Tim entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom that afternoon feeling oddly morose. If this was how he was faring emotionally in his first week undercover, he wondered if he had made a mistake taking on this mission. Was he already getting too close with the students here? Was he staying too distant? Was there a happy medium between the two?

Unlike some of his other classes, Professor Umbridge was already in the classroom when he arrived, her hands folded on the desk and her face frozen in an almost-smile that she held way too easily.

This time, Tim found himself unconsciously moving to sit away from his 'friends' and instead seating himself around some of the still-unfamiliar girls in their year. Purdie and Cordelia didn't seem to notice, or if they did, they didn't make a big deal about it, but when Aruna passed by Tim's desk, she stopped, looked Tim up and down for a full second with a truly unreadable expression on her face, and then continued to take a seat two rows ahead of him without any further comment.

"Well, good afternoon!" Umbridge greeted, her voice as saccharine as it was at the start-of-term feast.

Some of his classmates smiled nervously, others waved a hand, and a few managed a "hello" or "good afternoon" back.

Umbridge's eyebrows drew together in what looked like pity, and she shook her head. "Tut tut. Now that certainly won't do, will it? When I say 'Good afternoon!'"—and for this, she pitched up her voice a little to indicate the dialogue within the dialogue—"you are to respond…?"

The Ravenclaws looked around at each other with faces of varied incredulity. If they had thought that the talking-down-to was a one-time stunt, they were now coming to the realization that Umbridge really did plan on speaking to them like they were toddlers.

Anthony let out a barely-audible sigh and slowly started a loud, "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," which people all joined in on. It was dragged out quite a bit so that everyone would join in at some point.

It was actually upsetting to Tim how pleased this seemed to make Umbridge feel. "Very good. Ten points to Ravenclaw."

Ten points to Ravenclaw? For answering her little call-and-response?

"Now then, wands away and quills out, please." Oh boy. Tim hoped she wasn't going to be a stickler for 'pleases' and 'thank you's.' That, of course, came naturally to Tim, who was raised to be a well-mannered child at parties that other people would look at and say, "Look at the Drakes, the perfect nuclear family, and their perfect child who only speaks when spoken to and whose parents probably spend a lot of time with him and definitely don't leave him with a plethora of nannies while they go on their numerous business trips and—"

Okay, Tim was getting off-track. For some reason, this woman made him think of all the rich, entitled Gothamites he knew who only had a child for the sake of appearances and who only cared for said child insomuch as he or she was behaving.

He rubbed the bat-shaped charm on his bracelet (that charm had been from Steph) in between his thumb and forefinger. Oof. Umbridge was bringing up some baggage.

Umbridge got up as the students rummaged through their bags for their quills and parchment (and Tim for his notebook and pen because he wasn't from the 18th century) and tapped the board, upon which words began to form in cursive as though an invisible piece of chalk was writing them.

Tim paid very close attention to her words this time; her remarks at the feast were incredibly informative, and he didn't want to miss them. "Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?" Rhetorical question. Great way to start off a lecture.

"The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum (she spoke these words with the highest amount of respect) has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year. You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered—"

Ah, there it was. 'Theory-centered.' Unsurprisingly, Umbridge was removing the practical parts of the curriculum without replacing them and was instead opting for reading and note-taking. Not that either of those were bad conceptually, but Tim could tell from the way Umbridge spoke (and from the course aims that were appearing on the chalkboard) that this class would be basically useless to him.

"—Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please." She tapped the whiteboard again and the chalk stopped moving. She had written down three main points under the category of 'course aims.'

'1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.' So, learning what made defensive magic unique from other realms of magic and the goal behind each action taken in defense.

'2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.' Okay, what? Were there situations in which self-defense was illegal?

'3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.' Tim scribbled this last one down, which he was fairly certain was just number 2 restated slightly differently.

No, he wanted to know more about this whole 'illegal self-defense' thing. He raised his hand straight up and stared directly at Umbridge so he would know when she saw him. Several people also noticed this gesture and looked at Tim confusedly. Umbridge caught sight of him in her periphery, and Tim watched her face change from pleasantly patient to surprised to indignant and then back to pleasant all within the span of a couple seconds.

"Yes?" she said. "Is something the matter, Mister…?"

"Drake-Wayne," he quickly finished for her. "Timothy Drake-Wayne. I just have a question concerning the course aims, ma'am." He watched her mouth quirk upwards at the 'ma'am' he had tacked on at the end there. Good, he was building their rapport.

"Well, Mr. Drake-Wayne, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully." She said this almost automatically, as though this was not the first time that she had answered this question.

"Well then, I was hoping you could help me understand them, Professor," he replied smoothly, trying to lean into the insinuation that he desired her expert opinion on the matter. Umbridge smiled, but it was painfully forced. She had definitely answered this question before. Multiple times, probably. By this time, the conversation had drawn the attention of most, if not all, of the class.

"Why, of course," she simpered through clenched teeth. "What seems to be confusing you?"

"I'm having some trouble understanding the second aim—"

"Well," she cut him off, still smiling, "it says that you will be learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used." She dragged her wand across the chalkboard and tapped on each word as if this was a singalong on an old VHS. "I think that's easy to comprehend."

"Oh, I comprehend it just fine," Tim replied curtly, trying not to get miffed at being cut off like that. "I just wanted to know if you had any examples of times in which self-defensive magic would be illegal."

The entire classroom was silent for a full five seconds. Umbridge looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly large piece of food but was trying not to draw attention to that fact.

"Well, Mr. Drake," she started, clearing her throat, and Tim bit his lip to stop himself from correcting her, "these are the course aims for the entire school year, so questions like those should be asked and will be answered when the topics arise."

"Drake-Wayne," he said the moment he was certain that she had finished her thought.

"Pardon?" Umbridge's eyes narrowed.

Stop it, Tim, he heard in his subconscious. Stop it, you're not helping, you need to be in her good graces, you can't make a scene.

"My surname is Drake-Wayne. With a hyphen between 'Drake' and 'Wayne.'" He had tried to be calm before her, but a sudden wave of emotions had come over him just from her facial expressions and how they perfectly mimicked those of so many Gothamites he had encountered over the years. "Please refer to me by my full surname, ma'am." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Padma's eyebrows skyrocket.

No, no, no, no, no, this is bad, this is bad, stop, stop, abort, abort.

Umbridge's smile was fading. It seemed that Tim wasn't the only one struggling to act agreeable.

"Students," she began, looking away from Tim and turning to the rest of the class, "will raise their hands when they want to speak."

His hand shot up. Tim, stop. Please, stop, this isn't accomplishing anything, don't give her a reason to dislike you, don't give people a reason to look at you, you need to stay inconspicuous, you are to be seen, not heard—

"Yes, Mister…?" Umbridge had opted to ignore Tim. Unfortunately, he seemed to have sparked some kind of trend, for three other people had raised their hands.

"Goldstein. I was hoping you'd answer Tim's original question."

"Well, I seem to have forgotten—"

"He asked whether or not a situation would arise in which defensive magic would be illegal," Anthony supplied helpfully.

"Well, Mr. Goldstein, it's a rather complicated topic, as you will soon learn when we reach that unit—"

"Then simplify it," Padma stated bluntly.

"Hands, children, hands," Umbridge chided pleasantly, looking for all intents and purposes like a war veteran who had just been triggered into a PTSD-related panic attack. "Mister…?"

"Burnett." Purdie lowered his hand. "Surely you could give us an abridged explanation, Professor? Just something to keep us satisfied until we reach that material."

She took a deep breath in through her nose. "A-an abridged explanation?" she stuttered, and then, as if realizing her very noticeable hesitation there, added, "Of course, Mr. Burnett. See, knowing defensive magic is a sizeable responsibility, and one which cannot be taken lightly. It is no fool's toy. In a hypothetically dangerous situation, care must be taken when considering your actions, as a poorly-placed spell may do more harm than good. Therefore, certain measures have been put in place to inform witches and wizards on when defensive spells are appropriate." She glanced around the room and sighed at the half-dozen raised hands. "And you are…?"

"Terry Boot, and why would the alternative be to not do defensive spells? If they're meant to defend, they shouldn't be dangerous to anyone except the attacker."

"Again, every action has consequences, even those intended to help, so in any given hypothetically dangerous situation, there have been constructed rules that intend to keep all parties safe and accountable."

Tim raised his hand again, which Umbridge blatantly ignored in favor of the student immediately to his left.

"Your name, dear?"

"Sue Li, Professor. Wouldn't it take too much time to have to consider those things in a life-threatening situation? I think—"

"I think," Umbridge interrupted, "that you have never been in a life-threatening situation before, Ms. Li, and your assumptions about what they are like are inaccurate."

"I have," Tim blurted out before he could remind himself that no one here knew about Red Robin.

All eyes were on Tim now. There was the sound of chairs scraping as people turned around to see what the heck Tim was talking about.

Umbridge looked Tim up and down with wide eyes before letting out a high-pitched giggle that was absolutely nauseating. "Why, whatever could you mean, Mr. Drake…" She paused. "…Wayne?"

"I mean that I've been kidnapped four times," he explained matter-of-factly, not to mention all those other times when I was Robin. "And those were just the successful ones. I've lost count of how many times people have attempted to kidnap me."

"Bloody hell!" Michael Corner exclaimed, nearly toppling over his chair. "What in Merlin's name…?"

"Kidnapped?" Umbridge swallowed.

"Yeah, kidnapped. And I've been at dozens of events that were hijacked by dangerous persons. See, I'm from Gotham, Professor. It's the second most crime-ridden city on the Eastern Seaboard after Blüdhaven. And—" he continued, noting how Umbridge was attempting to cut in, "as someone who has probably (certainly) been in more life-threatening situations than you, I believe I have the full right to say that having to think about the legality of your own self-defense is valuable time in which you could be defending yourself and staying alive."

"What the hell…?" Padma whispered.

Umbridge finally spoke, her face pallid and no longer hosting the smile from before. "Mr. Drake-Wayne, I, as a trained Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, would like to point out that your vague advice is not at all applicable to any real-world—"

"You want the specifics?" Tim almost laughed. Oh, the memories. "May 14th, 1991. Two weeks after Bruce Wayne officially adopted me. I'm playing basketball during recess. Around noon, there are three gunshots. Six men walk into the school plaza armed with semi-automatic pistols, which, for those of you unfamiliar with the Muggle world, are their equivalent of the Expulso Curse. The one in charge shouts that he's looking for Timothy Drake-Wayne and that he'll kill the other students unless Timothy is handed over."

Umbridge cleared her throat loudly with the dreaded 'hem, hem' of hers. "Mr. Drake-Wayne, this is not the time for tall tales—"

"Now, I'm on the other side of the plaza, but he's pretty loud, so I can hear him. I don't want other people to die, so I walk over and surrender myself to them. One of them immediately knocks me out."

"Mr. Drake-Wayne, certainly this is not as bad as you—"

"I wake up tied to a wooden chair. There's a camera in front of me. The main guy walks in and turns on the camera. It turns out he's using me to make a ransom demand. Either Bruce Wayne pays the Muggle equivalent of, oh—" Tim paused for a moment to perform the mental math. "—two point six million Galleons or he'll kill me."

"Holy shit!" Terry yelled, then covered his mouth.

Umbridge let out a little squeak. "Mr. Boot, please!"

"Yeah, 'holy shit' is right," Tim agreed. "Then he starts to beat me up. Uses that Expulso thing on my leg. Punches me a couple times. Holds a knife to my throat." He rattled these facts off quickly before anyone would have time to imagine the situation. No need to completely traumatize these kids.

"At one point, he grabbed my face and started talking to me. And you know what I did, Professor?"

Umbridge flinched, as though she had forgotten who it was to whom he was telling this story.

"I bit his hand. Hard. I bit it until he punched me again. And then I kicked him with my one, functioning leg. So, tell me this, Professor. Was that legal? Should I have been arrested for aggravated assault?" He folded his hands into a lattice and rested his chin on them and waited.

The class practically exploded with voices echoing off the walls.

"—Tim, what the hell was—!"

"—the most messed-up thing I've ever—!"

"—leg okay? That's some serious—!"

"—insane, how are you still—?"

"SILENCE, CLASS." The shrill shriek of Umbridge carried over everyone else's voices, and the students went silent almost immediately. Her tone did not leave them much of a choice in the matter.

"Mr. Drake-Wayne," she started with a much quieter, more blunt tone. "Ten points from Ravenclaw. I will not tolerate your wasting of our precious class time." And then, as if the last ten minutes of class had been a figment of everyone's imagination, she continued, "Now, then, if you all would pull out your copies of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard, turn to page five, and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.'" And then, with a tone so passive-aggressive it gave Tim chills, she added, "There will be no need to talk."

Stupid, stupid, stupid! You knew that you were being triggered, and yet you still decided to engage! You're quite possibly the worst undercover agent in the Justice League! You can't just go off on every adult that treats you poorly! Idiot! Amateur!

Astronomy that evening was quite the affair. Poor Professor Sinistra was rather unequipped for the storm that entered her classroom, nearly a dozen Ravenclaws interrogating their fellow classmate.

"So why didn't your parents just Apparate to the meeting places and Stun the kidnappers?"

Because neither of them could throw a punch worth crap and paying money was easier for them. "Well, the Statute of Secrecy is an international thing, so that would be pretty illegal, not to mention the fact that the Drakes were fairly high-profile in Muggle circ—"

"Did you go to Muggle hospitals or normal hospitals to treat your injuries?"

Does healing with Martian technology count as 'normal' to you? "Again, we were being watched by the Muggles constantly, so it would have looked weird if I recovered from—"

"Have you ever done accidental magic when you were in danger?"

"O-occasionally, yes—"

"Were you ever kidnapped by wizards?"

"No, but several have attempted to—"

"And you were seven when you were first kidnapped?"

"Yeah, it was my seventh birthday and—"

"Tim!"

"What?" Tim cried, throwing his hands into the air. "What incredibly important question do you have about my near-death experiences?" As he said this, he registered that the person who had asked him this question was none other than Hermione, who had hurried over to the Ravenclaw table.

"Parvati told me that someone cursed your leg!" she exclaimed, gesturing to Tim with a breadstick. "How did it happen? Which leg was it? Has it been treated?" She squatted down to examine his legs herself.

Tim was dumbstruck for a moment before he managed to say, "I'm sorry, who said what?"

"Your leg," Hermione insisted, "is it okay?"

"My leg is fine. Why wouldn't it be fine?"

"Then…" Hermione popped back up from under the table. "Then, your leg isn't cursed?"

"Why would my leg be cursed, Hermione?" Tim mumbled, having now placed his head in his hands.

"Well, Parvati told me that Padma told her that you told your class that someone had cursed your leg." She stared at him. "That…didn't happen, did it…"

Word certainly did spread fast around this school.

"No, I just—it was an analogy, nothing was cursed."

Her lips stretched into a suspicious frown. "An analogy for what?"

"Well, um." He briefly debated denying the whole thing. No, best to let the half-truths spread instead of people speculating about things. "When I was a teenager, I was shot in the leg. Not by a wand—!" he hurriedly tacked on, seeing Hermione's horrified expression. "It was by a Muggle weapon, sort of like—"

"I know what a gun is, Tim," Hermione said.

"Oh. Cool." He scratched the back of his head. "So…am I off the hook?"

"Not after dropping that little bombshell on me," she huffed. For a moment, she gave Tim a once-over. If he looked anything like he felt, she would realize that he was tired of this line of questioning which had been going on for hours at this point.

She shook her head. "But we can talk about that later." She glanced down at her wristwatch. "Sorry, Tim, but I've got to go. See you later?" she added, raising her voice at the end like it was a question.

"S-sure," he answered immediately. Lies.

Okay, technically, he wasn't lying. The Ravenclaws and Gryffindors had Transfiguration together Wednesday morning, so he ended up meeting up with the Gryffindor trio sooner than he had expected. On the bright side, Hermione wasn't looking at Ron like she wanted to murder him anymore, and Ron had managed to vanish the shell of his snail. On the other hand, Harry looked ready to collapse where he sat. Tim watched him nod off every couple of minutes, only to jolt back up when Ron or Hermione tapped him on the shoulder. It wasn't too surprising to Tim—the kid had been in detention last night (or so he assumed), and the workload for the fifth years was probably more than any of them had handled before. The only reason Tim was getting by was that he had experience balancing school with vigilante life in high school. Compared to that, this was light reading at best.

Tim's suspicions were proven when Harry failed to show up at lunch, presumably to finish more schoolwork. Tim remembered having days like that. High school was merciless.

Thursday seemed no better for Harry. In fact, Ron was also looking drowsy. It was interesting having Transfiguration three days straight with the Gryffindors and being able to track Harry's exhaustion steadily growing. He found that he was silently praying for the weekend to come sooner, if only to give this poor child a rest. And, from what Hermione had told him on Wednesday, it sounded like Harry had landed himself in a whole week of detention. That was a lot of late nights for a growing boy.

When Tim was not spending his days keeping an eye on Harry and trying to get closer to him, he was fiddling with his electronics. Getting them to work was actually far easier than he had expected. The castle seemed to be most cranky about the electricity itself, so Tim had stayed up a couple nights devising a way to get his devices to run on the ambient magic in the castle, of which there was more than enough to power his devices.

The real trouble laid in figuring out a way to get a signal. The enchantments surrounding the castle seemed to be acting as some sort of barrier for the electromagnetic waves. If Tim wanted internet access, he would have to find a way to pass through the enchantments without outright bypassing them. The last thing Tim wanted was a security breach because he needed to play World of Warcraft or something.

Fortunately, he had two free periods both Wednesday and Thursday, which gave him time to visit the library, to which he was quickly becoming addicted. If he had thought Flourish and Blotts was impressive, this place was like the Seventh Wonder of all libraries. It certainly mimicked the features of Flourish and Blotts, but the sheer number of books in this place was thousands of times greater than that of the humble bookstore. The place was practically distraction-free, save for the occasional flying book returning to its shelf, due to the merciless regime of one Madam Pince. She did not tolerate any noise that came from a human being, nor did seem to be a fan of humankind in general. Even more so than the other faculty members, Tim was determined to stay in Madam Pince's good graces, lest he be cast out from his new home-away-from-home.

Unfortunately, for a librarian, Madam Pince was exceptionally bad at helping students in said library. Tim had tried several times over the past couple of days to ask her where certain books might be stored, only to be given a curt command to "find it yourself, the library has signs for a reason."

It was this Thursday afternoon that Tim had his first breakthrough in the case that he was supposed to be cracking, namely figuring out what was going on between Voldemort and Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore and what this whole taking-over-the-world thing was about.

He had been in the reference section looking through published articles by accomplished Muggle-born witches and wizards when he came across a large, dusty tome sitting on the top of a half-collapsed pile of books. It was approximately the size of a small microwave and nearly as thick as Tim's own head, which was what attracted him to it in the first place. He really couldn't resist. Again, very addicting, this library.

He opened it up to the first page. There was no frontispiece; actually, there was no title of any kind. The book immediately started with the front page of an old Daily Prophet newspaper dating back to March 7th, 1743. Opposite to it, on the inside of the book cover, were three lines written in a gilded script:

Ask, and thou shalt receive

Seek, and thou shalt find

Knock, and the door shalt be opened unto thee

Huh. Interesting place to put a Bible verse. Tim hefted the book up onto a desk and opened it up to the middle. December 30th, 1869. The headline read "Gringotts Uncompromising! Thousands demand exchange" and the picture below was a black-and-white capture of the tall marble building being mobbed by witches and wizards, many on broomsticks and flying carpets casting spells at windows and shaking their oversized burlap sacks.

He flipped to another random page. February 9th, 1907. "Holyhead Hotspurs! A Sodden Stand for Suffrage!" The picture featured a figure covered head to toe in what looked like mud, raising an equally-filthy broomstick into the air.

He then turned to the last page. September 5th, 1995. "Fudge Asks for Time—Public Awaits News on Black" accompanied by a picture of what could only be the wizarding equivalent of a press conference.

A collection of every front-page of the Daily Prophet since its conception. This was exactly what Tim needed. He hurriedly started flipping backwards from that day to the previous summer and began to read about "The Boy Who Lies."

The next day, though, Tim was beginning to realize that reading every newspaper from the past couple of years would take far too long, given that most of them probably had nothing to say about Harry. In the past two days, he had gotten through August, July, and June, and that had been grueling work, combing through page-by-page to try and find anything about Harry, Dumbledore, or Voldemort.

To add to his frustrations, the Slytherins had been disturbingly silent during Herbology, only giving Tim the occasional stink-eye when they happened to see each other. Tim had a bad feeling that Draco was planning on getting back at him in some other way. Tim would have to be on his guard until then.

That night, Tim finally decided to take his first midnight stroll through Hogwarts. He had been waiting to explore the place without any interference, and if there was interference, he wanted to know what it was and how to avoid it.

After the last person left the common room, a sleepy girl who slowly packed up her art supplies and headed off for bed, Tim was off. The stairs up to the dorms were marble, meaning that there was no creaking or extra noise. The door, however, was its own challenge. All week, Tim had been listening to people enter and exit his dorm, watching the way people opened it and the way it reacted. By now, he was fairly certain he understood its quirks. Opening it slowly would made a long, loud creeeeak, and he would have to lift the doorknob slightly to avoid the scraping noises.

Tim quickly grabbed his biggest suitcase, a mess of clothes, and closed it slowly. Then he flipped it over and opened up the other side. It wasn't anything too fancy, just a suitcase with a false bottom. An easy trick, but one that people hardly ever noticed. In this separate compartment of his case, he grabbed his utility belt, which he had stocked days ago in case of an emergency—grappling gun, shuriken, smoke pellets, the works. He instantly felt more relaxed than he had been all week the moment he put it on. In the back, he hooked on his collapsed staff, and on his left hip, he tucked his wand away in its own holder which Tim had added over the summer. Then, he slipped on a pair of black gloves, the gauntlets reinforced and carrying Tim's newly-developed supercomputer, which connected directly to his mask, which he stuck on his face with practiced ease. And finally, the cape. Tim tossed it over his shoulders, the weight familiar to him. It was quite the get-up. Tim didn't currently have a way to explain away his belt to anyone who caught him in the act of sneaking around, which was because he didn't plan on getting caught. Bruce had taught him better than that.

He walked over to the window between Terry and Purdie's beds. Unlike the common room, the windows in the dormitories could be swung outwards. Another thing working in Tim's favor was the fact that Ravenclaw Tower was naturally drafty, meaning that his opening the window did not add or detract to the whistling of the wind inside the dorm. Tim poked his head out of the window and looked out at the view. It was dark, cloudy, and nearly pitch-black, but Tim's mask did good work making the grounds fairly visible. In the distance was a large forest (the Forbidden Forest, perhaps?) that extended into the mountains far off, and directly below him was what looked to be some sort of vegetable patch. He placed his palms on the window hinges and lifted himself up off the ground so that he was now crouching on the thin ledge made by the window. It was wide enough for Tim to sit in comfortably, but Tim didn't come here to just sit and swing his legs. Grabbing the top of the window frame, he stood up in one fluid motion. Since the window certainly wasn't tall enough to fit him, Tim ended up leaning outside of the opening. From here, he could see past the patch and to the greenhouses off in the distance.

Tim started to observe the space around him. The edge of the spire atop Ravenclaw Tower looked to be about a hundred feet above him, and below him was probably a five-hundred foot drop. Upwards it was.

He slipped his grappling gun from its holster and leaned out further from the window ledge. Closing one eye, he angled it carefully and whispered a quiet, "Now deploying the Batgrapple," to himself with a small chuckle.

He pulled the line a couple of times to make sure that it was properly anchored and then, one hand on the trigger, jumped backwards off the building into the dark of night. He pressed the trigger, and the grappling gun began to retract at a fairly quick pace, dragging Tim right along with it. The wind roared in his ears, and he grinned as he hopped off the building and swung back every dozen feet.

When he lifted up his opposite hand to grab the ledge, he felt it slip a little on the slick surface. It seemed that the castle had not yet fully dried from the week's off-and-on rainstorms. These were perfect conditions for outdoor exploration. If there was one environment in which Tim felt comfortable pulling off dangerous feats of acrobatics, it was in the dead of night on the rain-slicked exterior of a Gothic-Victorian-style building.

He easily lifted himself up onto the ledge, which was just long enough for him to sit on. For a couple minutes, he just stayed there, the wind pushing his cape around and trying to knock Tim off the tower, and he breathed. In through his nose, out through his mouth, just like Wren had taught him. In…pause…out…pause… He could practically hear the man's soft voice in the wind, calmly guiding him away from his anxieties. A whole week of staying at a giant castle learning magic, and this was the first time Tim truly felt alive. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel Dick beside him, ruffling his hair during a stakeout or Damian clicking his tongue and sitting down beside him.

Okay. He stood up, the wind not nearly bad enough to knock him off-balance. Time to explore. To his right were a couple battlements which paved the way to another tower with a height rivaling Ravenclaw Tower. And to his left and a little further behind him was the path to a slightly shorter tower that he knew to be the Owlery, given that he had been sending letters to Bruce all week. There was also a tower much closer by that was shorter than the Owlery, maybe a hundred twenty feet down from Tim's position. He did some quick calculations in his head and estimated that he would need around two hundred feet of rope to make the jump. Luckily, Tim was equipped with three hundred feet of high-tensile Batrope, all packed into one ten-inch grappling gun.

He grabbed the 'Batgrapple' again and pressed the toggle that, on any normal gun, would be the safety. Instead, a magazine fell out of the bottom of the grip. On any normal gun, it would be filled with bullets. On the Batgrapple, it contained all the rope (pardon, Batrope…or was it Batline? Tim couldn't remember) that the grapple usually used. Tim grabbed one end of the tight coil and flicked the large metallic point at the end, which spread out into a four-point claw.

He let the rope slip through his fingers, allowing the wind to unravel it quicker. Then, he grabbed the rope with two hands and began to spin it like a lasso. The steady rhythm helped him to concentrate on the wind and the point that he was aiming for.

Three…two…one. He released the one hand and sent the rope flying, the other letting it slip through. Tim was lucky to have the wind in his favor tonight; he watched the small silver claw latch on to part of the edge around the roof. Bingo.

And now the best part. Already, he had begun to wrap the extra rope around his left hand, and then he grabbed it with his right hand. And he lifted up one foot and stepped off the edge of the tower.

This was what made life worth living. The rush of adrenaline as he plummeted towards certain death, swinging at a high velocity towards his next stop. The sound of his cape catching the wind and being swatted around. The way his stomach dropped as he raced past the tower. The ability to make split-second decisions like deciding "hey, I want to land on the roof over there" and triggering the claw to release him so that he could fly over. Doing a front-flip in the air not to show off to anyone but just for himself.

The roof was steadily approaching, and Tim's excitement increased proportionally. He saw the stone approaching, bent his knees, and prepared for impact. Feet, hands, shoulder, back, and then he was on his feet again, standing on the flat roof.

"WOO!" He pumped his fists into the air and laughed, too high on his own excitement to care about whether or not anyone heard him. Freedom really lifted one's spirits.

Tim had made it all the way over to the East Wing when he finally decided that it was time to explore the interior of Hogwarts a bit more. The clock tower told Tim that it was four minutes past midnight, which meant he had plenty of time to run around inside.

He lowered himself down to a window that would open into an empty hallway. Tim excitedly grabbed his wand, eager to try out another spell he had practically mastered over the summer.

"Alohomora," he whispered and watched giddily as the latch inside flicked open.

Tim was about ninety-one percent sure that he was on the sixth floor (or the fifth if he was thinking of the ground floor). He slipped inside and landed silently on his toes, glancing around the hallway. There were a couple portraits whose inhabitants were fast asleep, though Tim made sure to stay as out-of-sight as possible in case a particularly nosy picture happened to spot him, hiding among the many statues and suits of armor that lined the hall.

Actually, Tim didn't care if a picture spotted him. He was wearing a mask and cape, and those were the only tools he had needed to keep his identity secret for six years straight. He strode quietly, but confidently, down the hallways, putting his ear to doors he passed by to listen for possible movement in different rooms. He tried some of their handles, seeing which ones were unlocked and just waiting to be explored.

All in all, he had found a few empty classrooms and a broom closet. He was just peeking around another corner when he caught sight of a faint light out of the corner of his eye that was moving towards him. He jerked his head back and hurriedly searched for a spot to hide. None of the nearby doors were unlocked, and Tim didn't want to take the chance that one of them was occupied, so he instead took a step back and leapt up the wall to grab onto one of the ceiling's exposed joists. As he was trying to position himself, the light rounded the corner. It was being emitted from the wand of a very old man in a flamboyant nightgown and cap.

Tim couldn't decide if it was pure luck or pure karma to have encountered Dumbledore at this hour of the night. He tipped his head back as far as it could go so that he could keep an eye on the old man. By now, Tim had scooted out to the center of the beam and was clinging to it with two legs and one hand. His other arm was busy keeping his cape from dangling down. The ceilings were tall, but not enough that Tim was certain that his cape wouldn't cast a shadow from Dumbledore's wand, and he wasn't confident in his own ability to hook the corners on their little clasps without letting the cape drop.

With bated breath, he tracked the headmaster as he walked right past Tim and down the hallway. A few feet past Tim, however, the old man stopped and then pivoted on one foot, pointing his wand at the ceiling directly where Tim hung. Or rather, where Tim had been hanging, because Tim had managed to drop down and make it around the corner before Dumbledore could spot him.

Well, that certainly was a close one, Tim thought to himself as he ran down this new hallway, heart pounding, and he felt like laughing.

I swear, there is nothing better than writing students arguing with Umbridge...

Also, shout-out to Obobwinner for being the first reader to point me out on inaccuracies, namely me completely forgetting about the time zone change between Gotham and London. As I sign off to go fix that right now, just remember that if any of you ever read something that doesn't seem right, don't be afraid to tell me about it. I've tried really hard to be as accurate as possible with this story, but I admit that I can fall short, and I like being aware of when I've messed up. Thanks again!

CW: non-graphic descriptions of violence towards a minor