The secure satellite phone on Alfred's desk purred twice before connecting—a sound that seemed to carry across continents and through layers of encrypted relay stations that made tracing the call effectively impossible. The technology was older than most people realized, holdover from Cold War intelligence operations that had never quite been retired because sometimes older meant more reliable, harder to hack, less susceptible to modern surveillance.
Alfred Pennyworth sat in Thomas Wayne's study—now functionally his own command center—with the kind of rigid posture that suggested this conversation would be difficult despite decades of practice making such calls. The leather chair creaked slightly as he settled in, and outside the windows, Gotham's autumn darkness pressed against the glass like something alive and hungry.
The line clicked three times—standard countersurveillance protocol—then a voice emerged that carried the weight of too many languages, too many identities, too many lives lived in shadows that law-abiding citizens pretended didn't exist.
"Alfred." Just one word, but it held recognition, cautious warmth, and the kind of professional respect that came from shared history in places that appeared on no maps. The accent was difficult to place—French foundation with layers of other influences that suggested someone who'd spent decades becoming whoever circumstances required. "I wondered how long before you'd reach out. The Wayne boys return from their mysterious educational sabbatical, and suddenly my secure line is receiving calls from Gotham. Coincidence seems... unlikely."
"Henri." Alfred's cultured British accent carried its own weight—the careful pronunciation of someone who'd learned to speak multiple languages fluently but chose to maintain his original identity rather than adopting convenient masks. "Your intelligence network remains admirably comprehensive. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've made a career of knowing things before they become officially knowable."
"Information is currency in my profession, mon ami." The sound of movement suggested Ducard was relocating—probably to somewhere more secure, more private, more conducive to conversations that couldn't be overheard. "And the return of Bruce and Hadrian Wayne after six years of absence from all public records? That's premium currency. Especially given the... unusual circumstances of their departure."
A pause, weighted with things unsaid. "I assume you're not calling to discuss their academic progress or social development. Not at 2 AM Gotham time using encryption protocols that suggest this conversation cannot exist in any official capacity."
Alfred allowed himself a thin smile that Ducard couldn't see but would probably hear in his voice anyway. "You know me too well, Henri. Though in fairness, we've known each other long enough that certain pretenses become tiresome. So yes—I'm calling because I need your particular expertise for a project that requires... discretion beyond what conventional educational institutions can provide."
"Project." Ducard's voice held amusement tinged with genuine curiosity. "I notice you don't say 'student' or 'students.' Project suggests something more complex than simple tutoring. Something that requires my specific skill set rather than any number of qualified academics who could teach whatever wealthy teenagers supposedly need to know."
"Because what they need to know isn't something academics teach," Alfred replied with careful precision. "They've spent six years learning to be weapons. Now they need to learn how to be *effective* weapons. Ones that understand their enemies thoroughly enough to dismantle them systematically rather than simply engaging in spectacular but ultimately futile displays of combat prowess."
The silence that followed stretched long enough that Alfred checked to ensure the connection hadn't been severed. When Ducard finally spoke, his voice had lost all traces of amusement, replaced by something harder and infinitely more calculating.
"Six years with Richard Dragon." Not a question—a statement of fact backed by intelligence gathering that must have been extensive and expensive. "I heard rumors that he'd taken students again. Unusual students, given his general policy of refusing to train anyone under eighteen. But then, the Wayne boys aren't typical teenagers, are they? Not after what happened to their parents."
"No," Alfred agreed quietly. "They are not typical in any conventional sense. Dragon saw potential that I couldn't fully recognize at the time—raw capability that could be shaped into something extraordinary given proper instruction and systematic pressure. Six years of that instruction have produced... remarkable results."
"Remarkable enough that you want me to teach them criminal methodology." Again, not a question. Ducard had clearly already worked through the implications of this conversation before Alfred had finished explaining his requirements. "You want them to understand organized crime from the inside, learn to think like criminals rather than simply fighting them. Which suggests their eventual objectives go beyond personal revenge or conventional law enforcement approaches."
"They intend to wage systematic war against Gotham's criminal infrastructure," Alfred said bluntly, abandoning diplomatic phrasing in favor of direct honesty. "Not arrest criminals—*eliminate* them. Dismantle organizations, destroy revenue sources, neutralize political protection, create enough sustained pressure that crime becomes unsustainable as a profitable enterprise. They're preparing to do what law enforcement either cannot or will not accomplish."
The sound of liquid being poured suggested Ducard was processing this information over what was probably very expensive scotch. "Ambitious. Possibly insane. Definitely illegal in ways that would horrify most people. And you're calling me because..."
"Because they need to understand their enemies with depth that textbooks cannot provide," Alfred replied. "They need someone who's lived that life, operated in those grey areas, understands criminal psychology and methodology from direct experience rather than academic theory. Someone who can teach them to think like the people they're planning to destroy without actually recruiting them into the life they're planning to oppose."
"That's a remarkably fine distinction, Alfred." Ducard's voice carried the weight of hard experience. "Teaching someone to think like a criminal while keeping them from becoming criminals—it's like teaching someone to swim by holding their head underwater and hoping they don't drown. The skills I could teach them? They're tools that could be used for good or evil with equal efficiency. The difference lies entirely in the user's choices, and choices become compromised when you understand exactly how easy evil can be."
"I know," Alfred said simply. "Believe me, Henri—I've spent considerable time considering the risks. The potential for corruption, the likelihood that exposure to your methodology might push them toward becoming exactly what they're fighting against. But I've also spent six years watching them develop under Dragon's instruction, and I've seen the kind of discipline, commitment, and mutual accountability they've built together."
He paused, choosing his next words with exceptional care. "They're not children who can be easily corrupted by exposure to darkness. They're weapons who've already been tempered in fires that would break most people. What they need now isn't protection from darkness—it's instruction in how to navigate it without being consumed. And for that, I need someone who's walked through shadows and emerged still capable of distinguishing light from darkness."
"You're asking a lot, mon ami." But there was something in Ducard's voice that suggested interest despite reservations. "Not just teaching, but mentorship. Not just methodology, but philosophy. You want me to shape how they think about crime, justice, the space between law and necessity. That kind of instruction changes people permanently—there's no going back once you've learned to see the world through criminal eyes."
"I'm aware. But the alternative is sending them into that world unprepared, with inadequate understanding of their enemies and insufficient tools for the war they're determined to fight. Better they learn from someone I trust—however conditionally—than figure it out themselves through trial and error that could get them killed."
Alfred's voice grew harder, carrying the weight of someone who'd made similar choices before and lived with the consequences. "Six years ago, I sent three traumatized nine-year-olds to a monastery in the middle of nowhere to be systematically broken down and rebuilt as weapons. That decision could have destroyed them, could have created monsters instead of protectors. But Dragon succeeded where I had no guarantee of success because he understood that true strength requires more than physical capability—it requires moral foundation that can withstand pressure without shattering."
"And you believe I possess similar understanding?" Ducard's skepticism was clear. "Alfred, we both know my relationship with morality is... flexible at best. I've done things that would make your Wayne boys look like choir boys. I've killed people who probably deserved it and some who definitely didn't. I've stolen, lied, manipulated, and generally operated as exactly the kind of person they're planning to eliminate. Why would you trust me with their education?"
"Because despite everything you've done, you're still capable of distinguishing between necessity and cruelty," Alfred replied with absolute certainty. "You're pragmatic to the point of amorality, yes—but you're not sadistic. You don't cause harm for its own sake. You operate in grey areas because sometimes that's where solutions exist, not because you enjoy the moral compromise. And most importantly, you're still capable of recognizing when you've gone too far."
He leaned forward, as if proximity to the phone could somehow make his words carry more weight across the thousands of miles separating them. "I've known you for over twenty years, Henri. I've seen you in situations that revealed who you really are beneath the various masks and identities. You're not a good man by conventional standards—but you're not evil either. You're someone who understands that the world rarely presents clean choices between right and wrong, and who's learned to operate effectively in that ambiguous space without losing sight of basic humanity."
"Flattering," Ducard said dryly. "Though your assessment assumes I still possess that humanity you're referencing. Some days I'm not entirely certain myself."
"Then consider this an opportunity to find out," Alfred suggested. "Six years ago, I made a choice to trust Dragon with three children who needed to become more than they were. Now I'm making a choice to trust you with three teenagers who need to understand darkness without being consumed by it. Teach them what you know. Help them develop the capabilities they'll need. But also help them maintain the moral foundation that separates protectors from predators."
The silence stretched again, longer this time. When Ducard finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who'd just made a decision that would reshape multiple futures in ways he couldn't fully predict.
"One year. I'll give you one year of instruction, starting..." A pause, probably consulting schedules and prior commitments. "Starting early November. Four weeks from now. I'll need proper cover identity, accommodation at Wayne Manor that provides sufficient privacy for the kind of training I have in mind, and absolute discretion regarding the nature of my instruction."
"All easily arranged," Alfred confirmed, relief bleeding through his professional composure. "Cover story is that you're a private tutor hired to provide continued education following their six years abroad. Your background will be documented through appropriate channels, your presence at the manor will be explained as ensuring they receive proper instruction before returning to formal academic environments."
"And my curriculum?" Ducard asked. "Because what I teach won't appear in any educational standards or accreditation requirements. If anyone scrutinizes too closely, they'll discover exactly what kind of 'education' I'm providing."
"Your curriculum will be whatever you judge necessary to prepare them for the war they're determined to fight," Alfred replied bluntly. "Criminal psychology, methodology, tradecraft—everything they need to understand their enemies from the inside. I'm not constraining your instruction or demanding you conform to conventional educational standards. I'm trusting your professional judgment about what they need to know."
"Dangerous level of trust, mon ami."
"Yes. But I've spent six years learning to be comfortable with dangerous choices. This is simply the next in a long series of risks that seemed unavoidable given our circumstances."
Ducard laughed—a sound that carried genuine amusement despite the serious nature of their discussion. "You've changed, Alfred. The man I knew twenty years ago would never have made these kinds of choices. Too bound by protocol, too committed to proper procedures, too convinced that the system could work if only people followed the rules correctly."
"Twenty years changes people," Alfred replied with something that might have been regret. "Especially when you spend those years watching criminals operate with impunity while the system you believed in proves inadequate to protect innocent people. The attack on the Wayne family broke something in me, Henri—or perhaps revealed something that had always been there but I'd never acknowledged. The understanding that sometimes the only way to achieve justice is by operating outside conventional constraints."
"Welcome to the grey areas, mon ami. I'd say they're more comfortable than you'd expect, but that would be lying. They're deeply uncomfortable—which is precisely why most people avoid them despite recognizing their necessity."
"Then it's fortunate I'm no longer interested in comfort," Alfred said with dry humor. "Now I'm interested in results. In creating the kind of weapons that can actually change this city rather than simply making symbolic gestures that accomplish nothing beyond making me feel virtuous."
"Well then." Ducard's voice carried satisfaction mixed with something darker. "Let's make sure your weapons are properly forged. Send me detailed profiles on all three of them—capabilities, limitations, psychological assessments, whatever intelligence you've gathered during their time with Dragon. I need to understand what I'm working with before I can determine optimal instructional approaches."
"I'll have comprehensive briefing materials transmitted through secure channels within forty-eight hours."
"And Alfred?" Ducard's tone shifted, becoming more serious. "You understand that what I'm about to teach them can't be untaught. Once they learn to think like criminals, to see the world through eyes that recognize opportunity in others' vulnerabilities, to understand exactly how easy it is to hurt people when you know their weaknesses—they can't go back to innocent perspectives. This is permanent transformation we're discussing."
"I understand," Alfred said quietly. "And I've made peace with that cost. They can't protect Gotham from criminals without understanding criminals. They can't wage war against organized crime without learning how organized crime actually operates. The question was never whether to expose them to these things—it was whether to do so under controlled instruction or let them learn through trial and error that would likely get them killed."
"Fair enough. Then I'll see you in four weeks, mon ami. And Alfred? Make sure those boys are ready for what's coming. Because I don't teach children, and I don't pull punches for the sake of psychological comfort. They want to understand criminals? I'm going to show them exactly what that means—every ugly truth, every moral compromise, every moment where necessity and monstrosity become indistinguishable."
"They're ready," Alfred replied with more confidence than he entirely felt. "Dragon prepared them for physical hardship and tactical pressure. Now you'll prepare them for the psychological complexity of operating in spaces where clear morality becomes impossible to maintain. Between the two educations, they'll be as ready as anyone can be for what they're planning."
"Let's hope you're right. Because if you're wrong, we'll be creating exactly the kind of monsters you're hoping they'll destroy. And that's a burden I'm not sure even my flexible morality can bear."
The line clicked dead, leaving Alfred alone in the study with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the weight of choices that couldn't be unmade. He sat for several minutes in silence, staring at the phone as if it might offer reassurance that he hadn't just made a catastrophic mistake.
Finally, he stood and moved to the window, looking out over Gotham's lights—millions of people sleeping peacefully, unaware that their city's future was being shaped by conversations conducted through encrypted channels and decisions made by men who operated in shadows.
"God help us all," Alfred murmured to the empty room. "Because I've just invited the devil himself to dinner, and I'm trusting him to teach my children to dance without selling their souls in the process."
Outside, Gotham's darkness pressed against the glass like something hungry and patient, waiting to see whether Alfred Pennyworth's gamble would create the city's salvation or its ultimate destruction.
The die was cast.
Henri Ducard was coming.
And nothing would ever be quite the same again.
—
The conservatory had been Thomas Wayne's gift to Martha—a soaring glass structure attached to the manor's south wing where exotic plants from six continents flourished under carefully controlled conditions. It was beautiful in daylight, all green growing things and filtered sunlight. But at night, with strategic illumination casting dramatic shadows through the foliage, it became something else entirely—a space that felt removed from the ordinary world, perfect for magic that needed room to breathe.
Giovanni Zatara stood at the center of the space like a conductor preparing for the performance of his career, his cape arranged with theatrical precision despite the informal nature of the gathering. His dark eyes sparkled with anticipation and what might have been paternal anxiety carefully disguised as professional enthusiasm.
"Right then," he announced, his accented voice carrying easily through the glass-enclosed space. "Six years. Six years of training under Richard Dragon's brutal methodology while your magical education was necessarily... limited. I am intensely curious to see what has survived, what has developed, and what requires remedial instruction to prevent catastrophic failure when you actually need your abilities under operational pressure."
He gestured broadly, his movements unconsciously theatrical even in private settings. "This is not performance evaluation for grades or academic assessment. This is diagnostic examination to determine whether you can actually deploy magic effectively when circumstances demand it, or whether six years of physical training has atrophied capabilities that require constant practice to maintain."
Zatanna had changed into what she'd started calling her "working clothes"—comfortable black pants and a fitted top that allowed full range of motion, her long dark hair pulled back in a practical braid rather than styled for performance. She bounced on her toes with barely contained energy, clearly eager to demonstrate what six years had taught her.
"Papa, I've been practicing. Every day during training, even when Dragon was making us do things that seemed specifically designed to kill us through systematic exhaustion. I didn't let the magic atrophy just because we were learning to punch people with optimal efficiency."
"We shall see, mija. Intention is admirable, but results are what matter when enemies attack and your first instinct must be correct rather than merely enthusiastic."
Hadrian stood beside his sister-in-magic with aristocratic composure, though the Dragon's Claw pendant pulsed against his chest with unusual intensity—as if the ancient artifact recognized this moment's significance and was preparing to reveal exactly what six years had accomplished. His green eyes held steady confidence tempered by realistic understanding that Giovanni's assessments were never gentle or forgiving.
"Where would you like us to begin, Master Zatara?" The formal address came naturally despite their familial relationship—this was professional evaluation, not casual family gathering.
"Begin with basics," Giovanni replied, his theatrical demeanor giving way to genuine professorial focus. "Show me your fundamental capabilities before we progress to complex applications. Zatanna—elemental manipulation. Fire, water, air, earth. Demonstrate control, precision, and power scaling. Hadrian—magical manifestation through the Dragon's Claw. Show me how your connection to the artifact has developed beyond initial bonding."
Zatanna stepped forward with theatrical flair that had only intensified over six years, her hands already moving through complex gestures that seemed to pull invisible threads from the air around her.
"Erif," she spoke clearly, voice carrying the kind of command that made reality itself pay attention.
Flame bloomed across her palm—not the uncertain flicker from six years ago, but confident fire that danced and swirled with obvious responsiveness to her will. She shaped it into increasingly complex forms—sphere, spiral, dragon, phoenix—each transformation smooth and controlled. The temperature in the conservatory rose noticeably, making Giovanni nod with professional approval.
"Good. Sustained control without visible effort. Power output?"
Zatanna's grin was pure mischief. "How much property damage are we comfortable with, Papa? Because I can go significantly bigger if structural integrity isn't a concern."
"Theoretical maximum then. No actual demonstration unless you enjoy explaining to Alfred why the conservatory requires complete reconstruction."
"Approximately fifty-foot radius of sustained combustion," Zatanna replied with the kind of casual precision that suggested she'd actually calculated these parameters through systematic testing. "Duration dependent on available fuel sources and whether I'm maintaining other simultaneous spellwork. Longer with preparation, shorter under combat pressure."
Giovanni's expression shifted to something approaching genuine impressed satisfaction. "That's... considerably more impressive than I anticipated. Six years ago, you could barely maintain a candle flame for thirty seconds without losing concentration. This represents exponential growth."
"Dragon's meditation training helped," Zatanna explained, already transitioning to her next demonstration. "Turns out that learning to maintain perfect focus while people are actively trying to hurt you translates remarkably well to magical concentration requirements."
She shifted her attention, hands moving through different gestures. "Retaw."
Water coalesced from ambient humidity, forming complex geometric patterns that defied gravity and normal fluid dynamics. She shaped it into shields, weapons, even created a miniature waterspout that spiraled upward toward the glass ceiling before dissipating at her command.
"Control looks exceptional," Giovanni observed, circling to examine her technique from multiple angles. "Precision?"
Zatanna's response was to create dozens of water droplets that hung suspended in midair, then send each one through increasingly narrow gaps between leaves, branches, and exotic flowers—threading impossible paths with millimeter accuracy before recombining into a single sphere that she casually dispelled.
"Show off," Hadrian murmured with fond exasperation.
"It's not showing off if it's genuinely impressive," Zatanna shot back with a grin. "That's just demonstrating competence with appropriate flair."
Giovanni couldn't quite suppress his own smile. "Air manipulation. Earth. Then we discuss the concerning fact that my daughter has apparently become genuinely formidable magician when I wasn't paying attention for six years."
The remaining elemental demonstrations were equally impressive—air currents powerful enough to create localized wind tunnels, earth manipulation that reshaped stone and soil with casual precision. Throughout all of it, Zatanna maintained theatrical presentation that made even destructive magic look like performance art, her natural showmanship integrated seamlessly with genuine technical capability.
When she finally stepped back, breathing only slightly harder from the exertion, Giovanni moved to embrace her with obvious paternal pride barely constrained by professional assessment requirements.
"Mija, you have exceeded every expectation. Your control is exceptional, your power output remarkable, your precision and versatility suggest systematic development rather than simply raw talent left to develop naturally." He pulled back to study her face with intensity that suggested he was looking for something beyond magical capability. "But I must ask—how much of this capability can you access under true combat pressure? When you're exhausted, injured, terrified? When people you love are in danger and your first instinct might be overwhelming force rather than controlled application?"
Zatanna's theatrical confidence faltered slightly, revealing the fifteen-year-old beneath the competent magician facade. "I... don't know, Papa. We've done combat simulations, training exercises where Dragon tried to replicate pressure and fear. But you're right—that's not the same as genuine threat to people I actually care about."
"Honest assessment. Good. Remember this feeling when you're tempted to rely too heavily on magic rather than the physical capabilities Dragon spent six years developing. Your magic is powerful, but it's also the thing most likely to fail when you need it most—because magic requires concentration, and fear destroys concentration faster than any enemy attack."
He released her, stepping back with visible effort. "Practice scenarios where your magic fails completely. Learn to win fights without supernatural assistance. That's the difference between magician who survives and magician who dies because they forgot how to fight when the magic stopped working."
"Understood, Papa." But her voice carried new weight—the recognition that her father was speaking from hard experience rather than theoretical concern.
Giovanni turned his attention to Hadrian, his expression shifting to something more complicated—paternal affection mixed with professional curiosity and what might have been slight unease about evaluating someone who wore an artifact that Giovanni himself had once studied but never mastered.
"Hadrian. You've worn the Dragon's Claw for six years now. Show me what that bond has produced. Start with your Patronus—I'm curious whether it's simply maintained consistency or developed new capabilities."
Hadrian moved to the center of the space with diplomatic grace, his posture shifting subtly as he prepared to demonstrate magic that had become as natural as breathing over six years of systematic practice. The Dragon's Claw pendant blazed with silver light, and his voice carried command that seemed to resonate with something far older than his fifteen years.
The spell wasn't in English, wasn't in any language Giovanni recognized—ancient words that the Claw itself seemed to provide, drawn from centuries of previous bearers who had mastered this particular magic.
Silver light erupted from Hadrian's extended hand, coalescing with breathtaking speed into his Patronus. But this wasn't the uncertain construct from six years ago, the dragon that had impressed through sheer size and presence.
This was art given form and purpose.
The silver dragon was magnificent—easily thirty feet long, wings spreading wide enough to brush the conservatory's glass ceiling, every scale rendered in perfect detail. Its eyes blazed with intelligence that suggested genuine consciousness rather than simple magical construct. When it moved, the motion was fluid, natural, beautiful in ways that made Giovanni's breath catch despite decades of exposure to remarkable magic.
"Dio mio," Giovanni breathed, professional composure cracking entirely. "Hadrian, that's... that's not simply Patronus magic anymore. That's something else entirely. Something the Claw has taught you that shouldn't be possible for someone your age."
The dragon circled once, then settled beside Hadrian like a faithful guardian, its massive head lowering to his level. When Hadrian rested his hand on its snout, the gesture carried intimacy that spoke of genuine connection rather than simple magical control.
"The Claw provides more than focus," Hadrian explained, his voice carrying new depths. "It teaches. Remembers every bearer, every technique, every application of power developed over centuries. This isn't just my magic—it's inherited knowledge from a thousand years of Dragon wielders, filtered through the artifact and expressed through my capabilities."
Giovanni circled the Patronus with careful attention, examining it from multiple angles like an art critic evaluating a masterpiece. "Combat applications?"
"Extensive." Hadrian's response was immediate and confident. "Offensive capabilities through physical attacks, defensive applications through barrier generation, reconnaissance through extended sensory range, tactical coordination through information relay. It's not simply protection against dark forces—it's comprehensive combat support that adapts to whatever circumstances demand."
"Show me adaptation. Give it a problem that requires creative solution."
Hadrian's lips quirked in what might have been a smile. The silver dragon's form rippled, then split—two smaller dragons, then four, then eight, each one perfect in detail despite the distributed power. They moved in coordinated patterns that suggested hive-mind intelligence, weaving through the conservatory's plant life with graceful precision before recombining into the original magnificent construct.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Giovanni muttered, abandoning his usual theatrical presentation for genuine shock. "You can divide consciousness while maintaining perfect coordination across multiple manifestations. That's... that's master-level technique that should require decades of study to achieve."
"The Claw accelerates learning," Hadrian said simply. "Dragon warned me about this—that the artifact could make me powerful too quickly, develop capabilities without the wisdom that usually accompanies such power. That's why I've been so careful about relying on it, maintaining physical combat skills that don't require magical enhancement."
"Wise beyond your years, young Wayne." Giovanni's voice carried new respect mixed with obvious concern. "But I must ask the same question I asked Zatanna—what happens when the magic fails? When you're separated from the Claw, or it's damaged, or circumstances prevent magical application?"
Hadrian dismissed his Patronus with a gesture of casual authority that made it clear he could recall it instantly if needed. "Then I fight with everything Dragon taught me. The magic is powerful, certainly—but it's not who I am. It's a tool, remarkable and effective, but still just a tool that can be lost or broken or rendered temporarily useless."
He met Giovanni's gaze steadily. "I've drilled extensively with the Claw removed, fought against magical opponents while deliberately avoiding supernatural response, practiced scenarios where magic becomes liability rather than advantage. Dragon made sure we understood that our primary weapons aren't our special abilities—they're our minds, our training, our absolute refusal to surrender regardless of what advantages get stripped away."
"Dragon taught you well." Giovanni moved closer, resting his hand briefly on Hadrian's shoulder with paternal warmth that transcended professional assessment. "Your physical capabilities have not atrophied your magical development—if anything, they've enhanced it by providing foundation that pure magical training often lacks. You understand combat in ways that most magicians never learn, which makes your supernatural abilities exponentially more dangerous because you know exactly when and how to deploy them for maximum effect."
He stepped back, his theatrical energy returning as he addressed both teenagers with obvious satisfaction despite lingering concerns. "You've both exceeded my expectations dramatically. Six years ago, you were talented children with raw potential and dangerous enthusiasm. Now you're genuinely formidable practitioners who understand not just how to use magic, but when to use it and—critically—when not to rely on it exclusively."
Giovanni began to pace, his cape flowing with unconscious dramatic effect. "However. There are gaps in your education that require attention. Combat applications are clearly exceptional, but what about subtlety? Infiltration? Magical investigation and diagnostics? These capabilities will be essential for your stated objectives regarding Gotham's criminal infrastructure."
Zatanna and Hadrian exchanged glances—the kind of silent communication that six years of partnership had made automatic.
"We've focused primarily on direct application," Hadrian admitted with diplomatic honesty. "Dragon's training emphasized combat effectiveness and tactical deployment under pressure. Subtlety wasn't particularly prioritized when the educational philosophy centered on overwhelming opponents through superior capability."
"Then we have curriculum for the coming months," Giovanni declared with renewed enthusiasm. "Advanced illusion work, mental manipulation, diagnostic spells, magical forensics—everything you'll need for intelligence operations that can't be solved through direct confrontation or overwhelming force."
"How advanced are we talking?" Zatanna asked with obvious interest. "Because I've already been working on illusion layering and perceptual manipulation during Dragon's training. Created entire phantom armies during combat simulations just to see if I could make opponents waste resources fighting nothing."
Giovanni's expression shifted to something between impressed and slightly horrified. "You created phantom armies. Plural. During combat training. As experiment."
"Educational experiment," Zatanna corrected primly. "Very scientifically rigorous. I took detailed notes about which illusion techniques worked best under which circumstances. Data-driven magical development."
"Of course you did." Giovanni looked at Hadrian with paternal exasperation. "Did you know your sister-in-magic was conducting magical experiments during Dragon's brutal training regimen?"
"I helped her test the illusions against my Patronus's sensory capabilities," Hadrian replied with aristocratic composure that didn't quite mask his amusement. "Someone needed to provide quality control and ensure her phantom armies were actually convincing rather than just enthusiastic failures that would get her killed in actual combat."
Giovanni stared at both of them for a long moment, then began laughing—genuine, unrestrained amusement that filled the conservatory with warmth despite the serious nature of their discussion.
"You two. You beautiful, brilliant, absolutely terrifying children. Dragon created weapons, yes—but somehow you managed to remain scientists underneath all the systematic violence training. Experimenting, testing, developing capabilities through methodical research rather than simply accepting instruction passively."
He wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "That gives me considerably more confidence in your eventual success. Criminals who simply fight are dangerous. Criminals who think strategically are worse. But warriors who treat combat as ongoing experiment, who continuously test and refine their capabilities—those are the ones who become legends or nightmares, depending on which side they choose."
"We're choosing the right side," Zatanna said with quiet certainty. "Whatever legends we become, they'll be the kind that protect people rather than preying on them."
"See that you remember that, mija. Because the difference between protector and predator becomes very thin when you possess the capabilities you've developed. Power doesn't care about intentions—it only cares about application. Use it wisely, or watch it corrupt you into exactly what you're fighting against."
The weight of his words settled over the conservatory like evening mist, transforming the space from training ground back into garden sanctuary.
"Tomorrow," Giovanni announced, deliberately lightening the atmosphere, "we begin proper magical curriculum. Diagnostic spells first—I need you both proficient at detecting supernatural influences, reading magical signatures, identifying spell residue. If there's even remote possibility that your parents' conditions involve magical components, you need capability to investigate thoroughly rather than relying on my assessments exclusively."
"Agreed," Hadrian said immediately. "Multiple independent evaluations provide better intelligence than single expert opinion, regardless of that expert's qualifications."
"After diagnostics, we move to advanced illusion work, mental manipulation theory, and what I diplomatically call 'enhanced interrogation techniques' that don't involve physical violence."
Zatanna's eyes lit up with interest. "You're going to teach us magical interrogation? Papa, that's... that's actually brilliant. Way more effective than beating information out of people, probably more reliable, definitely more theatrical—"
"And ethically complicated in ways that require serious discussion before I teach you techniques that could easily be abused," Giovanni interrupted firmly. "Just because magic makes information extraction easier doesn't mean it's automatically justified. We're going to have extensive conversations about consent, mental autonomy, and exactly where the line falls between legitimate intelligence gathering and unethical mind control."
"Fair point," Hadrian acknowledged. "Though I appreciate your willingness to teach controversial techniques rather than simply forbidding them on ethical grounds. We need to understand these capabilities even if we ultimately choose not to deploy them operationally."
Giovanni nodded with satisfaction. "Exactly right. Education about dark magic doesn't automatically corrupt students—ignorance about dark magic gets students killed when enemies deploy it against them. Better you understand these techniques thoroughly, including their ethical implications and practical limitations, than face them unprepared because some well-meaning instructor decided you shouldn't be exposed to morally complicated magic."
He moved toward the conservatory exit, gesturing for them to follow. "Now, let's return to the manor proper before Alfred begins worrying that my magical assessment has produced property damage requiring expensive repairs. Though I must say, I'm genuinely impressed by your restraint—six years ago, magical demonstrations with you two involved considerably more accidental destruction and considerably less controlled precision."
"Dragon beat the enthusiasm out of us," Zatanna said cheerfully. "Literally, in several cases. Turns out that systematic pain is excellent motivation for developing better control and thinking before casting."
"Remind me to thank Richard Dragon for his apparently brutal but ultimately effective pedagogical methods," Giovanni replied dryly. "Though I suspect he'd claim he was simply preparing you for reality rather than intentionally traumatizing you for educational purposes."
"He'd claim both were identical," Hadrian said with perfect diplomatic timing. "Dragon's philosophy was that the best preparation for dangerous reality is experiencing controlled versions of that danger until you develop appropriate responses. Trauma was simply inevitable byproduct of adequate preparation."
As they walked through the manor's corridors back toward the main living areas, Giovanni found himself reflecting on how dramatically these two had developed. Six years ago, they'd been talented children with raw potential and dangerous enthusiasm. Now they were formidable practitioners who understood not just magic's power, but its limitations, its costs, and the critical importance of maintaining humanity while wielding capabilities that could easily corrupt.
Dragon had forged weapons, certainly.
But somehow, underneath all that systematic violence and brutal training, they'd remained people worth protecting.
And that, Giovanni reflected, might be the most impressive magic of all.
---
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