The rain fell in torrents across Gotham's grimy streets, transforming the already treacherous alleyways into slick rivers of urban decay that carried the detritus of eight million lives toward storm drains that had given up pretending to function sometime during the Clinton administration. Six-year-old Harry Potter pressed himself deeper into the narrow gap between two rusted dumpsters, his thin frame trembling beneath an oversized leather jacket that reeked of cigarettes, desperation, and what he strongly suspected was vomit from someone who'd made very poor life choices involving cheap whiskey.
The jacket hung on him like a collapsed circus tent, sleeves rolled up so many times they resembled fabric donuts around his stick-thin wrists, but it was the difference between shivering uncomfortably and becoming a miniature popsicle. He'd acquired it three weeks ago from a very large gentleman who'd been too unconscious to object to the transaction—a gentleman who, upon waking, had thankfully been too hungover to remember exactly where he'd left his outerwear.
His stomach twisted with a familiar gnawing hunger that had become as constant and reliable as Gotham's perpetual smog. The last of the stale croissants he'd salvaged from behind Café Noir—after carefully checking them for both mold and what the health inspector would diplomatically term "foreign objects"—was a distant memory from two days ago. The soup kitchen at St. Bartholomew's wouldn't open its doors until tomorrow evening, assuming Sister Margaret hadn't been arrested again for punching politicians who suggested the homeless simply "pull themselves up by their bootstraps."
*Just survive until tomorrow,* he whispered to himself, the same desperate mantra he'd repeated every night since Uncle Vernon had physically shoved him out of their hotel room with nothing but the clothes on his back and a sneer about "freaks belonging with the freaks." The hotel manager had been very understanding about the "electrical malfunction" that had fried every appliance in a twelve-room radius, right up until Uncle Vernon had grabbed Harry by the collar and informed him that his services as a nephew were no longer required.
*Uncle Vernon was wrong,* Harry told himself fiercely, water dripping from hair that desperately needed cutting. *I'm not a freak. I'm not.*
But sometimes, when the fear clawed at his throat like a living thing or the anger burned in his chest like swallowed acid or the hunger made him so dizzy he had to sit down on filthy pavement, *things* happened. Impossible things that made grown men cross themselves and mutter about demons. Like when that man with the yellowed teeth and wandering hands had cornered him behind Gotham General's pharmacy last week, breathing whiskey and bad intentions, and suddenly every streetlight in a three-block radius had exploded in a shower of sparks and glass that sent him screaming into the night. Or when he'd been so desperately hungry he'd actually sobbed—actually *cried* like the child he refused to admit he was—and somehow the industrial-strength lock on Marconi's restaurant dumpster had simply... popped open with a sound like a champagne cork, revealing bags of day-old pastries and barely-expired sandwiches wrapped in paper that still smelled like basil and hope.
Magic. That's what Aunt Petunia had always hissed about in her thin, hateful voice whenever the television flickered or the toaster sparked, what made Uncle Vernon's face turn that particular shade of apoplectic purple that suggested imminent cardiac events. But here in Gotham, where masked vigilantes swung between skyscrapers like demented circus performers and psychopathic clowns held the city hostage every other Tuesday with themes ranging from "deadly joke night" to "murderous game show extravaganza," perhaps magic wasn't the strangest thing lurking in the shadows after all.
A soft *thud* echoed from somewhere above, followed by the barely-audible scrape of leather against metal that most people would have dismissed as settling pipes or urban expansion. Harry's head snapped up instinctively, rain immediately stinging his emerald eyes like nature's own disapproval, but he saw only darkness and the sickly yellow glow of a distant streetlamp struggling valiantly against the downpour. Probably just another of Gotham's countless strays—the four-legged kind, not the human variety like himself, though in his experience both species were equally capable of biting when cornered.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
Harry's heart stopped. Actually stopped for a full beat before launching into a rhythm that would have impressed a death metal drummer. The voice was distinctly female, low and smooth as expensive whiskey, with an edge sharp enough to cut through Gotham's perpetual smog and probably several major arteries if applied correctly. He pressed himself further back against the brick wall, but there was nowhere to go—he'd chosen this particular spot precisely because it was a dead end, harder for the wrong sort of person to sneak up on him from behind.
Apparently, he hadn't accounted for people who could drop from the sky like leather-clad angels of questionable morality.
A figure detached itself from the shadows above, landing in a perfect predatory crouch just a few feet away with barely a whisper of sound. Even in the dim, rain-soaked light filtering through the urban gloom, Harry could make out the sleek black costume that seemed to move like liquid midnight poured over curves that belonged in a renaissance sculpture, the distinctive goggles that reflected the streetlight like a cat's eyes, and the way she held herself with the coiled grace of something designed by evolution specifically to hunt things that ran.
Catwoman. He'd heard the other street kids whisper about her in hushed, reverent tones around trash can fires—some claimed she was one of the good ones, a guardian angel in leather who looked out for Gotham's forgotten children with the fierce protectiveness of an actual feline. Others insisted she was just another predator in a fancier costume than most, someone who played with her food before consuming it. All agreed she was dangerous in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with the retractable claws currently gleaming at her fingertips.
"Easy there, kitten," she said softly, and her voice held genuine gentleness despite the predatory stance as she noted his wide-eyed, trapped-animal expression. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Harry's jaw set in a stubborn line that would have looked absurd on any other six-year-old but somehow suited his sharp, aristocratic features perfectly. The defiant tilt of his chin belonged on someone facing down a firing squad, not a child crouched behind garbage in an alley that smelled like urban decay and broken dreams.
"Right. Because random people in fetish gear dropping from fire escapes in the middle of the night are *always* trustworthy," he said, his accent crisp enough to cut glass and twice as sharp. "Forgive me if I don't immediately believe the woman dressed like she raided the wardrobe department of a particularly kinky superhero film."
Catwoman blinked. Actually blinked, her head tilting slightly to one side like a confused house cat as she processed what had just emerged from what appeared to be a kindergartner's mouth. The goggles reflected the dim light, but Harry caught a glimpse of dark eyes going wide with something that might have been surprise or possibly mild concussion.
"Did you just—" She paused, clearly recalibrating her entire approach. "Did a *six-year-old* just critique my costume choices using the word 'fetish'?"
"I'm nearly seven, actually," Harry replied with the kind of wounded dignity that only a British child could muster while soaking wet, hiding behind a dumpster, and wearing clothes that had seen better decades. "And I may be homeless, but I'm not blind. That outfit screams 'I have unresolved daddy issues and possibly a very understanding therapist who specializes in alternative lifestyle choices.'"
A sound escaped Catwoman that might have been a snort of laughter quickly disguised as a cough, or possibly the noise someone makes when they're trying not to choke on their own astonishment. She crouched down slowly, making herself less looming and intimidating, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that she still looked like she could kill him seventeen different ways without breaking a nail.
"Okay, smart mouth," she said, and there was definitely amusement threading through her voice now. "You got me there. Most kids your age are still figuring out their colors and shapes, not conducting psychological analyses of strangers' wardrobes. I'm Selina. What's your name?"
"Harry," he said after a moment's hesitation, green eyes studying her face for signs of deception, mockery, or the particular brand of adult condescension he'd learned to recognize at thirty paces. "Harry Potter. And before you ask, yes, I'm aware it sounds like a character from a children's book. Trust me, the irony of my situation isn't lost on me—though I suspect the literary Harry had significantly better accommodations and considerably fewer issues with basic nutrition."
"Harry Potter," Selina repeated thoughtfully, and something in her tone suggested she was filing the name away in whatever mental database she used to catalog Gotham's strays. "That's quite a name to live up to."
"Or live down, depending on your perspective and your tolerance for fairy tale protagonists who've clearly taken several wrong turns," Harry muttered, unconsciously echoing conversations he was far too young to have overheard between social workers who thought six-year-olds couldn't understand concepts like "difficult placement" and "behavioral concerns."
Selina studied him more carefully now, her trained eye picking up details that spoke of a story she wasn't getting the full version of. He was far too articulate for his age, his vocabulary peppered with words that belonged in university lectures rather than playground conversations. His posture was defensive but proud, shoulders squared despite his circumstances, chin raised in a challenge that dared the world to try knocking him down again. And those eyes—brilliant emerald green and far too old for his face, holding shadows that had nothing to do with the dim alley lighting and everything to do with experiences no child should carry.
"You're new to the streets," she observed, her voice taking on the professional assessment tone she used when evaluating potential marks or allies. "Too clean, even under all that artistic urban grime. Your teeth are too straight, your hair's been properly cut within the last two months—expensive cut, too, not some chain salon hack job—and you're using complete sentences with subordinate clauses and dependent modifiers. Upper middle class background, I'd say, with access to decent healthcare, private education, and the kind of cultural exposure that breeds that particular brand of aristocratic sarcasm."
Her expression hardened slightly, dark eyes growing cold in a way that suggested someone was about to have a very bad day. "Which makes you way, *way* too young to be out here alone, and raises some very interesting questions about how exactly you ended up in my alley."
Harry's green eyes flashed with something dangerous—not quite anger, but close enough to make the shadows seem to shift around him. "Well, aren't you the bloody Sherlock Holmes of the rooftop set," he said, his voice dripping with the kind of acidic politeness that could strip paint. "What gave it away? The fact that I can string together a coherent sentence without using 'like' as punctuation, or that I haven't completely devolved into a feral child after a whole month of urban survival training?"
"The sarcasm definitely helped," Selina said dryly, though there was something almost approving in her tone. "Most street kids your age are still working on basic communication skills, not perfecting their wit into a weapon of mass destruction. That level of verbal sophistication suggests private tutoring, probably starting before you could walk properly."
"Yes, well, private tutoring will do that to a person," Harry said with a smile so bitter it could have curdled milk at fifty paces. "Aunt Petunia was very concerned about maintaining appearances, you see. Can't have the neighbors thinking the Dursleys were raising some sort of savage who couldn't conjugate a verb properly or discuss the weather without using profanity. Standards must be maintained, even if the child in question is a complete disappointment in every other conceivable way."
*Dursleys.* Selina filed that away with the efficiency of someone who collected information the way other people collected stamps. "And where are these paragons of British propriety now?"
Harry's expression shuttered completely, walls slamming down so fast she could practically hear them lock into place. "Gone. They decided I was too much trouble to keep around after all." He shrugged with the kind of forced casualness that screamed trauma to anyone who knew how to read the signs. "Apparently, there are limits to family obligation, and I managed to exceed them rather spectacularly during our delightful vacation to America. Who knew that hotel managers could be so unreasonable about minor electrical irregularities?"
"Electrical irregularities?"
"Just a few power surges. Nothing major. Certainly nothing that warranted quite so much screaming about fire hazards and insurance claims." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Uncle Vernon wasn't pleased. He's never been particularly fond of... complications."
Selina felt something cold and sharp twist in her chest, recognizing the tone of a child trying very hard to convince himself that abandonment was somehow his fault. She'd heard that particular brand of self-blame before—in mirrors, mostly, late at night when sleep wouldn't come and the past insisted on playing reruns.
"What kind of complications?" she asked quietly.
"The expensive kind," Harry said evasively, picking at a loose thread on his oversized jacket. "The kind that make hotel managers ask uncomfortable questions and insurance companies start investigating claims and family members decide that perhaps blood isn't quite as thick as water after all."
As if summoned by his words, his stomach chose that moment to emit a growl so loud it echoed off the alley walls like a small earthquake. Harry's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, but he lifted his chin defiantly, daring her to comment on his body's betrayal.
"When's the last time you ate?" Selina asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"Define 'ate,'" Harry replied with a weak attempt at humor that didn't quite disguise the exhaustion creeping into his voice. "Because if you mean 'consumed something vaguely resembling food that didn't require a tetanus shot afterward,' that would be yesterday morning when I found half a bagel that only had a little mold on it. If you mean 'had an actual proper meal with multiple food groups and everything,' well, that's going to require more advanced mathematics than I'm currently capable of performing on an empty stomach."
"Jesus," Selina breathed, the word escaping before she could stop it. She glanced around the alley, taking in details she'd missed in her initial assessment. The makeshift shelter he'd constructed from cardboard boxes and newspaper showed genuine ingenuity—angled to deflect rain, positioned to catch morning sunlight, reinforced with plastic bags and duct tape acquired from God knew where. Empty containers were carefully arranged to collect rainwater, and he'd positioned himself with clear sight lines to multiple escape routes while ensuring his back was protected.
"Impressive setup," she said, and this time there was no mockery in her voice, just genuine professional respect. "Someone taught you well. This isn't amateur hour survival—this is the kind of thing that takes real knowledge."
"Television, actually," Harry said with a slight smile that was the first genuine expression she'd seen from him. "Bear Grylls has quite a lot to say about urban survival techniques, though he's disappointingly light on the specifics of dumpster diving etiquette and the finer points of avoiding Gotham's more colorful residents."
"You learned this from *television*?" Selina's voice climbed an octave. "From watching survival shows?"
"I'm a very attentive student when the subject matter is relevant to my immediate circumstances," Harry said with the kind of primness that belonged in a boarding school common room, not a back alley. "And I had considerable motivation to pay attention, given Uncle Vernon's rather pointed comments about what would happen if I ever darkened his doorway again. Apparently, I'm quite capable of academic excellence when failure means freezing to death in a gutter."
The cold thing in Selina's chest grew teeth and started gnawing. "Your uncle sounds like a real prince."
"Oh, he's absolutely *delightful*," Harry said with enough venom to kill a small horse. "The sort of man who considers child abandonment a reasonable solution to minor inconveniences like property damage and insurance premiums. I'm sure he's sleeping very well at night in his comfortable hotel bed, knowing he's successfully rid himself of such a terrible burden. Probably celebrating with room service and pay-per-view movies."
"Harry—"
"I do hope he remembered to tip the housekeeping staff," Harry continued, his voice taking on a sing-song quality that was somehow more disturbing than shouting would have been. "After all, they'll have quite a lot of extra work now that they don't have to clean around a freakish nephew who makes electronics explode when he has nightmares. Think of all the time they'll save not having to replace light bulbs and reset circuit breakers every morning."
"Stop." Selina's voice cut through his spiral with surgical precision. She crouched down until she was at eye level with him, her dark eyes boring into his with the intensity of someone who'd perfected the art of reading people's souls. "Listen to me very carefully, Harry Potter. You are not a burden. You are not too much trouble. You are not a freak, and you are sure as hell not responsible for the actions of adults who should have protected you."
Harry stared at her, something vulnerable flickering behind his carefully constructed walls. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough," Selina said firmly, her voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that made Gotham's criminal element reconsider their life choices. "I know you're smart enough to survive on your own in one of the most dangerous cities in the world for a month without getting killed, kidnapped, or recruited by any of our local psychopaths. I know you're brave enough to sass a woman in a leather catsuit who just dropped out of the sky like some kind of demented superhero. And I know you've got more wit, courage, and basic human decency in your tiny finger than your uncle has in his entire worthless, cowardly body."
Harry's throat worked silently, and for a moment he looked exactly like what he was—a frightened, abandoned child trying very hard not to cry in front of a stranger who was being unexpectedly kind. "That's... that's very generous of you to say."
"It's not generous, it's observation," Selina corrected. "I've been in this business long enough to recognize quality when I see it, and you, kiddo, are definitely quality merchandise. Top shelf stuff." She reached into one of the pouches on her utility belt and withdrew a protein bar, unwrapping it with deliberate slowness before holding it out like a peace offering. "This isn't charity, by the way. It's professional courtesy. One Gotham stray to another."
Harry eyed the bar with the suspicion of someone who'd learned that kindness usually came with a price tag. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just food." She paused, considering. "Though I am going to ask you to trust me about something in a minute, and it'll probably go better if you're not quite so lightheaded from hunger that you're seeing double."
Harry's hand darted out with startling speed, snatching the bar before she could change her mind or decide this was all some elaborate psychological experiment. He tore into it with barely restrained desperation, and Selina had to look away from the grateful sounds he made. Sweet Jesus, when was the last time someone had fed this kid? Really fed him, not just thrown scraps his way like he was a stray dog begging at the back door?
"Better?" she asked when he'd finished, noting that some color had returned to his pale cheeks.
Harry nodded, licking his lips to catch every last crumb. "Considerably better than my usual evening cuisine of 'whatever didn't smell actively toxic and wasn't moving under its own power.' Thank you. That was... rather lovely, actually."
"Christ," Selina muttered under her breath. "Okay, new plan. You're not spending another night out here."
Harry went very still, the way small animals do when they sense a predator nearby. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." Her voice brooked no argument. "This is over, kitten. No more sleeping in alleys, no more digging through dumpsters, no more pretending you're fine when you're obviously about two missed meals away from collapsing in a dramatic heap that'll scar some poor garbage collector for life."
"And what exactly do you propose as an alternative?" Harry asked, his voice taking on that dangerous edge again—the tone of someone who'd been disappointed by adults before and wasn't eager to repeat the experience. "Because I've had occasion to observe the city's care facilities from the outside, and I'd rather take my chances with the rats, thank you very much. At least they're honest about wanting to eat me."
"Not the city facilities," Selina said quickly. "Somewhere better. Somewhere actually safe."
Harry laughed, and it was a sound that belonged on someone decades older, bitter and knowing and completely without humor. "There's no such thing as safe. Not for people like me. People like me get shuffled around until someone gets tired of the paperwork and files us under 'acceptable losses.'"
"People like you?"
Harry's expression closed off again, walls slamming back into place. "Freaks. Problems. Unwanted complications that make things explode when they get emotional. The kind of children that social workers describe as 'challenging' and foster families describe as 'returned to sender.'"
"You're not a freak," Selina said quietly, her voice carrying absolute conviction. "Trust me, I know freaks. I've worked with freaks, stolen from freaks, occasionally dated freaks against my better judgment. You're not a freak—you're just... different. Special, maybe. Gifted, if you want to get all technical about it."
"Different is just another word for wrong," Harry said with the weary certainty of someone who'd been told so repeatedly by people who were supposed to love him. "And special is what adults call children when they're trying to make them feel better about being fundamentally broken. 'Oh, he's special, that one. Very special indeed. Requires special handling, special schools, special medication, special isolation from normal children who might be contaminated by his specialness.'"
"Sometimes different is exactly what the world needs," Selina said, her voice taking on an intensity that made the shadows seem to lean closer. "Sometimes normal is just another word for boring, and special is another word for extraordinary. Sometimes the things that make you different are the things that make you magnificent."
Harry studied her face in the dim light, looking for the lie, the trick, the moment when the kindness would transform into something else—disappointment, fear, calculation, the usual adult emotions he inspired. But all he saw was sincerity and a strange sort of understanding, as if she were speaking from personal experience rather than reciting platitudes from a psychology textbook.
"You really believe that?" he asked quietly, his voice small and wondering.
"Kid, I dress up like a cat and steal things from rich people for the sheer joy of proving I can do it," Selina said with a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. "I live in a world where a man in a bat costume fights crime by punching people in Halloween masks, where plants try to seduce you to death, and where the definition of a quiet Tuesday is 'no one tried to turn the city into ice sculptures.' Trust me when I say that normal is not only overrated, it's basically extinct in this town."
Despite himself, despite everything, Harry felt his lips twitch upward. "When you put it like that..."
"Exactly like that." She held out her gloved hand, palm up, fingers relaxed and non-threatening. "Come with me, Harry. Let me show you what safe actually looks like when it's done by people who understand that different isn't a bug, it's a feature."
Harry stared at the offered hand like it might spontaneously combust or transform into something with teeth. "Where, exactly, are we talking about? Because if this involves anything with the words 'juvenile' and 'facility' in the same sentence, I'm going to have to respectfully decline and take my chances with the urban wildlife."
"Wayne Manor."
Harry blinked, certain he'd misheard over the sound of rain hitting metal fire escapes. "I'm sorry, did you just say Wayne Manor? As in Bruce Wayne? As in the billionaire philanthropist who adopted that circus kid a few years back and somehow keeps collecting strays like some kind of very wealthy, very well-dressed pack leader?"
"The very same." Selina's lips quirked upward in genuine amusement. "Though he'd probably have a minor coronary if he heard you describing him as 'collecting strays.' Bruce prefers to think of it as 'providing opportunities for disadvantaged youth' or some equally philanthropic-sounding euphemism that makes it sound like a tax write-off instead of what it actually is."
"Which is?"
"A very rich man with control issues and a savior complex who can't walk past a kid in trouble without adopting them." Her expression softened slightly. "Also, a very good man who understands that sometimes the best families are the ones you choose, not the ones you're born into."
Harry considered this information, his analytical mind picking it apart for flaws and inconsistencies. "And he just... takes in random children? Off the streets? No questions asked? That seems either remarkably altruistic or deeply suspicious, and my experience suggests that adults are rarely the former."
"Oh, there'll be questions," Selina said with a slight grimace. "So many questions you'll think you've been captured by a very polite but persistent interrogation squad. Bruce has this thing about proper procedures and background checks and psychological evaluations and making sure everyone has updated tetanus shots. But he also has this other thing about making sure kids are safe and fed and educated and loved, so the questions usually work out in the kid's favor."
"And you think he'd be willing to take me in?" Harry asked carefully. "Despite the rather obvious complications that come with my particular brand of specialness?"
"What complications?" Selina's voice was genuinely curious.
Harry gave her a look that suggested she might not be as observant as she'd initially claimed. "Really? You don't see any potential issues with a six-year-old—"
"Nearly seven—"
"*Nearly seven-year-old* who's been abandoned by his family, has no legal documentation that isn't soaking wet in a cardboard box, no social security number that anyone admits to knowing about, and occasionally causes every electronic device within a three-block radius to malfunction when he gets emotional about things like abandonment and starvation?"
Selina went very still, her predator instincts clearly engaged. "Electronics malfunction how, exactly?"
Harry's shoulders hunched defensively, and he suddenly looked every inch the frightened child he was trying so hard not to be. "Sometimes. When I'm scared or angry or... or sad, things just sort of... stop working properly. Street lights explode, car alarms go off, television screens start showing static, that sort of thing." He added quickly, "Nothing dangerous, mind you. Just inconvenient. Very, very inconvenient, apparently, if one happens to be a hotel manager dealing with increasingly irate guests and rising insurance premiums."
"That's..." Selina paused, clearly processing this information and running it through whatever mental database she used to categorize Gotham's various oddities. "That's actually not even close to the weirdest thing I've encountered this week, let alone this month."
"Really?"
"Really. Last Tuesday, I watched a man in a bat costume interrogate a criminal by dangling him upside down from a gargoyle while asking very pointed questions about his mother's maiden name and his childhood fears. Your thing with electronics barely registers on what we locals like to call the Gotham Weirdness Scale."
Harry almost smiled at that, a genuine expression that transformed his whole face. "The Gotham Weirdness Scale? Is that an official municipal measurement system?"
"Absolutely. It's a local institution, like the pizza rats and the fact that our city budget includes a line item for 'villain-related property damage.'" Selina's grin was infectious. "We rate things from one to ten, with one being 'mildly eccentric behavior that wouldn't raise eyebrows in any other major metropolitan area' and ten being 'the Joker's having another theme week and everyone should probably just stay inside until it's over.'"
"And where exactly do I fall on this illustrious scale?"
"You're maybe a three. Four at most, and that's only if you manage to knock out power to an entire city block." She paused thoughtfully. "Though if you could learn to do it on command, you might bump up to a five. Selective electronics control is actually a pretty useful skill in this town—lots of security systems that could use a good shorting out."
"How reassuring," Harry said dryly. "I rank below theme weeks but above mildly eccentric behavior. I'm not sure whether to be insulted or relieved."
"Trust me, theme weeks are *terrifying*," Selina said with an exaggerated shudder. "Last time, he decided the whole city needed to participate in a massive game of musical chairs with death traps. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a chair when a psychotic clown has systematically removed ninety percent of them from the metropolitan area and rigged the remaining ten percent to explode if you sit down wrong?"
Despite everything—the rain, the cold, the hunger, the bone-deep exhaustion of trying to survive on his own for weeks—Harry laughed. Actually laughed, bright and genuine and completely free of the bitter undertones that had colored his voice all evening. The sound echoed off the alley walls, surprising them both with its purity.
"That's completely barking mad," he said, still grinning.
"That's Gotham," Selina said with obvious affection for her crazy city. "Which is exactly why one kid with a talent for shorting out electronics isn't going to raise any eyebrows around here. Hell, Bruce probably has contingency plans for that sort of thing filed away in his secret superhero filing cabinet, right between 'What to do if the plants achieve sentience' and 'Emergency protocols for dealing with time-traveling villains.'"
"Contingency plans?"
"The man has contingency plans for his contingency plans, and backup contingency plans for when the original contingency plans don't work out according to plan." Her expression took on a fond exasperation. "It's both deeply impressive and mildly concerning from a psychological standpoint. I'm pretty sure he has a contingency plan for what to do if he runs out of contingency plans."
Harry giggled—actually giggled like the child he was—at the mental image of a grown man obsessively planning for every possible scenario. "That sounds wonderfully neurotic."
"You have no idea." She wiggled her fingers invitingly, raindrops beading on the leather. "So what do you say, kitten? Ready to see how the other half lives? Fair warning: there's going to be a lot of hovering and concerned questions and probably someone trying to feed you soup every five minutes until you gain back whatever weight you've lost out here. Can you handle that level of intensive care?"
Harry looked at her hand again, then at his carefully constructed cardboard shelter that was already starting to sag under the weight of accumulated rainwater, then at the endless stretch of dark alley that had been his entire world for the past month. He thought about Uncle Vernon's purple face when the hotel's electrical system had started sparking, about Aunt Petunia's pinched mouth when the manager had started talking about liability and damages, about Dudley's cruel laughter when their parents had dragged him away from yet another "incident."
Then he thought about warm beds that didn't involve cardboard and duct tape, about hot meals that hadn't been rescued from garbage containers, about people who might call him extraordinary instead of abnormal, special instead of freakish.
"If I come with you," he said slowly, his voice careful and precise, "and this Bruce Wayne person decides that I'm too much trouble after all—decides that the electrical thing is too expensive or too dangerous or just too weird to deal with..."
"He won't," Selina said with absolute conviction.
"But if he does—"
"He won't," she repeated firmly. "But if, by some miracle of catastrophically poor judgment, he does decide you're too much trouble, then you come find me immediately. I'll make sure you're taken care of, even if I have to steal half of Gotham's electronics to pay for it."
"You'd do that?" Harry asked wonderingly. "For someone you just met? Someone who might cause your power bill to go through the roof?"
"Kid, I've been where you are. Maybe not the exact same circumstances, but close enough to matter." Her voice softened, losing its predatory edge entirely. "I know what it's like to be thrown away like garbage by people who were supposed to love you. I know what it's like to survive on your own when you're too small and too young and too scared to know what the hell you're doing. And I know what it would have meant to me if someone had dropped out of the sky and offered me a real family instead of just more ways to survive."
She leaned closer, her dark eyes serious and intent. "Nobody should have to do this alone, Harry. Especially not someone who's barely old enough for first grade and obviously way too smart for his own good. You deserve better than this. You deserve safety and warmth and people who think your weird talents are gifts instead of problems."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, rain drumming steadily against the fire escape above them while he processed everything she'd said. When he finally spoke, his voice was very small and uncertain—the voice of a child who'd been hurt too many times to trust easily. "What if I'm not worth saving? What if there's something fundamentally wrong with me that makes me impossible to love?"
"There's nothing wrong with you," Selina said without hesitation, her voice carrying the kind of fierce certainty that could move mountains or at least convince one small boy that he might be worthy of care. "You're smart and brave and funny and strong, and anyone who told you otherwise was a liar and a coward who didn't deserve to have you in their life for even five minutes."
Harry looked up at her, this strange woman in leather and attitude who'd dropped out of the sky to argue with him about his own worth. She was probably insane. This was probably a terrible idea. Bruce Wayne was probably going to take one look at him and call social services.
But for the first time in months, Harry felt something that might have been hope.
He reached out and took her hand.
"Alright," he said quietly. "But if this goes badly, I'm blaming you."
Selina's grip was warm and steady through her gloves. "Fair enough. I've been blamed for worse." She stood, pulling him up with her, and Harry was startled to realize how much taller she was than he'd thought. "Come on, let's get you somewhere dry before you catch pneumonia."
"Will there be hot chocolate?" Harry asked as they started walking, falling into step beside her with surprising ease.
"Kid, there'll be hot chocolate, warm clothes, a bed that doesn't involve cardboard, and more food than you can eat." She glanced down at him. "And Harry? Welcome to the family."
Harry looked up at her, rain dripping from his too-long hair, wearing clothes that didn't fit and shoes with holes in them, but for the first time in his short life, he felt like he might actually belong somewhere.
"Thank you," he said simply.
"Don't thank me yet," Selina said with a grin that was equal parts mischief and affection. "Wait until you meet the rest of the chaos you're walking into. Between Bruce's brooding, Alfred's passive-aggressive commentary, and whatever strays they've already collected, you're in for quite an adventure."
Harry Potter, formerly of Number Four Privet Drive, currently of nowhere at all, soon to be of Wayne Manor, squared his shoulders and walked into his new life with his head held high and his hand firmly clasped in Selina Kyle's.
Behind them, the rain continued to fall on the empty alley, washing away the last traces of his makeshift shelter and the old life he was leaving behind.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!