Chapter Text
Dick was seated near the end of the Slytherin table. There was a brief pause from the rest of the table and he leaned a casual elbow on the table to observe the people near him, however, he was distracted from his observations from the massive amount of food that suddenly appeared on the table. Selecting a few dishes and what appeared to be some kind of stew, Dick resolved to at least begin some kind of dialogue with people near him as while they were not blatantly ignoring him they were not trying to talk to him either. It reminded him of the people who usually attended the charity galas Bruce and the other Wayne’s were obligated to attend every year.
He hadn’t missed the curious looks — raised eyebrows, side glances, whispers passing like currents under the surface — as he made his way to the Slytherin table. They hadn’t expected him here. The kid who stood like he was used to command, who smiled like he didn’t know what secrets were, and who had the kind of posture that screamed acrobat, athlete, trained. He didn’t fit.
But Dick had spent most of his life not fitting in places — and making it work anyway.
Taking a bite of the stew Dick was so surprised that he unconsciously said, “this is amazing! I wonder if I could convince someone to give me the recipe, I’d love to have this at home.” The stew was a rich and hearty recipe with chunks of beef and different vegetables. The blend of spices that made up the broth reminded him of some of the dishes his mother would make.
Taking his exclamation as an opportunity to talk one of the students near him leaned over and said,
“American, huh?” she said. Her voice was sweet poison. “What’s your bloodline?”
Dick tilted his head slightly, smile unwavering. “Grayson. From Gotham.”
“Not your name,” she snapped. “Your line.”
There it was.
He’d been waiting for this, already prepared with his lie.
Dick exhaled through his nose and gave a half-shrug. “Depends who you ask, though I don’t believe many wizard families in the States have kept track, I’ll have to do some research.”
Some chuckles passed down the table. That wasn’t the kind of response they’d expected. Charm and ease, not defensiveness. No insecurity. Just… comfort in his own skin.
Another boy chimed in, this one maybe a third year. “The hat has never put someone in the wrong house before.”
Dick leaned in like he was sharing a secret. “I asked for Gryffindor you know to be with my brother,” he said, lowering his voice. “But the hat said the house wouldn’t survive breakfast.”
That got a louder laugh. Even the prefect cracked a smile.
The blonde girl next to him finally spoke, voice sharp. “So what are you doing here, transfer? We haven’t had one in living memory.”
“I’m part of a trial program,” Dick said smoothly. “New Ministry initiative to open Hogwarts to international students. I guess they wanted to see how we do here.”
He left it vague on purpose. The best lies were the ones close to the truth — and built with just enough confidence to seem official.
“Where are you from, then, you don’t have the typical accent?” asked a boy further down.
“Gotham. It’s in the States, but my family are Romani.” Dick said, grabbing a roll from a silver plate and tearing it in half.
The start-of-term feast was already winding down. The air hung thick with that sleepy, satisfied hum that followed every Hogwarts dinner. Dick leaned back at the Slytherin table, carefully cultivating the perfect mixture of friendly and aloof.
Dumbledore stood gathering the attention of everyone in the room. This was the first time Dick had to really study Professor Dumbledore, besides his brief appearance to the Justice League, to iron out the details of the mission, Dick and the others hadn’t spent any time with him. Looking at him Professor Dumbledore at first glance appeared to be a nice old man with a sparkle of humor in his blue eyes. However, from His experience, Dick could tell that Professor Dumbledore held himself in a self-assured way that told of a past filled with trouble. The Professor definitely knew how to hold his own in a fight, wither that was only with magic or including more traditional hand-to-hand Dick didn’t know.
Then the doors to the Great Hall slammed open.
The sound cracked through the air, loud enough to make half the first-years jump. Dick’s instincts screamed threat, and his hand twitched toward a hidden batarang up his sleeve. But the figure who limped into the hall didn’t look like a dark wizard—or at least not the usual kind.
The man who strode—or rather, limped—inside looked like he’d been carved from a lifetime of battles. A battered cloak hung from his shoulders, frayed at the edges and stained with what might have been scorch marks. His left leg came down hard with each step, the thunk of wood on stone echoing through the hall. Dick noticed immediately: it wasn’t a cane. It was a prosthetic. Functional. Heavy. Not made for hiding.
But it was the eye.
A swirling, electric-blue orb, set deep into the scarred socket of his face, moving erratically, scanning the ceiling, the staff table, the students—him. Dick’s spine straightened when it fixed on him for half a second, the unnatural iris spinning as though it could peel back every secret he carried. Then it spun away again, rolling toward the rafters.
The hall was dead silent. Students stared like they were watching a storm crawl into the room.
Moody stopped halfway down the aisle. Rain dripped from the brim of his coat and hissed where it hit the candles floating overhead. The metallic click of his leg kept rhythm with the growl of thunder outside.
“Constant vigilance!” the man barked, for no apparent reason.
The words tore through the stillness, sharp and raw, carrying the same weight as Batman’s growl when he caught you out of line. Several first-years flinched. Dick didn’t blame them.
From the corner of his eye, Dick caught Jason muttering something under his breath that looked a lot like badass. Damian at the Hufflepuff table, by contrast, was watching with narrowed eyes, cataloging the man’s limp, his gait, the way his wand hand hovered near his belt.
The clunk of Moody’s leg carried him the rest of the way to the staff table, each step demanding the room’s attention. By the time he sat down, the entire hall was buzzing in nervous whispers.
From beside Dick, a pale-haired Slytherin boy—Malfoy, if Dick remembered right—let out a low chuckle. “Merlin’s beard, look at him. Mad-Eye Moody. Father says he’s completely insane.”
“Better insane than boring,” Dick said lightly, flashing a grin. Malfoy looked at him like he’d sprouted horns.
Before the whispers could spiral further, Dumbledore once again gathered everyone's attention, arms spread in that dramatic way of his. The hall fell silent again.
“As many of you will know,” he began, “Hogwarts will play host this year to a most exciting event. One that has not graced our halls in over a century…”
The words over a century caught Dick’s ear. Transfer students hadn’t been seen in that long either. His smile faltered as gears began turning in his mind. Coincidence? He doubted it.
“…the Triwizard Tournament!”
The words struck like a spell. The Great Hall erupted—cheers, gasps, a roar of questions that tangled together in one wild surge. Dick felt the table beneath him tremble as students leaned in closer, as though they could catch every syllable through sheer will.
On the Slytherin bench, Malfoy straightened like a prince in waiting, smug smile plastered on his face. Pansy Parkinson clutched her hands together, whispering furiously to the girls beside her. Across from Dick, an older Slytherin boy—Montague, if he remembered right—snorted.
Dumbledore lifted a hand, and the noise dimmed again. His gaze swept the students, bright with excitement yet edged with something sterner.
“The Triwizard Tournament is a tradition shared by three of the greatest wizarding schools in Europe: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. Each shall put forth a single champion, chosen by the legendary Goblet of Fire. These champions will face three tasks—each more dangerous than the last. These trials are designed not only to test magical skill, but courage, resourcefulness, and strength of heart.”
Dumbledore’s voice grew quieter, heavier. “Because of these dangers, no student under the age of seventeen will be permitted to enter. The Goblet will reject any attempt to deceive it. Only those of age, and with the will to risk much, may put their name forward.”
Malfoy scoffed from his end of the bench. “A true Slytherin doesn’t need to be of age to find a way around rules.” His smirk widened, daring anyone to challenge him.
Dick tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Sure. Because when the rules warn you about death, it’s always smart to ignore them.”
That earned him a few sharp looks, and one stifled laugh from a girl further down the table. Dick didn’t press—it was better to plant doubt with a grin than start a fight.
Above them, the candles burned brighter as Dumbledore lifted his arms once more. “Prepare yourselves. In a week’s time, our guests will arrive. And then, the Goblet of Fire will decide which among you shall earn the right to face the trials. This year will be remembered in Hogwarts’ history.”
The hall thundered with cheers again. But at the Slytherin table, Dick watched the flicker of hungry smiles, narrowed eyes, and quiet calculations.