"Master Bruce? Master Bruce?" Alfred knocked on Bruce's door before he opened it and peered into the bedroom. Bruce was there, sitting on the edge of his bed and reading through an old textbook on criminology. Far too advanced for an eleven year old boy. He set it down carefully and turned to face Alfred.
Nearly three years after the funeral Bruce still wore only black. Hoping to relieve the boy's melancholy, Alfred had moved them both back to Britain. He'd hoped that the change of scenery and schools would restore Bruce's youthful spirit, but it seemed that nothing would ever alleviate what Bruce had seen in that alley.
"Letter for you, Master Bruce." Alfred handed over the thick parchment envelope. "It didn't arrive with the morning post and I don't recognize the seal. But it is clearly addressed to you." Quite ridiculously so, in fact. The front of the envelope specified not only the full address, but the floor of the building and which bedroom in their penthouse was Bruce's. How the sender knew that, and why he'd felt the need to specify it, Alfred couldn't imagine.
"Thank you, Alfred. I'll look through it." Over two years and Bruce still spoke with his American accent. When he spoke at all.
Alfred remained in the room, "Let's have a look together Master Wayne. Tell me what the letter says."
The letter turned out to be nothing more than a silly prank. It was odd how much effort the prankster had put into it, using actual parchment and a dip-pen along with a custom wax seal, not to mention the amount of detail involved. Alfred couldn't help but be a bit disappointed that Bruce had dismissed the letter so immediately. A boy that young should still have room for magic in his heart.
A joke it was, though, and so the parchment had found its way into the bin and out of their thoughts.
Until the next day, when Alfred heard a knocking at the balcony door.
There, standing patiently outside the sliding glass door, was a witch. Every bit the classic image of a witch, from her pointed hat to her green and black robes to the broomstick in her hand. All except for her perfectly straight-backed posture and her small, square framed glasses. Those made her look more a strict schoolmistress.
The witch knocked again.
Alfred opened the door in a daze and said the first thing that came to mind, "How now, you secret, black, and midnight hag! What is't you do?"
"A deed without a name," She replied in prim Scottish accent. "Now, are you going to invite me in, Thane of Glamis?"
Her response partially relieved his shock at seeing her outside the balcony door and he pulled it fully open and just managed to say, "Of course, please come in." He made space for her to step through the door. "Please set down your... broom," he gestured vaguely towards the the side of the doorframe while he stepped out on the balcony and looked around. Here was no harness, no cables, and no other sign that she had somehow lowered herself from the roof. How had she gotten here?
"What are you looking for, Thane of Cawdor?" The witch smiled softly as she set her broomstick down just inside the door.
"Madam, forgive me, but how in the world did you get up here? This balcony is two hundred feet up, if it is an inch." Perhaps from the nearest window? Maybe in his prime he could have scaled that distance, but she didn't look to be so young and spry as that, and he'd never known anyone that could manage such a feat while wearing such a bulky outfit or carrying a prop.
She smiled again and picked her broom back up, "I think you've already answered your own question, sir. Now will you tell me your name, or should I just refer to you as 'King of Scotland' for the rest of the day? I'm Professor Minerva McGonagall, since you forgot to ask."
"Yes, of course, I apologize again, madam. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, I am Master Bruce's legal guardian." Alfred straightened his shirt and drew himself up. Her trick of getting up here might have him stumped, but she certainly wasn't going to have him looking the fool. "Do you truly expect me to believe you flew up here on a magic broomstick?"
In answer she simply tossed the broom onto the floor. Or, at least, she threw it towards the floor but it never arrived there. It stopped in midair about two feet above the tiles. On closer inspection it also didn't actually look very much like a broom. It had a handle and bristles, yes, but the bristles were stiff and swept in what someone clearly thought was a streamlined fashion and the handle was shaped nothing like a simple cleaning tool. It also had what looked like a bicycle seat and stirrups. It hovered there, apparently unconcerned with gravity, bobbing slightly up and down.
Alfred turned back towards the witch, but she was gone. Instead there was a large tabby cat sitting straight-backed on the bartop. A cat with distinctive square markings around its eyes very much like the glasses the witch had been wearing. It met his gaze and, if possible for a cat, raised its eyebrows.
"Can I assume this is related to the letter he received yesterday?" Alfred asked incredulously.
The cat nodded in reply.
This was quite the limit for Alfred Pennyworth, if this was a prank then it was the greatest prank of all time and there was nothing to do but go along with it. "Master Bruce," he called down the hall, "There's someone here to speak with you."
When Bruce came out to meet them he looked from Alfred to the still floating broom to the cat on the counter. The cat leapt off the counter but it was Professor McGonagall who ended up standing on the floor. How she had gone from one to the other Alfred couldn't quite fathom, even though he'd seen it with his own eyes. It clearly had happened, in any event. Unless he was going completely and utterly mad. If that were the case then there was no harm in playing along.
Without pausing Professor McGonagall addressed Bruce, "Hello. I take it you're Mister Bruce Wayne." Bruce nodded silently. "You did read the letter I sent you yesterday saying to expect me?" He nodded again. "Well then, congratulations Mister Wayne. My name is Professor McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm pleased to say you've been accepted as a student to Hogwarts. I hope you won't accuse me of boasting when I say that Hogwarts has one of the best reputations of all wizarding schools and that there's no finer place to study magic in the world."
Bruce looked silently from the witch to her broomstick, apparently at a loss for words to follow this statement. Alfred couldn't blame the boy, he'd been feeling much the same since the witch had appeared on the balcony. Professor McGonagall smiled again, apparently quite comfortable with their discomfort. "I do apologize gentlemen, the other professors and I have conversations like this one a few times a year when the acceptance letters go out. Let me address the most obvious things first, and you can let me know if you've any questions.
"Magic is real. For the most part we keep this fact, along with ourselves, hidden from the rest of the world. You'll learn the details of when and why behind this decision during your history classes, suffice it to say that pitchforks and torches were a big part of the motivation." She didn't fail to notice Bruce's worried look towards Alfred and quickly added, "We don't mind having some contact with the non-magical world, obviously, but if you go around announcing it to the general public you'll get in trouble with the Ministry."
Bruce nodded in understanding and she continued, "You, Mister Wayne, are a wizard. It's just something you're born as. Mostly it's passed down from one or both parents, but about one in every five Hogwarts students comes from non-magical parents." She shrugged, "Nobody's really sure why, it just seems to happen that way. In any event, you won't be the only one at Hogwarts who's never heard of magic before getting your letter. Once there you'll be taking classes with other young witches and wizards your age that will teach you how to use magic and introduce you to the wider world around it.
"Now if you have further questions." It was more statement that invitation, though she did wait for Bruce to slowly shake his head, "Good. There's a marketplace not far from here in London where you can get your school supplies. I'll show you way and help you find what you need."
Less than an hour later Professor McGonagall was leading the two of them through the streets of London. Despite her strange appearance nobody seemed to be paying her any particular attention. Indeed, although people parted to let her aside, they never actually seemed to notice or acknowledge her at all. As though they suddenly decided to step to the side for some other reason, blissfully unaware that they'd ever been blocking the witch's way. Bruce and Alfred simply followed behind her.
Eventually the three arrived at a small, dingy pub sandwiched between two larger stores. At least, that's what he thought it was. Alfred couldn't quite seem to focus on the pub. He'd see it for a moment, but almost immediately his gaze would slip to either side. If Professor McGonagall hadn't pointed it out he would never have noticed it in the first place. She led him and the boy through the pub's main room silently, nodding to the one-eyed bartender, and out to a small alleyway behind the pub and then to a flat, brick wall. There she paused and pulled a small rod from a pocket in her robes.
Alfred had thought he couldn't be any more astonished, but there it was: a wand. A magic wand. She had a magic wand in her pocket. And very soon Master Bruce would be purchasing his own. Master Bruce had been accepted into a school of magic and would grow up to be a wizard. That was quite a lot to accept in a very short span of time. His school things were going to include spellbooks and a magic wand, and his school uniform involved wizard's robes and a pointed hat. All that was on the second copy of the letter and the list of school supplies Professor McGonagall had handed him after she explained everything to Bruce earlier.
Professor McGonagall tapped the wand confidently on a brick that looked no different from any other. Immediately it began to quiver and after a moment it slid aside and then so to did its neighbors, until very soon there was a wide doorway next to the unattended rubbish bins where once there had been nothing.
Beyond the open portal was a marketplace like none that Alfred Pennyworth had ever seen, and he had seen some very unusual things in his time. As he continued to follow Professor McGonagall he saw the strangest assortment of wares and services on display. A window advertised sport racing broomsticks, next to that a shop promised joke custards that turn unsuspecting eaters into canaries, across the street from that a vendor sold beetle eyes by the scoop.
Not every customer or vendor in the market was definitely human, either. Alfred didn't have words for some of the individuals he saw, but it would be impolite to stare. He was relieved to see that Bruce had remembered that as well. The boy walked confidently, looking at everything but not gaping or staring. Good, now they were the ones who didn't fit in, there was no sense drawing further attention to themselves.
Obtaining the currency itself had been an experience. Converting Master Bruce's trust fund dollars into pounds was a simple matter. Getting enough cash in pounds, then converting it to the gold coins used here was another matter. They'd carried a not insubstantial amount of cash on their way here. The currency here made little sense and he was quite certain the moneychanger had overcharged him. At this point, though, Alfred had far larger concerns on his mind than haggling over exchange rates.
Unperturbed, their guide led them to a small shop that looked to have been recently renovated. The sign over the door proclaimed it "Olivander's: Makers of Fine Wands" and several wands sat in open boxes on display in the window.
Professor McGonagall opened the door and greeted the shop owner, "Mister Olivander, this is Mister Bruce Wayne. He'll be starting at Hogwarts this term and he'll need a wand."
Mister Olivander was a thin man who moved with the deliberate care of someone whose joints had begun to ache with age or old injury. He greeted Bruce in a kind, if absent minded sort of way, pulling a tape measure out a pocket. "Master Wayne, yes, no doubt we'll find the right wand. I've never yet failed to find the right match, though it's really the wand chooses the wizard, you know." He continued on, partially muttering to himself and partially talking to Bruce.
Professor McGonagall backed out of the way and stood by Alfred while the shopkeeper talked and measured Bruce's arm. "I suppose you purchased your own wand here?" Alfred said in an undertone.
"Oh yes, many years ago when I first started at Hogwarts."
Olivander moved over to one of the shelves and pulled down a box. With a start Alfred realized the tape measure was, of its own accord, still attempting to measure the size of Bruce's ears until Mr. Olivander snapped his fingers and it fell on the floor. He returned with a long thin box, which he opened to reveal a tapered shaft of wood. "Core of owl feather in maple. Springy, good for transfiguration." He handed the wand's handle to Bruce and encouraged him to wave the wand but, after Bruce had barely lifted it, snapped it out of his hand. "No good, I suppose." He returned the wand to its box, which he set aside, and found another. Three more went the same way as the first, before he again snapped his fingers and found a stepstool. From atop one of the overloaded shelves he pulled down a dusty box, which he wiped off with his sleeve.
"Never found the right owner for this one, I'm amazed it survived the fire." He pulled out a long piece of polished wood and held it up to examine it, "Batwing and American Chestnut, unusual combination and very hard to come by now." He handed the wand to Bruce and encouraged him to wave it. Bruce did so and immediately sparks flew from the end of the wand.
Moments later the wand was bundled up and paid for, though Alfred still had no idea whether it had been expensive or not, and Professor McGonagall was leading them to get Bruce's new school uniform. A shop called "Madame Malkins Robes for All Occasions" was, she assured them, the best place to do so, though Hogwarts students outgrew their often enough that there were also a number of second-hand shops. Bruce certainly had enough left from his parents for new, in any event.
Confident that Bruce was in good hands with the shopkeeper here, they left him while Professor McGonagall showed Alfred where they might find Bruce's schoolbooks. She also advised him that, if they so desired, he was permitted to bring a small pet with him, "The letter says a cat, frog, or owl; but we've made allowances for other small birds and for rats as well. Many students like having their own owl to deliver mail for them, but the school has its own they can use at any time."
"Professor, I wonder if I might buy you a drink at the pub before you leave. I'd like to speak with you about Master Bruce." If he was leaving the boy in her care she had better understand what that entailed.
"The boy's not a troublemaker is he?" She asked as they sat down at the small bar, "I can deal with troublemakers, I assure you, Mister Pennyworth."
From her expression and demeanor Alfred had no doubt about that, and he smiled at the image of Bruce Wayne engaged in conventional schoolboy troublemaking. "Madam, if you were to tell me that Master Bruce had..." he sought about for what trouble a boy at a magical school might get into, "...raided alchemy supplies as part of an elaborate revenge prank on another student, or had turned himself invisible to sneak into the upperclassmen changing rooms, or been caught out of bed at night to take care of an illegal pet dragon..." he paused as she laughed quietly at some private joke. Perhaps some students had done exactly those things. He finished, "If you were to write to tell me he had done those things I would reply with all my thanks and a home-baked pie." He took a deep breath as he imagined a more likely scenario, "If you told me that a bully threatened him and Master Bruce killed the other boy in self-defense, then I wouldn't be at all surprised."
Her eyes widened and her hand went to her lips in shock, "Mister Pennyworth..."
"Master Bruce is a good boy, but you need to understand what he's been through." Alfred took a long drink from the whiskey the one-eyed bartender had given him, interesting flavor, not entirely familiar. "I noticed that you never asked why I'm his legal guardian, or what became of his parents. It was in many American newspapers, but I doubt you would have heard about it here." Professor McGonagall shook her head, he took a deep sigh and began the story. "Thomas and Martha Wayne were the wealthiest family in Gotham City, and generally well liked. Martha Wayne headed several charities to benefit the city's poorer citizens and schools and Thomas Wayne ran a number of free clinics in the city's poorest neighborhoods.
"One day, about three years ago, the Monarch Theater in downtown Gotham did a showing of The Mark of Zorro, at the time Master Bruce's favorite film. Thomas took the family out for the day, intending to end with the film. Thomas and Martha loved Bruce very much, but they were also very busy, and it meant a great deal to them to make this kind of time.
"After the film ended and they left the theater Thomas led his wife and son through a small alleyway along the side of the building, a shortcut to catch a taxi on the next block. That area of Gotham is notorious for its high crime rates, what Thomas was thinking I'll never know. A man approached them from a doorway with a gun in his hand. He demanded their wallet and jewelry. Thomas tried to comply, handing over his wallet and watch. Perhaps he made a sudden move or perhaps the man just panicked, or maybe he just wanted to kill them anyway, but he shot Thomas dead in the street. Martha screamed and he shot her, too.
"Then he turned the gun on Bruce. Perhaps to leave no witnesses or perhaps out of pure sadism, but something strange happened when he pulled the trigger. Instead of killing Bruce, the gun exploded in his hand. He dropped the twisted gun and ran off, holding his mangled hand in his good one, leaving behind him an eight year old boy and the bodies of his dead parents. He was picked up trying to get treatment for his battered hand with Thomas' wallet still in his pocket. Ironically he'd sought help at one of the free clinics Thomas Wayne had started."
Alfred looked down at his now empty glass, he'd barely noticed going through it. "The police say it was a squib load. Such things can happen, very rarely, when firearms are poorly maintained. A bullet becomes lodged in the barrel of the gun instead of firing. Bullets are propelled by an explosion and, if it can't force the bullet out, instead it goes backwards." He looked the Professor in the eye, "That's not what happened, is it?"
She lowered he gaze to her own drink and shook her head, "No, Mister Pennyworth, I think not. In times of stress young wizards and witches often use magic on accident. The results are sometimes random and dangerous, but usually it happens because of harmless childhood nonsense. With a weapon in his face I have no doubt that Bruce's magic would strike out to protect him. It's not something he could have had control over, or even known was happening."
That was what Alfred had thought, Bruce had never had any reason to believe his survival as more than an accident. "I think it best to remain that way. Bruce has spent years feeling guilt for asking his parents to that theater. If he believed there was any way he could have saved them..."
"There isn't any way, he'd have had no control over it."
"That wouldn't matter. He'd simply blame himself for his own lack of control." Alfred considered the possible outcomes, "I can't say he won't eventually figure this out himself, he's a clever child, but I'd rather you not suggest it to him. I moved him here to try to get him out of that alley, to try to help him move on from that night. Everything in Gotham reminded him of them, and everyone in Gotham wouldn't let him forget. He wasn't really Bruce Wayne in Gotham, he was just Thomas and Martha's son, a boy who shouldn't have lived."
She finally agreed not to say anything about their conversation, particularly that the gun's failure might have been caused by Bruce's magic protecting him, and Alfred paid the bartender for their drinks. She walked back with him to retrieve Bruce and his robes before taking her leave. "This is your train ticket, you'll see the time and platform number on it. To get into Platform 9-3/4 you simply walk into the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. Mister Wayne, I'll see you at Hogwarts at the start of term."
"Professor McGonagall?" Bruce spoke up, for the first time he had done so today without prompting. "I think I know what you and Alfred were talking about when you left. He was telling you about my parents, wasn't he? People keep saying I'm lucky to have lived, but I don't feel lucky."
She looked down at him, her serious expression matching his. "Mister Wayne, I've met other children who lived when their parents did not. I have never considered any of them 'lucky' for that." She looked back to Alfred, "Now I really must be going. Great business must be wrought ere noon." She turned as if to walk away and, with a pop, vanished without a trace.
After a long moment of shock they made their way to the bookstore Professor McGonagall had pointed out earlier. Finding the required textbooks had been simple, the shopkeeper was apparently accustomed to first year students and kept their books readily available. But Master Bruce was considering other books. Anything that isn't combat or justice related, Alfred pleaded silently. Even if this magic school did nothing else at all, if it could simply bring that poor boy out of that alleyway he would bless them and pay whatever they asked.
Finally Master Bruce and the clerk settled on two books that matched his interest and skill level. Alfred peered over to see what the boy had requested. Hogwarts, A History was a good start. Wise to research the school before attending and it seemed a harmless enough book. Alfred's heart sank, however, with the next title, Magical Dueling in Theory and Practice. Bad enough the only sports that interested the boy at school were various martial arts, now he'd learn to fight with that ridiculous wand? Still, perhaps the school year would help the boy move on. He could only hope.
Or, perhaps he could do more than hope. As he paid for the books, Alfred considered again the last line on the list of school supplies. Students were allowed to bring a pet. Perhaps having another creature to care for would help Bruce out of his own melancholy. "Come along, Master Bruce, the list says you're allowed to bring along a small pet. Why don't we have a look?"
Bruce looked up in surprise, "Alfred, I've never said I wanted a pet."
"I realize that, Master Bruce," Alfred smiled, "But it certainly can't hurt to look at the shop and see." Bruce accompanied him, not quite sullenly but certainly not excitedly, to a shop called the Magical Menagerie. From what Professor McGonagall had said it seemed wizards preferred to send mail by owl so, while that was an undoubtedly odd way to correspond, an owl might be the most practical animal for Master Bruce.
The Menagerie was a crowded building filled with various animal cages and the smell of food, fur, and feathers. Alfred and Bruce had barely entered when they were accosted by a small red and brown shape that zipped around Bruce's head. A second later a small bird landed on his shoulder and began singing happily into the boy's ear. The exasperated shop owner followed just behind shouting at the little bird before noticing the two of them, "Robin! Oh, I'm sorry gentlemen, he pesters everyone who walks in. He showed up in a batch of Flammulated eggs from America about half a year ago, my supplier won't take him back and nobody wants a bird too small to carry packages." This did not seem to perturb the little bird at all, it continued singing and hopped down Bruce's sleeve. "Robin, stop bothering the customers! Let me show you two around."
Bruce didn't move or even seem to notice what she'd said. He hadn't taken his eyes off the small bird, which had also completely ignored the store owner and had reached the boys upraised hand. "How much?"