I don't own Harry Potter or Batman/Dark Knight.
My apologies for any misrepresentation of characters or confused factoids. A hundred thanks to my fabulous beta MySuperAwesomePenName, without whom this little fic would have languished on my harddrive for eternity.
It's been a long day at the Cave before he stumbles into the penthouse. He makes his way to the bedroom, lingering in the doorway. He hadn't been expecting her, but then, that's just how their strange relationship works. She's free to come and go as she pleases, as no locks or steel doors can halt her passage, and he would never restrict her to that. He accepts that she moves through walls like a ghost and ignores the rules of physics and propriety, doing just what she pleases, and is almost envious of the skill. He moves through shadows, true, but not even the shadows whisper of her passage.
She's spread out on the white coverlet, brown curls haloing an unremarkable face and her limbs stretched wide. She's crucified on the bed, delicate and fragile and completely at his mercy, if he were to so choose. Her eyes are closed, but they flutter open as he steps forward, only to close again with the confirmation of his presence. She trusts him enough to let him see her this way: quiet and motionless and prone.
"The Joker needs to die." Her voice is soft, melodic - terrifying in its juxtaposition to the harsh sentiment.
He pauses again, taking in the deceptive serenity of her face.
"He cannot be reasoned with, he cannot be cured. He is a rabid dog that needs to be put down for the safety of the populace."
"Is that why you're here, Hermione?" He asks her. He knows the answer, and he dreads it. He dreads what she will do for him and dreads what it will surely do to her in turn. She knows him, perhaps even better than Alfred. But that in turn means that he knows her too.
"Well, you can't do it," She says with a little laugh. If she's saddened by the fact that she rarely visits for anything other than business - their type of business - it doesn't show on her face or in her relaxed sprawl. She still hasn't moved from her position on his bed, and she appears calm. He knows better.
"I could."
"Hmm. You have the skills, but not the constitution. I'm glad for that, Bruce. I would hate to see you end up like me."
"So, you'll do it then? Kill the Joker?" He wants her to say it. He wants to see the pain as it flashes across her brow and down to her mouth; cutting something deep inside of him, despite its brevity.
"Of course; it's what I do. Anyway, he has threatened one of my people, I don't let that slide. It leaves the wrong impression if you allow threats to go unanswered. That's why I'm here." He's one of her people, one of a handful for whom she will tear the universe to shreds.
"I don't think that he's that much of a threat." He isn't sure if that is true, or if it is that the mere thought of her having more blood on her hands means that he will risk further destruction to the city he has sworn to save rather than let her add more scars to her soul.
"You think wrong. The Joker is the most dangerous type of criminal: you can't buy him with money or women or drugs or fear. He's after one thing, and one thing only, Bruce." Her eyes are big and brown and solemn, trying to impress upon him the severity of the situation. She's seen madmen - they took her mother and her father and her friends and left nothing but ruins and a snake in the sky.
"Oh?"
"He wants to watch the world burn and laugh as it crumbles into ash."
"You're sure." It isn't a question.
"Of course I am, I don't take killing people lightly."
He doesn't answer that, he knows, so she takes his silence as assent.
"I'll need a dress. And an invite."
He doesn't ask how she knows about the party. He doesn't ask about the plan. He only gives her a nod and rings Alfred to inform him of their guest. He wishes that she wouldn't. She knows that, and she wishes he knew that it isn't his fault.
Alfred provides the dress. And the shoes. And the three hours at an exclusive spa that caters to trust fund babies and crime boss wives.
She almost laughs out loud at the disdainful sneers she gets from the woman already seated as she enters. Her skirt is loose and floor length, hiding several knives and a gun, all while providing enough room for an economy of movement. Her feet are clad in heavy combat boots that give her feet purchase and strength and won't fall off or break at an inopportune time. Her hair is pulled off to one side in a simple braid, and her face is devoid of makeup. She isn't surprised that these women are affronted by her mere presence here. This is their territory, and they have their rules. It's a good thing then, she thinks, that she doesn't often play by other people's rules.
Of course, the disdain could be because they know that Bruce Wayne is paying for little old her. As the hours pass, she is plucked and prodded, twisted and molded. She drifts, trusting the stylists with her mane, knowing that they are more than capable of providing Mr Wayne's friend with an appropriate look for the encroaching evening. She stays aware of the hustle and bustle, but focuses on what will be required of her.
She has a plan; she always has a plan, A through Z. Somehow though, all her beautifully laid plans seem to go to Hell when Bruce Wayne gets involved. From the first time they met - her dangling from a thin wire, a priceless magical artifact in hand; and he, masked and affronted by the foreign woman thieving in Gotham - he's disrupted her plans.
She'd never wanted to get close to anyone else. Not after Ron and Harry married and had kids and couldn't bear to look her in the eye after all she'd done. The war had ended, and Voldemort was gone, and neither of them could stand comfortably in the same room as she, she who refused to stop fighting, she who had ripped souls from bodies and flung them into the Ether.
But there was Bruce, full of contradictions and drive and intensity. And so months blurred into years, and they ran into each other in ball rooms and under dark skies, and something like friendship was born.
When the women working on her turn her around so that she can finally see the finished work of art that they've finagled her hair into resembling, she lets a shark grin spread across her face.
Yes, Gotham doesn't to know what force of nature is about to touch down. Neither does the Joker. Looking at pink lips and too big eyes, she thinks that maybe neither does Bruce.
She shakes that thought away. The Hunt's afoot, there is no room for distraction.
She flutters through the event dressed in soft black with her hair pulled up. She charms her companions and is forgotten the moment she walks away. That is her skill, disappearing. Has been since she was seventeen and running for her life with nothing but a bag and a wand and two boys trailing after her. So she passes the evening drinking champagne and sharing amused eye-rolls with Alfred and trying to not laugh at the sheer stupidity of these people.
They're all being conned. A bright smile and sharp cheekbones, and they're all tripping over themselves to give their ill-gotten money to clean up Gotham.
She feels the shift before it happens. A large group passes through her benign wards, taking out the security guards as they go. She excuses herself from her present company and makes her way to the back of the room, sending out her senses as she does. There are ten of them, with a spinning vortex in the lead.
She ducks behind a table and grabs one of her knives from where it's strapped to her thigh, just as the door bursts open and the screams begin.
She squeezes her hand, hard, and the magic dropped by the benign wards that has clung to the intruders activates. They drop like stones, unconscious, their memories gone. Standing alone is the Joker.
He looks around with something akin to amusement, but darker and less kind. "Ooh! Looks like someone has decided to play." He's unfazed by the show of magic as his eyes dart around the room and take in the cowering crowds surrounding him. It's amazing how much fear simple little things like scars and guns instill in people, she thinks.
She inches through the sheep until she's standing on the frontline. She gets there just before his eyes sweep over that section of the trembling crowd. She flashes him a grin, defiant and cold and a little delighted, and knows that he won't be able to resist. Sure enough, he picks up a glass of champagne from a silver platter held by a shrinking server and dances his way over to her. The people around her flinch and back away, but she stands firm. Her eyes flash momentarily as she binds Rachel, preventing the woman from interfering and getting herself killed.
"Why, hello pet."
Her grin just grows to match his. With one last twitch of her hand, the world stops as the runes that she etched onto the walls earlier, before setup for the whole shindig began, activate.
All around them, the crowd is standing still, frozen horror etched upon their faces. No one moves, sways, whimpers. The only movement in the entire room is him licking his lips and her steady breathing.
"Neat trick, pet."
"I'm glad you think so." She lowers her lashes and gives him a smirk that speaks of things like seduction and darkness. "Thought I might run into you here."
"Oh, you came all the way across the pond just for a visit with little old me?" He takes a step closer to her, and she fearlessly advances to close the gap. They're standing, mere breaths in between them, a mockery of a kiss.
"Mhmm. You see, I saw everything on the news, and there was just something so... thrilling about your work, that I had to meet you." She says it slightly breathlessly, and leans forward just a hair.
"And you arranged to freeze the room, just so that we could talk?"
"Yesss," she hisses at him as her eyes flutter shut.
He's shocked when the knife plunges through his stomach and he finds that he can't move. She steps back with a sly smile on her face. "You see, Joker, you made a very big mistake, threatening a good friend of mine." She runs a painted finger down his chest as she twists the knife a bit deeper. "I'm - oh, how should I put it - a bit put out that you would just off this someone so carelessly. Now I know it's not personal. You really don't care if he lives or dies, it's just all about the game. So I just want you to know; I don't mean anything by this. It's just that, for the game to play, you can't be playing the game."
She removes her hand from the knife and waits for him to speak: eager and wide-eyed, reminiscent of the young girl who once perched on a seat with her hand excitedly thrust into the air.
"This is good, very clever." He can appreciate genius. She's pleased; most of the time she gets whimpering pleading messes who attempt to buy her off. "Now, may I have the pleasure of knowing who you are, before I die?" For a dying madman, he's awfully calm and composed. She almost feels bad, except that she can see the madness eating away at his mind, the empty hunger that is only satisfied by death, pain, and destruction.
"Of course." From nowhere, her fingers whip out a card. She holds it up in front of his face for him to read, before tucking it into his front pocket and smoothing down his jacket. It's purple, and she thinks of two boys in purple that clashed with red hair. Fred died alone; that was unfair, George should have died, too.
He lets out a wild laugh, full of amusement and pain. "I get it, it's a good joke."
She smiles. "I thought so. Now, is their anything else, before we part?"
He looks at her, limp but standing under the spell, his own crimson blood staining his purple suit, his green hair matted with sweat. "Who did I threaten, might I ask, to anger you so, my queen of hearts?"
"Anger? Oh no, my dear Joker; I'm not angry, merely peeved. But," here she sighs. "It wouldn't do to let a threat to one of my people go unanswered, you understand. Bruce would have survived, he probably would have even stopped you. It's just, you and I are both aware that this isn't just about the Batman. You would have destroyed Bruce without even touching a hair on his head. You're game had too much going on that could break him. Yes, he would have won in the end, but at what price? He's too good for that." She doesn't want the world to sink its sharp claws into Bruce's soul any deeper than it already has.
He laughs again, hard and giggling. "Oh yes, a good joke, Bruce Wayne as the Batman. Hmm, yes."
"Yes." She looks down at him benevolently. "Goodbye then. See you in the Seventh Circle."
She yanks the knife up and watches with studious eyes as his lifeblood flows out of him. She would have thought he'd have gone down with more of a fight. She mentally shrugs. Magic makes things too easy. She almost feels bad that her prey rarely stands a chance.
She motions again with her hands. The time dilation field drops, and he flops limply to the ground.
Everyone in the room blinks. One moment, the Joker is approaching a brown haired woman, and the next, he is lying in a pool of his own blood. The screaming begins just as Bruce bursts into the ballroom.
Later, when the police come by to question, there is much left unanswered. Not one person can explain how the Joker went from living to dead in the blink of an eye. No one can guess what happened to his accomplices, who are now a drooling mess of mindless bodies. No one can tell where the knife came from and went, or where the brown haired woman disappeared to. No one can really even remember the brown haired woman at all.
When Bruce Wayne is questioned, he shrugs his shoulders and says he has no idea who she could be, Officer, no he wasn't there when it happened, Officer. There were plenty of brown haired women in black dresses there that night. He doesn't know all of them. Maybe she was someone's plus one?
Bruce finally manages to escape the police, and then endures comforting his guests, apologizing for the invasion and offering up tissues. He evades a few groping hands and clinging bodies and makes his way back up-stairs to the penthouse, which is still crawling with law enforcement agents. Harvey Dent is among them, giving orders, but Rachel is no where to be seen.
He charms his way to the bedroom, shuts the door on all the chaos, and turns towards the bed.
She's there again. Make-up washed off but the fancy scrap of black silk that Alfred procured for the occasion still wrapped around her. She makes a striking image, all black on white and spread-eagle, both delicate and deadly.
"They found the card."
"Oh, did they get it?"
"Dent might, Rachel might, Gordon might. I did. Clever, using the Joker's calling card on his own body."
"It's my card too Bruce, I'm the Fool. I'm the beginning and the end, the neither and the otherwise, the betwixt and the between. Zero times a number is zero - all paths lead back to me."
"Don't talk cryptic, Hermione." He hates this, how she attempts to distance herself after. He knows that she's screaming to someone, anyone to love her and comfort her and accept her, but that she doesn't believe she deserves it. He wonders at the past he doesn't know, at the people who shunned her for her sacrifices.
"Fine. I kill. That is it. My reasons do not matter, there need be no logic. I'll see the Seventh Circle with all those that I sent. I am the beginning, and I am the end."
He knows that that's a lie. He wonders if she thinks that if she convinces herself she's a monster, it won't hurt quite as much. "You've saved a lot of people. You save people."
"Don't be my advocate. I kill. Without mercy. Without remorse. I don't forgive and I don't forget. I know that you can't look at me." That's true, the moment he saw her on his bed he has steadily looked elsewhere.
"Not for the reasons you think." That's true, too.
She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut. It still hurts; the horror, the way they can't bear to see her. She's killed for them, so that they wouldn't have to, so that they would be safe. Now they avoid her at occasions, and her invitations and letters get lost en route. "Well then?"
He ignores her dismissive tones, knowing that she's putting up walls. "You kill so that others don't have to. I can't forgive myself that you have more blood on your hands because of me."
"Don't." She's fierce at this, and he hears the fabric of her dress slither as she stands. "Don't." She grabs his face and pulls his chin to face her. "I kill. Don't make that your fault. He would have destroyed you. Killing him would have destroyed you. I'm glad to have saved you from that fate."
"You just contradicted yourself. See, you aren't the bad guy."
She stops, and they're close. Closer than she was with the Joker when she plunged the knife into his stomach. She lets out a slightly bitter laugh, trying to cover up the fact that he affects her when they're close like this. That he affects her at all. "Well, that's good isn't it? You'd have to hunt me down if I were."
He opens his eyes to stare at her. "Never." She makes a little noise, a little, broken, beautiful kind of noise. Their noses are touching as they breath each other's breath.
She gives him a smile. None of the harsh, cruel, twisted smiles that she's forced onto her mouth today, but an honest, gentle smile. The indefinable tension that has been mounting between them dissipates.
"I'm going to take a shower." She walks away, an exaggerated sashay to her step, and he laughs despite all of the hardship of the past hours. The judge is dead, the commissioner is dead, the Joker is dead. Not all is right in Gotham yet, but that's why the city has Harvey Dent and the Batman.
He falls into bed and inhales the sharp, tangy scent of oranges on his pillow. He grins up at the ceiling, because Hermione Granger is taking a shower in his bathroom while police officers comb the streets and the databases and his ballroom for any sign of her.
He falls asleep, still in his suit, and his last thought before drifting off is that he'll have to get Alfred to get the floor thoroughly cleaned before the next soiree. If he dreams about a brown-haired woman spread out on his bed, white skin on white coverlet, he tries not to think about it later.
When he wakes the next morning, there's a card on his pillow.
Judgment. (Angel trumpeting, dead emerging with arms outstretched.) With "I'll be betwixt and between, call when you need me" written on the back.
He smiles a little smile and thinks about that moment before she smiled and walked out of the bedroom in the early hours of the morning.
He places the Tarot card in the Cave where no one can stumble upon it and connect Bruce Wayne to the card left in the Joker's pocket by his murderer. They are connected, he and Hermione. He hopes that one day they'll grant themselves some redemption. Maybe then they'll be more than a tangle of stolen moments without masks. Maybe then, they'll fill in each other's holes and fears and desperation. Maybe then, together, they'll be something great.