Chapter Text
It had been a very long time since someone like Bruce Wayne had the chance to sit and reflect on anything. Of course, a man like Bruce Wayne never truly had time to rest—wearing the mask of a CEO in the morning and changing his face to become the Dark Knight by night. Rest was something he hadn’t had in far too long.
The cold air of Gotham helped calm him, even if only a little. The end-of-year season made crime of all kinds slow down; most criminals were already behind bars, and few dared to stir up trouble.
After everything that had happened recently—after taking in a nine-year-old boy, Dick Grayson, who had lost his parents that tragic night—Bruce was exhausted. Being able to sit and read in the manor's library, the very place where his father used to read, felt almost foreign. From the large window, he could see his mother’s rose garden. Sometimes Bruce wondered: what would life have been like if he hadn’t insisted on watching that movie on that night? What if the world had been just a little kinder to him?
Bruce never liked putting himself in places like this—places filled with memories of his parents, memories he could never reclaim. It was almost absurd that a single, terrible night left Bruce Wayne, the only heir of Thomas and Martha, as the last surviving Wayne. Bruce never had relatives, not even childhood playmates. And when he lost his parents, he lost his entire world.
This library held what little good memories he still had. He had never managed to finish reading a book in here. He could never stay in the room long; old memories always came back to haunt him. His mother’s old books sat exactly where they always had, untouched by time.
Bruce’s long fingers traced along the spines of his mother’s books. This shelf was the oldest one. Though it hadn’t been regularly cleaned, it was surprisingly spotless. That alone startled him. But when he pulled out a book, a strange sound followed. He pulled another. And another. And another. Until only the last book remained. The shelf—what should have been an ordinary bookshelf—opened right before his eyes.
A small room appeared. Books lined the walls. On the far side were several photographs—family photos, and pictures of a woman who looked unmistakably like his mother. Photos of Martha Wayne standing beside a red-haired, freckled man with bright blue eyes much like hers. Many photos. Bruce flipped one over, and though the writing was faded with time, he could still read it: “The Weasley siblings — Septimus Weasley & Martha Weasley.” Bruce frowned. His mother had never once mentioned her maiden name, much less siblings. But if these photos were truly of her… then he still had family. He wasn’t as alone as he thought.
“Ah, I didn’t expect the young master to find this room on his own today.”
A familiar voice sounded from behind him. Bruce didn’t need to turn to know who it was—Alfred Pennyworth, the man who had been more of a father to him than anyone else, the man who’d carried him through the darkest moments of his life.
“Madam Martha wanted you to know about this someday, Master Bruce.”
“Know about what?”
“Before she came to Gotham—before she married into the Wayne family—she was born and raised in England.”
“I’m not sure if you remember, Master Bruce, but when you were little your mother once said she wanted to take you to England to meet your relatives. You always told her you were lonely.”
The old man’s gentle smile softened the weight in Bruce’s chest, though Bruce couldn’t tear his eyes away from the photos.
“But why a secret room, Alfred? What exactly is this place?” Bruce asked, his confusion still heavy. Family was one thing—but this room? Why hide it?
“I believe you understand that magic is real. The Weasley family is considered a pure-blood wizarding family in England. But your mother… was a Squib.”
“A Squib?” Bruce frowned. He knew magic existed—working with Zatanna and Giovanni taught the Justice League plenty—but finding out he had wizard relatives? That was harder to accept.
“It means someone born into a magical family who cannot use magic. Your mother was the only one in her generation without magic. And you are the same.”
“It’s… hard to accept, Alfred.” Bruce rubbed his temple. He wasn’t sure he was ready—no, he was afraid to hope. If he truly still had family…
“Then would you like to see for yourself? Go and meet them with your own eyes,” Alfred offered softly. Bruce did want to hope. He wanted so badly to stop being alone. He always said he’d made peace with losing his parents, but wounds like his don’t fade easily. Alfred knew that better than anyone.
“That’s… a good idea, Alfred. Come on. Tell Dick to pack his things. We’re going to England.”