After navigating the nightmare that was the overly-crowded Platform Nine and Three-Quarters (because it was apparently three-quarters of the way in between platforms nine and ten, a measurement which was ultimately superfluous, as the entire platform seemed to occupy its own pocket dimension altogether), he and Alfred made their way onto the Hogwarts Express, a beautiful scarlet locomotive with its name gilded across the side of the engine car. It had been a while since Tim had been a passenger inside a train and not just train-surfing with Dick, but the cars were easy enough to navigate. The hard part would lie in securing a seat; it seemed as though everyone had a compartment of their own. Ideally, Tim would have loved to have his own compartment away from any and all social interaction, but he had not yet passed an empty pair of benches.

As he was making his way down the corridor, he heard the sound of a compartment door being thrown open behind him and a voice calling, "Oi! Boy with the cat!"

Tim glanced down at Alfred and then looked around to see if there happened to be some other person who was being hailed. Finding no other persons, he turned around to see a girl leaning out of the doors of her compartment, waving enthusiastically. He realized with a start that it was the same girl he had seen in Madam Malkin's, the one with the golden hair who had been in the maroon robes.

"Need a seat?" she called, gesturing for him to come in. By now, most of her body was hanging out into the corridor, and on the other side of her, two younger boys stood with their luggage, seemingly too timid to push past her.

"Sure!" he replied, hurrying her way so that the boys would soon be able to pass. He slid into a compartment that held two other people besides the girl who had just invited him in, a boy slouched in his seat with an unkempt appearance who raised an eyebrow as he entered and a short girl with braided hair who waved at him politely.

The girl who had brought him in gestured to Tim like he was a prize on a game show. "This is the boy I saw when I was buying my robes!"

"Hi," Tim began, putting on his billionaire's-teenage-son charm. "I'm Tim Drake-Wayne. Nice to meet you all."

The girl grinned, twirling her hair around her fingers distractedly. "I'm Lavender. Lavender Brown, I mean." She sat down on the bench opposite her friends and patted the seat beside her, clearly waiting for Tim to sit down.

The sandy-haired boy started helping Tim load his luggage into the overhead carrier. "Seamus Finnigan."

"And I'm Susan Bones," the other girl said, standing up to help the other two before realizing that they had just about finished it themselves.

Tim sat down on the same bench as Lavender, though he sat a little farther away than what she had probably hoped. "Thanks for letting me sit with you."

"No problem," Seamus shrugged. "Lavender was telling us about you, so we were actually kind of eager to meet you."

"Ah. I see." Tim nodded slowly. "And…what's so special about me?"

"You're a transfer student," responded Lavender. "The last one we got was a fourth-year who came in…was it two years ago?"

"Three, I think," Susan corrected politely. "Orpheus Pearchwood, the concertmaster of the school orchestra. A Slytherin, if I remember correctly."

After having read Hogwarts: A History and similar titles, Tim was now much more knowledgeable in the school's lore, especially the importance of Houses. Slytherin was easily the one with the worst reputation; while they were said to value ambition and cunning, traits which Tim would consider valuable, they were also statistically the most likely to become dark witches and wizards and were generally considered bullies and snobs.

However, Susan did not seem to report his House with malice in her voice. In fact, she sounded fairly respectful, even though she was wearing a yellow and black scarf, the colors of Hufflepuff. Glancing around at the luggage stored above him and memorabilia strewn around the compartment, Tim was also able to conclude that Seamus and Lavender were both Gryffindors. Just judging by their respective Houses, Tim assumed he was in good company.

"And you're American," Lavender added, a little flirtatiously. "I could count on one hand the number of Americans there are at school. So, Tim, what brings you to Hogwarts?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. Tim recited his backstory to her, throwing in the new information he had decided to add, like why he decided on Hogwarts versus another wizarding school and what courses he was going to take.

Lavender perked up excitedly when he told them about preparing to take O.W.L.s. "Does that mean you're taking fifth-year-level classes?" she asked.

Tim nodded, absentmindedly petting Alfred, who settled into his lap with a yawn. "That's about the level of education I had before I stopped." He wondered how they would react if they knew that he had crammed four years of magical schooling and culture into a month of summer vacation.

"We're fifth-years!" she exclaimed, gesturing to her two friends. "You might even be in our classes!" Tim was surprised to find that he wasn't entirely repulsed by that idea. It would probably make him a lot less anxious to know people in his classes instead of having to actively participate in introductions and making friends.

"What House d'you think you're gonna be sorted into?" asked Seamus.

Probably Slytherin, Tim thought, but refrained from saying such, given the House's reputation. "Dunno. Gryffindor sounds nice." He doubted he'd be a Gryffindor, though, given that he wasn't particularly brave or courageous. "Or maybe Ravenclaw." That one seemed more likely. It was the House for nerds, after all.

"Lavender and I are Gryffindors," Seamus told him, unaware that Tim had already deduced as much, "and Susan's a Hufflepuff. So you've got a fifty percent chance of being in one of our Houses. Those are pretty good odds."

Susan nodded. "Yeah, and even if you're not, there are plenty of great Ravenclaws in our year, like Purdie Burnett and Anthony Goldstein." After a moment of silence, she added, "And you're obviously not going to be a Slytherin, so you don't need to worry about them." They all laughed at her good-natured words, and Tim joined in so as not to highlight the fact that he was fairly certain he would be a Slytherin. He folded his hands and rubbed a charm on his bracelet.

Spending the train ride with them proved to be very informative for Tim, and he learned a great amount both about the school and its inhabitants, not to mention the cultural knowledge he gathered from their conversation. The four of them (for another Gryffindor boy named Dean Thomas also joined their compartment minutes before their departure and was eager to educate Tim) explained the House Cup and how one could earn or lose points, they detailed each class and its respective teacher (including their opinions of said teachers) and what ghosts he should expect to meet (and whom to avoid). He was also told what Hogsmeade was and why it was so amazing, where he could use school owls to write home, and what sort of extracurricular activities he could participate in.

Other information he picked up on during their conversation without them ever addressing it was the concept of house-elves (slaves, more or less), how one's blood status affected their reputation (Slytherins were not fans of 'Muggle-borns,' which was consistent with Tim's knowledge of the House), and the fact that wizard pictures could move and talk (a concept which Tim had discovered when he subscribed to the Daily Prophet and had excited him for a grand total of five seconds before he found himself offended as a photographer that the value of a well-shot photograph could just be thrown away in favor of a moving picture).

By far the most valuable information, though, lay in the people who resided at Hogwarts. Professor Snape was cruel and could not be reasoned with; Fred and George Weasley were the resident pranksters; Hagrid was probably part-giant; Professor Binns was a ghost but not the interesting kind; Draco Malfoy was the worst of the worst; Filch and Peeves are to be avoided at all costs for entirely different reasons; Professor Dumbledore was odd but wise.

"And if you ever need help with homework, ask Hermione Granger," Susan said, plucking a Licorice Wand from the pile of snacks Dean had bought from the trolley. "She's the smartest girl in our grade."

"Although she's a tad bit standoffish, if you ask me," Lavender warned him. "And, of course, she hangs out with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, so I'd understand if you're uncomfortable approaching her." She shrugged at him with a sympathetic smile.

"Because of the whole You-Know-Who ordeal last summer," Tim supplied. In almost every wizarding newspaper he read over the summer, there were practically daily references to some sort of incident at Hogwarts that involved Harry Potter claiming that Voldemort had come back to life. Tim was eager to delve into that conversation more; whether or not Harry was right, there was probably some truth hidden in his story. However, Tim was also more than a little suspicious of the press, given that all of the articles he'd read about Harry were almost embarrassingly biased. It was obviously a smear campaign against him and Dumbledore, but Tim wasn't sure what was fact and what was fiction. The situation would take a lot of further investigation.

The other passengers in the compartment nodded solemnly at his words. "Yeah," Seamus sighed, running a hand through his hair. "All of that stuff's crazy in my opinion. Almost wasn't allowed to come back to school this semester, what with Dumbledore going off the rails and such."

Susan shrugged apologetically. "I'm not quite sure what to believe. I think Harry just might be a little bit confused."

"Mental, more like," Seamus muttered. Tim gathered that Harry had had a fairly good reputation before the events at the end of last school year, leading to general confusion. A few months with nothing but the press to provide information probably messed up their perception of the situation as well. Or Harry could just be crazy. Tim would have to find out for himself.

"First years! All first years to me!"

Susan nudged Tim with an elbow and pointed him in the direction of the voice, a witch standing off to the side holding an old lantern. "You should probably go talk to her. She'll know what to do with you." Already the woman was surrounded by a crowd of small, nervous new students.

"Thank you," Tim said to both her and the other students in his compartment that were following the masses and heading off in the other direction, presumably to the horse-drawn carriages in the distance. "You've all been very hospitable."

"Hope you're in Gryffindor!" Dean called as he was swept away by the crowds.

Susan smiled pleasantly. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Tim. I'm personally hoping for Hufflepuff," she added with a wink.

Tim pushed his way through the throng of students that were pulling him in the opposite direction, at last reaching the elderly woman that was counting children.

"Pardon me, ma'am?" He slipped around the children so that he could speak to her face to face, receiving several double-takes from the younger students who obviously were wondering what he was doing here. "I'm Timothy Drake-Wayne?" He said it like a question, sort of testing if she recognized the name.

The woman stopped counting and turned to him, lowering her lantern with a nod. "Yes, yes. Professor McGonagall informed me of your circumstances. My name is Professor Grubbly-Plank. Please follow me alongside the first-years, if you would."

She now began herding the first-years down a steep path through the dark wood which Tim could only discern because of how used to the dark his eyes were. A couple times along the way, he caught a student who had stumbled on a tree root or steadied the body of one who had slipped on the scree. He particularly enjoyed the way they would suddenly look around, trying to find who had helped them, but could never spot him.

Eventually the path curved out onto a rocky shore where a dozen or so boats were docked (presumably by magic, given the lack of any visible ropes or anchors). The students let out a collective gasp. At first, Tim did not understand what prompted them to such a reaction, but then he took his eyes off of the boats and looked out across the lake where Hogwarts Castle stood atop a tall mountainous base, windows aglow. From this distance, it somehow looked both inviting and sinister, like it was luring you into it for some unknown purpose.

Tim stepped into a boat with three other young boys that all openly stared at him with wide eyes during the entire ride. He awkwardly waved at them. They all hopped out of the boat as soon as possible so that they could whisper to each other about him, which was fair. He supposed a nineteen-year-old boy would raise some eyebrows.

The students were led up a dark passageway that brought them right to what Tim guessed were the front doors, two large oak panels that looked extremely sturdy. They were then passed off to another teacher, a tall, dark haired woman who was introduced as Professor McGonagall. She nodded at the students, singling Tim out and nodding to him, too, and led them down the hallway at a brisk pace. The students had little time to gawk, but they could not help but want to stare at the stone entrance hall and its many doors and offshoots. She herded the children into a small practically empty room on the right, though, instead of going through the doors that Tim assumed led to the dining hall.

Professor McGonagall addressed the students. "Welcome to Hogwarts. Before the start-of-term banquet can begin, you all will be sorted into your Houses." She proceeded to give them an explanation similar to both what Tim had read in his books and what the kids on the train had told him. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. Their new family for the next seven years.

"In a moment, the Sorting Ceremony will take place. Please wait here quietly." She moved to exit the room, but as she grabbed the door handle, she tossed a head over her shoulder and called, "Mr. Drake-Wayne, if you would please come with me." Tim weaved his way through the whispering children and closed the door behind himself so that the two were alone in the hallway.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, shaking his hand. "I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts." She held herself with grace and confidence, her shoulders set and her back straight. Tim already liked her. She reminded him of Diana.

"The pleasure's all mine, ma'am," Tim replied smoothly, bowing his head slightly.

"In a moment, I will take you into the Great Hall where the Headmaster will introduce you to the student body. You will be sorted alongside the first-years."

Tim nodded. She was direct and to the point, which he appreciated.

"Now follow me." Professor McGonagall walked over to the set of doors they had passed earlier and pushed one open just a crack, popping her head in to check things over. After nodding to someone on the other side, she threw the doors open and led Tim into the Great Hall. Four long tables packed with students paved the way to an elevated table that was occupied by what he assumed were staff and faculty members. At the center of said table stood Professor Dumbledore, hands folded in front of him. Tim could gauge absolutely nothing about the man from his clothes or his posture or his face. He was a complete enigma.

Without missing a beat, Professor McGonagall walked down the center aisle, and Tim followed her after a brief moment of panic in which he realized that all eyes were now on the two of them. The chatter of the students in the hall slowly fell to a hush as he walked down, heads swiveling to watch him as he passed by. Though Tim was used to being watched by hundreds of people at a time, whether they be the press or other superheroes or the socialites of Gotham, he still felt a bit of a blush creep onto his face. Just because he was used to the attention didn't mean he liked it.

He reached the table, Professor McGonagall placing him in front of it a foot or so to Professor Dumbledore's left and promptly turned around to exit the hall. The man turned to Tim with a twinkle in his eyes that might have just been the glare from his spectacles. Tim stared straight forward at the doors on the other end of the room, entirely aware of the dozens of gazes trained on him but refusing to make eye contact with any of them.

"It is so very rare that we find a student joining us in the middle of his or her education," Professor Dumbledore began, "and so it is with great pleasure that I introduce to all of you Mr. Timothy Drake-Wayne."

Several students gasped, earning them confused looks from their neighbors. This was consistent with Tim's estimations for how many people would actually know of him, that is to say, very few.

"Though he is probably older than most of you, he will be taking classes alongside many of you, and so I expect you all to make him feel welcome, along with the new first-years."

He gestured to the doors, which were opened by Professor McGonagall again, who led a line of trembling children up to the front, now carrying in her hands a shabby-looking stool that was topped with an even shabbier-looking pointed hat. Dumbledore sat back down in his seat.

And then the hat started to sing, which even Tim was not expecting. Lavender had said that the hat would sort him into his House, but for some reason, a singing hat was not what he had pictured when she had told him that.

The song was…multifaceted, to say the least. It contained descriptions of the Houses and their founders, but most of it was spent issuing what he could only assume was a call to action, a plea for unification in times of division, and it seemed to reference some vague threat that was to come. The hesitance in the students' applause made it clear that this was not usually the mood the Sorting Hat tended to set in years past.

His main concern, however, lay in the process of Sorting itself. He watched as a certain Euan Abercrombie sat down on the stool and placed the hat on his head. Given his position behind him, Tim was unable to see the boy's face, but his body was tense, and a second after he put the hat on, the boy flinched very noticeably. What could be going on under there?

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat boomed, and the table to Tim's far left burst into applause. Euan, trembling, hopped off of the stool, gently placed the hat back down, and scurried over to the Gryffindor table, where an older student stood up and found a place for him to sit.

Having a last name that began with the letter 'D' hypothetically meant that Tim didn't have much time to figure out this Sorting Hat's gimmick before he had to place it on his head. The only thing he could surmise was that it possessed some kind of mind-reading abilities, which was never a comforting thought to Tim.

He heard the last name "Dimitrov" called, which caused him to straighten up a bit, realizing that there was a good chance he was next.

He wasn't, actually; a girl named Flann Doherty came and was sorted into Slytherin, though it took at least three minutes, giving Tim ample time to stress and overthink things. Would the hat find out that he was sent in as a spy? Would it tell someone? He began to fiddle with the bracelet he was wearing, trying to calm his nerves.

Drake-Wayne, Timothy?

What if Dumbledore consulted it afterwards?

Drake-Wayne, Timothy?

What if he never even got sorted because he wasn't actually a wizard?

"…Timothy Drake-Wayne?" Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, snapping Tim out of his line of questioning. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and she motioned at the hat with a small movement of her head. Tim realized that she had called his name twice now, and, instead of crawling into a corner in shame, away from all these people watching him, he threw his shoulders back and paced over to the stool carefully.

The hat was big even for him, and while it did not cover his eyes like the girl before him, he still felt it slip a little in the back after he had sat down.

"What an incredibly gifted Occlumens for one so young as yourself. Oh dear, we can't have that now," a voice whispered in his ear, and he knew then that only he could hear it. "Knock, knock! Mind letting me into your mind?"

No, Tim responded mentally, pleased that his training to resist different forms of mind-probing was still fresh in his mind, both figuratively and literally. No, I'd actually rather not. Just choose something and put me in it. It doesn't matter .

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong," the hat told him. "Your House is very important. It's not a decision I make blindly."

Tim said nothing, hoping it would understand that he was not going to budge.

"Don't worry, I don't blab. I've been doing this job for nearly a thousand years."

Nope. Not going to do it.

A full minute passed in which Tim came to the frustrating revelation that the Sorting Hat was content to wait this one out. Tim tried to ignore its constant knocking, but the task was proving very tedious.

Whenever Bruce was training Tim to strengthen his mind and fight mental attackers, he would talk about the method of loci, in which one treated their mind as a physical space. So, as the hat tried get Tim to "open up," so to speak, Tim, mentally sitting on his favorite couch in Drake Manor, found himself having to suffer through a knocking emanating from his front door, sporadic in frequency but uniform in strength.

Three minutes had passed now, and Tim was attracting more notice as students who previously had not been paying attention realized that the hat had stopped for a considerable amount of time. McGonagall's face was unreadable, but Tim knew the cogs were probably turning in her mind.

At four and a half minutes, Tim caved. Worse possibly than the Sorting Hat looking at his deepest, darkest secrets was the attention he was receiving from everyone in the room. Tim's mission relied on him keeping a relatively low profile, so it would be really problematic if he became known as 'the transfer kid who never got sorted.' For now, he would open up his mind to the hat, and he would deal with the consequences of that choice later.

"Oh my," the voice whispered. "Oh my, you're a tough one, aren't you? I suppose that's what I get for Sorting a teenager; you have so many traits already that you exhibit and act on. Clever, very clever. Determined, with lofty ideals that you strive for. Reserved and wise, but also brave and selfless. Very selfless. Hardworking, creative, why, you'd flourish in any House."

Tim rolled his eyes, wondering if the hat could pick up on that cue. Like I said, it doesn't matter.

"Oh, it does, child, it does. You're full of many values, but I see you in potentially two Houses: Ravenclaw or Slytherin."

That seemed fair. Those two had been the only ones he thought he'd have a chance at.

"Though…hmm…you exemplify so many of Slytherin's qualities: ingenuity, ambition, shrewdness, leadership. But what of Ravenclaw? Perhaps it will be better for you to be somewhere you can grow, somewhere you can learn to accept yourself and find your voice amongst all those you know. They do value originality, after all. And you are humble, always willing to learn and improve. Yes, yes…definitely RAVENCLAW!"

The table next to Gryffindor burst into thunderous applause, one kid even shouting a loud "YES!" from further back. Tim was certain it was due to the fact that he had been sitting on that stool maybe six or seven minutes. The other students in the hall let out a relieved sigh, as though they expected that Tim might never be sorted, a thought that had crossed his own mind several times in the past ten minutes.

He walked down the table almost to the halfway point trying to find a seat as Ambrose Fiddler was sitting down to be Sorted, though the table was packed. Tim had observed that this table had the least number of students out of all four Houses, but it seemed what little they had was all congested towards the front of the Great Hall closest to the high table and the Sorting Hat. But he continued to slowly pace further and further away from the action. As the density of students thinned out, though, Tim saw a hand shoot out and immediately headed towards it without a second thought, sliding into an open seat next to a lanky boy with dreadlocks.

"Thanks," Tim mouthed at the boy, still listening in the back of his head to the Sorting Ceremony.

The boy gave him a light, playful punch in his upper arm. "No problem," he mouthed back. As the Sorting continued, Tim glanced around at the table. Everyone within his field of vision was staring at him unabashedly. Tim quickly lowered his gaze and examined the table and its residents while avoiding eye contact. The tables were set very simply, each place consisting only of a cup and a platter, both made of some sort of gold. There was a suspicious lack of food, a thing that Tim usually associated with feasts.

"To our newcomers," a voice very different from the hat exclaimed, and Tim poked his head out to see that Dumbledore had risen from his seat and was addressing the student body, "welcome! To our old hands, welcome back! There is a time for speech-making, but this is not it." Tim chuckled. The man was grinning like all old people do, the type of grin that made them look like they know an inside joke with you that you apparently don't know. "Tuck in!"

The students applauded, Tim joining in for a moment before turning back to the table to discover with a start that it was now covered with a large variety of dishes and platters; with just a cursory sweep of the table, Tim could make out a bowl of roasted potatoes, a long tray of sautéed asparagus, pitchers of water and an unknown orange drink, stuffed mushrooms, a basket of buttery rolls, and a silver platter upon which sat an entire goose, fully carved and surrounded by carrots and various garnishes.

Again, Tim found himself marveling about the capabilities of magic, even though he should have known by now that he should be prepared to be surprised. He started grabbing dishes and serving himself, but his mind was still reeling trying to comprehend the fact that there was no food in front of him seconds ago, and now, it sat on the table, fully prepared and as hot as if it had come straight out of the oven.

Just as he was lifting up his first forkful of food, he glanced up and noticed that everyone's eyes were trained on him. He quickly put down his fork and waved his hand briefly.

"Hi. I'm Tim Drake-Wayne," he started. "Thanks for, uh, having me."

"Our pleasure," the boy with the dreadlocks said cheerfully in a British accent similar to most of the students here. "I'm Purdie Burnett."

All at one people began supplying him with names that he would have to remember.

"Lisa Turpin."

"Anthony Goldstein. I'm a prefect."

"Terry Boot."

"Emrys Powell."

"Cordelia Cotterill."

"Markus Nyberg."

"Padma Patil. Also a prefect."

"Adelaide Lebrairo."

Tim's head oscillated back and forth as people introduced themselves around him. Those farther away returned to their meals, but the ones closer immediately began asking questions of Tim. He had a feeling that it would be a while before he would be able to eat.

"You're from America, right?" the girl directly across from him said, Cordelia. "I've heard of the Waynes. You guys are a big deal." She adjusted her oversized wire-rimmed glasses and started mumbling quickly. Tim couldn't quite tell if it was directed at the table or if she was just thinking aloud.

"Are you a celebrity?" Padma, the prefect, asked excitedly.

Tim let out a shy laugh, putting on an air of bashfulness. "Yeah, sort of."

"Do you live in Hollywood?" a young boy whose name Tim hadn't caught piped up.

"Actually, I live in Gotham, New Jersey."

From Purdie's left, Markus let out a low whistle. "Yeesh. Heard that place's a real mess, with all that crime and smog and superheroes."

Tim thought that was a fairly accurate summary of Gotham and was hardly offended at the boy's comments. No one really understood why people lived in Gotham who was not a Gothamite themselves.

"Wait, have you ever met any superheroes?" asked Padma, and the surrounding students all nodded in agreement to her query.

He paused for only a moment before answering, "A couple," he said with a lopsided grin.

Markus's eyebrows shot up. "Did they do any magic around you? I mean, they're all rouge wizards from across the globe."

Before Tim had a chance to come up with some explanation as to why they were not, in fact, wizards, Cordelia said, "Actually, that's just a common myth. It was proven false almost a decade ago, when the International Confederation of Wizards came to the conclusion that the superheroes operated in a field of magic entirely separate from ours. It was a pretty big deal, but it seems the general public is still vastly uninformed on the topic."

This was exactly what Tim expected when he got sorted into Ravenclaw. Lots of very bright individuals with intellectual abilities far surpassing the other students. Cordelia was the textbook example of a Ravenclaw; she was clearly very knowledgeable in many realms, but her frizzy blonde hair and oversized round glasses spoke of a level of nerd that made Tim look like a jock in comparison.

"Really!" If possible, Markus looked even more surprised. "That's bloody mad. I didn't even know there were different types of magic."

A very small girl named Su-Jin added, "And there are superhero Muggles as well. Isn't Superman an alien?"

Padma said, "Yeah, and they say that the America lady is a goddess or something. Absolutely insane."

Tim took the next couple minutes to start eating his food (which was just as warm as when he got it) while listening to the Ravenclaws share information and correct each other about superheroes. He had to admit, for a closed-off community of wizards, these kids were surprisingly well-informed. He was intrigued, however, at the half-truths that the wizarding community chose to believe, like that metahumans were magical children or that the Flash was given magic from a powerful artifact.

"So where did you go to school before this?" Cordelia asked him, and Tim's heart fluttered the way it often did when he was about to lie. "Probably Ilvermorny, right? I've heard that they have houses, too. I think there are four of them. But instead of different animals, they represent parts of a sentient creature. I read a book that—"

"Actually, I was homeschooled," Tim cut in before she could continue.

Terry snorted. "Ah, America and their bonkers education standards." Tim laughed good-naturedly along with the other kids around the table.

"My cousin was homeschooled," Lisa commented. "Now he's working for the Ministry of Magic." Everyone seemed vaguely surprised by that fact, humming their 'huh's and their 'hmm's in apparent intrigue.

Cordelia continued. "So, why here? Why not another wizarding school? Certainly, some place like Ilvermorny would be more convenient for you. You would be rather close to it, given that it's somewhere in Massachusetts, right?"

This time, Tim started to answer before Cordelia could catch her breath. "Well, I did some research. Seems like Hogwarts is the best." The other students grinned, some unconsciously puffing out their chests with pride. "A lot of reputable witches and wizards have come out of this place."

"Why did you stop homeschooling?"

Tim didn't know who asked that one, but he paused for a moment, trying to think of the best way to phrase things while not sounding like a total downer. "Well, my parents passed away unexpectedly (a very mild way of putting things), so my education was put on hold for a while. Things have finally settled out, so I'm back in school."

Despite his attempt at keeping things cheerful, the students in his vicinity all looked away or averted their gaze in some form or fashion, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"I'm, uh, sorry about your parents," Anthony coughed, poking at his food nervously.

"That's okay, you really had no idea." There was a tense silence that followed in which no one spoke nor made any move to eat their dinner.

Tim was about to introduce a new topic of conversation (The British Ministry of Magic, he had read about it in A History of Magic, which had been on his booklist) when a dark-haired girl nearby whose name he hadn't caught snorted and proclaimed loudly, "If you all keep asking him questions, I don't think he's ever going to finish his meat pie."

True, Tim had barely gotten in a couple bites in the last ten minutes, but he didn't mind the questions, really.

Anthony, however, took her advice and started animatedly talking with the people around Tim about the Quidditch match between the Holyhead Harpies and the Ballycastle Bats that had occurred on Wednesday. Finally, Tim was able to return to his meal, having read about the Bats' defeat in the Daily Prophet for himself. Everyone else had long finished their food and were all giving their takes on how the match should have gone. Cordelia was the envy of all, having actually attended the match, and it was clear that she was a huge Harpies fan herself from the way she spouted off the roster and ranted on and on about 'those blasted Bats.'

Tim had just taken his last bite of treacle tart when the entire student body went silent as if someone had muted the entire room. He looked up to see that Dumbledore had stood up as if to address the students, and Tim immediately sat up a little straighter as if he was in another R&D quarterly review with Bruce.

"Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast," the headmaster started, though Tim still had a mouthful of treacle and whipped cream, "I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices.

"First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students—and a few of our older students ought to know by now too." Knowing the way fate seemed to work out, Tim suspected that he would be breaking that rule in, say, a month or so at the latest. He was practically certain of it.

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door." Definitely a rule Tim would break. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as an old, hunchbacked man standing near the end of the head table nodded furiously. One could only come to the conclusion that this was Mr. Filch himself.

"We have had two changes in staffing this year (which meant nothing to Tim, but he looked around to see how the other students would react to the news). We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons." To Dumbledore's left, a witch with a hat almost as rumpled as the Sorting Hat itself nodded at him and waved a hand in greeting to the students. "We are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." Unlike the former teacher, the latter did not make themselves known, and after a couple seconds, the student body realized this and began to give a polite smattering of applause. Grubbly-Plank continued to smile and wave, nonetheless.

"Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the—" Dumbledore broke off, apparently having noticed the same thing that Tim had, namely that one of the teachers had stood up to his right.

The woman did not bother to spare even a glance at her own employer, merely lifting a hand to her mouth and said, "Hem, hem." By the intentional use of this onomatopoeia, Tim could only assume that she had something to say and she expected to be heard out. To the shock of everyone in the Great Hall, Dumbledore immediately sat down without a word and continued to watch the woman pleasantly. Tim was incredibly impressed with the man's composure at such a rude interruption.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome," she started, and her voice sent shivers down Tim's spine. He usually would not judge someone on their voice alone, but the way in which she had "hem hemmed" her way into attention and her deliberately childish wardrobe decisions gave Tim the impression that this woman possessed an unusually high level of entitlement. He filed this information away for all future interactions with her.

Again, she cleared her throat, or rather, spoke the words that most accurately represented what someone who was actually clearing their throat might sound like: "Hem, hem." Definitely entitled.

Rotating her head back and forth, surveying the room before her, she continued, "Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces looking back at me! I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we'll be very good friends!" That was enough to tell Tim that this must have been the new Professor Umbridge.

She spoke with the tone and authority of a kindergarten schoolteacher, and, to her credit, the student body reacted by giving her the attention a kindergartener might, which is to say little to none at all. A couple seats down, Tim watched Padma's hand slowly slide towards the basket in the middle of the table and grab a bread roll. Two more students copied this action without a hint of hesitation. After another "throat-clearing," she continued.

"The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance," Umbridge started, and, oh boy, this was going to be a long one; Tim had heard this voice before. This was the voice Bruce had when he was giving a particularly uninteresting presentation.

"The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching."

This was quite the self-centered way to begin one's speech, and her deliberate pauses to look at the students and her fellow staff members spoke to how unsuccessfully she seemed to be trying to engage her audience. Already, students were beginning to lean over to one another and whisper in hushed tones.

She continued on, spouting some more meaningless statements about education. But then things took a turn, right about when she said, "There again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering." Tim raised an eyebrow. She had his full attention now, now that she was explaining her plans for the general schooling at Hogwarts, something that Tim assumed was far outside her jurisdiction. And these weren't sounding like good changes. Anyone who actively spoke out against progress "for progress's sake" was, a) purposefully using superfluous words and confusing phrasing to distract her audience from the problems at hand, and, b) planning changes that would set the school back for the sake of security.

"A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation, and a willingness to accept that which is best suited for each particular situation. We must listen to the whistling winds of modern sensibilities and decide through careful discernment when to stand fast like the oak tree against its seductive whispers of so-called 'innovation' and when to bend to its wisdom like the blades of grass."

Even her word choice seemed to discourage the very concept of progress. The changes of which she was speaking, then, would most likely be a campaign to remove aspects of education without any attempt to add to it.

"And yet, it is of vital importance to be ever-attentive to the effect that each decision brings, because each action taken brings with it a plethora of aftereffects, because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned."

Her sentences managed to be both uncomfortably redundant and continually enlightening as to her thoughts on the current education system employed at Hogwarts.

"Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

That last part was what convinced Tim that this Professor Umbridge fully intended on reworking not just the Defense of the Dark Arts program but the entire curriculum of Hogwarts from the bottom up. He realized that he now had three objectives for the next semester: getting in Dumbledore's good graces, befriending Harry Potter, and keeping an eye out for Umbridge's effect on the school as a whole.

Once people had begun to stand up to leave (presumably to their respective dormitories for the night), the boy that had greeted him before, Purdie, tapped Tim's shoulder.

"Hey, I'll show you to your dorm if you want," he offered, "seeing as Tony and Padma are busy with the first-years. What year are you?"

"Fifth," Tim replied, grateful that he would not have to wander around the castle aimlessly trying to find his way to his room (though that would be a great way to get to know the layout of the school). "Thanks!"

Purdie's whole face lit up. "Seriously? No kidding! I'm a fifth-year. What the heck?" Tim sighed in relief. He had found someone next to whom he could sit during class. One less thing for him to worry about late at night.

"This is great," Purdie continued as the two of them made their way through the masses and up the staircases which moved, by the way, something Tim had read about but still boggled him in reality. "We'll be in classes together, and we'll be in the same dorm!"

Tim nodded, distracted by the staircase next to him. He watched with a small chuckle as some first-years got a couple steps up and promptly began to fall over each other once the staircase started moving. Looking down at the many flights of stairs, Tim felt an oddly childish urge to grab a skateboard and grind all the way down to the first floor. Honestly, Tim couldn't remember the last time he'd gone skateboarding casually. This felt like a good place to pick the hobby back up again. The staircases were practically begging to be used for something more than walking.

"So there'll be five of us in one dorm, it's you, me, Anthony, Terry, and Michael. Anthony has probably already claimed his bed, and I bet Terry will get there before us, but I'm pretty sure they're all the same." They were now headed up a lengthy spiral staircase. Purdie looked over at him, and Tim assumed that the other was impressed with his stamina, given the way that Purdie himself was holding onto one of the railings for support. Had Tim not been in such good shape, he would probably be quite winded by this point. The perks of being a full-time vigilante.

They got a couple more stories up when the staircase became blocked by students crammed together, all shuffling around and talking to each other, deep in discussion. Purdie grinned and looked up the staircase. Tim followed his sightline and spotted a large wooden door that probably led to the common room. So, what was the hold-up?

"Hey, Padma!" Purdie shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth and leaning further over the railing. "What's the riddle?"

Padma's voice echoed back over the chattering of the students. "What barely weighs a thing, yet the strongest of men cannot hold it for long?"

Purdie hummed, putting a hand to his chin. "Huh…no man can hold it for long…"

A riddle? Tim felt a swell of excitement in his chest. If there was anything Tim prided himself at, it was his riddle-solving capabilities. After all, he still held the record for most arrests of the Riddler in his family.

"…your temper, maybe?" Purdie murmured, his eyes narrowed.

Tim didn't think so. If that was the case, it would be more appropriate for the riddle to say that it didn't weigh anything at all. No, it weighed something, so it had to be something physical.

He spent a grand total of five seconds pondering the riddle before he had the answer. Copying Purdie's actions, he leaned over the railing and shouted towards the top of the staircase, "The answer is 'someone's breath!'" Apparently, just him saying it was enough, for, sure enough, someone said, "Correct," and the door swung open.

There was a moment during which everyone immediately ceased talking and turned their heads to look at Tim in shock, but he was so excited about getting the riddle right that it didn't even bother him. But the chatter commenced almost immediately, and the crowd eventually thinned as the students were funneled through the door.

Purdie slapped Tim on the back. "Wow, Tim, you're a natural!"

"I really like riddles," Tim replied with a big grin.

"Well, that's definitely a useful skill to have when it's the only way to get into the common room," he remarked, the two finally reaching the door. Tim noticed that it was curiously lacking a doorknob.

Tim stepped into the common room and immediately lost his breath, which should have happened four flights of stairs ago. Before him was a room that looked like Notre Dame and the Gotham Planetarium had a baby together. Columns and pointed arches formed the base for one of the most beautiful star charts that Tim had ever seen complete with constellations that seemed to traverse the heavens freely and interact with one another. It was designed as if the inhabitants needed to be continually reminded that this was, in fact, the Ravenclaw tower, from the abundant eagle imagery to the blue and bronze color scheme. Altogether, the place gave Tim the feeling that he had just walked into a shrine to knowledge itself.

"A guy could learn to get used to this," he murmured once he had found his voice again.

Purdie laughed, having been beside Tim to watch his face light up as he had looked around. "I don't think I've gotten used to this, and I've been going to this school for five years." He led Tim over to the staircase to the left of a nice little niche in the wall, being kind enough to match Tim's extraordinarily slow pace, as he could not help but try to look at every little detail in this room. They both followed Anthony and a small clump of new students up the staircase to the dormitories, from which point Purdie took over and led Tim to the fifth year dorms specifically.

"Luckily, this one has a doorknob," joked Purdie as he opened the door to Tim's new living quarters for the next nine months. Compared to the common room, it was cramped, but Tim was used to sharing rooms, so it didn't bother him. He was, however, intrigued by the dodecagonal shape of the room which hosted five wooden four-poster beds. Had there always been an empty bed in here, or had they expanded to room in the time between the Sorting Ceremony and the two's arrival? He had read about the castle having a certain sentience to it, so either option seemed equally likely to him.

He was snapped out of his querying by a greeting from an old friend. The soft meow came from his left, and, sure enough, on the bed nearest the door sat a familiar tuxedo cat.

Tim immediately moved to lean over the bed and pet the creature. "Alfred!" he sighed tenderly, scratching him behind the ear. Alfred meowed enthusiastically and leaned into Tim's touch. For a moment, it was as though Purdie wasn't there. Tim found it a little odd how comforting being near Alfred was. Tim certainly enjoyed Alfred's presence, and Alfred seemed to like Tim to a certain extent, but Alfred was Damian's companion first and foremost. The cat really shouldn't have made Tim feel like he was back in the drawing room of the Wayne Manor, listening to his younger brother practicing violin while he lounged on an armchair doing work. But he did.

"Ah, so that one's yours?" asked the boy at the center bed, Terry. "Nearly gave me a heart-attack when it appeared from under the bed."

"I guess he's already chosen which bed is mine," Tim laughed, and moved to grab his luggage from where it was piled precariously in the middle of the room. Suitcase by suitcase, he checked the contents to make sure everything was intact while engaging in pleasantries with the rest of the boys, who had all eventually made their way to the dorms. Tim had a disproportionate number of questions aimed at him, seeing as he was still new to everyone. What electives was he taking? Did he play Quidditch? What was his best subject?

By nightfall, Tim's voice was starting to get a little hoarse, which was when the others realized how tired they all were and how they had class tomorrow and settled down into their beds. Tim, on the other hand, was feeling anything but sleepy. Exhausted, certainly, but wide awake. He assumed it was one-part jetlag and one-part the wonky schedule a full-time CRO/Vigilante kept. Once the last of the candles in the room were blown out (Tim had yet to see a single lightbulb), he picked up his copy of Advanced Transmutation Theory and slipped out to go sit in one of the enticing armchairs he had seen in the common room. Unfortunately, he found that the seat was already occupied.

The girl lay across the chair, legs thrown over one armrest and head resting on the other one. She seemed to have noticed his arrival before he saw her because when he looked, she had already turned her head in his direction and lazily raised a hand in greeting before returning to her original position, staring at the dome.

Tim commandeered an armchair adjacent to her and curled up in the velvet. He waited for the girl to say something, but she seemed to only be interested in the ceiling, which was fair, given that when Tim looked up at it, the Bull and the Crab were dancing around the Maiden. But the silence between them was comforting. The only noises were the few flickering candles and the warm winds whistling around the chamber.

It was around two o'clock when Tim decided to lay down and rest as best he could before classes began. He quietly closed his book, so as not to disturb the peace, and untangled his limbs from the knot they had fallen asleep in. It came quite naturally to him, sneaking around in the dead of night. Just before he rounded the corner on the staircase, he spared one last glance at the mysterious student, looking exactly as she did three hours ago.

"Aruna." It was barely more than a whisper, but it echoed off the walls. "Aruna Dhar." Huh. That sounded like a Hindi name, not to mention her strong accent when she spoke. Tim wondered if he wasn't the only one with jetlag in Ravenclaw.

"Tim Drake-Wayne," he whispered back and then turned back to the stairs. He was quite thankful that they were marble, meaning he didn't have to focus on which steps creaked louder than others. When he reentered the dorm, Alfred, who had been pacing back and forth on the floor, spotted his arrival and happily hopped onto the bed as if inviting Tim to join him. Once he had settled into bed, Alfred moved to lay near his head. Tim turned to him and smiled.

"We've got a whole day of wizarding ahead of us, Alfred," Tim whispered, closing his eyes. "No turning back now."

...aaaaaaaaaaand he's a Ravenclaw. Yup. Honestly, I think you can make the case for Tim to be in any House, and feel free to do so in the comments, but I feel like 90's Tim in particular has big Ravenclaw energy. He's always coming up with new ideas to make crime-fighting easier, and he's just a good good smart boy.

And you also got to meet some OCs! Huzzah! I toss in made-up characters all the time, but some will play a more prominent role than others. You'll just have to wait and see...