Sort of a filler chapter, but it addresses some problems that needed to be addressed.

Content warnings can be found at the end of this chapter.

Since then, Tim hadn't taken a single break. He spent a majority of his free time perusing through the Restricted Section of the library, looking for mentions of immortality in any books. He came by so often that Madam Pince had stopped checking his permission slip granted to him by Dumbledore—Tim would simply pull out the crumpled note from his pocket, and she would nod and let him go by without a second glance.

While combing through the Restricted Section, Tim became aware of how much he had taken for granted that collection of Daily Prophet articles that would search itself for keywords like the 'find' function on a computer. Hogwarts's library was organized terribly, and Tim spent hours a day skimming through books whose bindings were falling apart and which lacked tables of contents, just to find that they were written in Gobbledegook. Only after a week of looking did Tim finally recognize that, if there even was a book on immortality, Dumbledore had probably already read it. If anything, Tim should have been exploring non-wizarding sources of immortality.

That should have been a freeing revelation, a weight off of his shoulders. He didn't have to keep researching this. It was out of his hands. Somehow, though, Tim took this news as incentive to keep researching other important topics. It wasn't as though he actually had anything pressing to research—in fact, it had almost been a month since Constantine had contacted him, and Tim was starting to get worried—but he managed to find things to study. The other option—that he didn't have to spend all his waking hours working on this case—sounded like so much of a cop-out in Tim's head that he hardly, if ever, entertained the notion. No, if he had free time, he was supposed to be working. If not, then he was just wasting his time. Never mind that Dumbledore, who currently held the most information regarding Voldemort and the approaching wizarding war, was not in a rush; never mind that it was only natural for there to be slow periods in an investigation; no, no, if there was time to spare, it was because Tim wasn't working hard enough, it was because Tim was being lazy.

Having mentally mapped out the castle, and now having access to a comprehensive, magical map of the place, Tim almost completely stopped his late-night strolls, instead dedicating this time to more important work. On nights like these (every night), Tim was grateful for Tisky, who always brought him a hot mug of coffee when she came to clean the common room at three and who always had something nice to say about Tim, no matter how superficial it sounded. But he was getting sleep, so it wasn't like he was completely relying on caffeine. But he was relying a lot on caffeine, something he hadn't done since he was CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Not that it was an addiction or anything, because it wasn't.

Tonight, Tim was working on mapping out the genealogy of pure-blood families in the British Isles, as that would most certainly help him when identifying Death Eaters. It was a complicated family tree, but he was making steady progress, and he had people like Ginny around who had a lot of insightful tidbits that helped fill in some of the blanks. He called it a night around five-thirty that morning, stumbling back into his dormitory to get the sleep necessary to wake up at seven, get breakfast, and be at the greenhouses by eight. Given how drowsy he was, it wasn't a surprise that he tripped over a pile of his stuff, his bed being close enough to break his fall, thankfully, so no one would wake up. With a very deep and silent sigh, Tim rolled over and bent down to pick up the huge pile of letters that had collapsed and spread across the floor.

There were about a dozen envelopes, but none of them were from Constantine, so Tim didn't have the time to read and respond to every one of them. And with every new letter sent his way, the time it would take to read all of them only grew, so Tim stopped thinking about opening them at all. And if their correspondence was being watched, it wouldn't be safe for him to respond to any of them. There were a couple from Kon (who apparently had learned to use owl post), some from Steph and Dick, two from his therapist, and one from Bruce, which surprised Tim. He really hadn't expected Bruce to contact him anytime soon, not unless something big was going down in Gotham. Without the convenience of electronic communication, Tim felt like it was a huge waste of time for someone like Bruce to be sending him letters via owl. But there it was, at the bottom of the stack, strategically placed there so that Tim wouldn't have to look at it every day and wonder what Bruce had to say. Tim resolved to stuff all the letters into one of his suitcases so that this wouldn't have to happen again. He couldn't afford this kind of interruption. He had a mission.

"You're not going home for Christmas?" Hermione asked, looking concerned.

"If it's too much of a hassle to travel internationally, you could totally come to the Burrow," Ron immediately offered. "Mum wouldn't mind, she loves the company. Harry's coming too, aren't you, Harry?"

Harry nodded, watching Tim shrug and continue to eat his breakfast, leaning over the Daily Prophet and reading it with an almost inhuman speed.

"The mission's too important," Tim said, without looking up. "Thanks for the offer, though, I appreciate it."

"Surely you can take a break," Hermione insisted. "Everyone else in the—(her voice dropped down)—Order is doing it."

"I think I'll be fine," Tim told them, looking far too apathetic about this whole conversation for Harry's comfort. Tim had always spoken about his family with such love, why didn't he want to go back for a couple weeks? The air fare couldn't have been that expensive, given how rich Tim was supposed to be.

Hermione bit her lip, looking to Ron and Harry for support. Clearly, she was as opposed to this as he was.

"You could keep working on your stuff back at home," Ron suggested. "That way, you can still be around your family for the holidays."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Being around family would be such a distraction that Tim knew he wouldn't get any work done. It was only in this castle, isolated from his friends and family, that he would be able to accomplish anything.

This wasn't, of course, what he had told his family. Tim had sent a letter to Bruce saying that Hogwarts didn't allow students to return home over the holidays, a fact which he knew none of them would be able to either confirm or deny, at least, not any time soon. It wasn't a harmful lie, just one that would prevent them from somehow forcing him to come home via portal magic or kidnapping or the like. Plus, Tim still hadn't earned a break yet, not with the abysmal work he'd been doing the past couple of weeks. He had almost nothing to show for it except for a nonexistent sleep cycle and perfect grades on all of his assignments, neither of which actually mattered to the case at hand. At least the D.A. meetings were going smoothly. Tim had moved on from defensive stances and agility to predicting a projectile's path, which was infinitely harder, but the students were working hard at his and Harry's lessons, and their progress was clear, whether it be Zacharias dodging Harry's Disarming Charm or Dennis Creevey jinxing his older brother for the fifth time in a row. Tim envied their obvious progress, wishing he could be as diligent and successful as them, but that never got in the way of Tim's teaching, since that was Tim's problem, not theirs. He actually rather enjoyed watching the way everyone's faces lit up when Harry hinted at starting Patronuses next semester. He remembered being that eager to learn from Bruce, back when 'danger' was a vague concept in his head and not the reality of dodging bullets and throwing punches. Tim wasn't sure how much longer these kids would have until the war for which they were so eagerly preparing actually arrived, when everything he and Harry were teaching would be put to the test, a test in which failure left a permanent scar.

"We have to confront him about this now," Purdie stressed. "What if something happens to someone else?"

"I know, I know, I just…" Cordelia bit her lip. "I'm just not super excited to ruin everything we have going with him." Purdie certainly understood where she was coming from. Cordelia had always had trouble making and keeping friends, so doing something so bold seemed counterintuitive to the girl.

"Did you see how shaken up Aruna was when she got back?" Purdie recalled Aruna's pale face and her shaking hands as she'd recounted what happened to her when she'd disappeared that Saturday morning. "If we don't do this, it's like acknowledging that nothing ever happened."

"I—just—maybe we can give it some time?" she sighed. "Wait 'til after break. Then we can talk to him about it."

"Fine, just…I hope it won't be too late. I don't think I can trust him anymore unless he comes clean to us sooner rather than later. I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

The Thursday before the first semester officially ended, Tim entered the Transfiguration classroom to find Hermione sitting at a table by herself, fidgeting in her seat and scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment in front of her. It only took a glance around the room to find neither Harry nor Ron present. He hadn't seen most of the fifth-year Gryffindors at breakfast earlier that day, but he knew that they tended to leave breakfast on the early side on Thursdays to avoid being late to Potions and incurring Snape's wrath; Tim, on the other hand, had been arriving to breakfast ten minutes to eight for the past month or so, so it had seemed only natural that he hadn't seen Harry, Ron, or Hermione then.

Curious, Tim slid into the seat next to Hermione, setting his bag down and taking a peek at the parchment before her. It was covered in ink blots and bullet points that did not line up and were barely legible, which was rare for someone with Hermione's level of penmanship.

"You okay, Hermione?" he asked quietly, and she nearly jumped out of her seat, whipping her head around so fast that he thought her neck might snap.

"Tim!" she squeaked, dropping her quill. "I didn't see you there…" Yeah, I gathered as much.

"So, where'd Ron and Harry go?" he asked her. Obviously, they had never reached the classroom in the first place, judging by the lack of any bookbags or sweaters saving their seats.

Hermione sniffled, and suddenly her eyes were brimming with tears. "Oh, Tim, I don't know!" She grabbed his arm and gripped it tightly. "Neville said that Harry had a nightmare, but then Professor McGonagall took him and Ron away, and Neville hasn't seen them since! And they're not in the hospital wing, I checked after breakfast, and Professor McGonagall's been avoiding me all morning, and—"

Tim interrupted, "Hermione, breathe." She stopped talking but continued to wave her hands around in the air in a frenzy. "Does he have nightmares often?" Tim asked, wondering if this was some sort of PTSD episode.

"Not recently, no—but—but he's had dreams about V-Voldemort before—do you think something happened to him?"

Tim shook his head, already going into detective-mode. "No, I'm certain you would have been told right away that something happened to him. The fact that Ron and Harry are gone means that it was something that had to do with the both of them. And it wasn't just because Ron was in the room with him, because Neville's still here."

"B-but maybe something bad happened to Harry, and Ron's there to support him…"

Tim shook his head. "Again, someone would have told you. The fact that McGonagall's been avoiding you means that she can't tell you, so this is confidential. Probably very confidential." He added, emphasizing 'very' and hoping that Hermione would pick up on the connotation.

"B-but Ron's with him!"

"Then it probably has to do with someone close to him. Are Ginny and the twins here?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, no, I haven't seen any of them, either."

"Then it's a Weasley matter."

"But what does that have to do with Harry?"

"Harry's had dreams about Voldemort before, right?"

Hermione nodded, her shoulders shaking.

"Do you think Harry might have had a dream about Voldemort that has something to do with the Weasleys?" he suggested. Stringing the information together neatly like this was how Tim always started his cases, even if they ended up being vastly more complicated than that. Dick called it "Tim's Razor." Tim called it basic detective work.

She frowned. "W-what sort of dream would be like that?"

"No clue," he admitted. "It's a working theory."

The moment Tim caught sight of McGonagall, he knew that she was hiding something. She held herself, as always, with grace and poise, moving with purpose and without hesitation. It was the little things that really gave her away—the tightness around her eyes when their eyes met, how closely her dry lips were pressed together, the unconscious clenching of the jaw—they were all symptoms Tim had observed before, usually on Bruce. Especially on Bruce. That man certainly made it a habit of his to keep secrets.

As always, McGonagall had no problem silencing the class. "Good morning, all. I trust that you all know what to do by now. The goldfinches are in their cage in the back of the classroom, and I sincerely hope that you take my advice today so that yesterday's unfortunate accident will not repeat itself." She sent a pointed glare at Seamus, whose face turned red at the mention of the bird attack that was obviously still fresh on everyone's mind.

Tim retrieved the two goldfinches for Hermione, seeing as she looked just as capable as Seamus at startling the poor things in her emotional state. For a moment, she stared at the bird blankly as it hopped around on her desk.

Tim gently nudged her shoulder. "Hermione. The spell."

She flinched, gripping her wand tightly. "Y-yes, of course…" she muttered, and waved her wand without much passion at the bird, which promptly transformed into a Golden Snitch, its detailed exterior flawless and indistinguishable from the one used during Quidditch matches. Tim was, as always, blown away but not surprised by Hermione's success. She had mastered the spell on the day they'd been taught it, and, if not for the stress she was currently putting herself under, she would probably be helping her fellow classmates.

Tim glanced around the room to see how the rest of the class was faring. There were a lot of lifeless Snitches, a few sporting beaks, and one small metal ball walking around on two spindly legs.

Across the room and two rows back, Purdie nodded at Tim, flicking his eyes to his right towards Hermione, as though he was wondering how she was doing.

Tim shrugged, lifting up a hand and twisting it back and forth in a 'so-so' gesture.

Purdie frowned. He lifted up a finger, circling it around to encompass the entire classroom. Then he pressed his fingers and thumbs together into a heart shape and pointed at Hermione.

The message was not hard to decipher. 'We love Hermione, and we're here for her if she needs us.'

Tim, who was genuinely touched by this gesture, smiled and nodded back, mouthing a 'thanks' back. Dean, who was sitting next to Purdie, looked to Tim, tilted his head, and held a thumbs-up, raising an eyebrow. Tim, in response, returned the gesture, nodding. It was stupid how supportive these students were. Just ridiculous, really.

The moment was broken when he heard Michael swear from his seat in the back, "Shit!"

McGonagall's head poked up from where she had been helping another pair of students. "Mr. Corner!" she exclaimed, as there were strict rules concerning cuss words in her classroom (don't say them), but, upon realizing what had happened, Tim felt like Michael's outburst was justified. There was a loud crash, leading the entire class to point their heads skywards, watching as a large blur shot up from Michael's desk and crashed into the rafters. It seemed that Michael had somehow managed to turn his goldfinch into a feathery Bludger, which vibrated threateningly from its spot buried in the rafters.

Tim watched as McGonagall mouthed something that, to Tim's expertly-trained lip-reading eyes, looked suspiciously like, "Fucking dragon farts," before raising her wand and casting an untransfiguration spell at it. "Reparifarge."

Unfortunately, before her spell could reach it, the Bludger threw itself out of the spherical indent it had made in the wood and down towards the students.

Tim reacted without thinking, years and years of training kicking in. He shot up out of his chair the moment he saw the pseudo-Bludger move, calculated its trajectory—they seek out humans, that's how the charm works, so if it's moving, it's moving towards someone, from this angle, it looks like Neville—and sprinted over to Neville's desk, using his running start to leap off of the edge of the desk and intersect the Bludger on its way down. He pulled the manic sphere to his stomach, tucking into a roll. Coming in with his horizontal force, Tim knocked straight into the Bludger and tumbled over Neville's head before hitting the ground, at which point he automatically moved into a roll to avoid any injuries. This ended up being futile anyways, as he didn't actually have enough room to complete the maneuver and slammed his hip into a cabinet.

Tim grunted, though he still had the thought to throw his leg out to stop the cabinet from toppling over. In his arms, the bird-Bludger bucked, trying to free itself, but Tim had held down much more violent and forceful criminals before, so this really was nothing. He tilted back his head to see if everyone was okay, only to find the entire class on their feet scrambling towards him.

"I'm fine, don't worry," he told them, rolling over onto his side and standing up. "See?"

From the back of the crowd of students, McGonagall cleared her throat, and they all immediately stepped aside, clearing a path for her to come in.

"Reparifarge," she said again, pointing at Tim's arms, and the avian abomination in his hands shrunk back into a goldfinch that looked far too chipper for something that had just flown itself into the ceiling.

Lavender immediately burst into applause.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected," Hermione commented after the class had calmed down enough to return to their seats.

"Yeah," Tim agreed. "I don't know how he could have messed up the spell that badly."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I meant that little stunt you pulled."

"Oh, that?" Stop sounding like you're so surprised, you couldn't have been more obvious if you'd taken a megaphone and shouted, "I'M A VIGILANTE." "Yeah, I sort of just moved without thinking. Force of habit, I guess." He was actually grateful that she had brought it up—anything to get her mind off of Harry and Ron.

Hermione leaned closer to him and whispered, "Was that something Batman taught you?"

"Actually, my older brother taught me how to break a fall like that."

"That was incredible," she added. "You moved like you already knew what was going to happen."

Tim shrugged. "Just a combination of some educated guesses. It takes some practice."

"Mr. Drake-Wayne, Miss Granger," McGonagall said, approaching their desk, "if you two have both successfully transfigured your goldfinches, I suggest you either go help your classmates or begin practicing the next spells."

Seeing an opportunity present itself, Tim straightened up in his chair and folded his hands on his desk politely. "Actually, Professor," he said, keeping his voice low so that his words would not carry across the classroom, "We had some questions before we start." He tried to keep his words vague enough that she would play along.

"Yes?"

"Where are Harry and Ron?"

To McGonagall's credit, she did a good job of schooling her reaction to be as minimal as possible, though Tim had been trained enough to recognize the little tics—lips tightening, eyebrows twitching—as signs of discomfort.

"I—" She inhaled, her nostrils flaring. "Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to discuss that with you."

"So you do know!" whispered Hermione, looking offended.

"I assure you, Miss Granger, that I will let you know as soon as I am given the all-clear."

"By Dumbledore," Tim supplied.

"By Professor Dumbledore," McGonagall corrected him, though not looking like her heart was particularly in the words.

So this was Order-related, and they were trying to keep it on the down-low—probably from nosy and potentially problematic people like Umbridge. Tim could respect that, though, as a consultant of sorts for the Order, he felt like he, at least, should be privy to that information.

"Do you know how long they'll be gone?" Tim asked. After all, break was only days away, and Hermione was heading back to her own house for Christmas. The last thing Tim wanted was for Hermione to spend her break stressed about their whereabouts.

McGonagall's voice was strained but otherwise composed. "I cannot divulge that information."

"But Professor—!" Hermione argued.

"I think Corner could do with some of your help," McGonagall cut her off tersely and simply walked away from their conversation to go supervise other students.

Hermione bit her lip, fidgeting with her wand. Her eyes were getting watery again. Tim placed a hand on her shoulder and assured her that they were probably fine, even though the amount of secrecy surrounding this whole situation was really beginning to concern him.

"Their trunks are gone!"

Tim winced at how loudly she announced this and how it echoed in the Great Hall, despite the chatter of students getting lunch. He grabbed her shoulder somewhat forcefully and practically dragged her out of the crowd that was funneling through the doors and into a dark and drafty corner of the castle.

"Let's not let the entire school know that Harry and Ron disappeared, okay?" Tim whispered harshly, his eyes busy scanning the students passing by to see if anyone was reacting to her words.

Hermione nodded, her face flushing. "S-sorry…" she said slowly.

"I—it's okay," Tim told her, instead of continuing to reprimand her like Bruce would to him in his early Robin days. She was in an emotional state, he really shouldn't be so critical of her ability to stay calm under pressure. "So, what do you mean when you say that their trunks are gone?"

"I mean that I cornered Neville in the common room, and he told me that Harry's and Ron's beds were made and all of their stuff was gone."

It was all gone, meaning that they weren't planning on coming back before term ended. It meant that wherever they were staying, they were going to stay there for a while, well into their break. Harry had a dream, the Weasleys were missing, and their stuff was gone. They were all staying somewhere, probably together. It had to be somewhere safe—seeing as the Gryffindor trio had informed him about the dementor attack over the summer and the apparent need for more security on their end. Thus, if Tim was going by locations of which he was already aware, he'd put good money on them being at either Grimmauld Place or the Burrow.

But he didn't need to explain all of his deductions to Hermione (no matter how much he wanted to show off like always). "Well, that just means that wherever they are is safe enough that they're planning on staying there a while."

Hermione nodded and pressed her palms into her eyes like she was expecting to start crying again. "You're absolutely right, Tim. I'm being ridiculous."

Tim shook his head. "You're being a concerned friend. That's totally normal. Now, come on, let's get some lunch and talk about that new text we're translating in Runes. Anything to get your mind off of this whole mess."

"Y-yes, yes—of course…"

That evening, Tim decided to finally find his way into the Gryffindor common room, something he'd been itching to do ever since he missed out on their midnight Floo meeting with Harry's godfather. Given that there were still plenty of students in the common room and that he didn't know the layout quite like the Ravenclaw common room, though he had looked in through the barred windows a couple times, he decided that a direct approach would be best. He removed any articles of clothing that singled him out as a Ravenclaw, opting for a more neutral image that wouldn't turn as many heads on his way up. Of course, that didn't change the fact that people were going to notice him. Luckily, Tim had spent years perfecting the art of looking-like-he's-supposed-to-be-somewhere, so he headed up the staircases to Gryffindor tower, not even blinking at the occasional second-years who would pass him by and burst into whispers.

When he reached the top floor, he was met with a poorly-lit corridor housing a single, large painting of a woman in a rosy, silk gown. It was easy enough for Tim to identify her as the supposed "Fat Lady" who guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Jabberwock," Tim announced as he approached the painting. The Fat Lady, who was looking at her reflection in a champagne flute, didn't even spare a glance in Tim's direction, only continued to admire herself as her portrait frame swung open, allowing Tim access to the common room.

The moment Tim stepped in, he decided that he would gladly give up his own common room in exchange for this one. Somehow, it had managed to perfectly replicate the feeling of being in the upstairs sitting room at Wayne Manor, which was strange, because this place was a lot more Elizabethan than Wayne Manor and had walls of exposed stone. He wasn't quite sure if it was the giant fireplace or the out-of-place Gothic windows or the scarlet armchairs, but something about it made Tim comfortable in a way he couldn't quite explain.

He scanned the room, looking for Hermione and hoping that she was down here and not in her dormitory. He probably should have thought of that before coming up here. Thankfully, he spotted her thick mane of hair right away. She was curled up in what looked like a very uncomfortable position in the armchair closest to the fireplace, surrounded by a pile of petite knitted hats that looked oddly familiar to Tim and currently halfway through making another one. Tim quietly slipped through the packs of students and tapped Hermione on the shoulder. She looked up from her work apathetically before seeing Tim and actually registering that he was there.

"T-Tim!" she gasped, almost dropping her knitting needles.

"Hey," he grinned, sitting down cross-legged on the rug in front of her.

"How did—how did you get in here?" she whispered, looking around the room nervously, as though she expected someone to come over and forcibly evict the both of them from the common room.

"Same as everyone else. The Fat Lady let me in."

"That's impossible," she said, shaking her head. "No one's come in or out of the common room for the past half hour."

"Oh, for sure. I came in by myself."

"Who told you the password?"

"No one," Tim admitted cheekily. "I've been keeping track of the Gryffindor and Slytherin passwords all semester. You know, listening in on the younger students, they tend to be chatty about that kind of thing."

"I cannot believe you," she said, sounding equal parts aghast and impressed. "This is totally against the rules."

"Last I checked, so was forming the D.A., and yet you seem much more lenient in that regard."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, be quiet. The two are nothing alike."

"Aren't they?" Tim posed mysteriously, wiggling his eyebrows. "Anyways, what're you working on?"

"Clever redirect there," she commented, but she already looked excited to tell him about her work. "I'm making hats for the house-elves."

"What for?"

"I've been disguising them with trash so that the house-elves will pick them up and earn their freedom." Ah, yes. If elven slavery wasn't outlandish enough, freedom was gained through a master giving their house-elf an article of clothing.

"Even though they don't express interest in freedom?" Tim asked. The whole slavery thing was super messed up, especially the fact that house-elves repeatedly reported wanting to be enslaved, like some kind of Stockholm Syndrome. Tim had talked with a couple of them the times he had snuck down to the kitchens for a midnight snack, and their conversations were eye-opening in a very alarming manner. Tim had tried to reason with them any way he could, but they never seemed to express any interest whatsoever in being free, save for Dobby, the sole employed house-elf, whom the others viewed with disgust and shame. But Dobby never pushed his fellow elves to free themselves, so Tim had to wonder if it was a personal decision on his part and not a desire to free his brethren. The whole thing upset Tim, but he had yet to come up with a solution to wizard slavery. Unfortunately, it wasn't very high on Tim's priority list right now.

"See, it might look like that," said Hermione, "but the clothes have been disappearing each night, meaning that elves are freeing themselves! Isn't that great?"

"Y-yeah…" Tim absent-mindedly agreed, trying not to think about the fact that the reason those hats had looked so familiar in the first place was because Dobby had been wearing a tower of them last time Tim had visited the kitchens. "That's great. Uh, mind if I help?" he asked her, gesturing to her work.

Hermione's face brightened like Christmas had come early. "Really? I—I mean, of course, of course!" She grabbed her wand and waved it hurriedly, summoning another pair of needles and a ball of emerald-green yarn. "Usually, I use magic to get them done faster, but I…well, I kind of needed to focus on something, hence the hand-knitting."

Tim shrugged, picking up the needles. "That's fine. I'll join you." Tim had picked up on knitting from watching Steph work a couple winters ago when she hand-knit blankets for each of the Waynes because it was one of the few things in her price range that the Waynes didn't already have. Tim had been impressed with her patience and speed, but mostly her ability to keep track of where she was in her pattern without any visual aid. He wasn't nearly at her level, but he knew the basics, meaning he could make a ton of scarves.

So, the two of them worked side-by-side for the next hour, watching people come and go around them and listening to the crackling of the wood beside them.

"You're really good at this," Hermione commented at one point when Tim was on his fifth mini-scarf.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Not really. My S.O. taught me how. You should see her work, it's crazy good."

"You have a girlfriend?" she asked, looking up from her work and having the nerve to look surprised by this information.

Tim nodded. "Yeah, her name's Stephanie. We, uh…we met at our night job." He hoped Hermione would get the hint there. From the way her eyes widened, he could only assume that she had.

"Really? And you two still, ah, work together?"

"Yep."

"What's she like?"

Tim hadn't realized that he had been waiting all semester for someone to ask him about Steph until right now. "Steph? Oh, she's amazing, you'd love her. She's really smart and hard-working, and she's really crafty and creative. And she's, like, scary confident. Like, she's always pushing me out of my comfort zone, but, like, in a good way, and it always works out in the end. And she has a great sense of humor, even if it usually consists of trying to embarrass me in public. Oh, oh, and she's super strong. Like, she can bench way more than I can. And she's, like, super generous, even though she doesn't have a ton of money like I do. I feel like she challenges me to be more generous, and not even monetarily. Like, she's also super generous with her skills and her time." He stopped, trying to compose his thoughts. There was so much more to Stephanie Brown than what he had said so far.

Hermione chuckled, and Tim felt his face go red when she grinned at him. "Aww. That's so romantic. She clearly means a lot to you."

And I'm not going to see her for another six months.

Nope. Tim didn't have time to think about that. "Yeah, she's great."

Hermione: Harry and Ron have...disappeared!
Tim: *pulls out a magnifying glass*
*cue Detective Conan theme*

CW: very unhealthy mentality concerning work and self-care (or lack thereof)