tim raised an eyebrow. “We’ve only been out for an hour. You in a hurry?”
“No,” Harry lied, forcing a casual shrug. “Just think we’ve got everything we need, right?”
Damian gave him a suspicious glance but didn’t argue.
They were halfway down the block when it happened.
A sudden burst of movement from the corner of Harry’s eye was all the warning he had before someone lunged toward them. Without thinking, Harry shoved Tim and Damian behind him, his heart pounding as the figure—a masked man dressed in dark, ragged clothing—closed in.
“Get down!” Harry barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
Tim and Damian stumbled back, startled by the sheer authority in Harry’s tone. Before they could process what was happening, Harry had already intercepted the attacker, his body moving with a precision that spoke of years of training.
The man swung a crowbar, aiming for Harry’s side, but Harry deflected the blow with an almost effortless twist of his body. The clang of metal hitting the pavement echoed through the street, drawing startled gasps from bystanders.
Harry didn’t stop. His movements were fluid and brutal, each strike calculated to disable rather than harm. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it sharply until the crowbar fell from his grasp, and slammed him against the brick wall of a nearby storefront.
“Stay back!” Harry snapped over his shoulder at Tim and Damian, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Damian, for once, didn’t argue, though his wide eyes betrayed his shock. Tim, meanwhile, was frozen, his mind racing to make sense of what he was seeing.
The man, realizing he was outmatched, pulled a knife from his belt and slashed at Harry’s midsection. Harry dodged, narrowly avoiding the blade, and retaliated with a quick strike to the man’s hand, sending the knife skittering across the pavement.
By the time the man crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain, Harry’s chest was heaving, his fists still clenched. He took a step back, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any additional threats.
“Are you two okay?” he asked, his voice tight.
Tim nodded quickly, though his gaze was fixed on Harry, his mind still processing what he had just witnessed. “Yeah, we’re fine. But... Harry, what the hell was that?”
Before Harry could answer, police sirens wailed in the distance. He stepped aside, letting the authorities handle the now-unconscious attacker, but the tension in his body didn’t ease.
Damian finally broke the silence as they started walking away. “You’ve done this before,” he said, his tone low but certain. “That wasn’t just self-defense. That was... calculated.”
Harry didn’t meet their eyes. His jaw tightened, and his hands clenched at his sides. “Let’s just get home,” he said, his voice clipped.
Neither Tim nor Damian pushed further, but their gazes lingered on Harry as they made their way back to the manor. Whatever secrets Harry had been hiding, this incident had just pulled the curtain back, and neither of them could ignore what they had seen.
As the trio stepped into Wayne Manor, the heavy wooden doors shutting behind them with a soft thud, the air seemed to shift. The familiar warmth of the manor felt slightly off, tinged with the weight of what had just happened. Harry stayed a step behind Damian and Tim, his expression carefully guarded, though tension still clung to his frame like a shadow.
The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen, where Alfred stood arranging an array of snacks on the counter. Bruce, Dick, and Jason were seated around the kitchen island, engaged in light conversation. They turned as the younger trio entered, their casual chatter fading the moment they saw the looks on Tim and Damian's faces.
“Everything alright?” Bruce asked, his sharp gaze immediately picking up on the unease radiating from his sons.
Tim didn’t hesitate. “We were attacked,” he said, his voice brisk and direct. “Some guy tried to grab Damian and me while we were out.”
The room froze.
“What?” Jason demanded, standing so quickly that his chair scraped against the tiled floor. His blue eyes flicked to Damian, scanning him for injuries. “Are you two okay?”
“We’re fine,” Tim reassured him, raising a hand to calm his brother. Then, with a glance over his shoulder at Harry, he added, “Because Harry stopped him.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed as he stood, crossing the room in a few long strides. His eyes settled on Harry, sharp but not unkind. “What happened?”
Harry shifted on his feet, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor as he recounted the events with clinical precision. “A man came at us with a crowbar. I got Tim and Damian out of the way and disarmed him before the police arrived.”
“You disarmed him?” Dick echoed his tone a mix of surprise and curiosity.
“He knew what he was doing,” Tim interjected. “This wasn’t luck or adrenaline. Harry took him down like he’d been doing it for years. I’ve seen pros fight, Bruce, and Harry’s up there.”
The room went quiet again, save for the faint clatter of Alfred adjusting a teacup on the counter.
Bruce’s expression softened slightly, and he gave a small nod. “You kept your promise,” he said, his voice steady.
Harry’s head tilted slightly, confusion flashing across his features.
“When I hired you,” Bruce clarified, “I told you the safety of this family was your priority. You took that seriously today.” His lips curved into a faint, approving smile. “You protected them, Harry. Thank you.”
Harry’s throat tightened at the praise, and he nodded, unsure of what to say.
“I knew you were capable,” Alfred said, stepping forward with his usual calm demeanor. He placed a hand lightly on Harry’s shoulder. “But it’s good to see my instincts confirmed.”
Damian, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. “He didn’t hesitate,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “It was... impressive.”
Jason crossed his arms, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay, but can we talk about where the hell Harry learned to fight like that? Because that’s not normal.”
The attention shifted back to Harry, who stiffened under the weight of their gazes. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he finally spoke, his tone low and even.
“I’ve had... experience,” he admitted. “Enough to know how to handle a situation like that.”
“That’s a hell of a vague answer,” Jason pressed.
“Jason,” Bruce said, a warning edge to his voice.
“No, it’s fine,” Harry said quickly, raising a hand. His green eyes flicked to Jason, steady despite the discomfort etched in his posture. “I’ve been in situations like that before. A lot of them. I learned to fight because I didn’t have a choice. That’s all.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of Harry’s words settling over them.
“Well,” Dick said after a beat, his voice deliberately light as he broke the tension. “Whatever your background is, you handled yourself like a pro. Damian and Tim are safe because of you, and that’s what matters.”
Jason didn’t look entirely satisfied, but he nodded, muttering, “Yeah, you did good, Harry.”
Harry offered a small, hesitant smile, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.
“Alright,” Bruce said, his voice carrying the authority that only he could manage. “Let’s debrief properly later. For now, I think we could all use some food and a chance to relax.”
As the family shifted back into casual conversation, Harry lingered near the edge of the group, still unsure where he fit in. But as Alfred handed him a cup of tea with a knowing smile and Tim gave him a subtle nod of gratitude, he realized something.
For the first time in years, he didn’t feel entirely out of place.
As the conversation eased back into a semblance of normalcy, Tim nudged Harry gently on the arm, breaking him out of his thoughts. In his hand was a small plate with a familiar pastry resting atop it—a treacle tart.
“I thought you might like this,” Tim said, a small, tentative smile on his face.
Harry blinked at it, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t seen or tasted a treacle tart since his days at Hogwarts. The memories it stirred—a mix of warmth and longing—hit him with unexpected force. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the plate, a quiet, “Thank you,” slipping past his lips.
Tim didn’t press, returning to his seat and joining the others in the conversation. Harry stared at the tart for a moment before taking a small bite. The taste was exactly as he remembered, sweet and comforting, a brief reminder of simpler times amidst the chaos of his past.
The room eventually fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes when people feel at ease in each other’s company. Harry’s fingers traced the edge of his now-empty plate, his gaze distant as he wrestled with a decision.
The treacle tart sat untouched in front of Harry, the sweetness of the gesture overshadowed by the memories it stirred. His fingers tapped nervously against the table, his gaze distant as he wrestled with the decision to speak. Finally, he broke the silence.
“I was a soldier.”
The words landed heavily in the room. Every head turned to him, expressions ranging from curiosity to confusion. Harry’s hands clenched into fists on the table as he braced himself for the inevitable questions.
“You?” Jason broke the silence first, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “No offense, but you don’t exactly scream ‘battle-hardened vet.’”
“I wasn’t in any official military,” Harry said quietly. “What I fought in... it wasn’t a recognized war. It wasn’t something governments wrote about or the public knew existed. It was hidden, and the people who lived through it... most of us don’t talk about it. Not if we can help it.”
Bruce’s sharp gaze narrowed, leaning forward slightly. “What kind of war?”
Harry exhaled shakily, his chest tightening as memories clawed their way to the surface. “A war that left scars on more than just the land it was fought on.”
The room fell into a heavy silence. Even Jason, usually quick with a quip or sarcastic remark, stayed quiet. Harry wet his lips, his voice trembling as he continued.
“It started long before I was born. A man—if you can call him that—wanted power. Total control. He saw anyone who didn’t fit his vision of perfection as less than human. He killed people—entire families—just to make a point. My parents... they were some of his victims. He came for them when I was a baby.”
Damian frowned. “Why?”
Harry looked at him, the weight of years of grief and guilt reflected in his tired green eyes. “Because they stood against him. And because of me.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, and Tim’s brow furrowed.
“He failed to kill me,” Harry continued, his voice hollow. “But he didn’t stop trying. For years, his followers—fanatics who believed in his vision—kept his ideology alive. And when I was fourteen, he came back. This time, with more power and more people.”
He paused, his hands trembling slightly as he clenched them into fists again. “That’s when the real fighting began. At first, it was skirmishes, attacks in isolated places. People disappearing. But it escalated quickly. Villages were burned to the ground. Families were wiped out. Children...” His voice broke for a moment, and he swallowed hard. “Children didn’t get a chance to scream before they were gone.”
The weight of his words pressed down on the room like a physical force.
“They didn’t just kill,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “They tortured. They made examples of people—and left them in ways I can’t even describe. Blood everywhere. The smell of it was constant. The fear was suffocating. You never knew if you’d be next, or if the people you cared about were already dead.”
Damian’s expression softened, his usual sharpness replaced with something resembling shock. Tim leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped tightly together. Jason’s eyes darkened, and even Bruce’s ever-composed face betrayed a flicker of unease.
“I couldn’t just sit there,” Harry said, his voice firmer now, though it trembled with suppressed emotion. “I knew he was coming for me, but I also knew that if I didn’t do something, more people would die. So I trained. I prepared. And when the time came, I fought.”
“How bad was it?” Tim asked quietly, breaking the silence.
Harry’s laugh was bitter, his eyes distant. “Bad enough that I still wake up at night, hearing screams that aren’t real but feel like they are. Bad enough that I can’t look at some things without seeing the faces of people who didn’t make it.”
Jason crossed his arms, his voice softer than usual. “And the people who fought with you?”
“Most of them are dead,” Harry admitted, his voice raw. “The ones who survived... they’re broken in ways you can’t fix. You don’t walk away from something like that unscathed.”
The room was deathly quiet. Bruce’s hands tightened into fists on the table, his face grim. Alfred placed a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder, his usual calm demeanor tempered with visible concern.
“Why are you telling us this?” Damian asked, his voice quieter than usual.
Harry hesitated, then met Damian’s gaze. “Because I’ve spent years pretending it didn’t happen. Trying to push it down, hide it. But I’m tired of hiding. And after what happened today...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You all deserve to know why I can’t just... sit back when someone’s in danger. Why I can’t stop myself from stepping in, no matter how much I want to.”
Bruce’s voice was steady, but there was an edge of something—pride, maybe—in it. “You kept your word, Harry. You protected Tim.”
Harry’s throat tightened, and he nodded, unable to meet Bruce’s gaze.
Harry's breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as the weight of his words hung in the air. The kitchen, usually warm with Alfred’s careful touches and the family’s casual banter, felt stifling still. Every pair of eyes was on him, each holding its blend of emotions—horror, sorrow, and something he didn’t dare name.
“They broke her fingers,” Harry whispered suddenly, his voice raw. The words seemed to spill out of him unbidden as if the dam holding them back had finally burst. “Hermione. She had this... way of holding a quill, a little too precise, a little too controlled. I used to tease her about it. But when I found her, her hands...” He swallowed, the memory slicing through him like a blade. “She couldn’t even hold one anymore.”
Tim flinched, his knuckles whitening as his hands curled into fists. Across the table, Jason’s jaw tightened, and Damian’s brows drew together in a rare expression of unease.
“And Ron,” Harry continued, his voice barely audible now. “He was always so loud. Always had something to say, even when he shouldn’t. But when I found him, he couldn’t speak. His voice was gone—cut from him.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked down, his hands shaking in his lap.
“Hell,” Jason muttered, leaning back in his chair. The tension in his shoulders betrayed his usual mask of indifference.
“They would’ve hated me for it,” Harry said bitterly, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might have been a smile if it weren’t so devastatingly hollow. “Standing there, frozen. I’d always been the one charging in, but then... I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare. Stare at what was left of them.”
“Harry...” Tim’s voice was tentative, almost apologetic, but he didn’t seem to know what to say beyond that.
Harry laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and brittle in the quiet room. “Do you know what I thought about when I finally snapped out of it? Not revenge. Not justice. I thought about how much they would’ve loved the dumbest little things. Ron—he’d have gone mad for your cooking, Alfred. And Hermione... she would’ve probably argued with Damian about doing things the ‘proper’ way.”
A strained silence filled the room again, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.
“They weren’t supposed to die,” Harry said, his voice rising slightly before cracking. “They were supposed to live. To finish school, get married to one another, and have a family together. But instead, they got—” He stopped abruptly, dragging a trembling hand through his hair.
“Sacrificed,” Bruce said quietly, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Harry’s gaze shot to him, startled, and he saw no judgment there—just understanding.
“They were heroes,” Damian said suddenly, his voice low but firm. “You said they fought for something bigger than themselves. That’s what heroes do.”
Harry blinked at him, caught off guard. The boy looked almost defiant as if daring anyone to contradict him.
“I don’t know about heroes,” Harry said after a moment, his voice quiet again. “But they were brave. Braver than I ever was.”
“No,” Alfred interjected softly, but with a quiet steel that made Harry look up at him. “You were just as brave, Master Harry. And you still are.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he closed his eyes, letting the silence stretch out around them.
Harry sat back, the weight of his memories pressing down on him, heavier now that they were spoken aloud. His hands shook, and he clenched them into fists, trying to still the tremors. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the others. He didn’t want to see their pity, their horror—or worse, their understanding.
“I didn’t mean to—” Harry started, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you. You don’t need to—”
“You’re not dumping anything,” Tim interrupted, his voice steady but soft. “You’ve carried this alone for so long, haven’t you?”
Harry looked at him, startled. Tim’s expression was open, his brow furrowed in concern but without pity.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Harry said finally, his voice almost a whisper. “There was no one else to carry it.”
“You shouldn’t have had to,” Bruce said, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room. “No one should.”
The sincerity in his tone made Harry’s chest ache. He wanted to argue, to push back, but he was too tired, too drained to fight against the truth of it.
“Did you ever… have anyone to lean on?” Dick asked gently, his blue eyes full of quiet sympathy.
Harry thought of the fleeting moments of comfort he’d found in Hermione’s careful logic, in Ron’s reckless loyalty. He thought of the nights spent huddled together in their tent, clinging to the fragile hope that they might see the dawn.
“I did,” he admitted, his voice thick. “For a while. But then I lost them. And after that… it was just me.”
“You didn’t deserve that,” Jason said bluntly, his tone devoid of its usual edge. “No one deserves that.”
Harry looked at him, surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he simply nodded, the lump in his throat making it impossible to speak.
“You said this was all classified,” Tim said after a long moment, his tone careful. “But… does anyone else know? Did anyone ever acknowledge what you went through?”
Harry shook his head, his gaze dropping to his lap. “No one knows. Not really. They gave me a plane ticket to the Americas, a pat on the back, and then sent me on my way. Told me to ‘live a normal life.’ As if that was even possible.”
“Idiots,” Damian muttered, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.
Harry couldn’t help the faint, bitter smile that tugged at his lips. “Yeah. Something like that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time—it was contemplative, almost reverent. Harry could feel their eyes on him, but it didn’t feel like judgment. It felt… different.
“You’re stronger than you think, you know,” Dick said softly.
Harry looked up at him, startled. Dick’s expression was warm, his eyes shining with a mixture of respect and sorrow.
“I don’t feel strong,” Harry admitted. “I feel…tired. All the time.”
“That’s because you’ve been carrying the weight of a world that wasn’t meant for one person,” Alfred said quietly, his voice filled with a gentle wisdom that made Harry’s chest ache.
Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nodded, his throat tight with emotion.
“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice barely audible. “For… listening.”
“You don’t have to thank us,” Bruce said, his tone firm but kind. “You’re part of this family now, Harry. That means you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
Family. The word hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air out of his lungs. He hadn’t had a family in so long—not since Ron and Hermione, not since the war had ripped everything away from him.
He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded, his eyes burning as he looked away.
Harry’s heart dropped the moment Bruce spoke.
“I don’t want you working for me anymore, Harry.”
The words were a hammer blow, striking the fragile sense of security he’d been clinging to. He froze, staring at Bruce with wide, panicked eyes. His breath hitched in his throat, and his mind raced, a thousand thoughts and fears colliding at once.
Had he said too much? Was this Bruce’s way of letting him go, of pushing him out now that the truth had come to light?
“I—” Harry started, but his voice cracked. He clenched his fists to steady himself. “I understand.” His throat tightened, and his words came out quieter, almost broken. “If I overstepped… I can leave.”
Bruce’s face softened, and he shook his head, leaning forward with an earnest expression.
“You misunderstood me, Harry. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here—without the expectation of working.”
Harry blinked, his panic halting mid-flow. “What?”
“You’ve been through more than anyone should have to bear,” Bruce said firmly, his voice steady and resolute. “You’re carrying scars, not just on your body, but on your soul. The last thing you need is the pressure of another job or role right now. What I’m asking is for you to stay here and give yourself the time and space to rest your mind.”
The tension in Harry’s chest didn’t dissipate immediately; it lingered as he processed Bruce’s words. He searched Bruce’s face for any hint of pity or insincerity but found none.
“I don’t need rest,” Harry said automatically, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “I’ve been resting for a year now. I need to… I need to be useful.”
“You’ve been surviving, Harry,” Bruce countered, his tone gentle but firm. “Not resting. There’s a difference.”
Harry swallowed hard, looking down at his hands. His fingers curled into his palms as he fought the wave of emotions rising in him.
“Everyone needs a chance to heal,” Alfred added, his voice soothing. “You’ve spent too long denying yourself that.”
The rest of the family was silent, their gazes on Harry, their expressions a mix of concern and support.
“But what am I supposed to do?” Harry asked after a long pause, his voice trembling. “If I’m not… if I don’t have something to do, I—” He stopped, shaking his head as he trailed off.
“Be part of this family,” Bruce said simply. “Let us take care of you for once. You’ve spent so long taking care of everyone else.”
The sincerity in his voice made something inside Harry crack. He wanted to argue, to push back, but the words caught in his throat. The thought of not having to be strong all the time, of letting someone else shoulder the weight for once—it was terrifying. And yet, there was a small, fragile part of him that longed for it.
“I… I don’t know how to do that,” Harry admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Then let us show you,” Dick said, smiling softly.
Harry looked at him, then at the others. Tim’s quiet understanding, Jason’s guarded but supportive gaze, Damian’s begrudging respect—it was all too much and not enough at the same time.
“I’ll try,” Harry said finally, his voice wavering but resolute. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“That’s all we ask,” Bruce said, his tone warm. “Just try.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry allowed himself a glimmer of hope. It was fragile, like the first shoots of grass after a fire, but it was there. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.