Chapter 2: Chance Encounters

In the morning Harry finally got a good look at the boy he'd helped. He had curly reddish brown hair and pale eyes, and almost no baby fat left in his face. He didn't look too much older than Harry himself, maybe about ten or eleven. A dark bruise spread across his cheekbone and nose, and there were faint, circular scars along his arms. The cut on his elbow had scabbed over, but the boy had laughed and ruffled Harry's hair when he suggested taking the band-aids off.

"Think I'll keep 'em til they fall off. To remind me of the little hero who saved me in a dark alley," he teased.

Harry had flushed and protested the new nickname until the older boy shooed him out to get proper first-aid supplies, "because you never know when you'll need 'em."

Harry came back later that day with more water, two cans of peaches, and a pocket knife he found in a gutter, along with gauze, medical tape, and ace bandages. The boy had insisted on bandaging his ribs himself, after it was dark. Harry wondered if he had scars under his shirt he didn't want Harry to see. Harry had a few, too. (Uncle Vernon had only tried the belt once. Then he complained about Harry ruining it with his blood and never did it again, preferring to stick with his fists.)

But the boy was nice, and he kept his promise to ruffle Harry's hair so much that he actually started to complain, though only half-heartedly. And Harry got used to the sound of someone else's breathing nearby. It was much better than the chorus of sirens and screams that usually filled the night.

But after only four days, the boy left, early in the morning before Harry woke up. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't leave any indication that he had ever been there, except the two missing band-aids from the box and the shorter length of gauze. Harry hadn't realized how lonely he'd been until he was alone again. He hadn't really expected the boy to stay for long, but he'd hoped.

But he couldn't just lay there feeling sorry for himself. So Harry went back to his usual routine.

Nights he spent holed up in his hideout, trying not to listen to the screams, the sirens, and the gunshots that echoed off the buildings from blocks away, seemingly louder now than before without the other boy's steady breathing beside him. The days Harry spent exploring his still-new surroundings, occasionally lifting a snack or something else useful that had been dropped or forgotten. The pocket knife before had been a really lucky find, dropped by a careless pick-pocketer and left in the street for Harry to find. Even though Harry didn't really know how to use it, he felt safer wandering unfamiliar streets with it clutched in his hand, hidden in his pocket.

Another lucky find was a broken hawk pin he found in the gutter a few days after the boy had left. It was useless, and worthless, but Harry had always liked hawks. He'd learned about them earlier that year in primary. They were small, compared to other predatory birds, but they were fast and dangerous anyway. Harry wanted to be like a hawk. So he considered the broken pin to be his lucky charm, and kept it in his other pocket all the time.

Harry had never expected to see the boy again, so he was surprised to catch a glimpse of him as he headed to the dumpster he was now calling home about a week after he'd gone. The boy had spotted him, too, and flashed him a quick grin before continuing on his way.

After that, it was normal to glimpse each other in the streets, once or sometimes twice a day, share a quick smile, and move on. It made Harry feel like he wasn't quite so alone, even though they never spoke. And before Harry knew it, it had been a whole month since he'd been left behind in Gotham. It was hard, and Harry was almost always hungry. But then again, he was used to that. It was hard to sleep more than a few hours at a time when you were sleeping on damp cardboard in a dark alley. But Harry hadn't ever really slept that well in the cupboard, either, especially after Dudley or Uncle Vernon hit him.

It was a sad realization, that living on the streets was in some ways better than living with the Dursleys. At least on the streets, Harry was free to go wherever he wanted, and while he was still always looking over his shoulder, at least no one was specifically looking for him like Dudley had been. And he didn't have to cook, or clean (though sometimes he wished he could). There was no Aunt Petunia banging on his cupboard door to wake him in the mornings, or Uncle Vernon shouting at him for something Dudley did.

In fact, the only thing Harry really missed about his aunt and uncle's house was the air conditioning and the privilege of being clean. Even if Harry had to do his own laundry (and frequently, everyone else's, too), at least he'd had clean clothes every day. On the street, he had to rely on gas station bathroom sinks, and then wear wet clothes for a day. At least it was warm enough that the sun dried them quickly. And even if the Dursleys had only allowed him a five-minute shower, at least he got that much. On the streets, Harry was only able to wipe himself down with wet paper towels or rinse his hair in (again) a gas station bathroom.

Eventually, Harry felt familiar enough with his new location to start exploring properly, beyond just the few streets surrounding his dumpster hide-out, and learn all the short cuts and hidey holes. Harry always been jealous of all the outings Dudley had gotten to go on—places like the zoo, the theater, the amusement park, and so on. And Harry missed the play park. He'd never been able to fully enjoy it because he was always running away from his cousin, but the more he wandered, the more Harry realized that, if he was careful, the streets were their own play park. Of course, there was a real park, with monkey bars and swings and everything, but everyone knew that you never went there unless you wanted trouble. A gang had claimed it, Harry heard, so unless you were part of the gang, you didn't go there.

But the buildings were lined with fire escape ladders, which Harry had rarely seen before. There were dividers in the sidewalks and streets like hurdles, and some alleys dead-ended with fences instead of buildings. And sometimes when you had to run, the fastest way around was over. So Harry hesitantly started experimenting. Only on the days he knew he had enough food, of course, and only in places where he wouldn't be anyone's way. And while he poked around inside some abandoned buildings, sometimes finding useful items left behind by previous occupants (or squatters), he never went up to the roof in daylight—he would be too noticeable. But the first time he climbed a fire escape ladder all the way to the roof of a five-story building was the day Harry felt like he'd discovered a whole new world.

The air was so much fresher up above the stale alleyways. Cooler, too, because the breeze actually reached them. The sky was closer. On the lucky clear nights, usually right after a rainstorm when the usual smog disappeared, Harry could see the moon and a few pinpricks of stars, and the way the big office buildings in the Diamond District lit up the night was amazing to see. If he looked really carefully, Harry could even see the city lights reflect off the river or the bay. So on the nights Harry felt particularly lonely, or he couldn't sleep, or the rotting garbage smell made him gag, Harry found the closest rooftop to just sit and exist for a while.

And that was how Harry discovered another of Gotham's secrets: vigilantes.

He'd heard about the Batman, of course. The black and grey band-aid he'd put over a nasty cut on his arm from a rusty bolt on a fire escape had a cartoonish picture of him: a man dressed all in black, with a cape and a hood with little horns (or maybe they were bat ears?). But he'd never thought he'd ever see him in person. But one night in the middle of July, while sitting on the roof nearest his hideout, Harry saw two shadows against the half-moon, heading toward a signal light in the sky that Harry was pretty sure had a bat in the middle. One shadow was big, dark, and a little frightening. The other was colorful, acrobatic, and while it might have been his imagination, Harry thought he heard childish laughter carried on the breeze.

It was by far the best night of his life.

Almost every night after that, whenever he couldn't sleep or felt a little too cramped in his little hidey-hole, Harry picked a new rooftop to try and catch a glimpse of Batman and his colorful sidekick.

Unfortunately, this took Harry outside his safe(ish) area and put him on the radar for people up to no good.

Harry had thought he felt eyes on him a few times since setting out on this particular street. He tried to keep to the shadows, hoping to stay unnoticed. But as he passed a narrow alley, he saw movement. A hand shot out and nearly got him, except Harry flinched instinctively away from the movement and bought himself a few extra seconds. And with those seconds, Harry bolted.

"Hey! Come back here, you twerp!"

Heavy footsteps—two sets of them—followed behind.

Harry didn't dare look back.

He ducked around street lamps, hoping to use the alternating light and dark to his advantage, and took random turns, trying to lose his pursuers. His heart raced as his feet smacked the pavement. He ducked down one street, then through an alley and through to the next street, and then took a sharp right, essentially going back the way he'd come. Harry was fairly confident he knew this area, but panic clouded his judgement. When the two sets of heavy footsteps were still behind him, Harry darted into the next closest alley—only to find himself at at dead end.

He turned around, but it was too late—his pursuers had entered the alley. Seeing that he had no escape, they slowed down and instead stalked closer, menacing.

Harry backed away, his heart pounding, his breath catching in fear. He remembered his sort-of friend, who'd been beaten badly enough that he'd broken bones. He remembered the last time Dudley caught him after school and left Harry a sobbing mess of hurt that didn't go away for almost two weeks, his pale skin mottled with ugly bruises. He remembered a confrontation he'd witnessed from a rooftop a week ago where a guy was beaten up so badly that he didn't move again the entire time Harry watched.

Oh, god. That was going to be him.

"Well, well, well. Looks like we've caught ourselves a pretty little thing," one of the men taunted, leering at him.

Harry's breath hitched and he kept backing away.

He remembered the working girls, who got into cars with strange men and sometimes didn't come back.

He remembered a high-pitched cry down an alley he passed a few nights ago, and a ripping sound, then screams mingled with breathy moans that twisted his stomach with terror and made him break out in a cold sweat. Then, he'd fled as fast and as far as his legs could carry him.

Now, Harry's back hit brick.

He was trapped.

And they were getting closer.

Harry pressed himself against the brick, his fingers scrabbling for purchase as if he could tear a hole through the wall. A tiny sob broke past his lips without his consent.

The men laughed. "You'll be a fun one, I bet."

They were still coming closer. Harry caught a whiff of stale cologne and unwashed body odor. He choked back another sob and squeezed his eyes shut as the men reached for him.

Fingers brushed his waistband.

Anywhere but here. Please, please let me be anywhere but here!

A whoosh in his stomach and a squeezing sensation in his whole body, then suddenly—there was no more wall behind him.

Harry's knees gave way and he curled into a ball, biting his knuckles to stifle his sobs as his entire body shook from fear. Shouts from below only urged Harry to silence his cries completely.

Wait. Below?

Still shaking, still crying (silently), Harry let his eyes flicker open.

He was on a rooftop.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up in his chest. It had happened again. He'd been scared out of his mind, and…something, some force had granted his desperate wish to get away.

A crunching noise cut through Harry's dizzying relief, instantly replacing it with fresh panic. He scrambled backward, gasping.

Did they follow him? What are they gonna do to me? No. Please.

"Please, don't—" Harry's throat closed on the words, and his hands reached the edge of the rooftop.

He was trapped.

Again.

He couldn't breathe.

The crunching noise—footsteps on gravel—suddenly stopped. "S-sorry. I…I didn't mean to scare you."

Suddenly several things registered. First, the footsteps were far too light to be a grown man. Or even a woman. Second, the voice was way too high to be a grown man. And the accent didn't match at all.

Again, Harry forced his eyes open through the panic.

And shock chased it away completely.

Because kneeling in front of him, with a bulky black case hanging around his neck…was a kid. A tiny kid. Well, smaller than Harry, anyway. About his same age, or maybe a little younger. The boy was wearing a black zipper jacket with the hood up and a black medical mask, the kind you could buy at any pharmacy.

Harry sat up and scooted away from the edge, his heart still racing but the panic at least fading away.

"How did you get up here?"

Harry blinked as the other kid asked the exact same question at the exact same time.

The boy cocked his head to the side like a bird. "I climbed? But you—I saw, well, I saw you in the alley. You were there, and then—then you were here." The boy's eyes widened in delight. "Are you a meta? Because that would be so cool! You totally are, aren't you? You teleported, didn't you?! Oh, my, gosh. I met a real-life meta! This is so, so cool!"

Harry blinked again in complete confusion. "Uh…" Harry almost asked, what's a meta, but then he remembered something he'd heard when he passed the electronics shop a few days ago, something about "metahumans" in New York. On the screen he'd seen a group of colorfully dressed teenagers fighting robots. One of those colorfully dressed teenagers moved so fast he was a red and yellow blur on the camera. Another one was green, skin and hair and everything. Another one had long red hair and orange skin, and she had been flying.

So Harry could, probably, safely conclude that "meta" was slang for "metahuman" and referred to normal people with abnormal abilities.

"Uh, maybe?" Harry hesitated. "This isn't—this ain't the first time I've suddenly found myself on a roof. It-it was an accident, though. Both times." Harry remembered just in time to disguise his accent. The other boy's accent sounded cleaner, somehow. More upper-class, but not quite snobby. It was clear this kid didn't come from Crime Alley, but he'd still probably remember meeting a British kid on the streets of Gotham. And Harry did not want to be memorable.

Though, it may already be too late for that.

"Wow! That's so cool!" the boy gushed. "If you practice, I bet you could start doing it on purpose! It's a good thing you got away, though—those guys, well. They weren't there for anything nice."

Harry laughed nervously. "That's for sure."

The boy giggled. "Heh. Yeah. Oh! I'm Tim, by the way! What's your name?"

"I'm…I'm Harry." He thought about lying, or just running away. But it had been so long since he'd had a real conversation with anyone.

Had he ever had a real conversation with someone?

…No. No, he hadn't. Not even the boy with the broken ribs had really talked when he was staying with Harry. And back at the Dursleys, every time he'd tried, he was interrupted by Dudley or he was rejected before he got two sentences out. And of course, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon preferred it when he didn't talk at all. He'd quickly learned to stop trying.

Harry ignored how lonely that made him suddenly feel.

"Nice to meet you, Harry!"

Harry almost managed a smile. "Nice to meet you, too, Tim. What are you doing here, anyway? Uh, no offense, but I—you ain't from around here, are ya?"

The boy shook his head. "I'm not. I—I was taking pictures." He put one hand protectively on the bulky bag at his hip.

"Of what?"

The boy blushed, but he kept smiling. "Batman," he whispered, like he was telling an important secret. "And Robin. Mostly Robin, though. Batman doesn't show up well on camera."

Harry's eyes widened. "You have pictures of them? I've only caught a few glimpses!"

The boy lit up. "Yeah! I have tons! Wanna see?"

"Yes!"

The boy eagerly, but carefully, pulled an expensive-looking camera from the bag, flicked a few buttons, then scooted around to sit beside Harry. He angled the camera so Harry could see the screen as it lit up. The boy then started scrolling through the photos, narrating each one.

They were amazing. Sure, some of them were blurry or too far away, but for every four or five bad ones, there was one that was absolutely stunning. Somehow, this little kid had captured just the right angle, just the right lighting, and just the right timing to get some really cool action shots.

And Harry said so.

The boy giggled, blushing at the praise. "I've only been doing it for a few months. I'm still practicing, so there are a lot of bad ones. But the good ones make it all worth it."

"You follow them all over Gotham?" Harry asked in awe. Wandering around Crime Alley at night was scary enough (and look where that got him). But this kid wandered the whole city? Just for some pictures?

He was either very dedicated, or very stupid, Harry decided.

Okay, maybe stupid was too mean. Naive, maybe. He'd heard that word the other day and had been thinking about it a lot.

But Harry liked him.

Tim nodded eagerly. "It's not that dangerous, if you know how to be careful. Though I did fall off a fire escape once and sprained my ankle. That was, um, maybe two weeks after I started? It was horrible having to stay at home after tasting freedom."

"And your parents didn't ask how it happened?" Parents were supposed to do that, right?

Tim immediately went still and quiet.

"Tim?"

"Um…they weren't home."

"Your babysitter? Nanny?"

Tim shook his head, hugging the camera to his chest. "I'm a big boy now. I can stay at home alone."

Harry was pretty sure that wasn't how things were supposed to go. The Dursleys always dropped him off with the crazy cat lady, Mrs. Figg, when they were going to be gone. But then again, they were also afraid he'd burn the house down out of spite or something, so maybe Harry was an exception?

But Tim looked so sad about it. So whether it was normal or not, he didn't like it.

"But shouldn't your parents have come home after a day or two?" The longest the Dursleys had left him with Mrs. Figg had been a week, when they took Dudley on a special trip to celebrate him graduating kindergarten. (Never mind that Harry had, too, and technically with higher marks than his stupid cousin, even if he wasn't allowed to show it.)

Tim shook his head, curling in on himself. "They won't be back until September."

"But it's July."

Tim nodded. "They left in June," he whispered, his voice breaking. "They left, and they said it was only for a little bit, that they'd be home by my birthday. But it's my birthday and they didn't come home, even though they said. They promised, but they didn't come. They didn't even wish me happy birthday." Tim was crying now—silently, like Harry had—curled up in a ball and hugging his camera to his chest while tears rolled down his face.

Harry wasn't sure what to do. Should he pat Tim's back? Tell him his parents sucked? Or that everything would be okay?

What would Harry want?

Shuffling awkwardly, Harry opened his arms. "Uh…do you want a hug?"

Tim's eyes went wide, then he flung himself into Harry's arms, sobbing out loud. Harry reeled a little from the impact, then awkwardly put his arms around the smaller boy. Tim burrowed into Harry's chest, his thin arms painfully tight around Harry's ribs. Hesitantly, Harry tightened his arms around Tim, and the boy just melted into him with a whimper.

Harry didn't know what to say, so he said nothing while his shirt grew damp beneath Tim's face.

After a few minutes, the smaller boy's sobs died down, but he didn't pull away. In fact, he adjusted to be more comfortable, his arms loosening and repositioning just so in order to properly hug Harry back.

Oh.

This is nice.

Harry pulled Tim in a little closer, shivering a little at the memory of his almost-assault. Tim hugged him a little tighter, too. Then the smaller boy reluctantly pulled away.

"'M sorry," he murmured. "'M not supposed to cry."

"Me, either." The words just slipped out. He turned away, wrapping his arms around his chest. "Crying always made it hurt worse," he whispered.

Harry didn't know why he was sharing this with an almost-stranger. He'd never told anyone that. But he—he might have just found a friend. One who thought he was cool for whatever had let him escape those bad guys, not a freak. One who just might understand what it was like to feel so alone. And Harry desperately wanted Tim to like him.

"D-do you get hurt often?" Tim asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. "N-not often. And not recently." He'd been knocked around by some older kids a couple weeks ago for, apparently, "being on their turf." Nothing worse than a few bruises and a skinned knee. Shoved away by a few people he'd tried and failed to pick-pocket. He'd so far avoided all the really bad guys, or at least the bad things some of them did. Until tonight. He'd been lucky to escape. Really, really lucky, though Harry was starting to wonder when his luck would run out. (His luck always ran out eventually.)

"Do you—do you live on the streets?" Tim asked hesitantly.

Harry just nodded.

"Oh."

A long moment passed in silence. Harry desperately wanted to say something else, but he didn't want to talk about the streets, or bad parents, or how achingly empty his stomach suddenly felt. What did you talk to friends about?

Then something clicked as Harry remembered what Tim had said before.

"Y-you said it was your birthday today?"

Tim nodded, smiling hesitantly.

Harry hesitantly returned it, then started tracing in the dirt. Smiling a little bigger, he traced the shape of a birthday cake into the grit with his fingertip. Tim watched curiously over his shoulder.

"How old are you?" Harry asked, hesitating before he drew the candles.

"I'm eight." Tim said it with quiet pride.

Harry tried not to pout; he was taller; shouldn't he be older than his new maybe-friend?

At least it was only two weeks.

But Tim didn't need to know that.

"Me, too," Harry said instead. Well, almost.

"Really?" Tim breathed.

He sounded so earnest. Harry hated to lie.

At least it was only two weeks.

"At least, I will be on the thirty-first," Harry admitted. He drew eight candles on top of the cake. "Happy birthday, Tim."

Tim's eyes widened.

"Blow out your candles," Harry said, gesturing.

Tim giggled and blew hard on Harry's clumsy illustration. The dirt scattered, blurring the drawing. "So what'd you wish for?"

Tim's eyes danced. "It's a secret," he said conspiratorially, bringing a finger up to his mask-covered mouth.

Harry laughed. "You'll tell me if it comes true?"

Tim's expression turned wistful. "Yeah. I hope it comes true." He smiled a little more, though Harry could only tell from the crinkle around his eyes.

Harry bumped Tim's shoulder, then moved to stand.

Tim stood, too, then he hesitated. "W-will I see you again?" Tim asked, suddenly sounding so very young.

Harry bit his lip, then made himself smile. "If you hang out on rooftops like I do at night, probably."

Tim giggled quietly. "Then I guess I'll see you around." Tim hesitated, then his eyes crinkled again. "I'm glad I met you, Harry."

With that, Tim hopped onto the top rung of the fire escape and scrambled down. When he reached the bottom, Tim waved back up at Harry, then darted away, disappearing into the shadows.

"I'm glad I met you, too," Harry whispered.