Harry Potter did not sleep that night.
This was not unusual in Wonderland. Nights rarely behaved themselves there—stretching, looping, or occasionally wandering off altogether. But even by Wonderland's standards, something about the child in the Mad Hatter's arms kept the hours alert, as though time itself were afraid to blink.
The Hatter noticed.
"You're watching," he said mildly, rocking the baby as he walked. "I can tell. Your eyes aren't asking questions. They're *counting*."
Harry's gaze followed everything: the floating lantern-fish that swam lazily through the air, the mushrooms that argued over which direction was up, the path that repeatedly tied itself into knots beneath the Hatter's boots. His green eyes reflected it all, unblinking, as though recording Wonderland for later use.
"Hm," the Hatter hummed. "That won't do at all."
He adjusted his grip, tucking Harry closer to his chest. The baby made a small, indignant noise, then settled, fingers curling into the fabric of the Hatter's coat with surprising strength.
"Clingy already," the Hatter said approvingly. "Excellent survival instinct."
They arrived at the Hatter's house eventually, though *eventually* was a flexible concept. The building stood on one leg like a stork contemplating a poor life choice. Its windows blinked open and shut. The door was upside down, which the Hatter ignored entirely, walking straight through the wall instead.
Inside, chaos reigned in layers.
Teacups stacked themselves into leaning towers. Chairs sat on tables, tables lounged against walls, and clocks—hundreds of them—ticked at different tempos, arguing softly about what time it definitely was not. A kettle screamed continuously, offended that no one was listening.
The Hatter deposited Harry onto a pile of hats—felt, silk, straw, and several that whispered when touched.
"Home," he announced.
Harry did not cry.
Instead, he sneezed.
Magic popped.
A nearby teacup turned into a hedgehog.
The Hatter froze.
Slowly, he turned toward the child.
"Well now," he said carefully. "That's new."
The hedgehog scuttled away, knocking over a stack of saucers that fell upward and stuck to the ceiling. Harry blinked at the sudden movement, then let out a tiny, delighted laugh.
The sound rippled.
Wonderland leaned closer.
The Hatter felt it again—that tug in his bones, the sensation of something rearranging itself to accommodate the impossible.
"Ah," he said softly. "You're not just visiting, are you?"
Harry reached out, grasping at the air. The air grasped back.
A spoon bent toward his hand, curving eagerly. The kettle stopped screaming. The clocks stuttered, then resynced themselves around the baby's heartbeat.
The Hatter snatched the spoon away and tucked it firmly into his hat.
"No grabbing the furniture," he scolded. "That's rude."
Harry frowned.
The shadows in the room leaned closer, curious.
"Now listen," the Hatter continued, pacing. "Wonderland has rules. Not many, mind you, and most of them are negotiable, but we don't *pull* at it like that. We *ask*."
Harry yawned.
The Hatter paused mid-step.
"Oh," he said faintly. "You're tired."
Of course he was. Earth-babies required feeding, warmth, and sleep—three things Wonderland was notoriously bad at providing without turning them into metaphors.
The Hatter clapped his hands.
"Right! Baby necessities. Milk, blankets, and existential stability."
He rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a teapot, three watches, a small screaming frog, and a slice of buttered toast. He frowned at the toast.
"Too early for that," he decided, shoving it back.
He set a teacup on the floor and snapped his fingers.
"Milk," he commanded.
The cup filled instantly—but with something shimmering and faintly iridescent.
The Hatter sniffed it, recoiled, and poured it out the window, where it turned into a flock of birds mid-fall.
"No," he muttered. "No, no. That's not milk, that's *potential*."
He tried again.
This time, the cup filled with warm, ordinary milk.
Harry accepted it without complaint, drinking as though this were entirely expected behavior from reality. When he finished, he smacked his lips and promptly fell asleep.
The Hatter stared down at him, expression unreadable.
He had raised many things over the years. Teapots. Arguments. A particularly stubborn paradox.
A human child was new.
"Well," he said finally, lowering Harry into a nest of hats and scarves. "If you're going to stay—and I have a feeling you are—we'll need to do this properly."
He crouched beside the sleeping baby, adjusting the blanket so it did not whisper too loudly.
"Name?" he mused. "You've got one already, of course. Humans are very attached to names."
Harry sighed in his sleep, fingers twitching.
The Hatter tilted his head.
"Harry Potter," he said experimentally.
The name echoed strangely, stretching like taffy before snapping back into place. Wonderland tasted it and hummed.
"Works well enough," the Hatter decided. "Though we may need a few extras later."
He stood and doffed his hat, placing it carefully on a nearby chair.
"You see," he said to no one in particular, "this child was thrown away because he didn't fit a story."
The clocks quieted.
The shadows stilled.
"That won't do," the Hatter continued, voice softer now. "Stories should bend to people, not the other way around."
He looked back at Harry, who slept on, blissfully unaware of prophecy, abandonment, or the quiet horror his existence had already caused the universe.
"I suppose that makes me responsible," the Hatter sighed, then brightened. "Oh well. I've been worse things than a father."
A grin tugged at his mouth.
"Welcome to Wonderland, Harry Potter," he said. "Try not to be boring."
Somewhere above the house, invisible and amused, a voice purred.
*Oh, he won't be.*
The shadows smiled.
Wonderland adjusted itself around the sleeping child—paths rerouting, rules loosening, futures fraying just a little at the edges.
A hat had found a baby.
And nothing would ever be properly straight again.