Godfather Owl: Guardian of Batman [108]

Regardless of Bruce’s current feelings, Rowena Ravenclaw had made up her mind.

If Dumbledore wanted her to remain at Hogwarts, then Bruce’s apprenticeship was a non-negotiable condition.

The boy’s sharp tongue had left her seething. She was determined to “educate” him properly.

And if Bruce stubbornly refused, well, she wouldn’t hesitate to use force—a single punch would bring him to his knees.

Meanwhile, Kathoom perched on Bruce’s shoulder, whispering conspiratorially into his ear.

“Hey, Bruce, why not just agree?”

The owl’s tone was unusually serious. “I’ve got a favor to ask her.”

“What kind of favor?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s about the egg, of course!” Kathoom explained. “It’s been half a year, and it still hasn’t hatched. I’m starting to suspect something’s missing. If I learn alchemical methods to create life, I might be able to complete whatever’s lacking.”

This idea wasn’t something Kathoom had come up with lightly.

Creating life sounded like a god-like ability, but in the world of Harry Potter, it wasn’t so far-fetched. Many magical creatures owed their existence to wizards and their spells.

Take the Basilisk, for instance. This serpent wasn’t a natural creation but the invention of an ancient Greek dark wizard, Herpo the Foul. By having a chicken egg hatched under a toad, he produced a serpent with extraordinary powers.

Kathoom suspected such feats were products of alchemy.

There were even rumors that house-elves were created by wizards.

If they could do it, so could Kathoom.

But Bruce wasn’t convinced.

“Why should I agree to Ravenclaw’s terms just because of some egg?” he muttered. “That old lady clearly has it out for me.”

“Well, you did insult her first,” Kathoom pointed out. “You could stand to learn a little diplomacy—like me.”

“You—”

Bruce nearly choked on his response.

Ravenclaw, meanwhile, was growing impatient.

“Well, Bruce? What’s your decision?”

Of course, Bruce was about to refuse.

But before he could, he felt a sudden force from behind—Kathoom had launched a powerful kick, sending him stumbling directly into Ravenclaw’s arms.

Dumbledore, with a faint smile, seized the moment.

“Lady Ravenclaw, it seems he’s agreed.”

With that, he left Bruce no chance to protest. Before anyone could react further, the deal was done.

—

The turmoil caused by Ravenclaw’s secret chamber was quietly resolved.

Students awoke from their dreams, many with an empty, lost expression.

After all, not everyone could distinguish between the dream world and reality.

For some, it might take a long time to recover from the aftershocks.

“I dreamt about my parents.”

At a feast later that week, Harry confided in his friends with a tinge of sorrow. “It felt so real. I even started to think this—here—was the dream.”

“I know what you mean,” Neville mumbled, his own face pale and vacant.

Hermione looked at them, at a loss for how to comfort them.

Everyone had experienced the dreams differently.

For Hermione, it had been a simple vision of her as Minister for Magic. She had woken up and moved on without much trouble.

Ron, too, seemed unbothered—his dream hadn’t left much of an impression.

But for others, like Harry and Neville, the withdrawal symptoms were severe. They longed to stay in their dreams forever.

Ron, holding two chicken legs, hesitated before taking a bite. Seeing his friends so downcast had killed his appetite.

“Try to think of something cheerful, Harry,” Ron suggested. “Look at Malfoy—he’s not exactly having a great time either.”

Harry turned to see Draco Malfoy glaring daggers at him from the Slytherin table, as though Harry had stolen the most precious thing in his life.

“I can probably guess what Malfoy dreamed about,” Hermione whispered. “He’s always thought he deserved to be the center of attention. But in reality, Harry’s the one everyone talks about.”

“Well, that’s his problem,” Ron muttered, shaking his head.

—

The professors were also noticeably absent from the feast.

In the headmaster’s office, Dumbledore methodically tucked several pieces of parchment into a drawer.

“Snape has requested a month’s leave,” he said, addressing the other heads of houses—Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout.

All three looked drained, their expressions weary. Whatever dreams they had experienced had clearly taken a toll.

Dumbledore sighed. “Take some time to recover. We have a heavy workload ahead.”

They would need to provide psychological support for every student.

A dream that vivid could leave lifelong scars if left unaddressed.

The professors nodded, acknowledging their responsibilities.

“Oh, and…”

Dumbledore hesitated before continuing, “When Snape returns, let’s all agree to pretend we saw nothing.”

—

In the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.

With his feet propped up on the desk, Gilderoy Lockhart—or rather, Rowena Ravenclaw in disguise—casually tossed a familiar diary at Bruce.

Bruce caught the diary, recognizing it as Voldemort’s.

The cover had changed, now featuring a simple sketch of an eagle.

“I’ve made some modifications,” Ravenclaw said, smirking. “Especially to the fragment of the soul inside. I also added a few new features. You’ll figure them out eventually.

“Consider it your first gift as my apprentice.”

Bruce still felt some resentment about being forced into this apprenticeship.

But he didn’t hesitate to pocket the diary—it was his by right, after all.

As he slipped it into his robes, he asked, “Are you still going to use Lockhart’s identity? What about the real Lockhart?”

“Oh, he’s locked up for now. Once the school year ends, I’ll send him to St. Mungo’s,” Ravenclaw replied. “Frankly, erasing his memories was the kindest thing I could’ve done. The man was a fraud, ruining the reputation of Ravenclaw House.”

Bruce already knew the truth about Lockhart. All his grand adventures had been stolen from others, his fame built on lies.

Still, something in Ravenclaw’s phrasing caught Bruce’s attention.

“Wait—‘this school year’? You’re not teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts anymore?”

“No, I find the subject pointless,” Ravenclaw replied dismissively.

To her, it was.

The Unforgivable Curses—Imperius, Cruciatus, and Avada Kedavra—were the cornerstone of dark magic, and all three were considered unstoppable.

What was the point of teaching defense if the most dangerous curses couldn’t be defended against?

Ravenclaw preferred to focus on unraveling those spells entirely.

Bruce disagreed but saw no point in arguing.

“What identity will you use to stay at Hogwarts?” he asked.

Ravenclaw raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious? Rowena Royle. I crafted that name myself.”

It was her backup plan from the start.

“And the Enchantress?” Bruce asked. “Has she returned to her original world?”

Ravenclaw shook her head and opened a drawer, pulling out a crude rag doll.

“She’s right here.”

The doll was hastily made, its mismatched buttons for eyes and frayed yarn hair giving it a comical appearance.

As soon as Ravenclaw set it on the desk, the doll twitched.

Suddenly, it sprang to life, scrambling to its feet.

The doll scanned its surroundings nervously, spotted Lockhart’s face, and let out a muffled squeal.

Panicked, it leapt off the desk, landed with a soft thud, and bolted for the door.

“It escaped,” Bruce observed dryly.

“She won’t get far,” Ravenclaw replied nonchalantly. “Let her run. When I need her, she’ll come back.”

The otherworldly magic she carried was worth studying.

“Oh, by the way,” Ravenclaw added. “After this term ends, are you heading to another world? If so, can you take me along for the ride?”

Bruce hesitated, but Kathoom answered first.

“The nerve of her,” the owl huffed. “It’s bad enough dealing with you. If she tags along, I’ll die of exhaustion.”

How presumptuous.

“Sorry, Lady Ravenclaw, but I can’t do that,” Bruce said.

“Fair enough. Just thought I’d ask,” she replied, dismissing him with a wave. “Go on, now. It’s nearly curfew.”

Bruce left the office, walking the dimly lit corridors of the castle.

“The next half of the year will be tough for the staff,” he said to Kathoom. “A lot of students are struggling emotionally.”

“You shouldn’t talk about others,” Kathoom replied. “Your own mental health is worse than anyone’s.”

The second persona…

Bruce thought about the looming threat of the Zur-En-Arrh personality.

According to Kathoom, the day the Bat-Radiator entered his hands would be the day he lost control.

Would it really come to that?

Bruce didn’t know. But he resolved never to touch the device.

His body and his destiny would remain his own.

“Still…” Kathoom muttered, a note of concern in his voice. “What do you think that Bat-Radiator is made of?”

He had a sneaking suspicion.

“Barbatos wouldn’t be vile enough to make it out of metal, would he?”

—

T/N: Italics are only used when they are around other people