Code: HP:BM-BTLAC-CH.01

Disclaimer: I do nott own any of the featured media, rights go to their respected owners.

Media: Harry Potter (books universe)/ Batman (multiple universes)

Title: Better To Light A Candle

Notable Sub-Genres: [Batman | Bruce Wayne/ Harry Potter] Post-Battle of Hogwarts. Snapshots.

Rating: "T" for Crude Language and Mature Themes such as: Past Child Abuse, Experimentation, Crimes and Violence, Mentions of Past Rape, Adoption, Bat Family.

Alfred Pennyworth had see a lot of things in his life. Of course, Alfred also worked for a man who would dress up as bat at all hours of the night, to fight the crime that had overrun their city. It tended to let things of a…curious nature into their converted, underground bunker more times than not.

That was probably the reason he noticed the young man stumbling through the street, with a fixedly unfocused expression on his pale face. A trembling hand was latched onto a drooping shoulder in a manner that resembled the way Master Bruce might hold onto his Batwave, when in direr need. It didn't take a moment for Alfred to determine that the youth was both injured and that it was most likely due to felonious intents.

Perhaps in his late twenties but short - much too short - and swaying passed him, Alfred tentatively reached out. His fingers brushed against the man's arm and the reaction was immediate, if not stilted. Green eyes, the likes of which Alfred has never seen, snapped up with a new, fresh panic writ on his weary face.

'Excuse me, my good sir, are you terribly alright?' Alfred asked only to frown now that he was closer and noticed the red sluggishly bleeding through trembling fingers. 'Great Scott! You're bleeding!'

The young man grimaced and leant away from Alfred in a way that screamed wary. 'Yeah, I noticed that too,' an English accent replied with a notable slur. 'Seems like I walked into a bullet.'

Alfred raised an eyebrow dispassionately as an odd sense of familiarity unsettled him. He was achingly used to this, having had to deal with much the same sort of attitude addressed to him by Master Bruce, when dealing with many deep tissue wounds.

Instead, however, it was a stranger who was suffering and the more Alfred looked at the young man, the more odd it became to him. It was a bland, grey day but silent. This sort of hour was the best time to be out and about, with many of the more dangerous criminals yet to awaken to terrorise the night.

Most likely, this young man was either immensely unlucky or he had been targeted. If a price had been put onto his head than he was in the wrong place to start with.

'And an ambulance was not called?' Alfred asked sternly. The man had obviously walked away from the crime scene, whether that was due to the danger had yet to be established but he didn't seem to be in a rush.

There were many reasons why people did not call the authorities or want to be seen to be involved with certain people, or even parts of town, Gotham was unfortunately that type of place. Why that would bother an Englishman that obviously wasn't from around here, Alfred couldn't say.

The man's eyes were glazed as they flickered to and from Alfred's face. 'Ain't got no phone,' he states obstinately and yet, Alfred knew instantly from raising a very intelligent individual into adulthood that there was at least an omission in those words.

Still, this man needed treatment.

Without a second thought, Alfred readjusted his grip on the surprisingly muscular arm and started to guide the youth in the direction of where he knew a hospice to be located.

The man's breathing was rasping and he was worryingly weak footed, even at Alfred's slowed pace. Perhaps having been inflicted with more than one injury? Like a bullet to the upper chest wasn't enough.

'Where -' the man coughed a spluttering sound. 'Where you goin'?'

The man is obviously struggling and yet experimentally tugging on his captured arm, as if curiously confused as to what's happened with it. Of course, it could be the blood loss. Alfred doesn't smell any alcohol on the youth and from what he's seen of those eyes, he hadn't been partaking in any narcotics.

'I am taking you to a doctor,' Alfred informed briskly, but looked back with one of his more stony expressions when the man started to more adamantly pull away.

'N-no. Not - can't -'

'Sir,' Alfred addressed firmly to silence the protests. He's used to arguing the importance of medical attention, just not to anyone who is not his charge. 'From your own admission you have been shot. You could be bleeding internally as we speak. I insist on a doctor.'

'No hospitals!' the man hissed, in a way that made him sound more animal than human. He stopped walking entirely then, stubbornly digging in his heels and skidding them both to a halt. It was evident that while he had no strength to speak of, he was, however far heavier than his thin form and short statue would otherwise imply.

Alfred stared. He was not frightened like he should be, as he looked at hazy but narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. The man could be a criminal for all Alfred knew and his behaviour and his type of injury should elicit suspicion.

But Alfred was not the least bit intimidated; had seen all sorts in his life and although it could speak more to his own arrogance than this man's innocence, he truly did not think there was any threat to be had here.

To that end, even if the man was nonviolent (regardless of how he had gotten his injury in the beginning), he still refused a hospital. Really, Alfred was going to get an earful from Master Bruce.

'Very well,' Alfred conceded reluctantly before he about-turned, probably jostling the young man by forcing him to move, and crossed the street after pausing to let a couple of cars pass. Compromise was key to child rearing. What was fortunate, was that not a few houses had gone by, before they were at an entrance to an alleyway.

It was just as well that Alfred - much like Master Bruce, knew this city like the back of his hand. It was perhaps irony that they already weren't far off from Park Row.

'Shouldn't be far,' Alfred informed though they would have to be quick. Park Row - or "Crime Ally," as it was more ambiguously known - was no where to doddle. 'Nearly there now, sir,' he encourages again when the man all but trips on an empty beer bottle, as well as to try and sooth his obvious unease. This was not the type of place he relished adventuring through.

The man grunts a response but doesn't say anymore until Alfred has dragged his sorry arse up to the door of the clinic. Run down as it is, Alfred doubts it looks at all impressive or reassuring but beggars can't be choosers.

'Up we go now, sir.' The stairs are fortunately stone but shot all to hell from a few years back. A gang war had begun, turned violent from one member getting killed by another and the revenge had grown: flooding out into the streets. Luckily, the bullets never penetrated the walls; this clinic was a safe space in ways that churches were not. Even criminals knew not to bring anything but bodies here.

Alfred rung for service on the intercom Master Bruce had anonymously paid for, along with the keypad and electronic door which were the only things about the clinic outside the proud, glass and metal nameplate that wasn't falling apart.

'Yes?' a voice responds through the intercom, as its inhabitance knew not to outright open the door despite the truce. You could never be too careful.

'Hello, Doctor Leslie. It's Alfred,' he informs her, shifting his grip on the man who is starting to tilt sideways. 'I've got another patient for you: man says he's been shot.'

'…not my benefactor?' Leslie asks for conformation. She was a close friend of the family, having worked with Master Thomas back in those more illustrious days when there seemed to still be hope for Gotham City. Now, after the tragic murder of Thomas and Martha, and in the new era of crime, Leslie had rededicated her life to the less fortunate.

'No, you've seen the news.' Master Bruce was set to be given a reward not long from now (one that Alfred hoped not to miss. Master Bruce would notice and he does so tend to worry). Besides that, it was far too early for Batman to be up and about. Leslie, needless to say, knew of Master Bruce's nightlife. It had been a necessary decision Alfred had made after Master Bruce had come back to him so broken, that Alfred could not fix him.

'Of course. I'll buzz you through.'

There's an obnoxious noise of the alarm that is disarmed with the unlocking of the doors, something which Alfred had heard too many times already. Alfred wastes no time in opening the door and pushing the young man through, though he does stumble over the edge of the doorframe before he can right himself.

They are still in the entranceway and Leslie is already stepping out from behind her desk which slops on one side, and is held up by nothing but sellotape, perturbing nails and good fortune.

She is a good woman of average height and weight, dressing simply and practically but always with her doctor's jacket. She hurries to them and her quick, sharp eyes are already running over the two of them before she focuses on the young man, who has slumped into Alfred's side.

'Hello,' Leslie greets with a sympathetic smile which only highlights the lines time has started to carve into her face. Her black hair is stubborn but also beginning to pepper itself with white ends, from stress and long nights. 'I'm Leslie Thompkins but call me whatever you're comfortable with.'

The man seems to study her for a minute before he inclines his head in acceptance and almost instantaneously, she is leading them back through to the stairwell and away from the louder bottom floor. The steps were steep and broken; a health hazard all their own but it would cost a small fortune to have them repaired, especially in this part of town; something Leslie could ill-afford.

Leslie glances to Alfred and between them, they help the young man up the stairs. The last thing either of them wants is to have him trip and fall, and further injure himself before Leslie can sow him back together.

Thankfully, they reach the top without incident though the man is further exhausted by the exercise. A number of closed rooms are ahead with different locked units outside each one. On each door is a whiteboard where Leslie can write names, instructions and whatever other information she may need, or any one of the few helpers she has, may have to know.

At the end of the hallway is another set of stairs which leads to the attic. One half of the space up there is for patients that are in need of recovery. Styled more like a common hospital, there is little privacy though there have been attempts. There are curtains that have been stapled to the ceiling, and Chinese screens that have seen better days.

Leslie shows them though to the second room down. The door creaks open as she pushes it aside for them to enter. 'These are for my In-and-Outs,' Leslie tells the man as she takes one arm and Alfred the other, to help him up onto the examination table. She settles him while Alfred closes the door. (Living with Master Bruce could have, conceivably, made him paranoid.)

'Alright, show me this bullet wound,' Leslie asks patiently as Alfred turns back around. The man blinks at her for a moment before Alfred clears his throat.

'We can still take you to a hospital…' Alfred trails off and that's enough for the man to start the arduous task of undressing. He sheds a rather beaten up leather jacket - military styled, where it sits stiffly behind him before Alfred moves it to the side so that it is not in the way.

Next is a long sleeved, black button up that the man gets held up with trying to undo the buttons for. Leslie smiles slightly as the fiddling continues on for a few minutes more than what was necessary and reaches forward to help, valiantly ignoring how the man stiffens as their fingers brush before he relaxes and allows her to do the rest.

'Ah, there we go,' Leslie mutters and gently pulls away the two sides of the collar away from the man's chest, and down his shoulders so that it is free from his form. The both of them hiss when his torso is laid bare for them both to see.

The bullet wound is in a word, gruesome. There were no obvious burn marks and it was too big for that to be the point of entry, which meant that this man was shot from behind. The blood trails down his chest, paves a path along his stomach muscles to sink below his waistline.

Perhaps more telling is the mass of bruises that decorate the man's skin. It seems like someone had tried to paint this young man purple. With their fists. Leslie glances at Alfred in a silent enquiry but Alfred has no answers so merely shakes his head.

The man certainly had the physique of a fighter, with the tightly built muscles that were wired into his rather petit form. Still quite streamlined and nothing like a bodybuilder, but…perhaps a martial artist or something of the like. That does not speak for the man's temperament, however; what he was trained in, or how he got into this condition to begin with.

Clumsily, the man taps below the bullet hole and through gritted teeth, bit out: 'exit wound'. Leslie nodded, she would have guessed that within a second of seeing it and rounds the examination table, skimming between the edge of it and the tight space between it and the wall, to see the entrance.

'Alfred, can you push my tray over?' Leslie asks and without question, Alfred hums in agreement and goes to pull over the metal cart so that it is by the side of the examination table, and easily accessible. Leslie is looking closer at the man's back while sanitising her hands. Once finished, she absently puts on a fresh pair of gloves, of which she keeps a packet attached to the belt around her waist.

Alfred goes to stand to the side of the head of the table. Watching as she feels up and down the man's spine for a moment before nodding. Leslie comes back around to face her patient. 'We'll need to sow this up for you,' she tells him as she reaches for a fresh cloth from her trey and hands it to Alfred.

He's worked with this woman many times due to Master Bruce constant need for medical attention, so he doesn't pause before he's reaching to the back of the man and pressing it against the wound while Leslie does the same for the front.

Alfred looks at the man's discomforted side profile while Leslie asks: 'can you tell me if you're feeling any nausea or dizziness?'

The man's eyes crinkle but he slowly nods. 'A bit,' he admits reluctantly. 'But…I think that's the concussion.'

'You hit your head?' Leslie demands, lips pursuing as the man again wordlessly agrees.

'N-nah, someone did…that for me,' the man replied with a shaky smiles. 'No worries though, Doc, I know I'm not bleedin' inter-nelly,' he states with what seemed to be a numb tongue. 'Some bloke just thought it'd be funny to play Whac-A-Mole with me as thah mole. Jus' gimme some stitches. Need - without the holes, when I get - get shouted at.'

That was the most Alfred had heard this man say, but he found himself becoming more bemused as the man continued on before finally coming to a stop.

'You have medical experience?' Leslie inquires, probably wanting to know if she can trust the man's word, while she sorts out the equipment she'll need with one hand. The sanitiser, cotton, needles and dissolvable thread is all put onto a clean tray that she places onto the examination table, near the man's thigh.

'Yeah. A lot.' The man snorts without elaborating.

'A lot in providing it or needing it?' Leslie asks shrewdly with a cocked eyebrow.

'What's the - the defiance. Difference?' the man retorts and stills a shrug he was halfway through performing, before remembering he had been shot. 'I've taken a few causes - courses; best teacher is experience though, and I've been in and out of - hospitals since…ever.'

Abuse is the first thought in Alfred's head, it would make the man's height of make some sense though he knew he shouldn't speculate on something like that.

'The bullet was through and through,' the man says without waiting for a reply and Alfred realises that he is probably impatient to get some actual medical aid. 'And…no pain killas. P-please,' he adds just as Leslie is reaching for a syringe.

Leslie looks back, blinking in surprise. 'Why -?'

'I need some…a-aware-ness so - to stumble home,' the man replies as Leslie gently removes her cloth so thay she can set about cleaning the outside of the wound to avoid later infection. The cloth meets its end in the waste bin. 'If…if it makes you feel more com-footble; I'm - I'm allergic.'

She dabs the area with the cotton carefully and when she's satisfied, throws that cleanly away too. 'It's not about my comfort,' she rebukes but doesn't reach for the syringe. She was a doctor - was once at the forefront of medicine - but she had learnt different ways in how to handle patients, with this clinic. Most were criminals, scatting outside of the law or not able to afford health care, and it required her to often times listen to the patient's wants over the needs, to avoid putting them in a worser position.

'Alfred, take this young man's hand,' Leslie requests as she prepares the rounded needle.

'Of course,' Alfred says agreeably and presents his free hand to the man who didn't seem to know what to do with it. 'Sir,' he prompts.

After a brief pause of hesitance, the young man interlinks their fingers. 'Jus' don't throw your medical expanses - expensive - expenses at me, if…if I break something,' he huffs, each word themselves a difficulty. 'You A-Americans and your health care.'

'I am not an American.' Though Alfred lived in America fully now, he did not, and would never think himself as American.

Green eyes flash in distress as steel pierces his skin with the beginning of the first stitch. The man stills a violent jerk and his neck stains, his veins becoming visible through the column of pale flesh. For all that he appears to be in pain and even with his earlier warning, Alfred feels barely a spasm of it directed towards his hand, with the man's fingers remaining tense but lax against the top of his ageing hand.

'Y-yeah,' the man responds, a bit breathlessly as the man's chest stalled for one, two heartbeats. 'Figured.'

Leslie had a no-questions-asked policy when it came to her patients. She'd treat anyone who came to her for help but this man, now that he was off the street, didn't show any signs of antisocial behaviour. In all honesty, he was far more talkative than what you'd expect for someone with a hole in their chest.

With that in mind, Alfred allows himself to ask: 'what part of England are you from?'

'Surrey,' the man replied after a few steading exhales as Leslie continues her work. 'Was more up Scotland way before I got goin' with me - my career.' And indicates to the dogtags with his eyes, that are hanging low and painted red from his blood on his chest. 'Served for a bit.'

"POTTER

HARRY

DMLE - 31 07 80S

HALF-BLOOD

NEUTRAL"

'That…is not an ordinary dog tag,' Alfred states in perplexity after squinting enough to read the small, thin bit of metal. Though it is nice to know the man's name - "Harry Potter" - that is obviously not the man's social security number which is usually printed on a service man's dogtag. The last two lines don't make a lick of sense either.

Potter tenses. 'Please stay still,' Leslie scolds, glancing up for a moment at the two of them to show a hint of her disapproval, before going back to giving the wound her full attention.

Potter ignores her and stares soundly at Alfred with an amount of startling clarity. 'You can see it.'

Alfred raises an eyebrow in question, 'should I not be able to?'

Potter shakes his head, a tired movement that barely manages to shift his hair. 'What does the last line say?'

'…"neutral",' Alfred reads after pause. 'I do believe, however, that that is a…curious religion, Mister Potter.' He comments, knowing that, that was what should be in its place.

'It's not -' Potter stops himself, hesitates as his eyes flicker to Leslie. 'Does…does the word "squib" mean anythin' to you?'

And that's all Potter needs to say for Alfred to understand. For him to remember his Grandmother and her sad, sad eyes and his Grandfather's fury that was only equal to his sorrow every time he glanced Alfred's way.

'Ah,' is all Alfred can say. 'So you are…'

Well, a Halfblood. What else could that have meant? Alfred thinks to himself with suddenly itching skin.

Potter's eyes are still looking at him though and does not seem to regard him with any malice. 'Yeah.' He nods simply. 'Don't know how much sense this'll make tah - to you so tell me to cork it if, ya'know.' He stumbles on his words as he blinks slowly, obviously struggling to stay awake. 'Bur I was on'na case. Got a bit distracted when the prick I was tryin' to apprehend injured a sardine - civilian. Then cuz I'm lucky like this, managed to get myself sent here on an international portkey.'

Luckily, Alfred knew enough; probably more than a lot of second-generation squibs, that is. He's been told quite a bit about the Ministry and portkeys from cousins, as his grandparents struggled to share their world with him. If Potter worked for the Minister - which is what it sounded like - than he was probably part of their police department, chasing a criminal. What didn't make sense, however: 'the bullet wound?'

Potter's mouth tilted with bitterness even as his brow furrowed. 'Er…he wasn't…"native".'

Which was to say…not a Pureblood? Well, either way. 'Do you have a way to get home?'

Potter nods after a second. 'Yeah. Should be fine.' Alfred doesn't quite believe it if the way he says it, so tiredly - is any indication.

'Alright, sweetheart,' Leslie announces, in the process cutting off the excess string from the needle. 'Just your back left to sow up.'

Potter grimaces. 'Fun.'

What was fortunate was that their short conversation, to Leslie, was probably double dutch that she'd put down to English colloquialisms or Potter's concussion. Not to say that Leslie hadn't become aware of the more…unusual aspects of life through Batman's adventures, just that she didn't pick them up.

'Almost there,' Leslie promises as Alfred removes the cloth he's been keeping on the entrance wound all this time, and hands it back to Leslie so that she can dispose of it.

'S'okay.' Potter smiled crookedly in reassurance as he takes a steadying breath. 'I've had worse.' Which is frankly unsurprising from the amount of scar tissue Potter was sporting, if disheartening with how young he appeared.

Leslie doesn't comment, though and quickly gets to work. Stitching the entrance wound takes less time and once she is finished and she removes her gloves for a new pair, in order to bandage her patient.

'Alright, sweetheart,' Leslie says as she puts temporary temporary plasters on the back and then the front of the wound after moving around the examination table again in order to reach Potter's chest. 'You're done.'

Potter takes a shuddering breath. 'Thanks, it's appreciated.' He smiles then, slightly crooked and a bit strained as he tilts her head towards her. 'What do I owe you?'

'Your continued good health,' Leslie states without pause and runs over whatever response he says quickly. 'Now, you'll have to keep this clean - but do not wash the wound directly. And if you don't want to stretch it out or pop a stitch, you'll need to avoid exercise.'

Something about Potter's face softens, the defence wired into his body smoothing all his sharp lines. He becomes something indescribably younger. 'Got it, Doc.'

Humming, Leslie leans forward and tilts Potter's head toward her and then downwards, which tenses the man back up again. She looks over his scalp, gently shifting hair out of her way by running her fingers through that thick mane of long, black tresses. 'Ah - found it,' she mutters. 'Oh, hon. What'd you get hit with?' Leslie asks with noticeable sympathy as she starts the process of cleaning the wound.

Alfred doesn't have a very good view from the angle he's positioned in, but he can tell that it is causing Potter some distress. 'Dunno,' Potter responses carelessly. 'Could have been the butt of the gun, the wall, the edge of the dumpster,' he lists with an air of nonchalance that Alfred knew all too well. 'Prat liked attacking from behind, didn't really care what he hit with. When I haunt - hunt this guy down, I'm throwing the book at him.'

'Leave the book throwing until after you can see straight, okay, champ?' Leslie grins though Alfred knows that she doesn't understand the context of this not-so proverbial book.

'As if to say that there aren't four of you?' Potter asks rhetorically, perking up with awareness as he allows himself to settle into the clinic's wall as his eyes mockingly widen. 'Well, colour me surprised.

Leslie snorts as she begins to clean around the wound with more cottonwool that goes straight in the bin afterwards. Potter winces at the beginning before he steadies himself. 'To take care of the concussion go home, get someone - a partner, a family member, a friend you could drag in - to wake you up in the morning to check on you. Avoid bright lights and try keep from doing anything strenuous. If you seem impaired in anyway you have to get to a hospital. Concussions aren't as easy as a through-in-through bullet wound. Got all that?' Leslie questions as she reaches for the bandages.

'I dunno, is this going to be on the test?' Potter asks with a deadpanned face.

'If it were, I'd fail you,' Leslie responds as she wraps Potter's head in bandages until there is a white halo encircling his midnight hair, with the shorter ends stuck up quite ridiculously as they flick in every direction while the longer ends trail down his neck, and shoulders without a care.

Potter dramatically wipes his eyes as Leslie steps back to inspect her work. 'Breaking my heart, Doc. Here I've been such a good patient…'

Leslie rolls her eyes, no doubt enjoying this visit far more than who will typical call upon her. 'A good patient isn't a patient at all.'

Potter tsks though his exhaustion still shadows his face and makes his every move slow. 'You won't be saying that the next time someone pukes on your shoes.'

'Get dressed, mister,' Leslie commands, amusement clear in her tone.

'Oh, I see how it is. You check out the goods and you think that's all I'm got - good for,' Potter sniffs while Alfred wonders how the man could have so suddenly found his sense of humour with a bullet wound and a concussion, even Master Bruce was liable to be broody. People did cope in different ways.

Potter is obviously in pain because even with the current light mood, as soon as he goes to shrug his shirt back on, he grimaces, his 8eyes clenching as his nose wrinkles.

'Really,' Leslie chides as comes back over after pushing the cart away from the bed now she was finished with it. 'Take it slow,' she says as she takes control and eases the fabric back up his arms until the shirt has settled over the man's slumped shoulders. Carefully, she goes ahead and does the buttons up again. 'There, test is over.'

'Failing grade?' Potter questions as his hand trembles when he forces his palm over his chest.

'A for effort,' Leslie smiles before giving the man space. 'I'll leave the jacket to you,' she says which prompts Alfred to pick the heavy leather jacket up, unfold it and drape it over Potter's shoulders.

'Thanks,' Potter nods, glancing from Leslie to Alfred with quiet gratitude that shines through even if his tone is somewhat gruff. He takes Leslie's advice of slowing down, pulling an arm through a sleeve at a time. Once he's tugged the zip up the front, he's looking up at them again with bright green eyes. 'Really, Doc, what do I owe you?'

Leslie just smiles. 'Alfred, dear, help our friend here get back onto Main,' she orders as she silently aids Potter off of the table and patiently waits for the man to steady himself before letting go. 'I'm sure you two gentlemen will find something to talk about there.'

Which is a nice way of Leslie saying that she knew they had been having a rather private conversation right in front of her, though Leslie seemed rather unbothered by it.

'Kick a guy to the curb, why don't you.' Potter sighs but the grin on his face doesn't quite fit with the pale pallor of his kin or the sweat trickling down his temples. He offers his hand, however, with a soft "thank you".

Leslie face softens as it's rare someone is so courteous. 'Peace, child.' She takes his hand, gently folding the fingers together as she lightly shakes it while trying not to jostle the man.

Carefully, Leslie and Alfred help the man back out and down the stairs, where he almost goes arse over tea kettle as he becomes dizzy and almost falls. Luckily, between the two of them, they are able to stop Potter's descent and gets him to the door without worse for wear.

She buzzes them out as Potter says goodbye. 'I'll remember this, Doctor Leslie Thompkins,' he promises which could be read as threatening if it wasn't for his tone of voice and the kindness glowing from his face like a beacon. 'If you ever need anything, call this number.' With some difficulty he takes a rather crumbled card from his back pocket and hands it to Leslie.

'Just avoid Whac-a-Mole from now on, champ.' Leslie laughs but she takes the card, glancing at it before it disappears into the void that is her pocket.

Potter smirks weakly. 'No promises,' he responds as Alfred readjusts the hold he has on Potter's arm and starts to help the two of them down the stairs. The door shuts behind them and although Alfred tries to take his time on getting to the floor, he knows that being caught in this alley would be anything but ideal.

'You have a phone, Mister Potter?' Alfred asks as they reach the last step, glad that he has kept himself in good shape so that carrying a good portion of someone else's weight doesn't tire him out.

'I was raised outside of the Wizarding World,' Potter replies without hostility, thankfully. Alfred didn't think that Potter was the type, not from what he had learnt in the clinic but people surprised him sometimes and it was very rarely good when they did. 'In my department of the Ministry, I wouldn't be able to keep my job without being able to integrate into both worlds. And - er, Harry's fine.'

Alfred merely quirks an eyebrow. 'It was good of you to offer your aid to Leslie, I shall hint to her not to throw your number away,' he says instead before changing the subject again as they emerge from the alley, seemingly unfollowed. 'You were rather vague, but you are in quite a state. Are you sure you will be cable of getting back to England, Mister Potter?'

Potter sighs. 'Well, MACUSA will have to be informed that I accidentally Portkeyed into America with a wanted criminal, but they should be willing enough to help me back to England.'

'MACUSA?' Alfred finds himself asking though he had long grown out of the little boy who wanted to learn about the other world he wasn't quite apart of, which didn't want him and never would.

'The American Ministry.' Potter shrugs. 'I've worked with them quite a bit, and we have an alright relationship. They're pretty picky with…er, teamwork. though.'

Not that much different from the American government, Alfred knew, then. 'Where can I drop you off?'

'I'm not anywhere near any magical settlements,' Potter states which is…disheartening. 'But I have nowhere to be for hours and…you feel a bit antsy, like you have somewhere to be? I can follow you that way and go it alone once I know you're safe.'

Hm, seems that Potter was very much a police officer. 'My charge is being gifted an award from the mayor and is set to give a speech, if we hurry we might be able to catch it,' Alfred allows if only because he now knows that Potter is harmless and because Alfred is late.

Potter blinks before that crooked smile is back. 'What is the afford - award for?'

'His rather sizeable donations to numerous charities,' Alfred says because he is very proud of Master Bruce, even if his work as the Batman often leaves his alter ego acting like nothing like the man Alfred has seen grow.

They walk and stumble through twenty minutes worth of a journey before the city pulls back from stone and metal to show the city park. It isn't quite as green as it should be, half the plants are dead or have been trampled on but it is the closet thing to vegetation Gotham has, even with the menace which was Poison Ivy.

Through the trees, the temporary stage was visible as was the television cameras and the security in the form of the police with the commissioner standing off to the side, looking vigilant and tense though cordial with the mayor on one side and Master Bruce on the other.

The crowd was rather big for this type of thing, with about twenty or so individuals. The Gotham occupancy rarely came out for this type of thing, it was too much of a risk for most when it was going to be on the television anyway.

'Quite the shindig,' Potter comments as they enter the park and start to swim the tide of the crowd to get a better view. It seemed like they were right on time as the mayor had just taken the stage and was adjusting the mic when they reached the front. Immediately visible, Alfred could feel Master Bruce's eyes on him - blue like the clearest sky - flickering between Alfred and his guest.

Master Bruce's eyes narrow in askance but Alfred merely shakes his head. It's fine, he says silently and Master Bruce's shoulders relax as the mayor starts his drivelling speech.

Master Bruce has just been called onto the stage when it happens; when a customised van drives through into the park, mowing down planets, a food cart and nearly several people. Alfred turns just in time to see it screech to a halt as the crowd instantly starts to panic. It's easy to see why, with the Joker standing proudly on the roof.

Oh. Oh no, Alfred thinks as every muscle in him stiffens. The clown's twisted face and yellow eyes are distorted in a grotesque faux of hysterical laughter as he stares down at them.

'Oh Ho! Bruce-y, Commish! Two of my favourite people in one place for a party, and no one thought to invite poor old Joker!' The Joker sobs into his arm as the crowd shifts amongst themselves, terrified of drawing attention to themselves. Alfred, himself, tightens his grip on Potter.

Joker's two goons step out from the van, walls of dumb muscle but very dangerous in the ways the Joker rarely bothered with. 'But I figured if you can't join them…' The demented clown pulls out what appeared to be a water gun in his infamous colour scheme, from out behind his back. 'Get them to join you.' The Joker's laughter has always made Alfred feel rather sick but it's doubly so now when the manic is pointing a weapon in Alfred's direction.

Joker's long, spindly white finger was just about to pull back on the trigger when Potter is suddenly moving, freeing himself from Alfred's gasp. He reacts just in time to see Potter pull a knife from the sleeve of his jacket. Potter barely winces as he flexes his arm - pulling at his stitches and irritating his bruises, no doubt - in order to throw the blade.

It flies through the air like a bullet until the knife buries itself into the plastic of the gun's chamber. 'Scatter!' Potter demands and the crowd is all to quick to obey with the commanding presence of his voice and the sudden strength of his form that has come to radiate outwards, just as Potter gains the ire of a psychotic clown.

'No! No! No! That wasn't meant to happen!' the Joker shouts as he throws down the gun, and lets it clatter off of the roof of the van. He summersaults to the ground, wildly pointing at Potter while Alfred makes the better part of valour and retreats, to where the police are beginning to arm themselves. 'Who the hell are you! I didn't invite you to this party.'

'Harry Potter, at your service,' Potter introduces himself, bowing in a way that was just as theatrical as the Joker without the unhinged quality. 'I do believe this was VIP only.'

The Joker's eyes narrow but after a second, the anger that he had been projecting sinks inwards - internalised. He shrugs, his heinous smile stretching further. 'This is my city and it's Bat's bedtime right now. No one else is aloud to play hero!'

'Pity,' Potter comments, his stance shifting into something more defensive as the commissioner demands the Joker step back and surrender. It goes ignored, even as the safeties are released. 'It's no fun for you without an adversary though, is it?'

'Ah well, me and Bruce-y are old time friends.' Potter's impressive eyes shift at the announcement, tilting a little to put Bruce and the commissioner further behind him. A protectors instinct. 'Seems to me like this was an important day for him and I couldn't have him thinking I didn't care now, could I?'

'How…kind of you,' Potter responds as the police run to take perimeter around them.

'But I think this celebration's gotten a little full,' the Joker remarks as he whistles. 'Punch, Judy - show time.'

That's all it took for the two goons that'd happily been watching the confrontation to come forward with animalistic roars. Punch grabs at a nearby tree, ripping a bulky branch off from the base, that a normal man wouldn't even be able to lift. As soon as Punch has a handle of it, he's lifting it like a javelin and hauling it in the direction of the officers. It travels with such speed that it nails a few men too slow to properly get it out of its path.

The commissioner is swearing and just calling for back up when Judy smashes into Potter, his giant fist slamming into the block Potter had put up. It's like a clash of the titans though Judy is heads taller, and should have easily had Potter on his knees especially with his injuries.

Potter withstands, however, and is quick to retaliate with a quick kick that causes Judy to stumble, curling inward as he does so. The look on on Judy's face is a mixture of pain and shock. 'What're they feeding you?' Potter asks as he delivers another, more rounded kick to Judy's head, one that Judy is too slow to respond to. It nails the man on his cheek and sends him flying a short distance before he crashes into the ground.

Potter huffs a breath, hiding pants of enervation as he attempts not to slump forward. It's in this lapse of attention that enables Punch to grab Potter from behind in the second that Master Bruce yells out his warning: 'Hey! Behind you!'

Potter's feet dangle as Punch lifts the man from the ground, with one of his arms choking from Potter from clutching at his neck, and another further winding Potter curling around his abdomen like a boa constrictive.

Alfred can almost hear Master Bruce's hands clench and unclench as he struggles not to intervene. It is not in his nature to stand by and watch even when it means risking imprisonment, but there was nowhere for Master Bruce to escape to, not with the mayor using him as a shield, an officer at his side and the commissioner standing in front of him.

The commissioner is not as restricted as he takes aim and tries to shoot Punch but the bullet just embeds itself into hulking muscle, useless, as Potter tries to hit out, grasping anywhere he can reach as his face turns red.

'Now, now, look whose the last on the dance floor,' the Joker coos as he flutters his eyes. He skips forward with unholy glee until he is a few feet away from Potter. The clown leans in, seemingly to examine Potter's face as his struggling are stilled as Punch squeezes him harder.

'I don't think I've ever seen you before…' the Joker ponders. 'I'd remember that face…those eyes…' the madman leans in closer to Potter's face. 'So serious, though. You'd look so much better with a smile.'

Alfred felt his stomach drop as the Joker reached into his pocket to pull at some other toxin in the shape of another, smaller water gun. 'Ngh-' Potter tried to speak but the words couldn't quite escape Punch's iron grip.

The Joker snapped his fingers and Punch loosen his hold an inch or two. 'Ever so sorry, what was that? Punch got your tongue?'

'Not -' Potter panted. 'Not today.'

The Joker blinks and has just opened his mouth when the impossible happens. Potter grabs onto Punch's shoulders, holds on tight so that when Potter throws his weight down the beast is bent over Potter's slight form. Booted feet stamp onto the ground, and with that miraculous anchorage, Potter manages an over the shoulder throw. It shouldn't have been possible -

The Joker doesn't have time to scramble backwards before he is flattened by his own crony, both unconscious as their heads smashed against the concrete from the force Potter had managed to employ. Though Potter had undoubted gotten out of that headlock by the grace of god, Alfred thinks that Potter's weak gesturing after is what keeps them faint on the ground. Even if Potter only waves his hand over them for a moment.

The backup the commissioner can just be heard as Potter stands for a moment, victorious before the trembling in his legs almost has him over. Master Bruce rushes towards him, most likely in a mixture of trying help and being needed as Alfred follows close behind.

'Steady,' Master Bruce says as he carefully catches Potter by the tops of his arms. Alfred can see Master Bruce glance at the pile of murder and wickedness, assessing for the spilt second it takes him before he's readdressing Potter like he never looked away. He leads them back as the police quickly take over, injured or no, from the commissioner's orders.

'Careful of his shoulder, Master Bruce,' Alfred warns as he steps close to his charge's side. Master Bruce gives him a flat look but his hands stay cupped firmly around Potter's arms.

'I think I need to sit down,' Potter says quietly, the rest of his energy sucked out of him. He appeared a drooping flower rather than the tiger he had just shown himself to be.

'Of course,' Master Bruce replies agreeably, voice concerned but layered with caution. 'This way.' He leads Potter's to one of the park's benches and eases the man down until he is sat, back resting against the wooden planks.

'I do believe that Leslie is going to be a mite irritated, when she learns you did not heed her advice to rest,' Alfred finds himself saying while keeping half an eye on the squad cars that come barrelling into the park.

'Or you could jest - just not tell her,' Potter suggests with a weak tilt of his lips, weakly rubbing sweat that had started to trail down from his hairline away with the back of his hand.

'You've met the resident doctor?' Master Bruce asks, fishing for information he can't ask yet with all the present company.

Potter nods and Master Bruce frowns further. 'I -'

'Seems like you've had it pretty rough, son,' the commissioner's voice remarks as he walks into their space from the left. There's a tired curve to the man's spine; quiet, something that he couldn't combat no matter how strong his shoulders were. It came from being one of the only things holding their city together for so many years, for having the integrity and honour that so many had tried to rob him off through attempted deals and payoffs and threats.

Potter's green eyes trail up to the commission, but Alfred got the feeling that he had heard the man coming long before he made himself known. 'I think I gave as good as I got.' Potter smirks, tame fire burning in his gaze. 'Thanks for the backup, though.'

The commissioner snorted, knowing how little good he had done in the short moments the confrontation had lasted for. 'You're stronger than you look.'

'Hah…yeah, I get that a lot,' Potter mutters, shifting minutely and grimacing instantly.

'Try to stay still, the medics are on their way.' The commissioner bends to place a palm flat on Potters injured shoulder but the man barely responds. Alfred probably only notices his intake of breath because he was expecting it.

'Ah, I'm fine. A lie down and I'll be as gone - good, as knew,' Potter responds quickly, obviously not wanting to get tied down in any records in a country he had no place being.

The commissioner looks to argue and although Alfred knows very little of this man, Potter had gone out of his way to protect a crowd of people he hadn't known whilst suffering from wounds that would put him at a disadvantage in combat. He deserved something for his trouble.

'Not to worry, Commissioner, I would prefer my nephew be treated privately,' Alfred intervenes. Master Bruce doesn't bat and eyelash and neither does Potter, who simply inclines his head. Competency, is simply glorious. Maybe that's why it was so hard to find.

The commissioner inhales, running his fingers through is hair. 'At least allow yourself to be checked over.' Potter smiles but it isn't agreeable and the commissioner can tell, however he doesn't press the issue as he turns to Master Bruce.

'Commissioner,' Master Bruce sighs, knowing where that look was heading, the man didn't even need to open his mouth.

'Wayne,' the commissioner returns without his usual tact but then, they had just all suffered the performance of Gotham's psychotic clown, short lived though it was. 'I have to keep insisting, Mister Wayne. You draw these freaks to you like moths to light and we both understand what would happen if anything happened to you. You need some kind of protection detail -'

'Commissioner -' Master Bruce tries to interrupt because the commissioners has no idea how impossible that suggestion really is. However well meaning, they had been dodging the commissioner's propositions for along time.

'Actually, that's why I'm here,' Potter cuts in. He has straightened slightly, but he is looking directly at the commissioner as he talks. 'I've just gotten out of the Armed Force and…needed to get away, so Uncle Al offered me a place.'

The commission blinks as Alfred tries not to glance over at Master Bruce or twitch at the nickname. Potter seemed to be attempting to help with what he'd picked up as a tricky situation. 'You…?'

'Harry Potter,' Potter introduces himself with a worn grin but his gaze is steady. 'Mister Wayne's bodyguard, or I should be, in the next few weeks.'

'This is…a surprise,' the commissioner says as he looks between them. He stares longer than necessary but seems to nod to himself before commenting, somewhat glibly: 'Some interview.'

Potter laughs. 'One extreme to the next is pretty normal for me.'

Stories form in words, hide in conversations. Master Bruce had become particularly good at this hearing people's history in ways Alfred knew few people were.

'Military?' the commissioner questioned, obviously trying to make a connection with the dog tags hidden beneath Potter's jacket.

'Afraid my file's classified, Commish,' Potter answers with a slow blink and Alfred could tell that he wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer. 'But I promise I won't cause you half as much trouble as I did for Queen and Country.'

'Son, my daughter tells me that every day.' The commissioner's lips twitch as his officer's restrain the Joker and his muscle, dragging the men in their armed van in the background. It had become so commonplace that it wasn't even note worthy.

Potter snorts but he seems to be sinking further into the bench. 'She sounds angelic.'

The commission huffs in laughter as his pager sounds. Behind the times that, but the commission liked to keep of things. He could be quite a sentimental man. 'Ah. As nice as it is to meet you, I think I've taken up enough of your time. Mister Wayne, I'm glad you've finally decided to start protecting yourself. Mister Potter, thank you for your assistance today, one of my men will be around for your statement soon, but make sure to get some medical attention,' he orders sternly. 'Gentlemen,' he nods as he turns to leave.

Potter sighs, seemingly becoming one with the bench. 'Bodyguard?' Master Bruce questions pointedly glancing between Alfred and Potter, having stayed quiet up until that point and Potter cringes.

'Er…' Potter trails off.

'Well, Mister Potter,' Master Bruce begins as he shrugs off the polite, gormless expression he had been wearing that was just as much a mask as the bat's cowl. 'How funny it is that I wasn't told of an oncoming hire. Please, do introduce yourself.'

Con/Textual Vomit: I'm sorry, I lost all semblance of muse half way through. Like, I knew what had to happen in this chapter but - by the time Harry and Alfred were leaving the Clinic my mind sort of shrugged and was like "well that was fun" and left me. It doesn't help that I'm shit at fight scenes. And just about everything else.

I hope someone managed to enjoy this mess. I have so many ideas but...I'm so bad. Just. I dunno. I wanted to play around with the characters :/. Ugh my brain. I'll admit, too, that the last 4 thousand words haven't been proofread either, I just couldn't bring myself to. I'll have to come back to it when I like myself more. Forgive thy sinner or some shit.

OZ