Chapter Text
Ducra does not have a phone, not because she can’t have one, not because the device won’t work in the Fields of All, but because she firmly believes phones are for pussies when a perfectly executed scry will work better.
Usually, Jason doesn’t care. It’s just a quirk of hers, makes keeping in contact with her less stressful because there’s nothing for the Bats to pick up on. When his hands are shaking so bad he keeps tipping over his fucking scrying bowl, though, when he can’t keep his goddamn crystal from wibbling all over the fucking globe, though –
Fifteenth time’s the charm. Right before he calls it quits and quite literally upends the fucking table, the liquid in his bowl shimmers and clears on a zoomed-in shot of Ducra’s bloodshot eye.
“Grandson.” She says dryly. She sounds delighted in a way that does not spell good news for him.
“You knew.” He hisses, and that earns him a cackle. He jerks, slams his knee into the underside of his table, and the connection breaks.
“God fucking motherfucker – “
She’s still laughing when he gets the connection back.
“Oh, dear, you didn’t think the All-Blades had not yet killed you because you were special, no?” She finally wheezes out, and Jason freezes.
That means that the letter is legit. Not some elaborate fuck up, or a plot – or, well, a fake plot – or a lie, or –
His panic morphs into disgust immediately, and she keeps on wheezing.
“I’m a fucking – no. Absolutely not. I don’t have a goddamn stick!”
“And you will not ever need one, dear. I did not let them teach Essence, I will not let them teach you. The ways of the All-Caste are far superior to what limits wizardkind has built into words and motion.” The amusement bleeds to steel in her voice. Jason makes a brief noise of dissatisfaction – he doesn’t care about education, a wand would be a liability and everything Ducra and the rest of the All-Caste has taught him infinitely superior anyway, but –
“Do you know who I’m supposed to be, then? Who they think I am, I mean?”
“Not the foggiest, dear.” She says cheerfully. And that – soothes him.
He’s been used for his parentage before. For his love of Catherine, his hatred of Willis, his hope for Sheila, his adoration of Bruce. Talia is as vaguely parental as she is capable of becoming, and she’s weaponized his adoption time and time again – against himself, against Dick, against whatever Bat she’s interacting with. He knows, with a kind of bone-deep certainty, that Ducra absolutely would not do the same – that she hasn’t, that his bloodline has been a nice surprise rather than the sole focus of his initiation. But that doesn’t ever help against his anxiety, his paranoia.
“I got a letter from a fucking owl this morning from some goblin-run bank in London. Said my presence is required to protect my bio dad’s estate against a false claimant. I got the impression they never would have contacted me except whoever is making the claim has royally pissed them off.” He adds, because Gotham’s upper crust has taught him weaponized civility and passive aggression more thoroughly than anyone else. He’d been quick to spot the thinly-veiled contempt, the derision, the sharp undertone of this is not for your benefit.
Ducra looks gleeful.
“I do so adore goblins. Give me but a moment, grandson. I will have Essence bring you home.”
“I’ve got a whole goddamn criminal empire here, Ducra! I can’t just up and – “
“Five minutes!” She sings, and snaps the connection herself.
Jason does, in the end, flip the damn table over in his haste to pack.
X
He’s still furiously texting his people when Essence grabs his shoulder and pulls him into the Fields of All. He doesn’t look up. His people are competent, but he’s got a damn patrol schedule and he can’t believe he has to call in favor with the Replacement to cover his shit, and the general inconvenience of being dragged away without time to prepare grates on him.
“Mother told me what happened.”
“Yeah?”
“I always knew you were pathetic.” Essence announces as brightly as she’s capable of. He makes a half-hearted effort to jab her in the side, but she sweeps away in a blur of mist and shadows. Just as quick as her daughter, Ducra is there at his side rummaging through the bag hanging at his hip. He doesn’t know how she knows where the letter is, but she lets out a little victory cry when she finds it.
He watches her freeze halfway through the letter. When she finally looks up at him, she’s squinting like she does when he fucks something up.
“I did nothing.”
“Hold, grandson. I am debating.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I find myself in a dilemma, dear. Should I tell you all I know, you will kill some people I suspect you will need alive to…handle this.”
“You’re talking like there’s a situation.”
“There is a very big situation.” Essence says sourly, and Jason stares between the two of them for a moment before mentally giving up.
“Alright. Fine. When this goes south I am holding you two responsible.”
If it were up to him – he won’t ignore the letter either. It’s – he has enough terrible parents, thanks, and has no interest in collecting more even if this one is dead. But it strikes too close to him, grates on all his triggers, and he’d go just to make a nuisance of whoever required his presence in the first place.
Essence makes the executive decision that they need tea for this discussion, and leaves Jason and Ducra to meander their way up to the kitchens. It’s a bit of a walk, but it’s – nice.
It is…nice to be home. To be home in a home that actually, genuinely, wants him. Essence bitches and snipes at him but never with intent to harm, and Ducra is a terrifying nightmare of a taskmistress even on good days but is always pleased to see him, and the Fields themselves hum beneath his feet.
It’s nice to be welcome.
“No new recruits?” He asks. Ducra has folded her arms around his, and squeezes gently.
“Not yet. That we will have to open our gates to mortals is an inevitability, now, but it is not one I will allow without safeguards. You are an exemplary member of the All-Caste, dear, but I do not think many others would stay true to our teachings if they left our halls so often or so permanently.”
He squeezes her arm back, and swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.
“You need to devise a test, then?”
“A trial, yes. And a plan to…handle those who change their minds. I will not give up our secrets only to watch them turn their backs on us, but to demand such loyalty and devotion prior to training would be a mistake.” Ducra’s voice is soft, thoughtful. She’s always been ethical, for the leader of a technical cult, and Jason admires that about her.
His plan – to take Gotham by storm, to grip the underworld by its throat and bend it to his will – had been born of her attitudes towards responsibility and power. He hopes he’s managed to live up to a fraction of her dedication.
Essence has pulled out all the stops, which is unusual for her. She’s buttering him up, Jason decides, as he looks at neat clay cups filled with steaming liquid and a tray of snacks Essence personally loathes but Jason has always been fond of. She refuses to look at him while he helps Ducra down, and when he sits carefully down at the only remaining spot at the table.
“This letter is…very interesting in its own right. I believe it best I start there.” Ducra finally says, producing said letter out of thin air. Jason just sort of blinks at her. She’s still all smiles, which is disconcerting in the same way a too-quiet child is. She’s up to something.
“The goblins, I presume?”
“Yes, dear. They’ve grown resentful these past years. When wizards removed themselves from the world, they did so in a manner so cruel and callous that goblinkind thought it had found an equal. Wizards ripped themselves from the hearts and souls of every being alive – and goblinkind went with them for the brutality that promised in the future.”
“The Tribes haven’t done anything really….undeservedly malicious. That I am aware of.” Jason points out. His own knowledge is limited – awareness of wizardkind does not mean he wants anything to do with them, and his reconnaissance standards are necessarily lower for supernatural things. Most are more inclined to introduce themselves the more one knows of them, and Gotham has enough supernatural problems to willingly invite more.
“Wizardkind’s atrocities have necessarily been self-inflicted in their isolation. Or – at least those that are beholden to the Statute. Not every country agreed with it at the time, as you well know. The Tribes are an example of one of the most successful approaches to secrecy in the modern era, and they do so only out of spite.”
“Small-scale. And goblins don’t like that?”
“They’ve grown bitter. They expected violence untold, and instead they’re lucky to see one Dark Lord or Lady a generation.”
“Dark Lord a la fantasy books?”
“In Britain, yes. Madmen. Some are true revolutionaries, most are simply fools with more power than sense.”
“So the goblins fuck with wizards in revenge.”
“They run the wizarding economy. Keeps them on their toes, for the most part.” Ducra sounds almost fond. Essence shudders so hard she nearly spills her tea. Jason raises an eyebrow at her, and takes a dainty sip of his own. As if Essence doesn’t know her own mother’s penchant for cruelty – Ducra trained her first, after all.
“They only would have informed you of your inheritance if the benefit to you was vastly outweighed by the harm to another. Given the urgency of this letter, likely another with whom they have…”
“Beef.” Essence supplies. Jason chokes. Her grin is all teeth, even as Ducra nods.
“Yes. I cannot tell you why, or who has earned their ire. What I can, and will do, is explain to you a little of Britain’s current…situation.”
In other words, what he’ll be walking into. He nods, and she smiles, and then takes a cookie. He and Essence sit in awkward silence while she dunks and eats the damn thing one tiny bite at a time.
He might’ve missed his adoptive grandmother and sometimes-sister, but he did not miss this. She’s old, and they’re both isolated, and Ducra gets her jollies by being irritating in the most mundane and odd ways possible.
Essence breaks first.
“You’re a Black.”
“I can read the asshole’s name.” Jason says dryly.
Regulus Black. Deceased months prior to Jason’s birth. According to the goblins, Jason is his only son.
“Family Black has a history with the All-Caste, though I doubt any of them are alive to remember it.” Ducra says severely, as if she wasn’t the one playing games, and Jason overlooks her attitude in his surprise.
“Were they members?”
“At one time they sided with the Untitled in a very poorly thought-out power grab.”
“They nearly named it.” Essence hisses, the dark flaring void with her ire. Jason feels absolute ice run down his spine, but – but Ducra had already said she’d had no idea, and –
And he has to believe that. Cannot live if he doesn’t.
“I want you to go and claim every fucking scrap of this inheritance, Jason. Take everything from the Blacks like they nearly took everything from the world.”
“I find it hard to believe neither of you have gotten revenge on them yet.” Jason says, but he’s already nodding and Essence is already relaxing.
“Oh, we did. Cursed their blood with madness. Sorry, dear, although it worked out quite nicely with your Lazarus exposure.”
Ducra pats his hand as she speaks.
“I find myself thinking it won’t be so easy as walking in there and grabbing shit and leaving.” Jason says after a moment, after resolutely deciding to ignore whatever the fuck that means. Essence snorts.
“Of course not. They’re in the middle of another genocidal war.”
“Well, the war hasn’t quite restarted yet. But one of their Dark Lords has resurrected himself, yes.”
“And what does this asshole want?”
“Wholesale extinction of wizards born to families not purely magical, and total dominion over non-magical peoples.” Ducra says promptly.
“That’s…me, isn’t it?”
“Let us check.” Ducra says brightly, and then stabs him.
X
So.
Turns out it isn’t.
Which is somehow worse.
Jason’s spent his entire life at the bottom of whatever given hierarchy he’s in. He was a street rat, gutter trash, alley brat in Gotham even after Bruce took him in. He wasn’t white, wasn’t rich, and wasn’t educated, and then he was dead. While under Talia’s care, he was afforded no respect and no leniency by any of the League for the crime of daring to capture Talia’s attention. And – less insidiously – he is the least experienced, least powerful, least educated of the last bastion of All-Caste.
He's the black sheep of the Bats, the upstart bitch of Gotham’s underworld.
And in some magic country-within-a-country in fucking Britain of all places, he’s apparently the most privileged motherfucker to ever privilege.
“Sheila was a witch.” He repeats. This is not the third, or the fourth, or the fifth time he’s said this. Essence, in a surprising show of care, has not yet stopped sympathetically rubbing his back. She’s terrible at it.
It makes sense, is the thing.
Who the fuck would choose to work with the Joker, let alone for as long as Sheila had? So closely that she’d spoken to him face to face on more than one occasion, if her familiarity when handing him over to his death was anything to judge.
And – she hadn’t been afraid while she watched. While she smoked. She’d never once flinched, never once cast an uneasy look at the Joker. When he’d struck her, it had been from behind.
She’d thought her magic would protect her.
“An outcast. Disowned so completely that her former family denies you, too.” Ducra murmurs, attention still focused on the spell she’s casting over Jason’s still-bleeding hand. The needle she’d used to puncture his flesh floats between long loops of crimson, flashing images and lights Jason has no hope of interpreting. She blinks, and her concentration snaps, and Jason has to endure the most uncomfortable moment of his entire life as his blood snakes back into his body. It isn’t painful, but more like – how having a living gummy worm crawl its way under your skin would feel. He does not enjoy it.
“Anything of note?”
“No, dear. She was a follower of that Dark Lord, but so was Family Black. I suppose her family did not agree with her.”
“I don’t want to know anything more.” He whispers, and Ducra nods. Essence moves to bandage his hand, and the needle vanishes, and Ducra’s hand is a warm and solid weight on his shoulder.
X
He packs the next morning. Dresses in his leathers and armor, though he leaves his helmet behind. Essence shrugs when he asks about his guns, so he straps them on, and Talia’s knife, and half a dozen other weapons, and then shoulders his backpack.
It’s easier to get to Britain undetected from the Fields of All than it would be Gotham. He doesn’t have to dodge the Bats, or the Birds, or the entire goddamn Justice League in trying to leave the country. European metas are more isolated than their American counterparts, don’t talk as much amongst each other, and Jason’s not a known entity in most circles.
Ducra had offered to make Essence ferry him around, but he’s unsure whether Britain’s magicals would sense her power, and he doesn’t want to put a target on her back while some magic Hitler motherfucker is running around. Essence calls him a bitch, but looks relieved.
He follows Ducra’s instructions – there had been none in his letter – to a plane, and then a train, and then a cab, and finds himself in front of a grimy pub that reeks of magic so strongly he can’t help but pull a face.
The barman nods at him when he walks in, furrows his brow, but looks away quickly. Most of the pub’s patrons ignore him. A few shoot him concerned looks; others sneer. He’s the only one in the pub not wearing old-fashioned robes. No one, however, approaches him, and he keeps his gait loose and relaxed as he strides into the back of the pub, out a door, and into a grimy, weedy little courtyard.
He doesn’t have a wand, but there’s already a plump woman near drowning beneath a set of green robes and a wide-brimmed witches hat tapping away at the wizarding world’s secret entrance, and he slips in neatly behind her before it can close.
Gringotts is as Ducra had described, almost mockingly roman in architecture and built at angles just off enough to be nauseating. Jason contemplates who the fuck thought this design in particular was a winner, and for a moment wants desperately to ask them why, but he’s already drawing the attention of two fully armored-and-armed guards standing sentinel on either side of an ornate door, so he forces himself to keep moving.
The All-Blades hum when he steps past Gringotts’ threshold, and his fingertips tingle. Wards like walls, like mountains, like a thousand feet of solid stone, drag across his every sense like sandpaper. Before his claustrophobia can surge up his throat and choke him, however, the sensation passes.
He’d known he’d feel something, but Jason’s –
Gotham’s magic is a hell of a lot different than this, likely an entirely different type, and that is the only magic beyond the All-Caste’s that he has allowed himself to experience. His contacts with the Tribes are remote, messages passed third-or-fourth hand.
But Gotham’s magic is so often death magic, and the All-Caste is too a reflection of that balance – the Untitled devour souls whole, and only Death Herself has the right to take a soul so permanently –
And wizards don’t like that type of magic. Goblins wouldn’t either, not if they’d bound themselves however unintentionally to wizarding rules.
Jason forces his jaw to unclench, and strides to the nearest open teller. The goblin in question is already watching him, beady eyes narrowed and glittering sharply in Gringotts’ bright lights.
“Business?” The goblin snaps, and Jason pulls his letter out, flashing the seal towards the goblin.
“A will reading of some sort. I was forewarned there would be complications and advised to come early.” He keeps his words blunt, but his tone measured. Ducra had warned him not to disrespect the goblins more empathetically than she ever had before, and S’aru’s only parting advice had been to piss the goblins off, so.
The goblin smiles briefly, or something in close approximation of one. Its teeth are long, needle-sharp, and glistening.
“Do you have anything to declare, Mr. Todd?”
He has fuck all idea what the hell he’s supposed to say to that.
“I am armed. I am unable to surrender the entirety of my arsenal.”
“Unable or unwilling?” It hisses. Jason tries not to be offended.
“If you want to throw down with Death over the metaphysical properties of my soul you’re more than welcome to get your ass beat.” He says instead. It’s a taunt, a threat, a warning all in one. Wizards don’t like death magic but Jason does, Jason is, and Jason cannot and will not change what he is for some asshole’s inheritance.
Much like how the goblins have refused to bend themselves to wizard rule.
“A demonstration, then.” The goblin huffs, and taps its claws impatiently on the stone desk between them.
“A private one, yes.” Jason answers, and the goblin growls. It’s an odd sound, like rock rumbling and lava seething just past the edge of his hearing, but it pushes away from the desk and hops down. That draws the attention of its fellow tellers, and Jason feels their eyes like blades against the nape of his neck as he hurries after his teller, which has hurtled itself down a broad hallway like a goddamned cannonball. Jason has to jog to catch up.
The fucker tries to lose him for about five minutes before apparently deciding Jason’s too hard to shake and comes to a dead stop in front of a seemingly random door. It raises an eyebrow at him when he doesn’t immediately go in.
Essence, he decides, is going to owe him so fucking much for this.
X
The room contains a large, curved desk covered in neat piles of paperwork, two precise arrays of painfully uncomfortable metal chairs, and an absolutely ancient raisin of a goblin.
“Jason Todd, I presume?” It asks. Jason can see some kind of facial movement happening, but there are too may wrinkles to parse anything else out. He can’t see the goblin’s eyes, can barley make out a nose, and only knows where its mouth is because of the dark slash against its pale skin.
“I am.”
“Your demonstration, if you will. Be warned that we will not permit any threat against our people in our own halls.” The goblin says serenely, as only one with the power to see its threat through could, and Jason nods carefully before reaching into himself and pulling.
Typically, the All-Blades kill their wielders young. Ducra had once told him he’d be lucky to get a hundred battles with the Untitled out of his soul. But he is not entirely a mortal – not anymore, not ever- and wizards have magic, magic which is self-replenishing in a way a soul is not.
The All-Blades will eat his magic first, and his soul second. Jason has never wielded them for a long enough period of time to burn through his magical reserves entirely, although he hopes to push himself to that point just to get an estimate after all this is said and done.
The All-Blades flare to life in his hands, and the wards set so deep into Gringott’s bones they rattle beneath Jason’s feet flinch. The goblin goes bloodless.
“Ducra sends her regards.” He says quietly, and the All-Blades flicker back out of existence. He can’t read the expression on this ancient goblin’s face, but he can all but feel its distate.
“Meddling bitch.” It mutters, and he snorts.
“That’s my grandmother you’re speaking of.” He warns, and the goblin grumbles but nods its head in what Jason assumes is an apology.
“I suppose we must get to the point, as it were.” It sighs, and with a flick of its fingers the stacks of paperwork and scrolls arranged in front of it slide to the far ends of the desk, no less neat for their movement. It produces a scroll of odd-looking parchment, which it unrolls and weighs down with ink pots. The paper – parchment – looks laminated, oily and rainbow and almost crunchy as it is smoothed out.
“An identity check, Mr. Todd. Magic does not lie, but there are legalities to consider.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Merely bleed.”
“Is this a straight DNA test, or is this magical?”
“Magical, of course.” The goblin scoffs, and Jason’s not entirely sure it even knows what a DNA test is, but if it isn’t measuring proper blood his results won’t be skewed – thank you, Talia, and the stupid fucking Lazarus pit – so Jason merely draws Talia’s dagger and cuts himself on the arm. The parchment flares with magic, and Jason looks away, busies himself with cleaning and putting the blade away and slapping a bandage around the wound. He could watch the test adjust, do whatever it is it’s supposed to do, but Jason’s fairly certain that’d make him nauseous.
“Jason Peter Todd, son of Sheila Haywood and Regulus Black, son of Catherine and Willis Todd, son of Talia al Ghul and Bruce Wayne. Grandson to Ducra of the Fields of All.” The goblin drawls, as if none of those names mean anything to it, and maybe they don’t – except for Ducra’s – but Jason still flinches.
“You’re sure this Black guy’s dead? Permanently dead, I mean?”
“In what world is death not permanent?” The goblin asks derisively, and Jason raises an eyebrow, glances down at the parchment towards where his date of birth is listed, and taps the date of death sat beside it. Again, the goblin goes bloodless. It snaps its fingers, and the whole paper goes up in flames. Jason yanks his hand back and scowls, but he doesn’t protest – he doesn’t want evidence of his resurrection lying around.
“Why do you want me here, anyway?”
“Your uncle was recently slain.”
“I had an uncle?”
“One Sirius Black, former Auror and the only soul to have ever escaped Azkaban unaided.”
“Azkaban’s the…prison, right?” Jason asks. Stay the fuck away, had been Essence’s command, and Jason didn’t intend to disobey her but the thought of anyone, let alone some blood relative of his, being forced into a place that scared Essence –
“It is. Your uncle was imprisoned without trial, so his imprisonment never had any bearing on his property rights and so on or such forth. He left a will splitting Family Black’s fortune among a number of his…friends.”
“And he didn’t have the right to do any of that, because I exist.” Jason guesses. The goblin sneers.
“The Family Black has had succession fights in the past. One of your ancestors added a stipulation to the family charter that only the proper heir may sign off on familial property bequeathments, among other things. Although your uncle was the elder brother, he was ritualistically cut from the family during his school days. Your father, and by extension you, are the proper heirs to Family Black and its holdings.”
“But him using the properties – that wasn’t an issue?”
“Your ancestors saw a difference between use while living and discarding while dead.” The goblins says coolly.
“I’ll want copies of the charter. And any relevant statements, contracts, accountings, inventories. Ducra was insistent that I get up-to-date records.” Jason smiles insincerely as he speaks. He’s not sure if it’s his attitude, his request, or his use of Ducra’s name that pisses the goblin off, but the thing is absolutely livid.
“We would expect nothing less from one of the All.” It hisses, and flicks a hand towards a particularly intimidating stack of parchment, scrolls, and papers.
He drags one of the uncomfortable chairs up to the edge of the desk, ignoring the screech of metal on stone, and takes a seat. The goblin glares at him while he selects a scroll at random and unrolls it, but says nothing.
Jason pretends to read for a minute, and then two, and then three before the goblin growls, shakes its head, and summons a scroll of its own. Only once it has become absorbed in its work does Jason turn his attention to the scroll in front of him.
Might as well be productive while he waits for this will reading to start.
X
He decides he hates goblins after the second scroll.
All the information is there. Everything he could possibly want to know, right there in front of him. But it is hidden behind archaic, mind-numbingly boring language. Behind misdirections and false starts, clever turns of phrases and an infuriating lack of labels all in a tiny ass font he can barely read. Because goblins are fuckwits.
Jason’s been scribbling notes and annotations with a non-magical pen for nearly two hours when the door finally swings open and admits a stream of people.
He has a rough idea of how rich Family Black is – very – and how extensive their resources are – very – and a slimy feeling after reading his ancestors’ charter that won’t rub off. He’s still a legitimate heir, even without a wand, because he’s magical. Because he hasn’t married a non-pureblood, or sired a non-pureblood child.
He can see why Essence was so excited at the thought of robbing these assholes.
He puts his scroll down, his pen away, and rubs at his eyes tiredly before taking in the newcomers.
A tall, nervous man in a frayed robe with golden eyes dulled with grief is gingerly sitting in the row of chairs farthest from the desk, as close to the back of the room as he can get. But his head is tilted, his teeth just a little too sharp, and his nostrils are flaring even as the man doesn’t seem to catch it. A creature of some sort.
A stately, severe woman and a soft, rotund man are next. On their heels comes a young woman around Jason’s age with bubblegum pink hair, who takes a seat next to the creature while her two elder companions march for the front row.
Next is a frankly unpleasant woman with a literal goddamn vulture on her hat, her nose turned up even as she drags a boy in that awkward phase of teenagerhood where he’s still technically a child but starting to fill out behind her. The kid looks uncomfortable, pained, and flinches when the elderly woman at his side yanks on his arm.
Next comes another tall woman, this one wrinkled and stern in a way that is distinctly more kind than either of those that had come before. Her sharp gaze lands on him, and Jason meets her eyes steadily until she blinks and looks away. She hesitates a moment, and then takes a seat beside the boy, nodding towards the unpleasant woman.
Then comes another woman, dressed in perfectly tailored robes with her hair in a simple, elegant bun, and Jason has to blink because her hair is white as snow with a streak of black in it, polar opposite of his own, and she seems to sense his stare because she looks up, expression carved from marble, and then her eyes widen and she pales at the sight of him. She sits down heavily in the nearest chair, and does not look away. Jason breaks eye contact first.
Next comes an equally tall old man whose robes are quite literally twinkling; there’s something artificial about his grandfatherly expression and Jason pegs him as dangerous immediately. He almost doesn’t spot Jason, and tenses visibly when he does, some of his dotty aura dropping away. When he sits beside the couple, he’s more serious.
And then, finally, a boy.
Jason pegs him for a street kid, with the sharp eyes and hollow cheeks. But he moves less like Jason does, or did at that age, and more like – more like Replacement. Less used to running, more used to hiding, being quiet. He’s dressed in non-magical clothes, dirty, stained clothes five sizes too big for him, and his glasses are taped thickly around the bridge. His gaze flickers nervously around, takes Jason in just as he takes in the other adults, and he chooses to sit behind the other boy – between the other boy and the creature. Jason sees the kid’s fingers curl in the back of the other boy’s shirt, and both relax a little.
The door slams shut with a thunderous boom. Magically enhanced, Jason would assume.
“Finally.” The elderly goblin growls, and Jason has to bite back an immediate laugh at the goblin’s tone – equal parts gleeful and irate.
“We are ready when you are.” The fake-grandfather demurs, smiling just a touch too broadly to be sincere. The goblin shoots him a look of such loathing that, right then and there, Jason knows that he is their target.
The ceremony is nonexistent. The goblin produces two orbs, which immediately has alarm bells ringing in Jason’s head but doesn’t seem to bother any of the others gathered – except for the boys, who note his tension and tense in turn.
An ornately carved stone basin is produced – a pensieve the goblin calls it – and without any further ado, the goblin tosses one of the orbs in. It sinks into the liquid within without so much as a splash.
There’s a pregnant pause, and then whisps of white light float up off the surface in the basin and coalesce into a face. The whole damn room gasps.
Not his uncle, then. Probably his father.
Regulus Black is young. Jason has a sinking feeling that he is now older than his father ever was. The boy before him is a teenager with a sharp, vicious slant to his mouth and hard eyes, telltale scars of warfare and soldiery in every out-of-place hair and nicked eyebrow. Another child soldier, then.
“This is the last will and testament of I, Regulus Arcturus Black, sole heir to the Family Black. I have filed the appropriate paperwork with the goblins, so that by the time any I call friend or foe hear this there is naught they can do to stop me. Kreacher.”
And there is a pop. And then standing right before the specter of Black is a wrinkled, gnarled creature with tears glistening in its eyes. Jason doesn’t recognize the species, but it croaks out a heartfelt master and raises one hand as if to touch the image. It stings, to see such adoration and grief and watch as the image of Regulus Black does not so much as look down at it.
“I am sorry.” Regulus Black says softly, at sharp odds with his business-like tone prior, and again the whole damn room gasps. Bewildered, disbelieving.
“Kreacher forgives Master. Kreacher will always forgive Master.” The thing – Kreacher – whispers.
“I hereby release you from every oath I have ever bound you to, every promise I have ever begged from you. You are free to do as you see fit, for the betterment of Family Black. I wish it had not necessary to prevent you from doing so until now.”
Kreacher begins sobbing, and Jason’s skin crawls because he can see the scars on the creature, and its sobs are soft, quiet things, hardly audible.
“To my parents, I hereby withdraw the support of Family Black from you both. You will not benefit from a single knut or a single charm for the rest of your pathetic lives. I hope you die half as quickly as you want.”
Abusive, then. And dead already. He has to wonder if Regulus had anything to do with that.
“To my brother, Sirius, you are a fool and a moron and if you are not there to see this I will curse your entire Merlin-damned line. For the remainder of your life you will enjoy the support of the Family Black. I have left a vault in your name, your true name, for your eyes only. I am not sorry that I cannot do more. I hope you make this trouble worth it.”
Jason feels lost. He has no context for these people, these relationships. Regulus sounds both resentful and loving of his brother, and that has never been Jason’s experiences with his – with the other Bats.
He’d held Dick in a kind of bemused, cynical regard. Had known Dick’s anger hadn’t been directed at him, but hadn’t thought very highly of how often Jason had had to deal with the strain of it. They hadn’t been close enough to be brothers before he died, and Dick’s near-pathological need to pretend they had been, were, are now makes his skin crawl.
The less said about Damian the better and Tim – his relationship with his Replacement is a hot fucking mess, but it isn’t so…at least on his end, it isn’t so sour.
“To my cousins and the man who calls himself my Lord, fuck you. Andromeda for abandoning us when she knew, Bellatrix for her everything, and Narcissa for turning a blind eye. If you will not protect your son, Cissa, I will do it for you. And Voldemort – whether I am the end or the beginning, I will see you burn for what you have done.”
Another round of gasps. Jason swallows hard.
Figures the dead one is the only halfway decent one of the lot.
“All else will be held in trust upon my death. Family Black will not open its doors for any but my son or any of his children, should it take that long. I name him, he whose name I do not know, heir and lord of the Family Black from the moment I breathe my last. I regret that I have no further words for him. I am not sorry that I am dead, for my death will ensure he may yet live. I am sorry that I have not known him, but I would not have known him had I lived either. Treat Kreacher well.”
And Regulus Black’s face winks out of existence. The sudden absence leaves Jason seeing spots; by the time he clears his vision, Kreacher is standing in front of him. The rest of the room is chaos, loud and noisy, but Jason cannot concentrate on that with the being right there.
“You are Master’s son.” It croaks. Jason almost shrugs, barely restrains himself from doing so.
“I took a test that said so.” He says softly. It shakes its head.
“Kreacher can feel you now, young Master.” It says, and takes one of his hands in its own. It stands to the side of his chair, content to hold him, and Jason holds himself still as the being’s magic zings across his own, lightning and –
It is old, whatever it is. Ancient, and powerful, and half-mad, but calm and as nervous as it makes him Jason can’t –
“What do you mean now?” He asks, and watery eyes blink up at him.
“Kreacher promised not to look. To let young Master hide, until Master gave him leave to look. Kreacher wants to be angry with Master for that.” It says, and Jason realizes in an instant that he is feeling its lifeforce, that it is feeling his, that –
That Kreacher is feeling every hurt, every death, everything Jason has suffered, and –
“It was not, and is not, your fault.” He says sharply. It – he – starts a little, and narrows his eyes.
“Kreacher must protect Family Black. Kreacher could not, but now Kreacher will.”
This is going to go terribly, Jason realizes, holy shit. He should have ignored the letter.
Gotham’s too fucking cynical to get all…worship-y with him. Crime Alley likes him because he’s one of theirs and generally far better than the alternatives, but they aren’t –
There’s honest devotion in Kreacher’s eyes, Kreacher’s voice, both towards Jason and towards the Family Black more broadly. And Jason has just been named the lord and heir, and he has no intention of –
Shit.
He tears his gaze away from Kreacher, and finds the tired creature and the boys looking at him steadily, uncertain and suspicious in equal measure.
“What does this mean for my uncle’s will? Nothing he bequeathed will apply, right?”
“Young Master controls all of Family Black but for what Master gave to the filthy mutt. If the filthy mutt tried to give away what was not his, it is void.”
The sound of a minor explosion nearly has Jason jumping out of his chair, and if it weren’t for Kreacher’s hold on him, he’d have flinched. As it is, that old lightning magic intensifies, and Jason finds himself sitting as still and careful as before as the entire room descends into silence, heads swiveling to stare at the fake-grandfather. He’s got one arm raised, a wand in hand still emitting a stray purple spark. The goblin looks unimpressed.
The old asshole doesn’t look pleased, though. He’s eyeing Jason, and Kreacher, and Jason is sort of fascinated to see the realization – and anger, and horror, and rage – flicker through his eyes before he smiles genially.
“I’m sure the stranger in our midst has some answers for us.” The old man says, tone just a little too sharp. The couple turns to look at Jason, the woman pale and horrified. The woman whose hair almost matches Jason looks devastated behind them.
“You will sit and be quiet! The next of you to dare show such disrespect in Gringotts’ halls will be removed and any applicable inheritance voided!” The goblin barks, and the old man sits down quickly after that; the rest of them go slower.
Jason ignores the stares, and watches the goblin fish out the first orb, and throw in the second.
Jason hadn’t seen himself in his father’s face, and he doesn’t see himself in his uncle’s. But he does see his uncle’s in the women in the audience, even in the boy who had come alone, traces around the eyes and cheekbones. It’s hard – his uncle’s face is hollowed and scarred, but there are – hints.
“I’m not one for speeches, or for formalities.” Sirius Black’s voice is raspy, hoarse. He looks tired.
“I don’t know how much control over the Black estate I have. I wrote something down, per Albus’ request, and gave it to the goblins, but I have doubts it’ll pass muster. I only have one thing of real value.” The last is said with such conviction, and the soft, wry little smile that touches Sirius Black’s face softens all of his edges, gives him years back.
“James and Lily named me Harry’s godfather, and willed his custody to me. Harry might’ve been taken from me, but I am still his legal guardian. No trial, no severing of rights.”
The frayed man with golden eyes lurches forward in his seat and puts a hand on the boy in front of him’s shoulders. The kid’s frozen, crying silent and unmoving, eyes wide and refusing to blink as he stares at his – godfather?
“Harry, pup, I am so sorry. If you’re watching this, if – it isn’t your fault. It wasn’t, it never was. I’ve been feeling Her coming in my bones, pup. She’s close. And I’m not scared of dying. I am fucking terrified of leaving you alone, though.” Grief gives Sirius Black twice the years his smile removed. He looks heartbroken, and Jason’s putting together pieces and he does not like the picture he’s getting.
“Kreacher – you did your job perfectly, you fucking nightmare. Wasn’t your fault I found out. Reg started writing a note at some point, and I…I cannot fucking believe I have to say this, but thank you, you piece of shit. I hope you die painfully and that I never have to see you again, but you never once failed Reg and I appreciate what you did for him.” There’s no enthusiasm in Black’s voice, which is. Frankly more offensive than if he wouldn’t have thanked Kreacher at all, Jason thinks.
“I can’t give custody of you to Moony, pup, because the Ministry’s – what’d Hermione call it? Species-ist. Y’know. But I can make damn sure you never have to go back to fucking Petunia’s again.”
Aw, hell.
“I, Sirius Orion Black the Third, do so pass custody of my godson Harry James Potter to my nephew, wherever he may be, Jason Peter Todd. Sorry to scare the fuck out of you, kid, and I’m sorry I never got to meet you. You want my advice, keep Harry and burn the rest to the ground.”
Sirius Black winks, and then his image too disappears. The goblin leaves in such practices steps that it almost doesn’t look like he’s hauling ass.
And then the screaming starts.
X
Jason watches the outrage for a heartbeat, and then two, and then stands up and walks right over to Harry. The kid’s staring at him with huge eyes, but scoots over a seat. He still keeps one hand fisted in the other boy’s shirt – who is staring at Jason warily – and the creature – Moony? – doesn’t let go of Harry’s shoulder, but he does make room for Jason and that’s all Jason can really ask for.
“We cousins or something?” Jason asks. The kid’s eyes get even bigger.
“Yeah. His grandmother was a Black. Your great aunt.” It’s the other kid who speaks. Jason nods slowly, and tries not to fidget. Kreacher is still holding his hand, mashed up against his side, and Kreacher’s magic is still – adjusting? Scanning, maybe, or protecting him?
“My name is Jason. You’re Harry?”
“Y- yeah. And this is Neville.”
Neville, which is a frankly unfortunate name, who is twisted fully around in his seat to face him given that the woman he was with is up and shouting and gesturing along with the rest of the adults. Except for Moony. And except for the woman whose hair almost matches Jason’s, who is still staring at him bleakly.
“Nice to meet you two. Petunia the one who did all that to you?” Jason asks, flicking his fingers towards Harry’s general – everything. Harry tenses, snaps right out of his unease and surprise into well-worn suspicion and wariness.
“No.”
“Yes.” Neville snaps. Harry glares at him, but doesn’t try to correct him, which is good because fuck is the kid a bad liar.
Cousin. He can handle a cousin. That’s what Essence calls herself, and they’re fine.
He’ll have to file the legal paperwork on the non-magical side of things, which means legally coming back to life. But he has a new last name to use now, so – that’s at least. Useful. Nice seems too positive a word for it.
“How old are you? Both of you, I mean?”
“Fifteen. We’ll be sixteen at the end of July.” Neville again answers him.
“Why do you want to know about Neville?” Harry asks, sharp.
Because whoever the fuck he’s with is abusing him too is not the tactful thing to say here.
“Because while they’re still distracted, I need you two to give me a rundown on what the fuck I just walked into. I have never interacted with British wizards, haven’t been in London for years, and all I know is there’s some genocidal maniac running around that my bio dad’s family apparently really fucking liked.”
And then he has to wait, because these are kids, his kind of kids. They haven’t grown up on Gotham’s streets but they are good soldiers in the same way he was at that age, when he was just a year younger.
He can’t make them safe if they don’t believe him, if they don’t reach back and take his offered hand.
“You don’t know about the Death Eaters?”
“Death Ea – what kind of bullshit name is that Jesus fucking Christ.”
No wonder Ducra had been so hesitant to tell him everything going on down here, he thinks, and then a goddamn realization strikes him, and he lets out a sharp hiss.
“Their leader – did he resurrect himself? Or – like specifically, as far as you know, how’d he come back?”
“He never died in the first place. Made himself immortal.” Harry whispers, eyeing him oddly, hands clenching into fists in his lap.
“He murdered Harry’s parents on Halloween years ago. They were killed. Harry lived, but V-Voldemort was defeated. Except he kept coming back. First year he possessed our defense teacher. Second year a teenage version of him tried to possess students with a diary. Fourth year he kidnapped Harry and – and Cedric, and got himself a new body. And a couple weeks ago he attacked the Ministry.”
Jason stares, and then scrubs his free hand over his face.
He’s gotta kill the fucker. And kidnap these kids, but, like, he has to kill the fucker too. And it’s not going to be hard, but –
He was hoping this would be quick. In and out.
“First year – you mean at school?”
“Hogwarts. Magical kids get to go at eleven.” Harry supplies.
“And your teachers just. Let the motherfucker fuck around you all?”
The boys share a dark look, and Harry shoots a sharp glance over his shoulder at the mess of adults still shouting. To the fake-grandpa.
Moony’s hand retracts like he’s been burned.
“Dumbledore’s Headmaster. Has been since he defeated Grindelwald.” Neville says, and Ducra’s warning suddenly makes a lot more sense.
“You do know who Grindelwald is, right?” Harry asks suddenly, whipping around to face him, and Jason can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Yeah. I – yeah. He tried to fuck with the States a time or two, and the Tribes are still pissed about it.”
“That’s where you’re from?”
“Mostly. My grandmother’s in Nepal.” Technically.
“You’re – you were raised muggle too?” Harry asks. Jason hesitates a minute.
“Complicated question. Yes, but I knew supernatural shit existed. I didn’t get wrapped up in any of it until I was older, and I mostly avoid wizards.”
“How come?”
“My grandmother thinks you’re all losers.” He says, and that earns him a half-smothered snort from both of the kids.
“Hermione said one time that wizards don’t have an ounce of logic in them.” Harry confides. Neville rolls his eyes, but doesn’t actually protest.
“Hermione one of your friends?”
“She’s waiting outside. In the lobby, I mean. They wouldn’t let her in but she wouldn’t let me go alone.”
“Well, when we get out of here we can grab lunch or something and we can all interrogate each other.”
“Why?” Harry asks, hackles raising, and Jason can’t help but raise an unimpressed brow.
“You were orphaned, your only legal guardian imprisoned – for what, by the way, nobody ever told me – and sent to live with some abusive fuckwit named Petunia. None of the adults in your life except for a guy who is now dead have done anything to take you out of that situation, or else you’d already be safe. I do not expect you to like me, I do not expect you to trust me, but I will not allow you to remain in that situation any longer. Letting you and your friends quiz me is the least I can do before – “ Jason cuts himself off and waves a hand at – everything.
“You said you were from the States, though.”
“I’ll have to find a place local ‘till this shit’s sorted out, but that won’t be a problem.” He says. Neville tilts his chin up a little.
“It might be safer to go for a muggle place right now. Attacks haven’t started up yet, not out in the open, but there are – raids and stuff.”
“Young Master has no need of muggle hovels. Family Black’s ancestral home – “
“- Is a literal shithole.” Harry cuts in, scowling at Kreacher, and Kreacher quite literally puffs up in indignation. The animosity between them is palpable, which is a problem, because Jason can’t really get rid of Kreacher now, and he won’t get rid of the kid.
“There are other Black properties. Here – you two run. Go get your friend. Before the rest of the adults notice or what the fuck ever. Asshole behind me won’t say a word if he gives two shits about you.” Jason adds, tilting his head to glare at Moony. The man meets his gaze head-on, which is more ballsy than Jason expected.
“What are you?” The man asks. His voice is pitched low, private. Harry’s expression morphs into one of affront. Jason sees Neville’s eyebrows skyrocket in his peripheral. They know, then, that this man isn’t human.
“That’s offensive. I’m offended. The fuck if I know, a wizard apparently. Jesus fuck, DNA tests are going to be a bitch again, aren’t they?” Jason mutters, and pushes himself to his feet. The kids scram. Moony stands with him, expression hard and suspicions.
And then the white-haired woman is there, at Jason’s side. Moony’s eyes snap to her.
“Lupin.” She says, and her eyes are red and her hands are shaking, but her tone is perfectly disdainful without so much as a hint of the shock that she’s been showing the past few times Jason’s looked at her.
“Cissa.” Moony – Lupin, so he’s a fucking werewolf, what the fuck? – snarls, teeth barred in a parody of a smile.
Cissa – Narcissa, Regulus had said. The one with a son. His cousin.
Turning a blind eye, his father had accused her of. She’d have been – she’d have to be – pureblood, to have been a Black. Her son too. Safe within her privilege. But Sirius had been disowned, disinherited, whatever, and she’d still come. Still, apparently, been left something.
He doesn’t want to touch dead familial bonds.
“Your father was my cousin – Jason, was it? My name is Narcissa Malfoy.” She doesn’t even look at Lupin when she speaks, all of her attention on him, and it isn’t so much a slight as – even if she were to be standing by someone she did care about, she wouldn’t have been giving them the time of day.
“You were close?” He asks. She nods, and lets out a trembling breath.
“We were – I suppose you wouldn’t know, but my sisters were…hard to grow up with, and Sirius was as wild as they come even before he abandoned us. Regulus was my best friend.”
“Sirius didn’t abandon you, you sanctimonious bitch!” Lupin snarls, moves, and Jason has a hand on the man’s chest immediately. Too late, though – Lupin was loud, and now the bitchfight has broken up and all attention is on them.
“I’m afraid I have no idea how these things go here in wizarding Britain, Narcissa. I’d love to chat with you, but now is apparently not a good time.”
“I will make myself available whenever you are, Jason.” She says, firmly, and she’s serious, hundred percent, and –
“My boy, there’s – “ Fake-grandpa starts, but the elderly woman – the one who had noticed Jason earlier - jabs an elbow into his stomach.
“I appreciate that, and I hope to sort something out soon. I would – I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Narcissa, I’m sure things have changed since Re – since my father died. But if you in any way support the asshole with a blood fetish attempting to commit a bunch of child murder, including the kid I am now in charge of, I don’t think I’ll have much to say.”
She hides her amusement well, is the thing. He only knows because he’s spent hours trying to figure out Talia’s ticks, the barest twitch of facial muscles. The speculative look in her eye is less guarded.
She might be an ally, he thinks.
“I understand. If you don’t mind, I’ll send a message along with Kreacher later tonight.”
He feels Kreacher perk right up; as strongly as he’d felt Kreacher’s disdain for Harry, he feels his adoration for Narcissa.
“Would you be willing, Kreacher?” Jason asks anyway, and the being nods sharply.
“Kreacher will keep messages secure for Miss Cissa and young Master.”
She gives him a watery smile, and a kiss on the cheek before sweeping out so elegantly that he’s half-convinced she’s spelled her robes to move with just the right amount of flair.
“Thank you, Kreacher.” Jason says, and Kreacher beams. He casts a sharp look at Lupin and drops his hand, wades out of the metal chairs and towards the papers he’d been perusing prior to everyone’s arrival.
“American, are you?” The woman who’d come with Neville asks. She’s loud, obnoxiously so. Jason pauses, a scroll in one hand, and very nearly jumps when it disappears; when he glances down, Kreacher is snatching up all of the paperwork and vanishing it. Hopefully he’ll be able to retrieve it later – Jason doesn’t think he’ll be able to get another copy.
“And you are?” There’s a bite to his words. She sniffs, still looking down her nose at him. The other elderly woman steps forward.
“I apologize for Augusta’s rudeness, Mr. Black. I’m sure it must be overwhelming, especially with so many strangers present.” The last is said with a bladed look towards the fake-grandpa. Jason thinks he likes her.
“I appreciate the sentiments, Miss…?”
“McGonagall. Professor McGonagall, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This is Albus Dumbledore, our Headmaster. You were speaking with Remus Lupin earlier. Augusta Longbottom, and Andromeda, Ted, and Nymphadora Tonks. I’m afraid few of us knew your father very well, Mr. Black, but we were all good friends with your uncle.”
Kreacher’s latched onto his hand again. Jason nods, carefully.
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you all. Like I told Narcissa, though, I’m afraid I have a lot to get done in a short amount of time. If any of you have particular business with me, you are more than welcome to send an owl – you do use owls here, don’t you?”
“Are you unfamiliar with the owl post, my boy?” Fake-grandpa, Dumbledore, asks. Digging for information, Jason thinks.
“The Tribes are more cognizant of invasive species.” He says, and then leaves.
X
He hauls ass back to the lobby and checks with the nearest teller to ensure that the custodial paperwork has gone through, make sure he doesn’t have to sign anything. When the teller hems and haws and starts in on bullshit, Kreacher hisses at it, and he gets a solid yes, I so swear in ten seconds flat.
He needs a fucking magic lawyer, Jason realizes, and then he goes on a hunt for the kids, which turns out to not be much a hunt at all, because Kreacher just. Points them out.
They’re half-hidden behind one of the lobby’s decorative pillars, Harry tucked behind Neville’s bulk and a girl with such a shock of bushy caramel-colored hair that he’s hardly visible. Harry spots him first, and nudges his friends, and for like fifth time that day Jason gets to hear somebody audibly gasp at the sight of him. This time in recognition.
Which is. A whole goddamn mess.
“The mudblood knows young Master?” Kreacher asks lowly, and, wow, that’s a lot to unpack. No wonder the kid hates him.
“Do you know who that is?” He hears the girl hiss, just before he reaches them.
“We’ve got like a minute flat to get the fuck out of here before Neville’s crazy whatever sees us. Who knows where good food is?”
Neville, apparently. He clarifies that Augusta is apparently his grandmother, and then drags Jason close enough to fully block Harry from the lobby’s view, and then Harry yanks something out of his pocket and just. Straight up disappears.
Invisibility, probably, but. Jason doesn’t have the brain space to parse that out.
“Actually, would it be safer to eat on the non-magical side of things?”
“Merlin, yes. Hermione, you lead.”
“There’s a wonderful Indian place near the Leaky – just follow me!” The girl squeaks, and then turns and flees.
He’s got Kreacher clinging to one hand, an invisible kid at his side, another kid at his back and a third in front, and Jason expects to be tripping over all three of them but they are surprisingly fleet of foot, and even more notable, quick to adjust to the crowd. They rush, but not so much as to draw attention.
She’s another good soldier, he thinks, and feels something settle like iron in his gut.
Kreacher hisses when they get out of that pub and step onto an actual fucking sidewalk, but snaps his fingers and all of a sudden – there are no eyes on them.
“Cool spell.” Jason says the third time someone casually swerves out of their way, and he can feel Kreacher preening at the compliment.
“Some sort of disillusionment. Maybe a muggle-repelling, too.” Hermione says breathlessly.
“Muggle?”
“Non-magical. They use different terms in America, don’t they?”
“Think so, but things are more complicated over there.”
“How so?”
“There are more flavors of supernatural than wizard and non-magical.” Jason says dryly, and all three of the kids damn near eat shit they trip so hard, and then he has to deal with a veritable cacophony of hissed questions and demands and by the time they get to the hole-in-a-wall restaurant, he’s absolutely bewildered.
He succeeds in getting them table, and ordering food, and wrangling Kreacher into a spot in the booth next to him instead of letting him crouch threateningly on the light fixture above them. Sitting at a table with his “young master” is apparently a terrible thing, or would be at a wizard table. A muggle table, however, is apparently free game.
“Will you explain now?!” Hermione looks about ready to burst out of her skin, Jason thinks with no small degree of amusement.
“What the actual fuck are they even teaching you at that Hogwarts?” He demands. All three kids, sat in a neat row across the table from him, deflate a little.
“There’s a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. We don’t get many good teachers and those we do have to play catchup so hard that our curriculum is stripped.” Hermione sounds positively murderous about it.
“So they – what, just pretend wizard magic is the end all be all of magic?”
“We have no idea what you’re talking about, so, yeah.” Neville says, but he sounds more amused than appalled. Jason closes his eyes and scrubs his hands over his face.
“Alright. Spill. Tell me what the hell is Britain’s problem, why those old assholes were pissed about the will. Gringotts has already filed custody for the magical side of things, but it’ll take me a minute to file in the non-magical. I’ve been legally dead for the past couple years.”
“But I thought – “ Hermione snaps her mouth shut and goes bright red. Jason raises an eyebrow.
She’d recognized him.
“You got a cousin in Gotham or something?” He asks, and she flushes even harder.
“My uncle. Mum and Dad don’t talk to him but – I keep in touch. You – um. You helped him out recently. He sent me a picture of the two of you.”
Jason goes still. Because he doesn’t take pictures of himself, and hardly lets others. In the past three months there is only one person with whom he’s taken a picture, and that had been –
“You’re shitting me.”
She blushes so hard he kind of expects her to explode.
Jason’s always thought fairly highly of Nygma. As Robin, his riddles and word puzzles had been entertaining, fun, challenging. Nygma is a gracious loser as long as they play his games honestly, and he’d been more apt to take hostages than straight up kill people during Jason’s tenure. Post-resurrection, Nygma had been one of the few Gotham villains Jason had refused to kill.
Nygma had only ever gone after the same sort of assholes Jason did, is the thing. His collateral was mostly in buildings, very rarely in innocent bystanders, and by the time Jason had returned to Gotham Nygma was more than content to fade into the background.
It’d been Harley’s idea, apparently, a throwaway joke, to start up an escape room. Nygma had gone to Jason for permission, given that he was based out of Crime Alley with his latest stint out of Arkham, and – Jason had helped him out.
Jason sort of expected it to be a phase, something Nygma picked up and dropped depending on how well his mental health was, but so far he’d done great at it. People were coming from out of the city to try his challenges, and he hadn’t even killed anyone yet.
“You’re from Gotham?” Harry whispers.
“He’s the Red Hood, Harry.”
“I don’t know what any of that means.” Neville pips up, and before Jason can say anything, Hermione jumps in.
“He’s a vigilante based out of Gotham city in America. He’s a friend of my uncle – the one who sent you that plant cutting for your birthday last year!”
That’s horrifying.
“It hasn’t like, ate anybody yet, has it?” Jason asks, concerned, because Ivy’s typically fine but her plants are wild, and Neville looks offended.
“Not anybody it wasn’t supposed to. I put it on the edge of the Manor’s property so it could go after intruders.”
That’s outright. Concerning.
“Also – I’m not a vigilante, don’t sugar coat that shit. I’m a crime lord. I kill people.”
“Could you kill Voldemort?” Harry asks quickly, and Jason stares for a moment before nodding because all three of the kids are unphased but Harry in particular is –
Jason’s underestimated just how bad his previous situation was, if finding out the stranger taking him in murders people in his spare time is a bonus.
“Good. I don’t really want to kill Tom.” Harry announces, and then slumps over the table.
“Weak.” Kreacher snorts.
“Tom. The asshole’s name is Tom?”
“Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
“Dark Lord Tom, Jesus Christ. Okay, fine, sure, what the fuck ever. Quit distracting me, tell me what’s going on.”
And, finally, they do.
X
It’s horrifying.
Jason hardly eats his food – the kids are more than able to finish it, so, cool – as he listens to a half a decade of gross negligence and child abuse and squatting? Which is weird.
Sirius Black had been framed for a bunch of murder and for telling Dark Lord Tom where Harry’s parents were hiding. Dumbledore, who held a great deal of sway in the government, had known he’d not received a trial, must have known Sirius was not the traitor because the rules of magic or whatever, and hadn’t done a thing.
Dumbledore is running a vigilante group that sounded as organized and powerful as a wet sponge against a hurricane, and had taken over Family Black’s ancestral home to do so. By stealing the whole goddamn building.
And Sirius is dead because Harry had been trapped, tricked and lured into the magical Ministry after a prophecy, apparently, and that’s horrifying.
Jason hears about the Boy-Who-Lived and snaps his fork in half.
He hears about the possessions – a spirit in a man, a spirit in a diary, a spirit in a snake – and thinks, oh no.
And then he hears what Hermione did to her parents.
X
“But – “
Harry slaps a hand over Hermione’s mouth, and Jason makes a note to thank the kid later.
Dumbledore had suggested it.
Erasing her very existence from her parents’ minds and compelling them to move out of the country would’ve been a spectacularly badass move if there were no other options at all, but she’s a literal goddamn child and Jason’s there now, which –
“Look, kid, you could not have ever foreseen me dropping into this shitshow, so I’m not going to flip shit on you. Never trust another goddamn word out of Dumbledore’s mouth, and we’ll be fine.”
He’s not actually mad at her, and judging by how hard she’s crying she seems to know that. But it is horrifying to realize how hopeless these children think the situation is, how isolated and well-conditioned they are.
If Bruce would’ve told him to jump back when Jason had worn the reds and greens –
“You can keep them safe?” Harry asks hoarsely – just as emotional as Hermione but about a thousand times better at hiding it – and Jason nods. Looks to Kreacher.
“Family Black has other properties, beyond the one Dumbledore stole. We’ll need a place to stay anyway, a place to make our base of operations.”
“Kreacher knows of such properties.” Kreacher says carefully, eyes narrowed.
“You’ll need more than one house elf to restore an abandoned property, even if the wards are still intact.” Neville interjects. Kreacher scowls.
“Kreacher can’t clean either, you’ll definitely need other house elves.” Harry chirps, and Kreacher’s scowl gets deeper and darker in ways that should be impossible on such a small face.
“Wait, wait – house elf, that’s what you are? Like a brownie?”
“Kreacher is not a cleaning house elf! Kreacher is a guarding house elf! Kreacher has kept Family Black’s wards strong and powerful without Family Black there to help!”
“They get their magic from acts of service. They’ll contract with a wizarding family and serve them.” Neville, Jason decides, is his favorite. He knows just went to jump in with concise, relevant information.
“It’s slavery!” Hermione blubbers, still sobbing, and Jason nods slowly.
“Who fucked up the contract first, then? Would’ve had to be pre-Statute if you’re all still here.”
The kids all go still. So does Kreacher. Kreacher’s gnarly little hand reaches out and very gently brushes against the top of Jason’s head, and his skin absolutely does crawl at that.
“Young Master is smart. Wizards broke the compact.”
“Is there any way to repair it?”
“Forge it anew.” Kreacher says, eyes sharp, and Jason nods slowly. Makes a mental note of it, and throws it on the backburner.
“I know another house elf that could help.” Harry says, and fifteen minutes later Kreacher and a much smaller, visibly younger house elf named Dobby have deposited the four of them in Hermione’s backyard and vanished, ostensibly to prepare one of the Black properties.
X
It takes twenty minutes to calm down the Doctors Granger, who are more than a little alarmed to find a squad of teenagers and a young adult storming into their kitchen through their backyard. From there, Jason spends about ten minutes fiddling around with the magic he can sense hanging over them like gossamer before mentally saying fuck it and slicing Talia’s dagger through the spells.
There is a reason it’s one of his favorites, after all – so magically inert as to repel magic. Comes in handy when dealing with summoning circles in Gotham, because all he has to do is toss it at the circle and it’ll disrupt the flow of magic. Memory charms this powerful require a sort of looping power, to sustain themselves, which is effectively the same in construction, and – thankfully – it works.
The kids are holed up in the kitchen. Jason’s crouching in front of Hermione’s parents in their living room. He watches the magic dissipate, watches them blink an odd sort of haze from their eyes, and then winces when Dr. Granger’s hand shoots out and grabs his shoulder hard enough to bruise.
“Hermione – “
“She’s safe. And I need you two to breathe for a minute before you go run in there after her.”
The other Dr. Granger nods, jerkily. He’s pale, shaking.
“Was she right? Is the danger that – really that big?” Dr. Granger asks, and her voice trembles even if her grip doesn’t. Jason winces.
“There are four muggleborn students in your daughter’s year at Hogwarts right now. That isn’t because there are so few born.”
Wizards are fairly small as far as magical populations go. It’s part of the reason the Tribes kicked their metaphorical doors open and hollered at every other flavor of supernatural to come the fuck in. But –
“Your daughter’s got a blind faith in authority figures. She trusted me ten seconds after seeing me and she trusted her headmaster when he told her spelling you would be the safest course of action.”
Dr. Granger’s expression goes dark.
“And you – what, had her break it?”
“You’ll still have to go into hiding, but I’ve – apparently I have a safe place, where you two can ground your kid and be as involved as it’s possible to be. If that’s what you want. If you want to haul ass out of here and go to Australia, no one’s going to stop you – but if these assholes are half as dangerous as wizards make them out to be, they will hunt your daughter down, and I don’t think you’ll be able to keep her alive if you take her with you.”
“Because we don’t have magic?” The other Dr. Granger asked darkly, coldly. Jason rolls his eyes and shoves himself to his feet.
“Because you don’t have training.”
“Oh, Jesus, you’re Ed’s work friend, aren’t you?” Dr. Granger moans, and when her husband shoots her a look, waves him off.
“Nevermind – where’s our daughter?” She demands, and Jason steps out of her way.
The couple are already packed, the house they are in nearly sold. Any later and they would’ve been on their way to the airport.
It’s a small victory, but Jason’s pretty sure that’s all he’ll be getting in the near future.
X
Manor Black, Kreacher calls it, and Jason thinks he’s a little bit in love.
It’s not that he’s materialistic – he can’t be, literally can’t, not when he lives in safehouses and isn’t welcome in his childhood bedroom – but the whole fucking place is genuinely magical. It looks like the setting to his favorite novels, a place he couldn’t even dream of, and with the magic sunk into the home’s very bones –
“Manor Black was built by hand, you know. One of the last great runic undertakings before it fell out of fashion pre-the Witch Hunts. Every block of stone hand-carved with runic arrays, every log of wood hand-etched, every pane of glass…” Neville is look around slowly, as awed as Jason feels.
He’s sure the outside is beautiful too – Dobby and Kreacher had transported them directly inside the entry hall – but there’s so much to look at in here –
“Is there a library?” He asks. Kreacher’s ears flap excitedly, and the old elf points up a grand staircase to the second floor.
The wards, too are –
Works of art. Jason has no head for that sort of thing, but they hang heavy and warm and comforting over him like a weighted blanket.
“Dobby be showing Harry Potter’s Grangees their rooms!” Dobby declares, and snags Hermione’s hand. Her eyes are puffy and red, but she still laughs a little, and her father’s arm is around her shoulder as her parents follow her into the depths of the house.
“Did – did Padfoot ever come here?” Harry asks. Sirius, he means. A nickname.
“Mistress Walburga closed up Manor Black after her mother’s death.” Kreacher says gravely, and shakes his head.
“There aren’t any ghosts.” Jason says softly, when Neville’s eyes get big.
“How do you know?”
“Ghosts are rare. It’d be unlikely. And they’re – distinctive. Easy to feel.” If one has an affinity, or a sense, or a talent for death magic. Kreacher’s ears start fluttering harder; he knows what Jason hasn’t said. But the boys just look – interested.
“C’mon. Let’s go find our rooms and crash.”
“I should – “
“Kid, you’re going back to your grandmother over my dead body.”
“That’s kidnapping.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
X
He wakes up late the next afternoon, and slips outside while everybody is preoccupied with a let’s tell the Grangers about everything we’ve lied to them about the past five years meeting. He thumbs his phone on after he feels the wards slip reluctantly from his shoulders, and makes a call.
“It’s secure.” Tim’s voice is tinny, distant.
“How fast can you get to London without alerting anybody to where you’re going?”
“What’d you do?”
“I am a parent now and magic Hitler is trying to kill my kids.”
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re – are you drugged right now?”
“Do you want to help out or not?”
“I’m not going to – “
“The people fighting magic Hitler are led by a serial child abuser, and I need him alive at least long enough to kill magic Hitler, and I will put a fucking bullet in his throat if somebody who is capable of guilting me out of murder isn’t there to guilt me out of murder.”
“No bullshit?”
“You’re the only person on-planet that I trust could handle themselves in this fight and, more importantly, that I trust will keep this shit to themselves. Like Code MIB keep it to yourself.”
“Where are you?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
“You’re useless and I hate you.”