Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Cats of Gotham
Gotham City had a reputation.
People disappeared.
People lied.
People survived.
And somehow, against all reasonable expectations, people continued living there.
They woke each morning beneath a sky that always seemed one shade too gray, drank their coffee while listening to reports of armed robberies and escaped lunatics, and went to work beneath gargoyles blackened by decades of rain and pollution.
At night, they locked their doors.
They avoided certain streets.
They learned which neighborhoods belonged to which gangs, which subway stations were safest after dark, and why it was generally a good idea not to look too closely at the rooftops when something large and black moved across them.
Gotham had rules.
They weren't written down.
You simply learned them.
Harry Potter had learned them quickly.
At twenty-four years old, Harry worked as a nurse at one of Gotham's perpetually underfunded community clinics.
It wasn't glamorous work.
It wasn't particularly safe work.
And considering the hours he worked, the pay bordered on insulting.
Harry loved it anyway.
There was something satisfying about helping people.
Not grand gestures.
Not dramatic heroics.
Just helping.
He liked kneeling beside frightened children while doctors prepared stitches, distracting them with terrible jokes until they stopped crying. He liked slipping extra crackers into the bags of elderly patients he suspected weren't eating enough. He liked bringing coffee to exhausted coworkers without being asked.
He liked fixing things.
Or people, at least.
As much as people could be fixed.
Gotham gave him plenty of practice.
The clinic was situated close enough to Crime Alley that Harry had become exceptionally talented at treating injuries without asking inconvenient questions.
A man arrived with two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and bruises shaped suspiciously like the sole of a combat boot?
He fell down the stairs.
Naturally.
A teenage girl appeared at two in the morning with a knife wound along her thigh and insisted she'd cut herself cooking?
Harry stitched her up.
He didn't ask what she'd been cooking with a twelve-inch combat knife.
A nervous young man once came in with what Harry was almost certain was a Batarang wound.
The patient claimed he'd walked into a fence.
Harry had looked at him.
The man had looked at Harry.
Harry had looked at the distinctly bat-shaped tear in his jacket.
The man had looked increasingly desperate.
"Terrible fence," Harry had eventually said.
The man's relief had been almost painful to witness.
Gotham had its own rules.
Harry had adapted.
Mostly.
His coworkers sometimes accused him of having absolutely no survival instincts.
Harry disagreed.
He had plenty of survival instincts.
He simply had a bad habit of ignoring them whenever something needed help.
Which was why, on a rainy Thursday night after a fourteen-hour shift, Harry Potter nearly got himself killed over a cat.
His feet hurt.
His scrubs smelled faintly of antiseptic despite the hoodie he'd pulled over them, his long dark hair was escaping the loose tie at the nape of his neck, and the only thoughts occupying his exhausted brain were tea, shower, and bed.
Preferably in that order.
Possibly tea in bed if he was feeling particularly reckless.
Rain fell steadily over Gotham, turning asphalt glossy beneath the streetlights.
Harry tucked his hands deeper into his pockets.
He was halfway toward the bus stop when something moved across the street.
Small.
Quick.
Silver.
Harry stopped.
A cat had wandered into the road.
Not just any cat, either.
Even through the rain Harry could recognize the distinctive spotted coat and elegant build of an Egyptian Mau. Its silver fur gleamed beneath the streetlights, marked with dark spots, while enormous green eyes stared serenely at the world around it.
Beautiful animal.
Possibly expensive.
Definitely lost.
And currently sitting directly in the path of an approaching car.
Harry saw the headlights.
He saw the cat.
He heard someone shout.
He didn't think.
That was, according to several coworkers, the problem.
Harry ran.
"Hey!"
A horn blared.
The cat turned its head.
Harry reached it.
He scooped the animal against his chest and threw himself toward the sidewalk.
Tires screamed against wet pavement.
The car shot past close enough that Harry felt displaced air tug at his clothes.
He hit the ground hard.
For several seconds, Harry remained there.
Rain pattered against his back.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
His palms stung where they'd scraped against the pavement.
"Ow."
The cat remained tucked against his chest.
Completely calm.
Harry slowly pushed himself upright.
"You," he informed the animal, breathing heavily, "have absolutely no sense of self-preservation."
Green eyes stared into his.
Harry paused.
There was something strange about those eyes.
Intelligence wasn't unusual in animals. Harry had always thought people underestimated how much animals understood.
But this was different.
The cat wasn't frightened.
It wasn't struggling.
It simply watched him.
Evaluating him.
Harry found himself staring back.
"...You're welcome?"
One delicate paw settled against his wrist.
Then the cat leaned forward.
Its forehead touched his hand.
Warmth tingled strangely across Harry's skin.
He blinked.
The cat slipped gracefully from his arms.
"Wait."
It crossed the sidewalk.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The silver feline glanced back once.
Green eyes flashed beneath the streetlight.
Then it disappeared into the darkness.
Harry stared after it.
Rain continued falling.
A passing pedestrian stared at him like he was insane.
Harry slowly looked down at himself.
Wet.
Scraped.
Filthy.
His tea was getting farther away by the second.
"Well," he muttered.
He stood.
"That was concerning."
Three days later, Harry saw the cat again.
He was leaving the clinic carrying coffee for himself and another nurse when he spotted silver fur beneath an awning across the street.
The Egyptian Mau sat perfectly upright.
Watching him.
Harry stopped.
The cat blinked.
Harry blinked.
"Hey."
Its tail curled neatly around its paws.
Harry smiled despite himself.
Then someone called his name from inside.
When Harry looked back—
The cat was gone.
Seven days later, he saw it on a rooftop.
That was considerably stranger.
Harry was walking home when that peculiar prickling sensation of being watched crawled over his skin.
He looked upward.
Two buildings over, sitting along the edge of a roof at least six stories above the ground, was the cat.
Harry stopped beneath a streetlamp.
"How did you even get up there?"
The cat stared.
"That's not an answer."
Its tail flicked.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"You are very strange."
The cat appeared entirely unconcerned by his judgment.
Two weeks after their first meeting, Harry returned home after another late shift and found the Egyptian Mau sleeping directly outside his apartment.
Harry stopped.
The cat opened one green eye.
"No."
The other eye opened.
Harry pointed at it.
"This is getting weird."
The cat yawned.
Harry crouched.
Up close, the animal looked remarkably well cared for. Its coat was clean, its body healthy, and there was no sign of injury or malnutrition.
No collar, though.
Harry checked carefully.
Nothing.
"Do you have an owner?"
The cat stretched.
"Because if you're someone's extremely expensive pet, I'd rather not get arrested for stealing you."
The cat rubbed its head against his leg.
Harry stared down at it.
"...I've been adopted."
The cat purred.
Apparently so.
Harry bought cat food the next morning.
He also bought treats.
And toys.
And a small cat bed he absolutely did not need because the animal technically didn't live with him.
The cat ignored the bed.
Naturally.
It preferred his couch.
Harry named her Cleopatra.
She stared at him with such profound offense that Harry reconsidered within thirty seconds.
"Cleo?"
The cat blinked slowly.
"Right. Cleo."
That seemed acceptable.
Harry never figured out whether Cleo actually belonged to him.
She came and went as she pleased.
Sometimes she disappeared for days.
Sometimes Harry woke to find her sleeping on his chest despite having absolutely no memory of letting her into the apartment.
Once, he'd checked every window.
Locked.
The door?
Locked.
Cleo sat on the kitchen counter grooming herself.
Harry had decided ignorance was healthier.
Life continued.
Work.
Patients.
Coffee.
Tea.
Long shifts.
Occasional explosions in the distance.
Batman appearing on the evening news.
Rumors about masked vigilantes.
Perfectly ordinary Gotham things.
And through it all—
Cleo watched.
She waited outside the clinic.
She appeared at bus stops.
She perched on rooftops.
Sometimes Harry spotted her sitting impossibly high atop streetlamps.
Once, Harry could have sworn he'd seen three other cats sitting around her in a perfect semicircle.
When he'd looked again, they'd scattered.
Cleo hadn't.
She simply stared down at him.
Harry put his hands on his hips.
"You know, I'm beginning to think you're stalking me."
Cleo blinked.
"I should probably be more concerned."
Her tail flicked.
Harry smiled.
"I'll allow it."
He continued walking.
Behind him, Cleo followed.
Eventually, Gotham reminded Harry exactly what sort of city he lived in.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Harry had worked late.
Again.
A patient had arrived twenty minutes before the end of his shift with a nasty laceration across her arm. Harry stayed to help.
By the time he left, the buses were running infrequently.
He considered calling a cab.
Then he considered his bank account.
Walking won.
Harry knew better than to take shortcuts.
Everyone in Gotham knew better.
But he was tired.
The apartment was only six blocks away.
The shortcut shaved nearly ten minutes off the walk.
Harry made a bad decision.
He turned into an alley.
Halfway through, three men stepped from the shadows.
Harry stopped.
Wonderful.
"Wallet."
One of them held a knife.
Harry looked at it.
Then at the other two.
No costumes.
No clown makeup.
No elaborate riddles.
No freeze rays.
Ordinary criminals.
Almost refreshing.
"Okay."
Harry reached slowly into his pocket.
"Phone too."
"Sure."
He handed them over.
Wallet.
Phone.
No resistance.
No argument.
Possessions could be replaced.
People couldn't.
Harry knew enough about emergency medicine to understand how quickly a simple robbery could become a homicide.
The smartest thing to do was cooperate.
So he did.
One of the men grabbed the wallet.
Another took the phone.
Harry raised his hands slightly.
"That's everything."
"Watch."
Harry glanced at his wrist.
"...Seriously?"
The knife lifted.
Harry sighed.
"Fine."
He started removing it.
And then someone shouted.
Somewhere nearby.
Maybe a police siren.
Maybe nothing.
But the youngest robber startled.
Harry saw it happen.
His eyes widened.
His hand tightened.
He moved.
Harry felt pressure against his abdomen.
Then warmth.
The robber stumbled backward.
Everyone froze.
Harry looked down.
A knife protruded from his body.
For one absurd moment, his medical training took over.
Don't remove it.
Then the robber panicked.
He yanked the knife free.
Harry nearly screamed.
Blood immediately soaked through his clothes.
"Oh," Harry whispered.
The three men ran.
Harry staggered.
One step.
Two.
His knees gave out.
He hit the pavement.
Pain burned through him.
Harry pressed both hands against the wound.
Pressure.
Apply pressure.
Call emergency services.
His phone was gone.
Shout.
Someone might hear.
"Help—"
His voice barely carried.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
Too much.
Far too much.
Harry knew exactly what that meant.
He'd seen it before.
His hands were beginning to shake.
Cold crept through his body.
The alley blurred.
His breathing became shallow.
"Come on."
Pressure.
Keep pressure.
Stay awake.
Harry stared upward.
Rain had begun falling.
Of course it had.
Gotham apparently couldn't allow someone to bleed out without appropriate atmosphere.
His hands weakened.
Streetlights blurred into halos.
The pain faded.
That frightened him more than the pain itself.
Harry knew what came next.
His heartbeat seemed distant.
Slow.
Heavy.
Then—
Faint.
He thought about the clinic.
He was scheduled tomorrow.
Someone would have to cover him.
That was inconvenient.
He wondered who would feed Cleo.
He wondered whether anyone would tell his coworkers.
His eyes slowly closed.
How unfortunate.
He had work tomorrow.
Then—
Nothing.
Soft paws touched wet pavement.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
A silver Egyptian Mau entered the alley.
Cleo approached the body lying beneath the rain.
She stopped beside Harry.
Green eyes regarded him.
There was no panic in them.
No confusion.
No fear.
Only purpose.
Another cat appeared behind her.
Black.
Then another.
White.
A tabby emerged beneath a dumpster.
A Persian stepped from behind a fence.
A Maine Coon descended from a fire escape.
More came.
From rooftops.
From alleyways.
From abandoned buildings.
Dozens.
Then scores.
Cats Harry had fed behind the clinic.
Cats whose wounds he'd cleaned.
Cats he'd carried away from traffic.
Strays he'd slipped pieces of chicken to during lunch breaks.
Some he'd never seen before.
Others he recognized immediately.
They gathered around him.
Silent.
Waiting.
Rain fell upon dozens of bowed heads.
Cleo stepped forward.
She climbed onto Harry's chest.
And pressed her forehead against his sternum.
The world changed.
Green eyes blazed.
Not reflected light.
Not streetlights.
Something else.
Something ancient.
Something that had watched humanity build its first cities beneath desert stars.
Something that remembered temples.
Incense.
Offerings.
Prayers spoken beside the Nile.
Something that remembered when cats had walked through halls of stone and gold beneath the protection of gods.
For one impossible instant—
Harry understood.
Not through words.
Through something deeper.
Guardian.
Protector.
Messenger.
Divine.
Cleo was a cat.
But she was also something else.
Something wearing the shape of one.
Something that had watched him.
Judged him.
Chosen him.
Warmth exploded through Harry's chest.
His body jerked.
Electricity raced beneath his skin.
Bones shuddered.
Blood reversed its course.
Torn flesh knitted together.
Damaged vessels sealed.
His heart—
Stopped.
Silence.
Then—
Beat.
Cleo's eyes burned brighter.
Beat.
Harry's fingers twitched.
Beat.
His lungs expanded.
Harry gasped.
Air tore into him.
His back arched.
Pain exploded across every nerve.
He coughed violently and rolled onto his side, sucking desperate breaths into lungs that had forgotten how to work.
Alive.
He was alive.
Harry opened his eyes.
The rain had stopped.
The alley was silent.
Empty.
No army of cats.
No glowing eyes.
No impossible warmth.
Only Cleo.
She sat several feet away.
Watching him.
Harry remained completely still.
Memory returned.
Knife.
Blood.
Cold.
Death.
Harry's hands flew toward his abdomen.
Nothing.
He frantically lifted his shirt.
Smooth skin.
No wound.
No scar.
Not even dried blood.
Harry stared.
His breathing quickened.
"No."
He touched the spot again.
Nothing.
He knew where the knife had entered.
He knew the damage it would have caused.
He knew how much blood he'd lost.
He remembered his heart stopping.
Harry slowly looked toward Cleo.
The Egyptian Mau stared back.
Silence stretched between them.
Harry swallowed.
"...Cats don't do that."
Cleo blinked.
Slowly.
Knowingly.
Harry stared.
Then he laughed.
It began as something weak and breathless.
Then grew.
He covered his face.
"Of course."
His shoulders shook.
"Of course this happens to me."
Because really—
Of all the ways Gotham City could have ruined his life, being murdered in an alley and resurrected by a mystical Egyptian cat hadn't even made the top ten.
Harry lowered his hands.
Cleo stood.
She turned toward the mouth of the alley.
"Wait."
The cat stopped.
Harry pushed himself shakily to his feet.
His legs worked.
Everything worked.
That realization was somehow worse.
"Cleo."
She looked back.
Harry swallowed.
"What are you?"
Green eyes glowed softly beneath the moonlight.
Ancient.
Patient.
Beautiful.
For the first time, Harry wondered whether Cleo had ever really been her name.
Or whether she'd simply allowed him to call her that.
The cat stepped into the shadows.
"Cleo?"
Gone.
Harry stood alone.
He pressed a hand against his chest.
His heartbeat remained strong beneath his palm.
Steady.
Alive.
But different.
There was something beneath it now.
Warm.
Quiet.
Waiting.
Harry looked toward the rooftops.
For a moment, he thought he saw silhouettes.
Cats.
Dozens of them.
Watching from Gotham's skyline.
Then lightning flashed.
The rooftops were empty.
Harry stood beneath the looming buildings of Gotham City and understood one thing with absolute certainty.
He had died tonight.
Death had touched him.
Claimed him.
And something much older had reached into the darkness and taken him back.
Whatever Cleo truly was, she'd been watching Harry for weeks.
Perhaps longer.
She had chosen him for reasons he didn't understand.
And somehow Harry knew that tonight hadn't been an ending.
It had been an introduction.
Gotham City had rules.
Harry Potter had spent years learning them.
But as another pair of green eyes briefly appeared in the darkness across the street, Harry realized there were older rules beneath Gotham's streets.
Older powers.
Older guardians.
And apparently—
They had cats.
Harry exhaled slowly.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, "I'm buying more treats."
Somewhere in the darkness, something purred.
And for the first time since Harry had come to Gotham, the shadows didn't feel empty.
They felt watchful.
Protective.
Waiting.
Because death had touched Harry Potter.
And something far older than death had decided—
It wasn't his time.
Not yet.
Not in Gotham.
Not while the cats were still watching.