oh my god oh my god OH MY GOD DC ACTUALLY DID IT THEY MADE OUR BOY QUEER
Honestly, I am so happy. People have been reading Tim Drake as queer for literal decades, and the fact that they actually made it canon? This is so groundbreaking. Like, I know DC is probably going to fuck it up at some point, but I'm just choosing to live in the moment and enjoy the progress in the comic-book industry.
Now, just to be clear, I'm still going to write Tim/Steph in this story, but I'm very happy that he's branching out in the comics and learning more about himself.
okay okay back to the story, I just couldn't wait until the end of this chapter to get all that off my chest

That weekend was spent exploring the castle and fiddling with his electronics. It was a good combination because they were both what Tim would consider 'leisurely' activities; when he got frustrated with his laptop, he could just walk down to the dungeons and lose himself in the complicated maze of halls and rooms. There was no 'right' answer when exploring. The highlight of the weekend had been when he had snuck back into his room one night to find a house-elf in the middle of fluffing his pillow. It had been an awkward conversation at first (how was one supposed to talk to a sentient species that allegedly enslaved itself to humans willingly?), but he had ended up spending an hour with this creature, who was nothing but polite to him and even told him about a couple secret passages in Hogwarts once she had realized that he was interested in the castle's inner workings. By the end of Sunday, he had mapped out four floors of the castle and was getting close to solving the WiFi problem—at least, as far as he could tell.

Monday morning brought enough chaos to make up for the leisure of the weekend. He was midway through his third pancake when the owls arrived. And, for a while, they didn't stop arriving. One came and dropped off the Daily Planet and the Gotham Gazette, one showed up with the Independent, and then three different envelopes were dropped off in a row. The last owl swooped down and topped the stack with today's edition of the Daily Prophet, a whole page dedicated to a headshot of Umbridge, titled "MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM—DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"" The article read mostly the same as the other articles he had read over the summer—blatant propaganda and bias, from whom they interviewed to what was said about those people. To be honest, Tim was sort of skimming through it because he had seen the letters come down and caught a "Stephanie Brown" written as the return address. He continued the scan the article—blah, blah, "revolutionizing teaching," blah, blah, blah, something, something, "falling standards," "controversial staff appointments," blah, blah.

He tossed the paper aside and greedily grabbed the letter off the top of the stack, a light purple envelope addressed to simply "Tim" from "Stephanie Brown." He grinned at her perfect cursive and the way she dotted the 'I's with little hearts. On the back was a sticker of a beachball, for some reason. Oh wait, that reason is Steph being Steph.

'Sup Tim. How's school? How's work? Are you the best in class? You better be. My reputation is at stake, and I'm sure as hell not the best in my college classes. Biology fucking sucks. Oh, and how's Alfred? Damian misses him a lot, even though he hasn't come out and said it. What's magic like? What's the weirdest thing you've eaten? How many friends do you have? Are you being social at all?

Anyways, enough about you. Like I was saying, Bio is a bitch. I thought I knew how hard pre-med was going to be, but it's even worse than I thought. Hey, but Psych is pretty cool. Mostly because somehow Harley found out about me taking the class and has been telling me all these useful things and helping me study. Say what you will about her, but the woman's a genius. Leslie also promised to let me shadow her over Thanksgiving break! And the craziest thing? A couple days ago, Bruce said that I could come over and look at all the books on his dad's bookshelf! You know, the one in his office? The dusty one? It's chalk-full of Thomas Wayne's medical publications and textbooks, and even though I don't understand any of them at all, I was still shocked that Bruce was offering me them.

Cass told me to tell you that she's moved on to éclairs and is baking with Cullen a lot. Isn't that adorable? She even managed to ambush Jason and force him to teach her how to make a better chocolate sauce. And he did, or so she says. Whack, right?

Sorry I couldn't see you off when you left, but 'tis the life of a busy college student. I'm sure that, with time, your heart will heal, and you will learn to trust again. :P

With love and annoyance and love and god I miss you so much I just want to go out to O'Shaughnessy's and get slushies together,

Steph

Tim took a moment just to look over the letter and soak in Steph's handwriting and little hearts drawn in the margins like she was still a thirteen-year-old. He was so excited to read the letter, but once he reached the end, he felt a knot twist in his stomach. Was this the only piece of paper? He could listen to her rant about college for hours, but for now, he would have to make do with a short letter.

She sounded happy, which made Tim happy. And, despite her complaints, it seemed like she was doing well at college. And Bruce giving her access to those books? That was incredible! That shelf had been off-limits as long as Tim could remember.

He glanced glumly down at his pancake. What he wouldn't do for one of Jason's éclairsright now.

But he couldn't dwell on that too long. Charms was in half an hour, he needed to see what the other two envelopes contained. The one on top was your average business envelope, also addressed simply to "Tim." His heart skipped a beat when he saw the handwriting, and he practically tore open the letter.

My sweet li'l pumpkin math brother dearest little Timmy, (Tim chuckled, earning him some confused glances from his fellow Ravenclaws)

I miss youuuuuuuuuu! You haven't answered any of my texts, so I assume the whole magic/electronic thing is a mess like you predicted. Are you eating real food? Are you getting at least 108 7 hours of sleep each night? You know you need it. How's Alfred? Damian misses him a ton, and whenever Titus is around, he ends up talking to him about Alfred and then the conversation will move to you. Isn't that cute? Anyways, have you made any friends yet? Have you tried to make friends? I can't be there physically to pressure you to be social, so all I can do is try and plead via owl-letter.

PLEEEEEAAAAASE BE SOCIALLLLLLLLL

Have you been taking your medication? I know you switched a couple months ago, so I hope the side-effects have gone away. How are these ones doing? Better? Worse? Make sure to let the school nurse know at the very least. Also, tell her about your spleen or lack thereof. You always forget to do that, and then you go and get hurt and freak everyone out. I hope you're not freaking anyone out there. You probably are.

Have you gotten any detentions yet? Broken any serious rules? What's school like? Who are the cool teachers? Which teachers do you think you'd want to have a beer with? Which teachers do you think I'd want to have a beer with? Oh, and did you get into the nerd group? You were pretty worried that you'd be put into the asshole group. Even if you were, I'm sure you're letting those people have it, just like a true Wayne kid :)))). Doing anything fun at night? (don't get dirty with me, you know what I'm talking about) (I mean, but if you are boning down, I want to know everything lolllll)

Are you talking to people? Please tell me if anything's bothering you. You promised me, remember? And, yes, I know that means I have to tell you how I'm doing, so buckle up, little bro.

I'm doing pretty good, all things considered. I'm still struggling to take breaks from my work, but Wren is helping me learn to rest. That man's a life-saver, let me tell you. Oh, and he said you can write to him any time, and if you don't contact him soon, he'll send you something. Oh, and I'm getting pretty frustrated with this new 'serial suicide' case. What even is serial suicide? Don't worry, if we can't solve it, I'll send you the case files. Or maybe I'll hold it over your head as incentive to come home.

Anyways, like always, I miss you. And I miss everyone in Gotham, but again, what's new? Taking breaks is hard! But see me as a cautionary tale and TAKE BREAKS. Got it? Got iiiiiiiiit?

I love you so much, and so does do the rest of the Waynes. Think positive and be forgiving to yourself.

XOXOXO

Dick

P.S. There's also a bunch of stuff I texted you about, but when you solve the phone problem, you can read them all.

P.P.S. Damian told me (or rather, he mentioned in passing offhandedly) to remind you to eat healthy. He's really worried that something will happen to you, even though all he does is complain about you.

Tim laughed again to himself after he was done with the letter before realizing that he had begun to tear up. He immediately wiped his face. This wasn't the time nor the place to get emotional about how much his brother cared for him. He didn't deserve Dick, he really didn't.

He felt something brush against his shoulder, and Tim, a little startled, whipped his head to his left to see that Aruna had sat down next to him, presumably while he was reading Dick's letter, and she had placed a hand on his shoulder. Her face was as impassive as ever, and yet she stared right at him and gave his shoulder a little squeeze before patting it and then returning to her granola without saying a word.

It was…comforting. Tim didn't know why, but it was like she was silently supporting him, telling him that he could do this, all without saying a word. Tim blinked away another set of tears and moved to open the final envelope, which had "Timothy" scrawled on the front messily. He produced from it a pair of small, folded papers.

Runesmith,

Hope school is going well, especially in the friend-making department. Work is pretty gloomy, and everyone is grumpy. I fit right in. I wrote you another crypto that I'm certain you can't break. I can't wait for you to send me a letter pleading me to tell you what it says. On the other hand, I cracked your code right away. You're getting sloppy. I've seen better puzzles in the Quibbler.

The Riddlemaster

The next page was filled with a long string of numbers.

064066064062061061061066062063062062064064061064062064061063064061064066062062061064062061061066064064063063064061061064061062064066066066062064064061061064061062061063061061061066061066064066062062061063062064062066061061066066066066061063061061061062064066062066061061062061066064064066061066061064066064061061064064063063062064061063064061061064061061066066062064061061064064063063062064061061064064062064061063061061066061066066061064064066061061061063062064063061064061066061061062062064066061064064061062061063061061062063062063062064061061066061066066064063061063062064064063064066061063061066064063064066061066062061062064063063062064062064063063061061061064066066062064062066062064066061064064064066061063061064061063062064061061066066062062063062064066066061064064063063062064062066066066062064063062061061061063064064062066062064066061064064064066066064062066061066061064064064062064061063064061062064061064064061061064064061062066063062064066061063064064061061066061064064

Tim hurriedly stuffed both back into their envelope and tucked it into his bookbag. He would have to decode it later, maybe at lunch. Fortunately, it looked like Constantine had encrypted the message properly.

"Someone's popular," Purdie laughed, lifting up his glass of pumpkin juice to Tim as if toasting him for having received so much mail.

"Yeah," Tim responded. "Guess I am."

"Family?"

"One's one of my brothers, one's my significant other, and one's an old friend of mine." He folded the other two letters back up and stored them away. He needed to return to his breakfast if he was planning on being at Charms on time.

Purdie hummed, looking impressed. "I was wondering if you were taken already. Too bad for all those third-years who've been pining after you from afar."

"Really?" Tim was well-aware of how oblivious he was to romantic advances, so it was unsurprising to him that this was the case. "Now you've made me feel bad!"

Purdie laughed again, ducking his head down to finish his current activity, which, oddly enough, was not eating breakfast but rather fiddling with one of the cloth napkins and folding it into shapes like it was origami, an impressive feat, considering that cloth was not usually the preferred medium for such projects.

Tim watched in vague interest as Purdie crafted what looked to be a beetle of some sorts. He pulled out his wand and tapped the napkin, whispering something unintelligible, and, to Tim's surprise, the paper craft came to life, fluttering its little coffee-stained wings and making a beeline for Aruna. It almost seemed to chirp happily as it landed on her mane of dark hair, its new nest, apparently. Aruna didn't even flinch, just kept on munching on that granola.

Despite the looming threat of 'inspections' from the High Inquisitor (yeesh, was that a mouthful), Tim found all of his classes that day Umbridge-free. Snape returned their potions with O.W.L.-equivalent grades on them (Tim felt an odd urge to show the 'Exceeds Expectations' to Bruce at his earliest convenience), but, other than that, the day was fairly lackluster. He was still stuck on his electronic problem, so he cranked through another month of Daily Prophet papers during his free period.

Unsurprisingly, the most exciting part of the day involved Harry. People around here seemed to agree that, if things were getting interesting, there was an eighty percent chance that it involved Harry Potter. Word on the street was that he had landed himself in—

"—another week of detentions, can you believe him?" Hermione shouted at him in a whisper. "I know she's terrible, but he just keeps on talking back to her! What did he expect to happen? Did he thing Umbridge would suddenly agree with him? Or did he think that, by knocking her down a peg, it'd somehow fix things?"

Tim nodded along, mostly keeping quiet. It was clear that Hermione needed to get this off of her chest. He slowly sipped his soup and let her continue.

"I know he's angry at her, we're all angry at her, she's just horrible, but does he think this is the way to fight back? By missing Quidditch practices and pulling all-nighters because he's doing lines all night?"

Tim blinked. "Wait, so he has a week's worth of detentions…doing lines…?" That was a relief. Tim wasn't quite sure how detentions worked at Hogwarts, only that they were particular to each teacher. Back when Tim was in high school, detention consisted of sitting in a chair in a room with a couple other kids and a teacher until you'd served your time or until the teacher let you off early because you helped them clean the tables.

"Yes!" Hermione huffed, looking more concerned than angry at this point. "And it's just so taxing on him, I know he doesn't like to admit it." True. If nothing else, writing lines was exhausting and gave you terrible cramps that lasted for hours. He remembered in grade school having to write each of his weekly vocabulary words twenty times each, which he even now thought was a little excessive.

"And the scarring is only getting worse! Murtlap can only do so much, you know."

Wait, Murtlap? Like the magical, aquatic beach rat?

"I'm sorry, what?" Tim knew he was missing something, which was his least favorite feeling to experience. "Is 'doing lines' something different in the wizarding world?" No, no, that was bad, Tim couldn't admit to being unaware of basic wizarding concepts, so he added, "I-I mean, I was homeschooled, so I'm not familiar with what wizarding detentions are supposed to be like." It was a sloppy save, but he hoped it would do.

He watched as Hermione went through her own little train of thoughts. As he was speaking, her eyes had begun to widen, and then, when he had finished, she had opened her mouth to say something but then closed it after a second. She bit her lip and avoided Tim's gaze. So, this was a sensitive subject.

It took her a couple attempts to cobble together a coherent thought. "I—um—" He watched her clench and unclench her fork as if not sure she was hungry. "—well, I—it's—I'm not sure it's…my place to tell it, if that makes sense…" Very sensitive, apparently.

Tim nodded, though, in reality, that was the gesture that least expressed his current thoughts and emotions. His mind was whirring, trying to piece together what she meant. She had talked about scarring. Some sort of physical punishment? But not bruising. That could mean a lot of things.

"Is it something I should be worried about?" He asked, as if he was not already quite distressed at the concept of corporal punishment combined with magic.

Her body language was definitely screaming 'yes, we're in over our heads,' but she shook her head with a quiet, "…no…no, it's not your problem, we've got it under control…" She glanced back at Gryffindor's table nervously. "I-I have to go. I promised Ron I'd…help him with his…Charms homework…" Tim allowed her to leave, taking note of the way she tensed up as she walked back and kept on sneaking glances at Tim like he wouldn't notice.

No problem. He was perfectly capable of finding out on his own.

Five o'clock in Umbridge's office. That was the schedule last week; it wasn't exactly kept on the down-low. Tim knew that this was going to be much more of a challenge than Friday night. For starters, the sky wouldn't be getting dark any time before eight. That meant people wouldn't be lighting candles yet, making it near-impossible to know which windows he could safely swing by. To add to that, there were people outside milling about, and, according to Cordelia, today was the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team tryouts.

He could totally do this.

It wasn't like the Bats were only sneaky in the night. Darkness wasn't a crutch. Tim would just have to be more vigilant. Like a vigilante.

Of course, first, he would have to successfully sneak outside, which was vastly more difficult when he had to actively lie to people and say that he was going to study in the library for a bit, a story he could only defend because the library was large enough that two people could be at the library at the same time and never cross paths in their time there. There was also the matter of curfew, which, for fifth-years, was nine o'clock. Tim wasn't planning on cementing his identity as a rule-breaker, so he would have to be in the common room by nine, preferably earlier, if he was planning on keeping up the 'model student' persona he was currently trying to carve out for himself.

The nice thing about his gear was that it was impossibly compact. He could fold up his utility belt and grapple gun into a tissue box if he wanted. But that wouldn't be necessary today; all he had to do was fit it into his messenger bag.

And he was off, having successfully duped his roommates for the time bei—

"Are you off to the library?"

Tim spun around on his heel, only steps away from the door. Sitting cross-legged underneath one of the larger tables was Luna Lovegood, the fourth-year who believed in all the conspiracy theories. Why she was talking to Tim, he had no idea. They had never actually interacted with one another before now.

Tim smiled like any normal kid would do when he was about to go do some normal thing. "Yep. Finishing my Astronomy essay."

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, crawling out from her little niche and standing up in one, fluid motion.

Yes, yes, I do mind, I'm trying to leave. Tim cleared his throat. "Uh, sure." He could just ditch her in the library. "Have we met?"

Luna shook her head. "No, but I know who you are, and you know who I am."

"Fair enough," he conceded.

She walked up to him, and the two left the common room together. Tim sighed. Crisis averted.

On the way there, Tim was able to finally take in everything about Luna. Today, she was using her wand as a hair stick for a collapsing bun, which he thought was not at all practical, seeing as she would have to put back up her hair every time that she wanted to cast a spell. It was that combined with her radish-esque earrings and her going around the school barefoot that gave Tim the impression that she may or may not be a hippie.

"You can go now," Luna told him plainly, midway through their trek.

Tim's heart stopped. "I'm…sorry?"

"You weren't really planning on going there, were you?" Why did she say that like it was a fact and not a random hypothesis of hers?

He blanched, trying to find a suitable response to this. Did she know? How much did she know? When had he slipped up?

"It's okay, I won't tell," she continued, her voice airy. With her wispy hair and pale face, he might have mistaken her for a ghost if he had never met her before. "You look like you have things you need to do. I don't want to hold you up or anything."

You can try this another night, Tim told himself. You can go with her to the library tonight and then go later. He has detention all week, after all.

He stared into her wide, pale eyes, trying to gauge what her game was here. Either she was an incredibly gifted actress, or Luna was simply giving Tim a free pass out of the goodness of her heart. It was unusually difficult to read her. For some reason, though, Tim felt like he could trust her. Maybe she really was just letting Tim do his own thing because he 'looked like' he wanted to.

He watched her wave to him out of the corner of his eye as he switched directions and headed off to that broom closet that he had discovered, trying to shake off the feeling that he had just made a huge mistake.

Feeling very much like Superman, Tim slipped into the closet and changed into his gear, stuffing his robes into his emptied bag and tucking it away in a niche in the closet. He wished he was proficient in the Invisibility Spell or the Disillusionment Charm so that he could completely hide it (and render himself invisible, that would be nice), but this would have to do. Anyways, why would someone come into this closet, spot an ordinary bookbag, and decide to sneak a peak in it? Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Tim was starting to think that he should have planned this out better, but winging it (no pun intended) was his specialty. He'd come out of far more difficult situations than this perfectly fine.

Tim's goal was to make it to the classroom by five so that he could see the entire thing through, start to finish, but he ended up arriving more like six. While there were a lot of well-shaded places on the building to hide, he had forgotten just how many windows this castle had. He was constantly checking to see if he was in someone's line of vision, which really slowed him down in the long run. It also took a little bit for him to find the exact classroom. He was aware of where it would be generally—there was that big, shiny plaque on the door that said "High Inquisitor" that he had passed by earlier today on his way to Ancient Runes.

He had hooked a length of his rope to the edge of the roof and was now slowly sliding down it upside-down. It would have been far easier to drop down onto one of the sides, but he couldn't risk a stray gust of wind blowing him and his line directly in front of the window. At least he had the forethought to clasp his cape to his belt this time so it wouldn't be dangling over his head. That there was some Robin 101.

The window wasn't open, meaning Tim couldn't send a drone in there to scout things out. He'd have to rely on his own two eyes. Carefully, ever so carefully, Tim lowered himself down so that he could peek in through the window.

His eyes burned from all the pink that covered the room, and he had to take a moment to recover mentally before he could continue. To his right, Umbridge sat at her desk, which was facing away from the window, thankfully. Straight in front on him, a couple feet away from the window, sat Harry, writing lines.

So, writing lines is…the same? Why is it so terrible here? He narrowed his eyes, and the mask responded by zooming in on the scene. Now, Tim could see what it was that Harry was writing: "I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies." Demeaning, but it made sense as a punishment.

Then, his eyes wandered over to the hand that was writing said lines.

What the…? His hand was angled, so it was hard to see the entire thing, but he didn't need to. It was covered in blood.

Harry was still writing, though, his face twisted in pain and his lips pressed tightly against each other so as not to let a single sound escape. With each stroke, he saw the boy wince ever-so-slightly. He was putting on a tough act, but it wasn't fooling Tim, and it probably wasn't fooling Umbridge either.

For a minute, he watched the pointed quill write each letter out before realizing that the drops of blood on the parchment were indistinguishable from the letters, before realizing that there was no ink bottle to be seen, before realizing that that was Harry's blood, he's literally carving the words into his own hand.

'Scarring,' indeed. Tim was no stranger to scarring, and he could tell that after a week of doing this, those marks weren't going to go away any time soon, if ever.

Tim continued to watch the scene before him blankly, struggling to decide what exactly he was supposed to do from here. He would love no more than to open the window, drop a smoke pellet in there, and get Harry out as fast as he could, but that seemed like the type of stunt that Umbridge could pin on Harry and use as an excuse for more…unpleasant…detentions. No, the only thing he could thing to do was come back here late at night, break in, and steal all the magic quills that he could find. But Tim couldn't tear his gaze away from Harry's face. That stubbornness to not give Umbridge the satisfaction of knowing how awful this actually was—it hit a little too close to home for Tim.

On the one hand, Harry had been doing this for a whole week, so he could reasonably get through one more session of this. On the other hand, Harry was in pain. Tim couldn't bear to see people in pain. Anything he could do to give this boy a moment of rest would be better than nothing.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

I. Breathe in, breathe out. Must. Harry's hand spasmed again, sending a fresh wave of pain through his nerves. Not. He couldn't stop between lines. Tell. If he stopped, it always hurt more when he had to start again. Lies.

Somewhere in Harry's periphery, he registered that something had moved that was not his quill or Umbridge. He quickly glanced at Umbridge to see if she had noticed, but she was writing something down with a sickly smile on her face. With her occupied, he had a moment to check out what was going on. Harry looked up from his work and almost choked.

There was a hand. Outside the window, a long, black arm reached down and was writing on the window with a thick black marker. So far, it had already written "F*CK UMBRIDGE" and had moved on to the next line, drawing an 'S.'

Harry had no clue what was going on, but he continued to watch the glove write in horrified fascination:

SHE

CAN'T

BREAK

YOU

HARRY

No, she can't, Harry responded in the back of his mind, while the front was staring blankly at the glove as another one came in and capped the marker. They both disappeared above the window, and then one popped back into view and gave Harry a little wave. He was sorely tempted to wave back before remembering that he was supposed to be writing lines. The only think running through his head was that he did not want to be around Umbridge when she saw what was on there, so he quietly returned to his work as though he had taken a brief break to watch the sunset. Internally, though, he was absolutely baffled by what had just taken place in front of him. He felt like laughing. How on Earth did someone pull that off?

At eight thirty, Tim had returned to the common room, feeling both like he had done something amazing and that he had accomplished nothing at all. By the fire, Aruna and Purdie sat together playing chess, and it looked like Purdie was losing horribly.

"How did Cordelia's tryouts go?" Tim asked, sitting down and examining the board to see if there was some way of salvaging the game for Purdie.

Purdie grinned at Tim. "She made the team again. Not that any of us expected otherwise." His smile quickly turned into a frown when Aruna's knight galloped up to his bishop and beheaded it. The white figurine wagged his finger at the knight and leaned down to pick up his head, cradling it in his arms like he was Saint Denis himself. With a solemn bow, the decapitated diocesan glumly shuffled off the board to stand with his fallen comrades.

"Want to take over?" Purdie asked, probably noticing how focused Tim had become on the board. "I'm clearly getting nowhere." Truthfully, Tim had been hoping that he would say something like that (and he may or may not have visibly played up his interest so that Purdie would notice), and he eagerly scooted over to Purdie's side of the board.

It only took a couple moments for Tim to take in the state of the game. Purdie had captured four pieces so far, most notably one of Aruna's bishops, but she had nine of his, including both of his rooks and knights. Clearly, she had also managed to coax Purdie's queen out at some point, and it looked like it was only a matter of time before she would claim it as her own.

Tim cracked his knuckles audibly as he shifted into a more comfortable position in which he would be better able to play. Purdie was definitely a couple moves away from checkmate, but now Tim was at the board. He'd been playing chess against his parents ever since he learned that rooks were not for eating. Ra's al Ghul had forced him into a couple games over the years when they encountered one another. And, most notably, he used to play against Alfred every Sunday afternoon when he was in high school. Not that Tim had ever won against Alfred—he knew of no being who had ever bested Alfred or even forced him into a stalemate—but the experience was valuable.

The game ended up lasting for another hour before Tim surrendered his king (who needed some persuading to take his crown off). Over the course of the game, he realized with a shock that she was a very skilled chess player. She played like Tim played, not by the careful memorization and implementation of age-old strategies but by ear, taking each turn as a new opportunity to get ahead. Ra's had never been a fan of Tim's supposed unpredictability; the man had been playing chess for centuries and had studied every stratagem he had come across, so he was unaccustomed to Tim's fast-and-loose playing style. But Tim had a feeling that Aruna could, at the very least, force Ra's into a stalemate with raw talent like hers.

"You're really good at chess," Tim made sure to tell her, watching as the chess pieces packed themselves away, his pawns hanging their heads in shame. They had been very polite to him throughout the game, save the bishop, who was particularly entitled to his own opinions and kept on shooting Tim judgmental glares when he gave him commands.

Aruna nodded and let out a small, "Hm," while staring at Tim for an uncomfortably long period of time without blinking.

Purdie, unsurprisingly, responded to Tim in her place. "She's been head of the Chess Club for two years. You know, rumor has it that she beat Professor McGonagall in a game back in our third year, but the two refuse to talk about it." He looked over at Aruna accusingly, who shrugged noncommittally. Again, Tim found himself unable to tell if she was confirming or denying this claim. It didn't sound that unbelievable, given the game Tim just played. He shut down the sudden urge to inform them that he had beaten a seven-hundred-year-old criminal mastermind when he was seventeen.

If any of y'all are actually able to solve the code I made up for Tim and Constantine's letters, I will be genuinely shocked. I only took a semester of cryptology in high school, but it was enough to teach me that code-breaking is friggin hard.