It is a beautiful and terrible day because my oldest sister, who actually went to college to study writing, finally read this crossover and immediately started texting me about all the typos I'd left in. I'm touched that she decided to read my work (she's also a Batman and Harry Potter fan, so she understands the story) and that she knows I'd never forgive myself if there were typos I didn't know about, but I'm definitely embarrassed that I had typos that my favorite writer who isn't a 19th century Russian novelist was able to pick out. Now I am morally obligated to go back and fix them.
Oh, also, it's been awhile, but there's going to be a lot of dialogue in this chapter pulled straight from the books, and I wanted to reiterate that I am in no way taking credit for that.
Oh, also, also, there's some Spanglish in this chapter, and I am decidedly not fluent in Spanish, nor was I raised in a Spanish-speaking household, so if any of it sounds weird or unnatural to you native speakers out there, please let me know, preferably with a suggested correction I could make. If it helps, I like to think of Rosa Vasquez as Mexican-American (or Chicana, I don't know which term she'd prefer), so that would be the 'flavor' of Spanglish she uses, as opposed to a Spanglish coming out of a Central or South American country. Again, I don't know the differences there, but I'm aware that there are differences in the vocabulary used in different Spanish-speaking countries.

The entire kitchen was silent. The dishes had stopped scrubbing themselves, and all eyes were now on Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who folded his hands in front of himself and let out a sigh.

"Timothy, please do not force me to reveal that which is best left unknown," he said, looking quite tired.

"You don't trust us?" Mad-Eye growled, a frown on his face.

"Forgive me, Alastor," Dumbledore told him, "for it becomes exceedingly difficult to trust others when you cannot trust yourself."

Tim narrowed his eyes and, on a whim, said, "You knew about Voldemort's horcrux, didn't you?"

"My boy, if there was only one horcrux, everything would be much, much simpler. Unfortunately, the existence of this locket proves what I have suspected to be true for quite some time now. Voldemort had made himself multiple horcruxes."

"How many?" Tim asked.

"That, I must admit, I do not know."

But you know other things, Tim thought to himself. Things you aren't telling us. Things you aren't telling me.

"So, the reason Voldemort survived dying the first time was because he's split his soul into multiple pieces?" said Remus. "If it's such a good way to stay alive, why haven't I heard about more people doing it?"

"The spell requires a human sacr'fice," Constantine grunted, pulling out a rumpled cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it. "That and some complicated-ass spellwork. It's not somethin' anyone can do."

"And how would you happen to know how to make a horcrux?" asked Sirius suspiciously.

Tim was about to jump in with some cleverly-constructed lie about how he'd heard about it from Ra's al Ghul, but Constantine didn't seem bothered by the question, and he responded, "Same way Dumbledore prob'ly knows 'bout it—I thought 'bout makin' one."

"B-but you didn't, right?" Molly said slowly, her face growing pale. "You didn't actually…?"

"Course not," Constantine chuckled, blowing out a puff of smoke. "Wasn't even for me, jus' wanted ta see if I couldn't seal an already-dead soul into an object usin' their death as the sacrifice. Didn't work, but 't was worth a shot." Given the amount of people close to Constantine who'd died in horrific fashion, this didn't particularly surprise Tim.

Hell, Tim wasn't even completely opposed to the idea of bringing someone's soul back from the dead. He'd like to be able to say that he was against it, that messing with the natural order of things was wrong and unforgiveable, but, given the amount of ways Tim had looked into bringing his own friends back from the dead and given the amount of them who'd actually come back from the dead, he couldn't say he was actually against the whole thing. Jason was alive, Damian was alive, Kon was alive, and yet none of them had experienced any 'divine retribution' due to that fact. If bringing people back from the dead was immoral, God had yet to let humanity know. Sure, it was hard, and, sure, it had a heavy cost, but it was still possible.

The people around this table did not appear to share Tim's point of view. Many of them stared at Constantine in abject horror, like he was some kind of demon that they had just noticed was sitting next to them.

"John is correct," Dumbledore said softly. "I, too, once had dreams of becoming undying, and I learned of horcruxes through that." Tim wondered how the old wizard would react if Tim told him that he knew of an entire island of immortal warriors. "That is why I was expressly against letting any of you know about the nature of horcruxes. I had hoped that the lack of knowledge would dissuade you all from potentially finding yourselves tempted by the thrall of immortality. Its price is not worth being paid. To take someone's life with clear intent truly shatters one's soul beyond repair."

"Merlin, it's not like any of us actually want a horcrux for ourselves," Sirius breathed. "Have a little faith in us, Dumbledore."

"Sirius is right," Tonks agreed. "Just tell us where the horcruxes are, and we'll destroy them and be on our merry way, right?"

This, of course, was entirely dependent on how many horcruxes Voldemort had made. As someone considered a serial killer by the history books, there could be anywhere from three to thirty horcruxes lying around. And what if Voldemort was still creating horcruxes? How, then, were they supposed to stop him if he had an endless supply of soul pieces?

"Constantine," Tim asked, "is there a limit to how many times you can split your soul?"

Constantine, to Tim's disappointment, shrugged vaguely. "No clue. Any given bloke's soul is pretty large, tha's why mos' soul eaters only consume a couple o' souls ev'ry cent'ry." Apparently noticing Tim's discouraged demeanor, Constantine added, "On the brigh' side, no one with their soul split into multiple pieces would really notice if th' pieces went missing."

"That, at the least, brings me some modicum of comfort," Dumbledore professed, nodding solemnly. "However, a much larger task lies before us. Until I am able to determine how many horcruxes Voldemort might have created and what they might be, I believe it would be unwise to spend our efforts searching for these horcruxes. If Voldemort was to discover that we are aware of his horcruxes, he might tighten security around them."

"So, what's the plan then?" Tim asked Dumbledore, because if he had been trying to keep the knowledge of horcruxes a secret, it had to have been because he already had at least the beginnings of a plan in mind. The others all looked to Dumbledore for guidance. Despite all of his secrets, they all seemed to trust him with their lives, much like how Clark and Diana had trusted Bruce despite him keeping his identity a secret from them for as long as possible.

"For now," said Dumbledore, "I believe it is best if the knowledge of horcruxes is tucked away in the back of our minds. Our priorities right now lay in protecting the prophecy and finding a way to force Voldemort out into the open. His anonymity is his greatest weapon."

"It would help if the entire wizarding world didn't think you were crazy," Tonks nodded.

"So, how do we go about actually doing that?" Tim asked, already coming up with plans and refuting them in his mind at a rapid speed.

"On that, I am afraid, I have yet to devise a suitable plan," Dumbledore admitted, almost sheepishly. "Fortunately, I am in the presence of a master detective, so perhaps he may help me in that effort."

Tim, like the total dork that he was, looked around at the other members of the Order for a full second before realizing that Dumbledore was talking about him.

"I-I'll think on it," Tim promised them, scratching the back of his head in an embarrassed fashion. "And I'll see if the JLA has any ideas on how to do so, too."

"Then, with that," Dumbledore said, "I believe we can adjourn this meeting." And as the Order members slowly finished their lunches and bid Sirius farewell, Tim seemed to be the only one to notice the way that Dumbledore expertly slipped the locket into his robes.

"Horcruxes are notoriously difficult to destroy," he told Tim after they'd Apparated back to the gates of Hogwarts. "But I believe I have a way to do so, and the sooner we can accomplish that, the better." Tim nodded along, but he still had a vague feeling in the back of his head like Dumbledore still wasn't telling him the whole truth on the matter. Figures.

There was no feeling quite like the one Tim got returning to school and knowing that no one realized the absolutely insane weekend he'd had. It was a phenomenon Tim was more than familiar with, having started his vigilante career at the end of middle school, but it still made Tim feel like he was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. It was surreal, walking amongst students, sharing classes with them, and being treated just like any other student. He felt like they should all be staring at him and mumbling about him behind his back. But the world didn't revolve around Tim like that.

He knew he should apologize to Luna for ditching her like that on Saturday, but Tim took an entire day to angst about it before he actually worked up the courage to talk to her Tuesday. When he spotted her at lunch, she gave him a pleasant wave, and Tim's heart sped up.

You got this, you got this, you got this, he kept telling himself as he went to sit next to her. He didn't grab any food, knowing that Luna would probably not want to eat lunch with him after the disappearing act he'd pulled on their date.

"Hello, Tim," she said gently, like he hadn't completely ditched her.

"H-hi, Luna…" he muttered. "I, uh—" he cleared his throat "—listen, I—well—I just wanted to apologize for leaving you in Hogsmeade. You didn't deserve—"

"Oh, that's all right," she interrupted, tilting her head. "I'm certain you had more important things to worry about." She spoke with the same tone of voice she'd had when she'd let Tim bail halfway to the library that one night, like she knew exactly what was going on in Tim's life. Even now, Tim couldn't tell how much she actually knew.

"But I—no, that's not the point." He shook his head. "It was still rude of me to up and vanish without even letting you know."

Luna smiled. "It must have been very important, then."

Just let me apologize, goddammit!

"I thought it was a lovely date, Tim," she added with a nod.

"I—" Tim took a deep breath. She's offering you forgiveness. Even though you totally don't deserve it at all. "Thank you, Luna. I just wish it could have ended better."

"Oh, it ended very well," she assured him. "Harry gave an interview to that famous reporter that Dad's going to publish in his magazine. It was very interesting."

"Did he now?" said Tim, making sure to remind himself to ask Harry about that later. "I didn't know your father ran a magazine."

Luna nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes. It's called The Quibbler, it's full of very interesting things, things the government is trying to cover up. In fact, the next issue is going to feature an article on Crumple-Horned Snorkacks…"

Needless to say, Tim seemed to have found a new friend in Luna Lovegood. She always said hi to Tim whenever they crossed paths, so much so that Tim made it a habit to try and greet her first. She was a very good listener, especially when Tim wanted to talk to someone about his family back in Gotham. And she genuinely listened, recalling facts from past conversations when they would come up in a current one. She was just good company, her quirky mannerisms and nuggets of wisdom sometimes reminding him of Cass. He started sitting with her more at meals, even managing to rope Aruna, Purdie, and Cordelia into joining him, despite the uncomfortable looks Cordelia had given him the first couple of times. A part of this was probably due to him spending less and less time at the Gryffindor table with Harry and the others. Recently, he felt like they were keeping something from him, but Tim was still trying to figure out what that was. Nonetheless, he didn't like the passive-aggressive looks Harry kept sending his way during meals, so Tim decided to take a break from the Gryffindors' antics and spend time around people who didn't dance around topics. Okay, not that the Ravenclaws weren't dancing around topics, but at least they weren't avoiding Tim. He had absolutely no clue what could be on their minds. Probably exams or something.

Tim couldn't exactly avoid the Gryffindors forever, though, and he ended up hurrying over to the Gryffindor table alongside Luna come Monday, when a positive flurry of owls flocked around Harry, dropping off letters left and right.

"It's the interview Harry did," Luna explained to him on their way over. "It came out yesterday. She sat down, squeezing between Ron and Fred, while Tim opted instead to hover over Harry's shoulder where he would be able to get a good view of the article.

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST:

THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED

AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

It was pretty well-written, as far as interviews went. This "Rita Skeeter" was no Lois Lane-Kent, to be sure, but she'd clearly known the right questions to ask. Harry's answers were thorough and consistent, which would help bring credibility to his voice, and, though Tim had not been there for the interview, it did not seem like a lot, if anything, had been cut out. Tim did get a quiet laugh, though, over the fact that, every time Harry spoke, Voldemort's name would be replaced with a bracketed "[You-Know-Who]".

Harry and his friends were clearly unprepared for the number of letters from readers of said article, each one of them taking their own stack and scanning through them to get through them quicker. Tim, having spoken to more reporters than he could count, was more than used to this, though it was generally an influx of e-mails in his work address's inbox or letters to the paper itself explaining how and why everything Tim said was utter nonsense. And he had social media accounts. He knew what backlash looked like.

"Timothy, dear," came a saccharine voice, and Tim mentally steeled himself for the upcoming interaction, "what is going on here?" She zeroed in on Harry, who had flinched the moment he heard the trill of Umbridge's voice (Tim understood the urge) and was now holding his pile of letters rather protectively against his chest. "Why has he got all these letters?"

"Is that a crime now?" Fred blurted out. "Getting mail?"

"I do not believe I was asking you, Mr. Weasley," Umbridge hissed back. "Be careful, or I shall have to put you in detention." The threat seemed to fall flat on Fred, but Tim decided to step in anyways to avoid further conflict—or, at least, to minimize the conflict that had already arisen.

Tim cleared his throat and straightened up. "The letters are from people who read Harry's interview, Professor."

Umbridge's eyes widened. "His what now?"

"His interview, ma'am," he continued. "It's about what Harry said happened after the Triwizard Tournament." His carefully neutral phrasing clearly bothered Hermione, and she made no attempt to hide her distaste at Tim's submissive attitude.

"An interview?" Umbridge practically squeaked. "What do you mean?"

"He means a reporter asked me questions and I answered them," Harry replied dryly, and he tossed her his copy of The Quibbler. Tim greatly enjoyed watching the woman's face contort as her composed façade fell away, despite her best efforts.

"When did you do this?"

"Last Hogsmeade weekend," Harry told her rather cheerfully. Tim could only imagine the satisfaction Harry was getting out of this interaction.

This was apparently the wrong answer. "There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. Potter," Umbridge growled, her voice deathly low. "How you dare…how you could… I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies," she finally managed to spit out, trembling head to toe. "The message, apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor and another week's worth of detentions." And, just for good measure, she confiscated Harry's copy of The Quibbler and hurried out of the Great Hall.

The moment she was out of earshot, Tim burst into quiet giggles. "Holy shit, you—that—thank you, Harry, that was—that was beautiful."

Harry grinned ear to ear, digging again through the unopened letters in his hands. "I try," he snickered, and the table was taken over by uncontrollable fits of laughter.

The humor of the situation only increased when Umbridge attempted to ban possession of The Quibbler, which had a similar effect to Tim's middle school teachers banning the possession of Pogs, that effect being that, by the end of the day, there was an entire black market devoted to the banned product. And, like middle school, Tim had no clue how people managed to get their hands on them in the first place, but they were being passed around and used at an alarming rate. By the end of the day, people were quoting the article to each other and mobbing Harry and his friends for insider information. All in all, it felt like the morale-boost that Harry deserved after so many terrible things happening to him successively at school.

"I have been badly advised as of late, it seems," said Harry, but it wasn't Harry, not exactly. He was taller, his fingers were longer, his voice was icier.

"Master, I crave your pardon…" begged the man kneeling before him.

Worthless scum, Harry suddenly thought, but he said, "I do not blame you, Rookwood," walking towards the man so that he could loom over him, casting a flickering shadow over his frozen body. "I believe it was Gibbon who assured us that the Demon's army did not possess magic capable of combating our own. Nor did he predict the appearance of Dumbledore's forces. His death was of his own volition."

Harry took a deep breath. "You are sure of your facts, Rookwood?"

"Yes, My Lord, yes…" the man assured him, stuttering. "I used to work in the department after—after all…"

"Avery told me Bode would be able to remove it."

Rookwood winced. "Bode could never have taken it, Master… Bode would have known he could not…Undoubtedly that is why he fought so hard against Malfoy's Imperius Curse…"

"Stand up, Rookwood," Harry whispered, and Rookwood obeyed with a fervor that nearly sent him tumbling back down.

"You have done well to tell me this," Harry told him. "And, you claimed that Burnett was unable to find any other active Lazarus Pits along the ley line?"

"Y-yes, My Lord," Rookwood stammered, bowing deeply. "He said that the only chances of discovering another active Pit would be if we could uncover another ley line."

"Very well…" Harry shook his head, clenching his fists. He wanted no more than to kill Rookwood where he stood groveling, but it would be foolish. It was not this man's fault. He was a loyal supporter, willing to support Harry even after his sentence in Azkaban.

"I have wasted months on fruitless schemes, it seems…" Harry sighed. "But no matter…We begin again, from now. You have Lord Voldemort's gratitude, Rookwood…"

"My Lord…yes, My Lord."

"I shall need your help," Harry added. "I shall need all the information you can give me."

"Of course, My Lord, of course…anything…" said Rookwood, letting out a shaky breath.

"Very well …you may go. Send Avery to me."

As usual, Hermione had more insight on the dream than Harry.

"So that's why they killed him," Hermione whispered. "When Bode tried to steal this weapon, something funny happened to him. I think there must be defensive spells on it, or around it, to stop people from touching it. That's why he was in St. Mungo's, his brain had gone all funny and he couldn't talk. But remember what the Healer told us? He was recovering. And they couldn't risk him getting better, could they? I mean, the shock of whatever happened when he touched that weapon probably made the Imperius Curse lift. Once he'd got his voice back, he'd explain what he'd been doing, wouldn't he? They would have known he'd been sent to steal the weapon. Of course, it would have been easy for Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him. Never out of the Ministry, is he?"

The whole deduction flew over Harry's head, but it was Hermione, so he assumed she knew what was going on. "He was even hanging around that day I had my hearing," he remembered. "In the—hang on…" That wasn't the only thing he remembered from that day. In fact… "He was in the Department of Mysteries corridor that day! Your dad said he was probably trying to sneak down and find out what happened in my hearing, but what if —"

"Sturgis!"

"Sorry?" Ron said, giving Hermione a funny look.

"Sturgis Podmore," she explained. "Arrested for trying to get through a door. Lucius Malfoy got him too. I bet he did it the day you saw him there, Harry. Sturgis had Moody's Invisibility Cloak, right? So what if he was standing guard by the door, invisible, and Malfoy heard him move, or guessed he was there, or just did the Imperius Curse on the off chance that a guard was there? So when Sturgis next had an opportunity—probably when it was his turn on guard duty again—he tried to get into the department to steal the weapon for Voldemort—" Ron let out a whimper upon hearing Voldemort's name. "—Ron, be quiet—but he got caught and sent to Azkaban… And now Rookwood's told Voldemort how to get the weapon?" she added on at the end, a little unsure, and she looked to Harry, as though his dream might hold the answer.

"I didn't hear all the conversation, but that's what it sounded like," Harry admitted, wishing that he'd fallen asleep earlier or that Ron hadn't woken him up with that egregious snore of his. "Rookwood used to work there… Maybe Voldemort'll send Rookwood to do it?"

Hermione hummed in agreement. "Maybe…"

There was a moment of silence in which they were all lost in their own minds before Ron blurted out, "So, are we just going to ignore all that stuff about demons and fey lines?"

"Ley lines," Hermione corrected and didn't even wait for Harry and Ron's confused protests, jumping into an explanation. "The theory that there's an energy flowing along certain traceable lines across the Earth upon which Muggles have been building civilizations for centuries. I've read about them, but it's only a theory, even amongst wizards."

"Well, if You-Know-Who is using them, it's more than just a theory," Ron argued. "But what the hell was he even talking about? It sounded like a bunch of rubbish to me." Harry nodded. It was one of those instances when, during the dream, everything made perfect sense to him, but when he woke up, it turned out that it was all utter nonsense.

"He mentioned something called 'Lazarus Pits,'" Harry added, and then looked to Hermione for explanation, as there was a good chance she'd read about them somewhere.

"It's an ancient name for the Fountain of Youth," said Hermione. "The fabled spring of immortality. Obviously, it's not real, or else everyone would be young and undying."

"But I—Voldemort made it sound like he'd already found one," Harry pointed out. "Recently, even."

"Yes, well, if he'd found it before now, he'd have had no need for the Philosopher's Stone," she said. "But why would he need multiple Lazarus Pits? You made it sound like he'd already found one," she reminded Harry.

"Maybe this one didn't work?" Ron suggested.

Hermione nodded wordlessly, though Harry had a strong suspicion that she did not think Ron's idea was the case. "But you shouldn't have seen this at all, Harry," she blurted out, turning to Harry.

"What?" said Harry.

She shook her head. "You're supposed to be learning how to close your mind to this sort of thing," she chided.

"I know I am," Harry started, more than a little frustrated by her harsh reaction after such a fruitful conversation. "But—"

"Well, I think we should just try and forget what you saw," she told him harshly. "And you ought to put in a bit more effort on your Occlumency from now on. Have you asked Tim for help again?"

Harry sighed. "No…"

"Harry! You know he's a skilled Occlumens, and he's offered up his services to you multiple times." Hermione shook her head, her frizzy hair bobbing around her face. "Honestly, why can't you just admit to him that it's not going well?"

"Because I can't trust him not to go running off to Dumbledore the moment he finds out I'm still having these dreams!" Harry argued, reiterating a point he'd been making for the past month or so. "He flat-out admitted to us that he's keeping secrets from us!"

Hermione tossed her hands in the air. "And so we're supposed to keep refusing his help for what—revenge? Harry, he can help you. Maybe he knows more about the Department of Mysteries and Lazarus Pits."

"Not like we'd ever actually know that for certain, even if we told him," he pointed out angrily. "I just don't think it's wise to keep on bringing all our problems to Tim if we know he's in the Order and will probably rat us out to Snape or Dumbledore anyways."

"So, this has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you're too prideful to ask for his help?"

Harry did not speak to Hermione for the rest of the day. Because she was wrong, obviously. He wasn't too prideful. He knew how important Occlumency was to his survival. But he just didn't want to let Tim in on all of this. Was that so bad?

It was odd to think that there was a time when Tim's goal had been to keep a low profile. Now, here he was, joining secret societies, becoming the teacher's pet, teaching kids how to fight, and, today, being the center of attention in Apparition class when Tim proved himself able to successfully Apparate without splinching, something Alcibar admitted was impressive but not the first time one of his students had shown such promise. Tim continued to show up to classes, if only because he paid twelve Galleons for it. Alcibar even proved himself to be a better teacher than Tim would have expected from the Ministry, taking time to offer Tim tips and challenge him with harder Apparition practices, such as Apparating while moving or while talking. Every time he Apparated, Tim's heart raced as much as it had the first time, minus the adrenaline that came with being in a life-threatening situation. That he, a non-metahuman, was able to teleport at will still blew his mind. He couldn't wait to show his family. Especially Damian. The kid would be so jealous.

Tim's engagement with all aspects of Hogwarts had its downsides, of course; Umbridge kept on inviting him to her office Sunday afternoons to both have tea and spill it. It was clear with each passing meeting that she needed someone to vent to, and since none of the faculty would willingly get within ten feet of her on a normal basis, Tim had become the set of ears she'd been needing.

"—and he has the nerve to say that she can stay at the castle even though I made it perfectly clear that she was not welcome here!" Umbridge huffed, dropping her fourth sugar cube into her teacup and stirring it vigorously. "And then he goes and hires that—that half-breed to the position, as if it could possibly have the intelligence necessary to teach!"

It was all Tim could do in these situations not to sock Umbridge in the nose and make a run for it. No, he had to put on a pleasant smile while she spoke of sentient creatures as 'it's and spat out the words half-breed like their existence purposefully offended her.

These meetings ended up being the thing Tim most dreaded when looking forward to the weekends. He would finish his homework from Friday, reply to letters from his family back home, and then wait for Umbridge to confront him on his way to lunch and invite him for tea and biscuits. At least the biscuits were good. The weekly D.A. meetings were probably the only thing keeping Tim sane. Sometimes he would just lay around thinking about the fact that Billy was probably still in a coma, and his chest would ache. Eventually, Tim decided to pay the boy a visit, not being able to live with himself otherwise.

Thankfully, Dumbledore did not hinder Tim in this effort. When Tim proposed the idea to him, Dumbledore agreed that it would be something within Tim's power to accomplish, and he even went so far as to create a Portkey for Tim.

"I won't be able to make one for your return," Dumbledore let him know the day Tim was leaving, a crisp Saturday at the end of March. "I'm afraid you'll have to take the Hogwarts Express back, though it shouldn't be that much of an issue. I'll let the crew know to wait for your arrival."

Tim had requested that the Portkey bring him to Fawcett City so that he could visit the Vasquez household and get one of the kids to bring him to the Rock of Eternity, so he shouldered his bookbag and took hold of the silver goblet Dumbledore had handed him and took a deep breath before being yanked into oblivion.

The experience wasn't nearly as disorienting as it had been the first time he'd traveled by Portkey, but Tim still had to take a moment to steady himself against the brick wall of a building. The Portkey had transported him into an alleyway, and once he'd gotten his bearings, Tim emerged to find himself in the quaint fifties-feeling city that was Fawcett near one of their dozens of diners.

Tim knew his way around the city fairly well, but he'd still brought his phone to be safe, and his face brightened when he saw that he had service. Seeing those little bars light up at the top of the screen after being stranded at Hogwarts for God knows how long was one of life's few pleasures right now.

The Vasquez house was located in a middle-class suburban neighborhood, and it had all of the charm that the rest of the city exuded. Tim wasn't sure if Fawcett City felt charming because Shazam was there or if Shazam felt charming because he was from Fawcett City. Either way, Tim always enjoyed his trips to the Vasquez house, whether it be a social outing with Tim's siblings or a business call to the Shazam family.

When Tim knocked on the door, he could hear voices inside chatting amongst one another before a short girl threw open the door and assaulted Tim with an excited hug.

"Hi, Tim!" Darla Dudley squealed, her face poking out of his coat.

Tim chuckled. Darla had always been somewhat of a mystery to Tim—he wasn't quite sure how someone was physically capable of carrying so much love for humanity in such a small vessel—but he'd always told her that she was his favorite of the Vasquez kids, to which she'd giggle and give him a hug.

"Hey, Darla," he greeted, patting her frizzy hair with one hand. "Is Freddy home?"

Darla's bright smile all but disappeared. "No," she said quietly. "He's with Billy right now."

"I see." He looked over her shoulder and saw Rosa and Victor standing a couple feet back from the door. "Sorry for dropping in without any notice—"

Rosa snorted loudly. "Oh, be quiet, Tim. Come in, I just pulled the tres leches cake out of the oven, I'll get you a piece." Darla nodded, grabbing Tim's hand and practically pulling him into the house. Tim gave a quick wave to Pedro, who was working on some homework at the dinner table, and followed Darla and her foster mom into their kitchen. A plate of cake was practically shoved into his hands by Victor.

"You gotta try it, Rosa's tres leches cake is legendary," he told Tim seriously, and then he snatched a piece for himself, narrowly avoiding Rosa's spatula she waved at him.

"Ai, at this rate, it'll be gone before Eugene gets home!" she chided, and then she turned to Tim with a much softer glance. "Eat up, joven, or else the piranhas will come in and sneak it right off your plate. I've seen them up close, they're vicious."

"Hey!" Victor protested. "Since when has it been a crime to love your cooking!"

"Ah, ah, ah, I see what you're doing there. Your flattery will not work on me, mi amor."

Tim had to admit, part of the reason he loved visiting the Vasquez house was because of the atmosphere. They were a little stricter than the Wayne household in that most kinds of negative humor weren't tolerated, but that just meant that everyone was overflowing with affection towards one another. Even Freddy, who was known for his sharp wit, toned it down when he was with his family. It was different from the Waynes, but just as comforting.

"So, Tim, how's life been?" Victor asked, sitting down next to Pedro and pushing a piece of cake towards the young man, who shot his foster father a grateful smile.

"Well, I'm kind of undercover at a magical boarding school," Tim told him. Since they were more than aware of their children's status as magical superheroes, Tim felt little regret letting them in on the secret.

Darla let out a loud gasp, taking the seat to Tim's right. "Whoa, really? That's so cool! What have you learned?"

"Well, I can make things float, and I can change frogs into umbrellas, and I can brew a ton of useful potions with the right equipment and ingredients."

Darla practically had stars in her eyes. "Whoa, that's so cool! My favorite class right now is Ancient History, because we're learning all about the Greek gods like Zeus!"

Yeah, Tim remembered Billy getting excited over the same thing when he was his younger sister's age.

"Pedro's taking history in college, too!" she continued. "It's Latina…Latin…um…"

"Latinx Peoples in American Music History," Pedro finished, not looking up from his homework. "It's for my U.S. Perspective requirement."

Tim wondered if he'd be taking a similar class had he gone to college this year like he and Steph had planned. He was suddenly hit by an uncontrollable pang of longing for something he'd never even experienced before.

"Eat up before it gets cold, Tim," Rosa ordered, and Tim had no choice but to eat the cake which was, frankly, too good. "So, I assume you're here to visit Billy?"

Tim nodded, swallowing another bite. "Yeah, I was hoping one of your kids could bring me up there."

Darla immediately raised her hand, bouncing in her seat like she was waiting for the teacher to call on her. "Ooh, me, me! I'll take you!"

Rosa shook her head, giving Darla a sympathetic smile. "Now, now, Darla. You've never gone to the Rock of Eternity by yourself before."

To this, Darla shook her head excitedly. "I'll be fine, I remember the way."

"I'd feel more at peace if someone else took Tim up." Rosa spared a glance at her foster son. "Pedro? Mi amor?"

Pedro nodded, eyes still glued to his work. He scribbled something down and then looked up at Rosa.

"De acuerdo." He stood up, stacking his papers into a neat pile and placing his pencil on top. "We'll do it in the backyard. No need to knock out the power."

"We are a fan of electricity in this house," Victor agreed. Tim shoved the last bite of cake into his mouth and followed Pedro out the back door, waving goodbye to the rest of the family and promising to return (once Billy's better, obviously).

Pedro nodded at Tim, gesturing for the boy to stand back a bit. Knowing what he did about the power of Shazam, Tim made sure to put sizeable distance between the two of them while the other transformed with a "SHAZAM!"

Teenaged Pedro disappeared and was replaced by Shazam-Pedro, tall and muscular, decked out in a dark green copy of the original Shazam's uniform.

The man held out both hands to Tim. "Hold on tight. This may tingle."

Tim nodded, grabbing the man's hands. They were rough and calloused, like he'd been hauling lumber all his life, and Tim suddenly felt a surge of power flow through himself, like he was ready to take on an army single-handedly.

Pedro took a deep breath, and when he released it, his eyes had turned golden. "Oikos!" he shouted, and the two of them were bathed in lightning.

It turned out Pedro was right. It didn't hurt, but it did tingle. It was warm, breathing life into Tim, like it wanted to share everything it had with him. The lightning of Shazam was a spirit of sharing, Billy had told him once. It was meant to be passed from person to person. When Tim felt his feet hit solid ground, he let go of Pedro, feeling the power drain from him with more than a little bit of disappointment.

As soon as his eyes stopped glowing, Pedro listed to the side, and it was only because a blond man zoomed over and caught him that Pedro didn't collapse to the ground.

"Pedro!" Freddy gasped, helping his brother stand. "You okay?"

Pedro nodded, his eyelids fluttering as if in protest of this assertion. Tim immediately opened his mouth to apologize for being such an obvious burden, but Freddy cut him off.

"It's not you," Freddy assured Tim. "It takes a lot out of anyone who's not Billy to make a trip to the Rock of Eternity."

Tim had never been here before. The caves around him seemed to reach up into oblivion, and yet there were patches of light that seemingly came from nowhere and yet kept the place well-lit. There was a circle of oversized thrones, and in the middle was an elevated stone table, on which a small figure lay.

Tim immediately rushed over to see Billy, hands clamping around the cold stone. The boy was breathing slowly but steadily, and there was a faint golden glow about him, but other than that, he was unresponsive to the environment around him. Tim suddenly found himself relieved that the boy's condition hadn't deteriorated since he'd been carried away.

"He's stable," Freddy explained, helping Pedro over to the table. "Mary thinks he'll wake up in three months if things keep going like this."

"How does she know?" Tim found himself asking.

"They have a…connection," said Freddy. "They're twins, remember?" Right, long-lost twins who happened to find themselves in the same foster home. The drama just never stopped when it came to Billy's life.

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense." If Zan and Jayna could be connected simply by virtue of being born around the same time, the same could probably be true of other fraternal twins like Billy and Mary, right?

"Has he responded to any stimuli?" Tim asked.

Freddy shook his head. "It seems that all the energy's going towards keeping him alive."

He'd be alive if it weren't for me, Tim thought bitterly and averted his gaze from Billy's body.

"Don't worry, he's gonna be fine," Freddy let him know. "Billy's strong."

Strong enough to take a hit meant for me.

Tim couldn't stay here any longer or else he'd probably spiral even further, and there was no way he was going to do that in front of other people.

Pedro, ever selfless, made sure to take the time to zap the two of them to London, which had to have taken a lot of energy out of the young man, but he did it all with a soft smile on his face and a pleasant, "Goodbye, Tim."

As Tim sat in the cab on his way to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he watched the gloomy scenery of the city pass by. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image out of his head of Billy's body sitting on the stone table like a ram about to be sacrificed on an altar. Despite what Freddy kept telling him, Tim couldn't help but feel like this was his fault—no, he knew it was his fault. That Killing Curse had been meant for Tim. The only reason Shazam had gotten hit was because Tim hadn't been fast enough to get away himself.

The car jostled as it hit a pothole. No, Tim thought to himself, that's a bad way of thinking. That's not helping anyone. Billy's recovering, and that's what matters. Three months. That wasn't too bad, was it? Right? Billy's a junior, it's not like he's missing graduation or anything.

You stole the rest of his year from him, another part of Tim's mind screamed, and then the driver screamed, and then the car was upside-down.

Me: *not sure when exactly the story occurs but writing in modern technology and references because it's easier that way*
Also Me: yeah Tim's middle school definitely went through a Pogs phase (a mid-90s trend) and a Beyblades phase (an early 2000s trend) and a Squinkies phase (a 2010s trend)
(and let me tell you, Tim had all the rare Justice League Squinkies, even the ones no one wanted like the Booster Gold one and the Animal Man one)
(this was the only toy line in which the Plastic Man toy was highly coveted, for obvious reasons)
(oh, and you better believe that Tim took apart his Beyblade ripper and tinkered with it to work better but he was such a goodie two-shoes that he never used it in battles before asking his opponent because he thought it was an unfair advantage)
(unless the opponent was your classic schoolyard bully who played for keeps and was constantly bragging about his Destroyer Dome that his mom bought for him)
(then Tim would just fuck him up)
sorry not sorry I needed to rant about middle school Tim
oh and before someone comments about Pedro yelling out the name of a popular brand of yogurt, just know that I have the Shazams use Ancient Greek in their spells, and (unlike Spanish) I have actually studied Ancient Greek. "οἶκος," or oikos, means home, especially the home of one's own family or bloodline.