The breakfast that followed was unlike anything Harry had experienced in his short, complicated life. Alfred had arranged the dining room with the sort of meticulous attention to detail that would make five-star hotels weep with envy, complete with fine china that probably cost more than most people's cars and silverware that gleamed like it had been personally polished by angels with obsessive-compulsive disorder.
"Blimey," Harry muttered under his breath, taking in the formal setting with wide emerald eyes. "Do you lot eat like this every morning, or am I getting the 'impress the traumatized orphan' treatment?"
Bruce, who had been reaching for his coffee cup with the sort of careful precision that came from years of functioning on three hours of sleep, paused mid-motion and regarded Harry with something that might have been amusement. "Every morning," he said gravely, his voice carrying that particular timber that suggested he was either being completely serious or masterfully deadpan. "Alfred believes that proper presentation is essential to proper nutrition. Apparently, food tastes better when it's intimidated by the silverware."
"Master Bruce," Alfred interjected with the sort of dignified reproach that could have quelled international incidents, "I merely maintain that if one is going to consume sustenance, one might as well do so in a civilized manner. The alternative involves eating cereal from the box while standing over the sink like some sort of bachelor barbarian."
"I've done that," Harry said conversationally, settling into his chair with the sort of careful politeness that suggested he was still half-convinced this was all an elaborate practical joke. "Though in my case, it was usually because someone had hidden all the bowls where I couldn't reach them. Apparently, at the Dursleys', proper dishware was reserved for people who deserved it."
The silence that followed was the sort of profound quiet that typically preceded either volcanic eruptions or very pointed conversations with people who had committed unforgivable offenses against children. Bruce's jaw tightened in a way that would have sent Gotham's criminal element running for international waters, while Alfred's expression grew so glacially disapproving that the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Well," Giovanni said with the sort of controlled charm that suggested he was working very hard to maintain his composure, "that explains quite a lot about why your magical signature has such interesting defensive patterns. Children who grow up in hostile environments often develop... protective adaptations."
Zatanna, who had claimed the seat next to Harry with the confident ownership of someone who had decided they were going to be best friends regardless of his opinion on the matter, looked up from where she'd been making her orange juice perform small acrobatic routines without touching the glass.
"That's horrible," she said with the sort of straightforward indignation that only children could muster. "Why would anyone hide bowls from a kid? That's just stupid mean."
"Because they're awful people who shouldn't be allowed near children, let alone responsible for raising one," Bruce said quietly, his voice carrying the sort of controlled fury that was somehow more intimidating than shouting would have been.
Harry blinked, clearly taken aback by the vehemence of the response. "I mean, it wasn't ideal," he said with the sort of careful understatement that suggested he was more accustomed to minimizing his experiences than having them validated. "But I managed well enough. Got quite good at reaching high places, actually. Turns out desperation is excellent motivation for developing climbing skills."
"Master Harry," Alfred said gently, his voice carrying the sort of warm authority that had been known to make grown men confess their deepest fears and childhood traumas, "might I suggest that 'managing well enough' should not be the standard by which a child's upbringing is measured? Perhaps we could aim slightly higher than 'survival with minimal permanent psychological damage.'"
"Revolutionary concept," Harry replied with a perfectly straight face, though there was something in his eyes that suggested he was beginning to understand that these people operated by entirely different rules than what he was accustomed to. "What's next, actually being fed regularly? Having access to clothing that fits properly? Being allowed to exist in the same room as other human beings during social occasions?"
Giovanni, who had been observing this exchange with professional interest, leaned forward slightly. "Harry, may I ask... when you lived with your relatives, were you ever allowed to participate in family meals? Or did you typically eat separately?"
"Separately," Harry said with the sort of matter-of-fact tone that made the answer even more heartbreaking. "Usually in the cupboard under the stairs, which was also my bedroom. The Dursleys felt that my presence at the dinner table might... disturb their digestion. Apparently, I had a tendency to make the food taste wrong just by existing near it."
The spoon in Alfred's hand bent slightly. Bruce's coffee cup developed a hairline crack. Giovanni muttered something in rapid Spanish that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary, while Zatanna's orange juice stopped performing tricks and simply sat there looking as indignant as a beverage could manage.
"Right," Bruce said with the sort of calm that typically preceded very educational conversations with people who had made poor life choices. "Alfred, please make a note to have our legal team investigate the Dursleys' fitness as guardians. I suspect there are several government agencies who would be very interested to learn about their... creative interpretations of child welfare requirements."
"Already on it, sir," Alfred replied with the sort of efficient malevolence that suggested the Dursleys were about to discover exactly how unpleasant life could become when you attracted the attention of people with unlimited resources and a strong commitment to justice. "I took the liberty of making some preliminary inquiries after Master Harry's arrival. It appears the local authorities have been somewhat... negligent in their oversight responsibilities."
"Brilliant," Harry said with genuine appreciation. "Though I should mention that making my relatives' lives miserable probably won't improve their opinion of me specifically. Not that their opinion of me could get much lower without requiring specialized mining equipment to measure it."
Zatanna giggled, a sound like silver bells mixed with mischief. "You're funny," she declared with obvious delight. "Papa, why don't all the kids we meet talk like this? Harry sounds like he should be writing comedy shows or something."
"Because most children haven't been forced to develop advanced coping mechanisms involving humor as a psychological defense strategy," Giovanni replied with the sort of clinical assessment that managed to be both professional and deeply sympathetic. "Harry has learned to find amusement in difficult situations because the alternative would be considerably less pleasant for his mental health."
"In other words," Harry said cheerfully, "I'm hilarious because I'm traumatized. Excellent. I can add that to my list of marketable skills, right between 'unusually good at hiding' and 'can survive on remarkably little food for extended periods.'"
Bruce studied Harry's face with the sort of intense attention he typically reserved for analyzing criminal behavior patterns or explosive device configurations. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "most people who've been through what you've experienced don't develop such a... sophisticated sense of irony. They tend toward either complete emotional shutdown or explosive anger."
"Oh, I've got the anger," Harry assured him with the sort of casual honesty that was deeply unsettling from someone his age. "Quite a lot of it, actually. But anger isn't particularly useful for day-to-day survival when you're six years old and completely dependent on people who already dislike you. Humor, on the other hand, is brilliant for defusing tension and making adults uncomfortable enough that they leave you alone."
"Plus," he added with a grin that was equal parts charming and slightly unnerving, "it's much more entertaining than crying all the time. Crying makes your face all red and blotchy, and then people either ignore you completely or treat you like you're made of spun glass. Neither option is particularly appealing."
Alfred, who had been listening to this explanation while continuing his breakfast service with professional efficiency, cleared his throat delicately. "Master Harry, if I may observe... your approach to managing difficult circumstances is remarkably mature for someone your age. However, I feel compelled to mention that in this household, you're permitted to express negative emotions without fear of retaliation or abandonment."
"Revolutionary," Harry said solemnly. "What's the policy on positive emotions? Are those allowed as well, or is there a quota system I should be aware of?"
"Unlimited," Bruce said with something that was almost a smile. "Though I should warn you that Alfred takes excessive happiness as a personal challenge to provide even better hospitality. You could find yourself on the receiving end of increasingly elaborate meals and recreational activities."
"The man's a monster," Harry said with obvious delight. "I like him already."
Zatanna, who had been watching this exchange with the sort of fascination usually reserved for particularly entertaining television programs, leaned forward conspiratorially. "Want to see something cool?" she asked, her dark eyes bright with mischief. "I can make my orange juice do tricks."
She gestured at her glass with the sort of casual confidence that suggested she'd been performing magic for so long that it was as natural as breathing. The liquid began swirling in complex patterns, forming tiny whirlpools and spirals that defied several fundamental laws of physics.
"It's all about visualization and intent," she explained with the serious tone of someone sharing important technical information. "Papa says magic responds to what you really want to happen, not just what you think you want. You have to feel it in your... your middle part, not just think it in your head."
Harry watched this display with fascination rather than the fear or revulsion he'd grown accustomed to seeing when unusual things happened around him. "That's absolutely brilliant," he said quietly, his voice carrying genuine wonder. "It's so... controlled. Purposeful. When things happen around me, they just sort of... explode. Usually at the worst possible moment and in the most embarrassing way imaginable."
"Like what?" Zatanna asked with obvious curiosity.
Harry considered this for a moment, then shrugged with the sort of philosophical acceptance that came from years of experience with magical disasters. "Well, there was the time I accidentally turned my teacher's wig blue during a particularly boring mathematics lesson. Or the incident where I made all the flowers in Mrs. Figg's garden grow three feet overnight because I felt bad about accidentally stepping on one of them. Oh, and last month I somehow managed to make every television in Little Whinging display nothing but nature documentaries for an entire day."
"That last one's actually quite impressive," Giovanni said with professional interest. "Affecting multiple electronic devices simultaneously across a wide geographic area requires considerable magical strength, even if it's uncontrolled. Most adult wizards couldn't accomplish something like that without months of preparation and specialized equipment."
"Yes, well, tell that to the Dursleys," Harry said dryly. "They were less impressed by my magical prowess and more concerned about explaining to the neighbors why their telly was showing nothing but mating rituals of the African savanna for twelve consecutive hours."
Bruce choked on his coffee. Alfred's mouth twitched in what might have been suppressed laughter. Zatanna dissolved into giggles, while Giovanni looked as though he was trying very hard to maintain professional composure.
"Mating rituals?" Bruce managed, his voice slightly strained.
"Educational programming," Harry said innocently. "Very comprehensive. I learned quite a lot about wildlife reproduction patterns that day. The neighbors, on the other hand, learned some rather colorful language from Uncle Vernon when he tried to explain the situation to the cable company."
"That's because no one's taught you how to direct your magic properly," Giovanni said, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to educational matters while struggling not to laugh. "Magic without training is like... like a river without banks. All that power and energy has to go somewhere, but without proper channels, it tends to flood everything around it."
"Usually in the most inconvenient and embarrassing manner possible," Harry agreed cheerfully. "Is that why the Dursleys were so afraid of me? Because I was essentially a walking magical disaster waiting to happen?"
The amusement faded from the adults' faces, replaced by something more serious and sympathetic. Giovanni and Bruce exchanged a look across the table, the sort of silent communication that suggested they were both processing the same uncomfortable implications.
"Harry," Giovanni said carefully, his accent becoming more pronounced as his emotional control tightened, "what exactly did your aunt and uncle tell you about your parents? About how they died?"
Harry's expression grew more guarded, his shoulders drawing up slightly in the defensive posture Bruce had learned to recognize as a sign that someone was preparing to discuss something painful but necessary. "They said my parents were no good," he said with careful neutrality. "That my father was an unemployed drunk who couldn't keep a job, and my mother was a woman of... loose character. They died in a car crash because my father was driving while intoxicated, and I survived because I was strapped into a car seat in the back."
The silence that followed was profound and dangerous, the sort of quiet that typically preceded either natural disasters or very pointed conversations with people who had committed unforgivable offenses against children. Alfred's serving spoon bent at an alarming angle, while Bruce's expression grew thunderous in a way that suggested several people were about to receive very educational correspondence about the proper treatment of orphaned children.
Giovanni's face cycled through several emotions—grief, fury, professional outrage, and personal offense—before settling on something that was equal parts controlled rage and gentle compassion.
"Harry," Giovanni said quietly, his voice carrying the sort of controlled intensity that suggested several people were going to be receiving very stern letters from very expensive lawyers, "I need you to understand something clearly. Every single word your relatives told you about your parents was a lie. A cruel, deliberate, unforgivable lie designed to hurt you and make you ashamed of who you are."
Harry went very still, his emerald eyes wide as he processed this information. "What do you mean?" he asked, though his voice suggested he'd already guessed the answer wouldn't be comfortable.
"I mean," Giovanni said with infinite gentleness, "that your father, James Potter, was one of the most respected young wizards of his generation. He came from an old, wealthy magical family—the kind of family that owns half of Diagon Alley and has been contributing to magical society for centuries. But James chose to use his privilege and resources to fight against dark wizards who were terrorizing innocent people. He was brave and principled and had more job offers from prestigious magical organizations than he could possibly accept."
Giovanni's voice grew warmer as he continued, obviously drawing on genuine memories rather than just historical accounts. "And your mother, Lily Evans Potter, was brilliant beyond description. She was what we call 'Muggle-born'—born to non-magical parents but possessed of extraordinary magical ability. She was Head Girl at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which is roughly equivalent to being valedictorian at the most prestigious university in the magical world."
"She could have had any career she wanted in the magical community," Giovanni continued, his voice carrying obvious respect and admiration. "Magical researcher, Healer, Auror—that's magical law enforcement—professor, politician, anything. The world was quite literally at her feet."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this information with the sort of systematic thoroughness that suggested he was comparing it against years of lies and half-truths and finding it both more believable and infinitely more painful than what he'd been told.
"They weren't killed in a car crash, were they?" he asked quietly, though his tone suggested he'd already guessed the answer.
"No, hijo," Giovanni said gently. "They were murdered by a dark wizard named Voldemort—the most dangerous magical terrorist of the modern era. He broke into your home on Halloween night when you were fifteen months old, and he killed your parents because they refused to step aside and let him murder you."
Harry's face had gone pale, but his expression was more thoughtful than shocked, as if he were processing information that made sense of things that had never quite added up before. "Why did he want to kill me?" he asked with the sort of analytical clarity that was deeply unsettling from someone his age. "I was just a baby. What possible threat could I have posed to anyone?"
Giovanni glanced at Bruce, who nodded slightly—permission to share information that was both important and potentially disturbing for a child to hear.
"Because of a prophecy, Harry," Giovanni said carefully. "A prediction made by someone with the magical ability to see possible futures. The prophecy said that a child born at the end of July would have the power to defeat Voldemort, and Voldemort decided that child was you."
"So he came to kill me before I could grow up to be a threat to him," Harry said with perfect understanding, his voice carrying no trace of self-pity or fear, just analytical acceptance. "But my parents tried to protect me, and he killed them first."
"Your parents died heroes, Harry," Giovanni said firmly, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "They died protecting their child from a monster, and their sacrifice triggered something that had never happened before in recorded magical history. When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at you—a spell that had never once failed to kill its target—it rebounded."
Giovanni leaned forward, his dark eyes intense as he continued. "The magic your mother had woven to protect you, the love she had poured into that protection, was stronger than his desire to kill you. More powerful than his hatred, more enduring than his evil. It saved your life and destroyed him."
Zatanna, who had been listening to this explanation with the sort of rapt attention most children reserved for adventure stories, leaned forward with obvious fascination. "So the bad wizard died instead of Harry?"
"His body was destroyed," Giovanni confirmed, though his expression suggested the topic was more complicated than that simple explanation. "His followers scattered, his reign of terror ended, and the magical world celebrated because the war was finally over. Harry became famous as 'The Boy Who Lived'—the child who survived the Killing Curse and defeated the darkest wizard in over a century."
Harry was quiet for several minutes, processing this information with the sort of careful consideration that belonged on someone decades older. Finally, he looked up, his expression thoughtful but somehow unsurprised.
"I'm famous?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been dread. "In the magical world, I mean?"
"Very famous," Giovanni confirmed gently. "There are books about you, Harry. Stories about your courage and your survival, your famous lightning bolt scar, the night you saved the magical world from a tyrant who had been terrorizing people for years."
Harry's hand moved instinctively to his forehead, fingers tracing the faint scar that he'd learned to conceal beneath his unruly black hair. "This scar," he said quietly. "It's from that night?"
"From where the Killing Curse struck you and rebounded," Giovanni said quietly. "It's a mark of what you survived, Harry. A reminder that love and protection are more powerful than hatred and violence."
Harry stared down at his breakfast for a long moment, clearly processing the magnitude of what he'd just learned. When he looked up again, his expression was complicated—part wonder, part apprehension, and part something that might have been relief.
"So I'm not a freak," he said quietly. "I'm not broken or wrong or inherently dangerous. I'm just... magical. And famous. And carrying around the legacy of parents who were actually decent human beings."
"You're extraordinary," Bruce said firmly, his voice carrying the sort of absolute conviction that suggested he would personally fight anyone who disagreed. "You're brave and intelligent and remarkably resilient, and you come from people who were heroes in every sense of the word."
"Plus," Zatanna added with a grin, "you're really funny. That's important too."
Harry looked around the table at these people who had appeared in his life less than twenty-four hours ago and somehow managed to transform his entire understanding of himself and his place in the world. For the first time in his life, he was surrounded by people who thought his differences made him special rather than defective, who wanted to teach him rather than suppress him, who saw potential rather than problems.
"Right then," he said with the sort of determined brightness that suggested he was choosing optimism as a conscious strategy rather than a natural inclination. "So I'm a famous magical orphan with uncontrolled abilities, a target on my back, and a tendency to make electronics do inappropriate things. What's the plan for dealing with all that?"
Bruce had been watching this conversation with the sort of intense attention he used when processing tactical information that would determine future courses of action. Now he leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying the controlled urgency of someone who understood that important questions needed to be asked before circumstances became more complicated.
"Before we get to training and education," Bruce said quietly, "Giovanni mentioned during our phone conversation that Harry might be carrying something inside him. Something related to Voldemort's magic?"
Giovanni's expression grew more serious, taking on the sort of professional gravity that suggested they were venturing into territory that was both important and potentially dangerous to discuss.
"That's... a possibility we need to explore, yes," Giovanni said carefully. "The magical signature I'm sensing from Harry is more complex than what I would expect from a normal magical child, even one with his level of natural ability."
"What kind of complexity?" Harry asked with the sort of direct curiosity that suggested he'd rather know uncomfortable truths than live with pleasant lies.
Giovanni was quiet for a moment, clearly considering how to explain advanced magical theory to a six-year-old in a way that was both accurate and age-appropriate.
"When dark wizards perform certain types of magic," Giovanni said slowly, "particularly magic involving murder—they sometimes damage their own souls. In Voldemort's case, he had damaged his soul so severely through multiple murders that pieces of it could break off and attach themselves to other objects or... or other people."
Harry set down his fork with deliberate precision, his emerald eyes sharp with understanding. "You think there's a piece of Voldemort's soul inside me?" he asked, his voice carrying the sort of calm that was more disturbing than panic would have been.
"It's a possibility," Giovanni said carefully, his voice gentle but honest. "It would explain several things about your magical development, your unusual abilities, certain dreams or knowledge that doesn't seem to come from your own experiences, and other factors that have puzzled magical theorists for years."
Harry nodded slowly, as if this confirmed suspicions he'd been harboring without quite understanding them. "That would explain the dreams," he said quietly. "The ones where I'm someone else, somewhere else, doing things I would never do. The anger that doesn't feel like mine. The times when I know things I shouldn't know."
"Harry," Giovanni said firmly, leaning forward to make sure he had the boy's complete attention, "if that's the case—if there is a soul fragment attached to you—it doesn't make you dangerous or evil or wrong. It just means you've been carrying a burden that no child should have to bear, and that burden is not part of who you are."
Alfred, who had been listening to this conversation while continuing to serve breakfast with his usual impeccable efficiency, cleared his throat delicately. "If I may inquire, Mr. Zatara, is such a thing... removable? Could Master Harry be freed from this burden, if it exists?"
"Theoretically, yes," Giovanni replied, though his tone suggested the practical applications were considerably more complicated than the theory. "But it would require someone with very specialized knowledge and abilities. The kind of magical practitioner who understands both the theoretical framework of soul magic and the practical techniques for safely separating attached soul fragments without harming the host."
"Do you know anyone with those qualifications?" Bruce asked, though his expression suggested he was already preparing for the answer to be complicated.
Giovanni's mouth quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile but held hints of dark amusement and considerable personal irritation.
"I know exactly one person with the necessary skills," Giovanni said with the sort of weary resignation that suggested extensive personal experience with the individual in question. "And he's... well, he's probably the most aggravating human being I've ever had the misfortune to work with. Brilliant, undeniably effective, cynical beyond belief, and absolutely impossible to deal with on a personal level."
"Who?" Bruce prompted.
"John Constantine," Giovanni said with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "Occult detective, expert in demonology and soul magic, chain smoker, functional alcoholic, and the most cynically sarcastic bastard you'll ever meet. He's also the only person I know who has successfully performed soul separation procedures without killing the patients involved."
Bruce made a mental note to investigate John Constantine thoroughly before considering any arrangements involving Harry's welfare. "And you trust him?"
"I trust his competence absolutely," Giovanni replied diplomatically. "His bedside manner, his professional ethics, his tendency to drink too much and make inappropriate comments about everything from politics to personal grooming choices, his habit of showing up at the worst possible moment with the worst possible news delivered in the most annoying possible way... those are entirely separate considerations."
"He sounds charming," Harry said dryly. "Is he at least good at what he does, or is this going to be one of those situations where we have to choose between competent and tolerable?"
"Oh, he's extraordinarily competent," Giovanni assured him. "Constantine is possibly the most skilled practitioner of dark magic remediation in the world. He's saved more lives and solved more impossible cases than anyone has a right to expect. He's just... well, imagine if someone took all the worst personality traits of a chain-smoking private investigator, a cynical philosophy professor, and a particularly sarcastic bartender, then gave that person the ability to see demons and manipulate supernatural forces."
"So he's an expert at his job but absolutely dreadful as a human being," Harry summarized with perfect understanding. "Brilliant. I look forward to meeting him."
Zatanna, who had been following this conversation with obvious interest despite its technical complexity, raised her hand like a student asking a question in class. "Papa, if we can get the bad magic piece out of Harry, does that mean he'll be safer? Like, the people looking for him won't be able to find him as easily?"
"That's an excellent question, mija," Giovanni said with obvious pride in his daughter's analytical thinking. "Removing the soul fragment would eliminate one potential method of tracking Harry, and it would also remove the possibility that the fragment could be used to influence his thoughts or emotions as he gets older. But it wouldn't eliminate all the other reasons why people might want to find him."
"Such as?" Harry asked with the sort of practical curiosity that suggested he wanted to understand all the potential threats he might be facing.
"Well," Giovanni said carefully, "there's your fame, for one thing. You're a celebrity in the magical world, Harry. There will always be people who want to meet you, study you, use you for political purposes, or simply be able to say they know the famous Harry Potter."
"Wonderful," Harry muttered. "I've always wanted to be a tourist attraction."
"Then there are Voldemort's followers," Giovanni continued, his expression growing more serious. "They scattered when he was destroyed, but many of them are still alive, still committed to his ideology, and still very interested in the child who defeated their master."
"They want revenge?" Harry asked with the sort of matter-of-fact acceptance that suggested he'd already figured out that his life was going to be considerably more complicated than average.
"Some of them, probably," Giovanni confirmed. "Others might want to study you, to understand how you survived something that should have been impossible. And some might believe that if they can capture or kill you, they can somehow restore Voldemort to power."
Harry had been listening to this discussion with the sort of intense attention that suggested he was memorizing every word for future reference. Now he looked up from his breakfast, his emerald eyes serious but determined.
"I want it gone," he said quietly, his voice carrying absolute conviction despite his youth. "If there's a piece of Voldemort inside me—if I'm carrying around part of the person who murdered my parents—I want it removed as soon as possible."
"Harry," Bruce said gently, his voice carrying the sort of careful concern that came from years of experience helping traumatized children process difficult decisions, "this isn't something we need to decide immediately. We can take time to research the procedure, to make sure we understand all the risks and implications—"
"No," Harry said firmly, his small jaw set in a line that would have looked stubborn on most children but somehow seemed determined and mature on him. "I've been carrying this thing around for six years without knowing it was there. I've been wondering why I sometimes have dreams that aren't mine, why I sometimes know things I shouldn't know, why I sometimes feel angry in ways that don't match anything that's actually happening to me."
He looked directly at Giovanni, his expression intense and serious. "If there's a way to remove it safely, I want that to happen. I want to be just myself, not myself plus a piece of the monster who killed my parents. I want to know which thoughts are mine and which ones belong to... to him."
Giovanni studied Harry's face with professional attention, clearly assessing the child's emotional state and decision-making capacity. After a moment, he nodded with obvious respect for Harry's courage and clarity.
"If that's what you want, Harry, then we'll make arrangements to contact Constantine and begin the process," Giovanni said seriously. "But you should understand that soul magic is complex and potentially dangerous. There will be risks involved, and the procedure itself might be... uncomfortable."
"More uncomfortable than living with a piece of Voldemort in my head for the rest of my life?" Harry asked with the sort of dry humor that belonged on someone decades older. "More uncomfortable than never knowing if my anger is really mine, or if I'm slowly becoming more like the person who murdered my parents?"
"Point taken," Giovanni conceded with something that was almost a smile. "Very well. I'll reach out to Constantine and begin making arrangements. Though I should warn you, Harry, he's going to want to meet you and conduct his own assessment before he agrees to attempt the procedure. Constantine doesn't work with children often, and despite his many personality flaws, he has very strong opinions about informed consent and patient safety."
"Plus," Zatanna added helpfully, "he's going to ask you lots of uncomfortable questions and probably make jokes about things that aren't funny. Papa says Constantine uses humor as a defense mechanism, but he's not very good at it."
"Unlike me," Harry said with perfect confidence. "I'm brilliant at using humor as a defense mechanism. We should get along famously."
Bruce had been processing the implications of everything they'd discussed, running through tactical considerations and security protocols with the sort of systematic thoroughness that had kept him alive through years of dealing with complicated situations. Now he leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful but determined.
"Before we move forward with any of this," Bruce said quietly, "we need to address the immediate security situation. Giovanni, you mentioned establishing magical protections around the Manor. What do you need from me to make that happen?"
"Formal consent, primarily," Giovanni replied, his voice taking on the professional tone he used when discussing magical law and protocol. "Magic requires permission to alter or protect someone's property. I need your explicit, freely given consent to place ward anchors throughout Wayne Manor and its grounds, to key those wards to Harry's magical signature and the signatures of everyone else you consider family, and to establish concealment charms that will make this location difficult to find using magical means."
"You have it," Bruce said without hesitation, his voice carrying the sort of absolute conviction that suggested he would personally fight anyone who threatened his household. "Whatever protections you think are necessary, whatever resources you need to implement them, whatever modifications need to be made to the property—you have my complete authorization and cooperation."
"Excellent," Giovanni said with obvious satisfaction. "I can begin the preliminary ward work this afternoon, though the full protection network will take several days to establish properly. In the meantime, I'd recommend that Harry stay close to the Manor and avoid any unnecessary exposure to public spaces where he might be more easily detected or observed."
"What about his magical education?" Zatanna asked with the sort of practical concern that suggested she'd been thinking about this issue while the adults discussed security measures. "If Harry needs to learn control quickly for safety reasons, shouldn't we start teaching him basic techniques right away?"
"Zatanna's absolutely right," Giovanni agreed with obvious pride in his daughter's strategic thinking. "Harry needs to begin magical training immediately, both for his own development and for everyone's safety. Untrained magical children become more dangerous as they get older and stronger, and Harry's power level is already significantly above normal for his age."
He looked directly at Harry, his expression serious but encouraging. "Are you ready to begin learning about your heritage, Harry? Really learning—not just understanding that you're magical, but discovering how to use those abilities constructively and safely?"
Harry's expression transformed completely, wonder and excitement replacing the careful wariness that had become his default expression over years of suppression and criticism.
"You'll really teach me?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of amazement that suggested this was something he'd dreamed about but never quite believed could happen. "Everything? How to control the electronics thing, how to do magic on purpose instead of by accident, how to understand what I'm doing instead of just hoping it doesn't go horribly wrong?"
"Everything you want to learn," Giovanni promised with absolute conviction. "Magic, history, the culture and customs of the magical world, how to protect yourself and the people you care about. You'll learn about your parents' legacy and your own potential, about the responsibilities that come with power and the joy that comes with understanding who you really are."
Zatanna clapped her hands together with obvious delight. "And I can help!" she announced with the sort of enthusiasm that suggested she'd been planning this for hours. "I know lots of basic spells already, and Papa says teaching other people helps you understand things better yourself. We can practice together and compare notes and figure out which techniques work best for different types of magic."
"That sounds..." Harry paused, clearly struggling to find words adequate to express what he was feeling. "That sounds absolutely wonderful. Like everything I've been hoping for without even knowing I was hoping for it. Like the sort of thing I used to dream about when I was locked in my cupboard, except better because it's real and you're all real and no one's going to take it away from me."
Alfred, who had been observing this conversation while continuing his breakfast service with professional efficiency, smiled with genuine warmth.
"If I may say so, Master Harry," Alfred said with the sort of fond affection usually reserved for family members, "it appears you're about to embark on quite an adventure. The sort that involves considerable learning, significant personal growth, and probably a fair amount of supervised property damage while you're mastering new skills."
"Supervised property damage?" Harry repeated with something that might have been delight. "That sounds brilliant. Are we talking about the sort of property damage that requires insurance claims, or just the sort that requires creative explanations to curious neighbors?"
"Master Dick destroyed several pieces of furniture while learning proper acrobatic techniques," Alfred explained with fond reminiscence. "Master Jason set fire to the library at least twice during his chemistry experiments, and there was that unfortunate incident with the chandelier that we've agreed never to discuss in polite company. I see no reason why magical education should be any less... energetic in its practical applications."
"As long as everyone understands that magical accidents are part of the learning process," Giovanni said with the sort of diplomatic warning that suggested he'd dealt with property damage issues before, "we should be able to minimize any serious disasters while maximizing educational opportunities."
Bruce looked around the table at this improbable family—a traumatized six-year-old wizard who'd just learned he was famous in a world he'd never known existed, a precocious magical child who was clearly delighted to have found a peer, a stage magician who was one of the world's foremost experts in practical magic, and a butler who treated the prospect of magical education with the same calm efficiency he brought to managing international dinner parties and criminal investigations.
"It sounds like we have our work cut out for us," Bruce said with something that was almost a smile. "Giovanni, how quickly can you get those wards established? And what's our timeline for contacting Constantine about the soul fragment situation?"
"Preliminary wards by tonight, full protection network within the week," Giovanni replied with professional confidence. "As for Constantine... I'll reach out to him today and explain the situation. Given the significance of Harry's case, he'll probably want to get here as quickly as possible, though with Constantine, 'quickly' can mean anything from tomorrow to next month depending on what other cases he's juggling."
"And my magical education?" Harry asked, clearly eager to begin learning about the abilities he'd been convinced were defects for most of his life.
"Starts this afternoon," Giovanni said firmly. "Basic theory, meditation techniques for emotional control, and some simple practical exercises that will help you begin channeling your abilities constructively. Zatanna can demonstrate several techniques that are appropriate for beginners, and I suspect you'll find it much easier to learn from someone your own age than from another adult telling you what you should or shouldn't do."
Harry looked around the table at these people who had appeared in his life less than twenty-four hours ago and had somehow transformed everything about his understanding of himself and his possibilities. For the first time in his life, he was surrounded by people who thought his differences made him special rather than defective, who wanted to teach him rather than suppress him, who saw his potential rather than his problems.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice carrying the sort of genuine gratitude that could only come from someone who understood exactly how rare and precious this kind of acceptance really was. "All of you. For wanting me, for believing in me, for giving me the chance to become... whoever I'm supposed to become."
"You don't need to become anyone other than yourself, Harry," Bruce said gently. "We just want to help you become the best possible version of yourself—magical abilities, complicated heritage, and all."
As breakfast concluded and the household began preparing for what would undoubtedly be a day full of magical education, ward establishment, and various forms of supervised chaos, Harry Potter sat in Wayne Manor's elegant dining room and felt something he'd never experienced before: the absolute certainty that he belonged somewhere.
The dangerous complications would come soon enough—Constantine would arrive with his cynical expertise and his uncomfortable procedures, magical authorities would eventually discover Harry's location, hostile forces would begin gathering to pursue their various agendas involving the famous Boy Who Lived.
But for now, Harry was safe. He was surrounded by family who understood his abilities and valued them. He was about to begin learning about his heritage from people who had loved and respected his parents. He was making genuine friendships for the first time in his life.
And Bruce Wayne, who had built his entire adult life around protecting people who couldn't protect themselves, was determined to make sure Harry Potter had every opportunity to grow up surrounded by love, magic, and the kind of ordinary extraordinary experiences that every child deserved.
The wizarding world could wait. Today was about chocolate hierarchies, magical theory, and giving one small boy the childhood he should have had from the beginning.
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