Chapter Text
"Every wand is unique, its nature shaped by the distinct tree and magical creature from which it draws its core. Moreover, from the moment a wand chooses its ideal master, it begins to learn from and teach its human partner."
—Excerpt from Ollivander’s Notes on Wandlore (Pottermore)
The summer days in Britain were stiflingly hot and humid, making Dick long for the sea breeze of Blüdhaven’s harbor. He draped his suit jacket over his arm, his sweat-dampened shirt clinging just enough to hint at the defined muscles beneath. A few passing schoolgirls glanced back, whispering and giggling among themselves. Dick paid them no mind, leaning casually against a lamppost with his luggage piled at his feet. He swept his hair back, revealing a smooth forehead, then pulled out a letter to double-check the address.
Though reluctant to admit he’d been successfully poached, Clayne had assured Dick that the MACUSA would provide him with all necessary support. And if Hogwarts didn’t suit him, Ilvermorny’s doors would remain open. Since wizards rarely used mobile phones (Is this really happening in the 21st century?), Clayne had given Dick a meeting point and time to connect with a local liaison.
Tucking the letter away, Dick continued waiting until a voice spoke up behind him.
“Grayson?”
Instinct made Dick turn instantly.
“Hello, Grayson. I’m Gil Lockwood, an Auror from the MACUSA’s foreign office.” The man wore a gray overcoat with its collar turned up, his temples streaked with silver and his dark hair disheveled from travel. Yet his sharp, hawk-like eyes showed no trace of fatigue as they scrutinized the young man before him.
“Hi, I’m Dick Grayson.” Dick shook Gil’s hand with his free one, the calluses on the Auror’s palm instantly betraying his experience. In fact, something about this wizard reminded Dick of Gordon.
“We don’t usually get students here,” Gil snorted, steering Dick aside. “Kid, I’ve heard about your situation. But no matter what, Hogwarts has never taken in a student your age. Sharing classes with children won’t be easy.”
“Frankly, Ilvermorny would suit you better,” he added, shaking his head. “Clayne might disagree, but Hogwarts isn’t a bad choice either. Since you’re here, might as well make the best of it.”
“I’ve booked you a room at the Leaky Cauldron. Clayne mentioned you’d need to exchange currency, so I’ll take you to Gringotts in Diagon Alley later.” Gil clapped Dick on the back. “After that, you’re on your own. I’ve got more important things to do than babysit. We’ll meet again at the pub tonight.”
“The Leaky Cauldron? Where is it?” Dick’s question drew a rare smirk from the usually stern Auror. He pointed, and Dick followed his gesture to a grimy little pub wedged between a bookstore and a record shop. If not for Gil’s indication, he would’ve missed it entirely. Stranger still, the passing Muggles seemed utterly oblivious to its presence.
Oh. Dick blinked in realization.
Gil patted his shoulder again. “Though I’d suggest changing your clothes after you get your Galleons.” He gave Dick a once-over. “You’re a bit too… eye-catching.”
***
Harry gnawed on the frayed end of his quill, struggling to jot down the names of two medieval female wizardes Mr. Fortescue had just mentioned. If only there were a quill that could write my History of Magic essay for me, he thought irritably, like a Muggle computer. Too bad wizards don’t use phones or the internet.
“Hey, mind if I sit here?”
"Of course." Harry replied unconsciously. He looked up, startled, and found himself staring at a stranger—a young man around Charlie Weasley’s age, tall and lean with an easy confidence in his posture. Like Harry, he had thick, unruly black hair and sun-tanned skin, but his most striking feature was his deep blue eyes, which held a mix of warmth and something far more profound—something Harry had only ever glimpsed in Dumbledore’s gaze. The stranger sat sideways, elbow propped on the table, frowning at a sheet of parchment in his hand.
But what really caught Harry off guard was his outfit: a light blue dress shirt rolled up to the forearms, fitted jeans, and a brown suit jacket slung over his arm. It was standard Muggle attire—something almost unheard of in Diagon Alley. A wizard dressed like that stood out as much as a robed wizard would on a Muggle street.
Harry wasn’t the only one staring.
The stranger noticed and glanced up. “Hey.”
“Uh, hi,” Harry croaked, his throat dry from lack of use. “I’m Harry.”
“Oh, hey, Harry.” The young man tucked the parchment into his shirt pocket—another very Muggle gesture—and extended his hand. “I’m Dick.”
“Sorry?”
“Dick’s a nickname. Not that meaning.” He clasped Harry’s hesitant hand and shook it firmly. “You can call me Richard. My little brother does—he’s about your age.”
“Uh…” Dick’s easy familiarity threw Harry off. He scrambled for a new topic. “So… you’re American?”
“Yep.” Dick exhaled, looking suddenly tired. “Been to Britain before,” he continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “but this is my first time here.”
Harry stiffened, then caught himself and leaned back, flushing. Behind the counter, Fortescue straightened, watching them. So he’s with the American Ministry? Harry wondered. Is he here to catch Black? Do wizards have international law enforcement too? After days of isolation, curiosity got the better of him. “So… you’re here on business or something?”
Dick glanced at Fortescue, then shrugged lazily. “Something like that. Gotta stay a while. Also gotta go to school.”
School? Harry’s heart skipped. A Ministry official attending Hogwarts?
Before he could ask more, Dick pulled out his parchment again. “Uh… I need to pick up some supplies, but I don’t know my way around. Could you point me in the right direction?”
“Sure!” Harry blurted, his Gryffindor instincts kicking in. “Actually, I could take you. I know Diagon Alley pretty well.” Realizing how eager that sounded, he quickly added, “I’ve got some shopping to do too.”
“Wow.” Dick’s bright blue eyes locked onto Harry’s green ones, studying him properly for the first time. “You’re really nice. Thanks!”
Are all Americans this friendly? Harry thought dizzily as Dick pulled him to his feet.
***
Alright, clearly Dick himself was overly enthusiastic. Harry thought this as he accompanied Dick to the wand shop. Not only had Dick charmed even the stern Madam Malkin into giggling, but he’d also managed to get a brand-new cauldron at a discount! Brand new! Harry was convinced that even the picky Aunt Petunia would have been won over by Dick’s silver tongue. And Dick didn’t treat him any differently because of his scar or his name—which, Harry realized, might sound a bit conceited, but his fame probably wasn’t as prominent on the other side of the Atlantic. It was kind of nice.
That said, the tidbits Dick had let slip during their conversation left Harry with a vague sense of unease. And when they finally strolled up to the entrance of Ollivander’s, Harry finally realized what was off.
“Wait, wait—so you Americans don’t use wands?” Harry asked, startled.
“Of course we use wands,” Dick replied, eyeing the dimly lit little shop with interest, his gaze lingering on the sign that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. “But I don’t have a new one yet. I only have my mother’s.”
The topic veered into family wands, something Harry wasn’t familiar with. But as far as he knew, Ron had also used his brother’s old wand before getting his own, so it wasn’t unheard of. Suppressing his curiosity, Harry followed Dick into Ollivander’s.
The familiar tinkling sounds from the back room reached Harry’s ears. He sat on the bench to wait, just like Hagrid had two years ago, while Dick surveyed the cramped shop as if expecting someone to pop out from the corners.
“Good afternoon,” Ollivander’s soft voice preceded his appearance at the counter. Dick didn’t even flinch. “In need of a new wand?”
Those pale, wide eyes paused when they landed on Harry. “Ah, Harry Potter. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon—holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches. Still serving you well? I’m quite certain you’ve already accomplished great things with it.”
“Very well, sir, thank you,” Harry said shyly, trying to ignore the heat in his ears.
“A most remarkable destiny… achievements indeed…” Ollivander murmured, seemingly lost in his own world for a moment before abruptly turning to Dick. “And our new guest—what is it you require?”
“I need a new—” Dick’s words were cut off as the old man suddenly raised his voice.
“The first wand is often the most important to a wizard,” Ollivander said, nodding sagely. “You carry one with you, but it is not yours.”
Dick nodded, unfazed, and pulled a wooden box from his pocket. “Right here. My mother’s wand.”
Ollivander carefully took it, muttering to himself, “Cedar, twelve and a half inches… ah, a brave woman, yes… veela hair core, highly temperamental… must be French.”
“Yes, she attended Beauxbatons,” Dick replied, a note of familial pride in his voice.
“Hmm,” Ollivander nodded approvingly. “It would have suited her perfectly. But it clearly doesn’t suit you, my boy… too volatile, too delicate to channel much magic.”
“Uh, I have a bit of a magic overflow problem, so yeah, I’d like to pick one for myself.” Dick eyed the towering stacks of wand boxes. The moment he finished speaking, the wands on the shelves seemed to tremble faintly, as if responding, and the room filled with the same buzzing sound Harry had heard last time.
Ollivander nodded. “Excellent. A powerful wizard with a strong will, from foreign lands. Very well, let’s see.” He pulled out the magical measuring tape. “Your dominant hand is—”
“Right.”
The tape sprang to life, winding around Dick’s body like Madam Malkin’s had, though Harry could’ve sworn it moved with the shyness of a schoolgirl.
Once the measurements were done, Ollivander immediately turned and pulled a box from the middle shelf. “Rowan, phoenix feather, eleven and three-quarter inches—give it a wave—”
The moment Dick flicked the wand, every light in the shop flared to life, illuminating every corner of the dim store. Harry instinctively clapped his hands over his ears as the bulbs groaned under the strain, emitting a boiling-water-like whine—before exploding in a shower of glass. Harry ducked, shielding his head from the shards, while Ollivander dove behind the counter. Only Dick remained standing amid the wreckage, somehow unscathed.
The dark-haired young man gingerly placed the wand back on the counter. “Sorry about that. Uh, wasn’t intentional.”
“Exceptionally powerful magic—” Ollivander emerged from behind the counter, his wide eyes alight with excitement and curiosity. He pulled out another box buried beneath the counter. “Try this—cypress, dragon heartstring, fourteen inches—”
Dick barely lifted it before Ollivander snatched it back and shoved another into his hands. “No, no—this one! Alder, thirteen inches—”
Dick hesitated, giving the wand a slight tfemale wizard. A gust of wind erupted inside the shop, sending a thick stack of parchment flying like owl post. He hurriedly set the wand down.
“No, no,” Ollivander muttered, his eyes feverish. Dick, looking increasingly awkward, started, “If there isn’t one that fits—”
“Of course there is!” Ollivander cut him off. “It’s just that this young wizard isn’t what I expected… We will find the right wand for you—just you wait!”
“Alright,” Dick sighed, waving a hand. Harry smirked—he knew exactly how long Ollivander’s “just you wait” could be.
Half an hour later, they’d gone through a small mountain of wands with no success. The closest match had been aspen—but most wands simply couldn’t handle Dick’s magic, a situation Ollivander seemed to find rare. By now, Harry was leaning against the counter, yawning, while Dick stood with his arms crossed, looking both amused and mildly exasperated.
Harry rubbed his eyes—the irritation vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by Dick’s usual cheerful demeanor.
“A most challenging case. The wand chooses the wizard—but most wands cannot withstand your magic,” Ollivander mused, stroking his beard. “However…”
He disappeared into the back room, returning moments later covered in dust, clutching a small, unremarkable black box. Inside lay an oddly shaped wand—reddish-brown, its form resembling a gnarled branch.
“Perhaps this one… applewood, thunderbird feather, twelve inches.” Ollivander caressed the box, his gaze distant, as if lost in memory. “One of my father’s finest works. The feather was a gift from an American wizard, but it never found a suitable master. The wood is gentle and steadfast, but the core makes it… competitive. It has harmed many who sought to master it.”
The moment Dick picked it up, a jolt of electricity shot through his hand, as if the wand wanted to leap free. Raising an eyebrow, he tightened his grip. The wand struggled briefly before stilling, though Dick could feel it pulling, as if trying to siphon his magic. Time to test it, then. Clearing his throat, he flicked it decisively. “Avis!”
A burst of red erupted from the wand’s tip—a swirling storm of crimson leaves and fluttering wings filled the tiny shop. Harry squinted, realizing it was a flock of British robins, their rust-colored undersides blending into what looked like autumn foliage. They chirped and circled overhead, guided effortlessly by Dick, who stood among them like a Muggle stage magician.
When the spell ended, the wand no longer trembled in Dick’s hand. Instead, it lay there warm and content, like a drunkard after a feast—Dick could’ve sworn he heard it purr. He studied it with narrowed eyes but said nothing, merely tilting his head at Ollivander.
The wandmaker looked even more pleased than the wand. “A perfect match—though a greedy one. It will demand more magic than most wands.”
“No problem!” Dick said cheerfully, tossing down a pile of Galleons despite Ollivander’s protests.
He’d make a fantastic Auror, Harry thought.
***
By the time they stepped out of the wand shop, the afternoon had faded into dusk. Logically, it was time to part ways—but Harry didn’t see it that way. After hesitating for a long moment, he finally blurted out the question lingering on his lips:
“...So, do you have anything else you need to buy?”
“Hmm,” Dick glanced at the crumpled parchment in his hand. “Some books and things, but those can wait till tomorrow.” He caught Harry's expression and seemed to read his mind. “Did you want to grab something? We could check out the bookstore tomorrow.”
Harry exhaled in relief. “Yeah, I need my new textbooks anyway."
“You can find me at the Leaky Cauldron. I’m staying there then."
Harry's heart thudded. “I'm staying there too!”
Dick blinked, genuinely surprised. For a split second, his gaze sharpened—something assessing and older flickering across his face. “Really? Guess wizarding inns are in short supply.”
Harry flushed again, but Dick, mercifully, didn't tease him further. “So, any recommendations for food there? I have no idea what to order.”
***
Thanks to Dick, the last days of Harry’s summer were finally bearable. Florean’s ice cream was good, but what Harry really needed was company without a generational gap. Dick was, frankly, the perfect companion. Though eight years older, he had an easygoing charm—probably from raising a small army of siblings (Harry had already heard plenty about his “little brother brigade”). As a Muggle-born, Dick was refreshingly down-to-earth, and his unfamiliarity with British wizardry gave Harry an excuse to ramble about Hogwarts (omitting the life-threatening parts, of course). They spent their days exploring every corner of Diagon Alley—treating each other to ice cream until even Florean warmed up—and even ventured to the fringes of Knockturn Alley.
One thing was certain: Dick might not flaunt it, but he was definitely Auror material. Harry had seen the American Auror waiting for him that first night—a colleague, maybe? The man had sharp instincts, a relentless drive for truth, and a knack for handling anyone, even magical creatures. Most impressively, he had zero fear of danger. Harry would bet his Nimbus 2000 that if Dick had gone to Hogwarts, he’d have been a Gryffindor through and through.
“Gryffindor?” Dick’s question snapped Harry back to reality—he’d said that last part out loud. It was their last day before term, and they were back at Florean’s, Harry finally free of summer homework. They had pretty much explored every corner of Diagon Alley, and in the past couple of days, Harry had even run into Seamus and a flustered Neville in a few shops. Dick always tactfully stepped away to let Harry chat with his classmates before rejoining him.
“One of Hogwarts’ four houses. I’m in Gryffindor.” Harry said, unfolding his letter and pointing to the red section of the crest. “We get Sorted when we arrive. Do American schools do that too?”
“Something like that,” Dick said around a mouthful of whipped cream, offering no further explanation.
Harry didn’t mind. Dick wasn’t particularly fond of discussing the American wizarding world, which Harry privately labeled as “confidentiality awareness.” It made him seem professional, the boy thought to himself. Still, even with such a new friend by his side, Harry missed Ron and Hermione terribly.
Speak of the devil, two voices called out from behind Harry: “Harry!” “Harry!”
Harry turned to see who it was, and his face broke into a bright smile. He waved enthusiastically. “Ron! Hermione!”
“Blimey, mate. How was summer?” Ron clapped him on the shoulder before noticing Dick. “...Uh, hello?”
“Hi, I’m Dick.” The older boy smiled at Ron and Hermione. “Just got here recently. Nice to meet you.”
“Er, hi?” Ron waved awkwardly while Hermione’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny.
“Right—Dick, these are Ron and Hermione, my best friends. Guys, this is Dick. I met him a few days ago.” Harry floundered, unsure how to explain Dick’s presence.
“Pleasure to meet you. I'm Dick Grayson,” Dick took the initiative, flashing an even brighter smile.
“Well, hi.” Ron shot Hermione a wary look. She took the hint. “Hello, Mr. Grayson... Would you mind if we borrowed Harry for a bit? We haven’t seen him all summer.”
Even Harry couldn’t miss the tension now. But Dick just nodded amiably. “Of course.” Grabbing his chocolate sundae (topped with suspiciously glittering beans), he relocated to a distant table, casually unfolding that day’s Daily Prophet.
Hermione glanced a few more times at the black-haired young man’s back, making sure he couldn’t overhear before sitting down beside Harry. She leaned in close to the other two and whispered. “Harry, who is he?”
“Oh, I think he's an Auror from the American Ministry of Magic or something.” Harry stirred his ice cream, avoiding her gaze like a Transfiguration pop quiz. “Nothing special. We’ve just been hanging out for a few days.”
“I cannot believe you!” Hermione said, giving him a look of utter disbelief. “You’ve been spending days with a complete foreign stranger—an adult—and didn’t think twice?”
“Mate, if he’s an Auror, that’s actually pretty cool,” Ron interjected, earning a sharp glare from Hermione. He quickly backtracked. “Well, I mean—remember Lockhart? Don’t let his looks fool you. Though, with America—what’s that Muggle word again? Oh, right... alle, isn’t it?”
“It’s ally, Ron—but he does look familiar. like one of those playboys from American tabloids. Grayson... I must have heard that name before somewhere.” Hermione frowned, mentally rifling through magazines.
“I saw him with an American Auror at the Leaky Cauldron,” Harry defended. “The Auror even talked to Fudge. Maybe he’s a trainee? Here to catch that murderer—Black, or whatever — And he said he’s staying at Hogwarts this term.”
“No way,” Ron immediately objected, surprisingly firm. “Dad said the Ministry doesn’t just waltz into Hogwarts. Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it. Not even Yanks.”
Hermione stared at Harry; her eyes filled with that all-too-familiar worry—the same look she got whenever Harry was about to do something stupid. It sparked a flicker of irritation (and, buried deep, doubt). The words spilled out before he could stop them:
"He’s fine. We’ve just been wandering around Diagon Alley these past few days, never went anywhere secluded. I swear I haven’t told him anything important, and he hasn’t tried luring me into any shady alleys or underground tunnels. Besides—he doesn’t treat me any differently because of who I am. We get along fine, and my scar hasn’t hurt once—there’s no way he’s some hidden Death Eater. He’s nothing like Lockhart, the git. Even his wand’s the kind Dark magic hates. And honestly, you can’t expect me to just not talk to anyone, can you? He’s just... nice."
Harry's outburst had unintentionally struck a nerve—even within himself. That last remark had been a bit harsh, but he couldn't help it. Ron and Hermione might have felt the sting too, but they chose not to comment. The three of them sat in silence at the little table for what felt like an eternity—though it was probably only a minute—with nothing but the hum of the shop and the rustling of Dick's newspaper filling the air.
“So... how was your summer?” Harry licked his dry lips, staring at his melted ice cream. He didn’t even want it anymore; he’d had enough this week. “I got your letter, Ron. How was Egypt?”
“Not bad, especially the part where Fred and George terrorized Percy,” Ron said, relieved to move past the tension. Then, as if remembering something, he added, “Is it true? Did you really blow up your aunt?”
It had only been two weeks ago, but Privet Drive felt like another lifetime. Harry nodded. “Yeah, but it wasn't on purpose. Just lost control--”
They fell into easier chatter—Fudge’s decisions, last-minute school prep, the upcoming term—Gradually, Harry felt the earlier awkwardness fade, and his mood lightened.
“I should probably get him checked out,” Ron said, pulling Scabbers from his pocket. “Scabbers hasn't been right since we got back from Egypt. Still not better.”
The rat lay limp on the table, whiskers drooping.
“Maybe we could take him to the Magical Menagerie. They’re good with stuff like that,” Harry suggested. “Hermione can get her owl too, and Dick also wants—”
“I’d like an owl too. Need one for sending post.” a voice chimed in. Dick had somehow appeared beside their table, hands in his pockets, newspaper tucked under his arm. “Mind if I tag along for this little trip?”
In the background, Hermione muttered, “I swear I’ve seen his face somewhere...” while Ron groaned, “How does he walk so quiet?” But Harry, feeling a pang of guilt over their earlier conversation, quickly nodded. “Yeah, sure!”
As they walked, Dick occasionally joined their chatter without seeming intrusive. By the time they crossed the street to the bustling Magical Menagerie, Harry had to admit Ron had mostly dropped his guard—and even Hermione seemed to relax a little.
When the female wizard behind the counter picked up Scabbers and asked how old he was, Dick casually interjected:
“Do magical rats usually live this long?”
“Not typically. Most only live two or three years, same as regular rats,” she said, tilting her head, “But there’s always exceptions.”
Something flickered in Dick’s eyes—too fast for Harry to catch. The young man gave a faint hum, studying the aged rodent with an expression like an owl watching from the shadows, waiting to strike.
Then, without warning, a massive ginger beast launched itself from the highest cage and landed right on Ron’s head, hissing and baring its teeth at Scabbers. As the female wizard cried, “Crookshanks, no!” and Scabbers scrambled off the table, Dick moved like lightning—one hand snatching the rat by the tail, leaving it dangling helplessly, while the other scooped the furious cat off Ron’s head, tucking it securely against his chest.
“Merlin’s beard, thank you!” gasped the female wizard, “I’ve never seen anyone react that fast!”
“Anytime.” Dick said with a modest smile—the kind Harry privately dubbed “lady-killer.” Sure enough, the witch’s cheeks pinked. Then Dick turned his attention to the squashed-faced feline still glaring at Scabbers. “He’s actually kind of cute.”
Ron thanked Dick and made a noise somewhere between “Cute?!” and a gag, gingerly taking Scabbers back. “Is that a tiger or a XXXXX creature?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ronald,” Hermione said, her face softening with the same fondness Dick had shown. “He is actually cute.”
“Crookshanks is half-Kneazle, so he’s a bit different from ordinary cats—but very clever," the female wizard explained. "Maybe too clever. I should warn you, he’s been here a while. Most wizards can’t handle his temperament, so no one’s taken him yet.”
As if to prove her wrong, the fluffy ginger menace had already melted under Dick’s gentle strokes, purring loudly (a far cry from the predator of moments ago). Even animals, it seemed, weren’t immune to Dick’s charm. Hermione watched, visibly envious.
“Here, try holding him,” Dick offered, passing the cat over. “He likes you.”
“Oh—really?” H Hermione fumbled but eagerly accepted the cat, immediately burying her fingers in his thick fur. “Oh, he’s so gorgeous.”
“Wish I could take him, but my little brother’s got a cat already,” Dick sighed, then added lightly, “If you like him, maybe he’s yours, Miss Granger.”
“Just call me Hermione,” she said, blushing as she cradled Crookshanks. “Thank you, Dick. I do want him.” (Harry couldn’t help thinking there was something oddly calculated about the whole thing.)
Ron fake-gagged and launched into a tirade about Crookshanks’ demonic traits, but Hermione’s resolve was set. No force on earth could pry that cat from her now.
While they bickered, Dick purchased a one-eyed eagle owl with eyebrows as long as quill feathers and a permanently furious glare in its good eye. Harry remembered his own unease the last time he’d passed Eeylops Owl Emporium and shot Dick a questioning look.
“This one doesn’t remind me of... unpleasant things,” Dick said by way of explanation, then chuckled as if recalling a private joke, “I’m goanna name him Deathstroke.”
Harry felt like he’d heard that name before. Either way, at least it had more flair than Death Eater.
***
Dick didn’t orchestrate the encounter.
He was just wandering around when he spotted the boy Dumbledore had mentioned—Harry Potter.
The kid looked lonely, hunched over his homework in the corner of the ice cream parlor. He was about Damian's age but far thinner, his slight shoulders bearing the weight of the entire wizarding world—astonishing, really.
Dick chose to sit nearby and let things unfold naturally. Though applying a little Grayson charm wasn't exactly cheating—just some light nudging to speed up the process, all in good fun, of course.
There was no faster way to learn about the British wizarding world and its school than through a student. Harry was a good kid—kind, eager for love and companionship, yet free of vanity or arrogance. Despite his fame (Dick had noticed how other wizards treated him differently), Harry seemed uncomfortable with the attention. Maybe it was his Muggle upbringing—though there were signs of something darker there, too. Dick noted the boy's underfed frame but said nothing. Don’t judge.
Harry's friends, meanwhile, were fiercely protective. Having allies like that at such a young age was rare—it reminded Dick of the early Titans, that kind of us-against-the-world loyalty. So far, they remained wary of Dick. Thankfully, Miss Granger — Hermione hadn't recognized his face yet. (Not to sound vain, but back on the West Coast? Whole different story. Fewer people recognized him here. His name, though, was another matter.)
He could tell Harry had decent instincts (a good trait!), cautious around strangers, but he was still just an untrained kid. Unlike Dick—who'd been guarding secrets on his guardian's knee since he was eight—Harry sometimes let too much slip: emotions, information. Still, thanks to him, Dick now had plenty of intel, including the moving newspaper's wanted poster for mass murderer Sirius Black.
Over the past few days, Dick had been adjusting to quills (moderate success), living without the internet (complete failure—he would get Tim to rig up a Hogwarts-compatible network), British food (near failure, though the ice cream was decent), and practicing basic spells (great success, aside from occasional magical surges). The wizarding world, as Dumbledore had warned, was stuck in the 19th century. Charmingly archaic. Dick thought wryly. Made detective work a nightmare. Not a single CCTV in sight—just good old-fashioned eavesdropping.
Crouched in the dark behind the bar, Dick listened as snippets of conversation drifted from the hallway. Harry and his friends had no idea he could hear every word—normal humans didn’t have that kind of hearing, but Robin and Nightwing needed every advantage. This world was full of half-spoken secrets, and Dick, as the protégé of the world's greatest detective, was used to filling in the gaps. Now, he tuned into Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s hushed discussion while watching Harry press his ear to the door.
Black was coming to Hogwarts for Harry (some personal vendetta there). Dumbledore hated having Azkaban’s guards—whatever those were—near the school. Hogwarts’ protections might not be enough—
A chair scraped inside the room. Harry ducked under a table, completely missing Dick rolling silently behind the bar. Moments later, the boy crept upstairs and shut his bedroom door.
Dick waited before following. His room was next to Harry’s, separated only by the twins’ raucous quarters. As he passed Harry’s door, he caught the muffled vow: “I won’t be murdered”.
Pausing, Dick let the words hang in the air before answering silently:
No. You won’t.