12 October 1969

One second, Alfred Pennyworth was unconscious and asleep, on the Fourth Floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London.

The next second, the last remnants of the Dreamless Sleep Potion left his system and he shot up from his bed and gasped for air, light brown eyes wide open.

Quickly, he slowed down his breathing and began to organise his thoughts, and remember the events that led to him ending up here:

He had been investigating a Muggle house in Cornwall that had just been attacked by wizards. Although Alfred was in the Auror Office's Foreign Enemies Division (set up in 1946 by then-Head of the DMLE Justin Pilliwickle), he and Alastor Moody had volunteered to go to Cornwall of his own volition-it had been three months since he had assigned a case, and he had felt himself dying of boredom.

When he arrived in Cornwall, the house was ablaze, and there was a greenish shape in the sky above it that looked similar to a snake coming out of a skull's mouth.

He regretted looking up at it, as it had meant that he had foolishly put his guard down and given one of the perpetrators of this heinous crime the opportunity to send a Cutting Curse in his direction. Not only that, but they had all gotten away-he had heard the tell-tale cracking sounds of a wizard Apparating before he had lost consciousness from blood loss.

Keeping himself up with his forearms, Alfred looked down to the end of his bed and sighed exasperatedly. There should have been two feet, but thanks to the Cutting Curse, there was only one. To be exact, it was his right leg from the knee down that was missing.

Looking around the mostly empty ward, he could see there were five Healers attending to different patients, one occupied bed with the sheet over the head, and a sixth Healer talking to three men standing near the door. Alfred recognised all three of the men immediately.

The first man had black hair neatly parted, a black toothbrush moustache, was in his late-30s and was wearing a black pinstriped three-piece suit and tie with a grey Homburg and dark green Inverness cape with indigo lining. This was Bartemius Crouch, the Deputy-Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

The second man was Alastor Moody, who was taller than Crouch with a stronger build, long reddish-brown hair and a few years younger than Crouch was. He wore a brown leather overcoat over the Auror uniform, black leather fingerless gloves and old British Army combat boots from the 1940s that had been purchased from a Muggle military surplus.

The third man, a tall thin man with long tawny-coloured hair around the same age as Crouch, was wearing the same uniform as Moody, only he had a black Mac over his uniform. He caught Alfred's eye and nodded. Alfred nodded back. This third man, Rufus Scrimgeour, was the current Deputy-Head of the Auror Office, as of January 1969, when Moody had turned down the offer, not wanting to spend less time in the field, and the former Deputy-Head had retired after 44 years of service.

A Healer walked over to Alfred's bed, clipboard in hand. "It's good to see you're awake now," she said in a calm voice as he propped his pillow up and lay, relaxed on it. "You have visitors."

Alfred watched as the three men now began walking over to his bed, concern etched on Moody's face, while Crouch wore an impassive expression.

"Well, how are you?" asked Moody in a gruff voice.

Alfred shrugged, glancing at the calendar. "Since it's been three days, I'd say legless," he replied dryly, causing Moody to chuckle and Scrimgeour to roll his eyes.

Crouch, on the other hand, was still wearing the impassive look. "The wizard who sent the Cutting Curse at you, Auror Pennyworth-what did he look like?" he asked.

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. "You mean you haven't asked Moody yet?" he asked back.

Crouch's eyes narrowed at this response. "I have," he replied stiffly. "But I would very much like to hear what you saw."

"Moody," asked Alfred with some innocence, turning to the gruff Auror looking at a glass of water, "am I in a position to answer his questions?"

Moody said nothing, but gestured with a simple tilt of his head.

"Don't avoid my questions, Pennyworth, or I'll have you sent to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office," Crouch warned.

Sighing, with the knowledge that he would not be able to sway his boss, Alfred swiped the glass from Moody and drank its contents down in one gulp.

"All I can tell you is that he was tall-around 6 foot 3 inches, thin, and unlike the other two, he was not wearing a mask," Alfred detailed. "His hood was up, his face looked like someone had shone a lamp in front of a wax figure for a few hours, and he had black hair, horribly cut-or maybe his hair was thinning badly. I've been out cold for a few days, so I may have some things muddled up."

"That's quite similar to what Auror Moody told me," Crouch replied in his no-nonsense tone.

"Why are you taking this much involvement, sir?" asked Alfred curiously. "As far as I know, a Muggle home being burned to the ground by wizards with presumably all residents killed should involve the Aurors alone."

"This is the first truly serious attack in over twenty years on Muggles by wizards," Crouch responded, "and the Minister has shown some concern over this. She's wondering if this may be connected to the sudden departure of her predecessor from his position last year, and the attempted murder of a Wizengamot member who supported the Squib Rights marches last year."

"Ah," was all Alfred could reply with as Crouch turned around to walk out the door. Taking in another deep breath, he then asked slowly, "Is there anything else that I ought to be told, sir?"

Crouch stopped. He exhaled and he turned around to face Alfred.

"Due to the severity of your injury, I am afraid that you no longer permitted to engage in fieldwork," he stated simply, before exiting the ward.

AN: This is a Harry Potter/Batman AU that has been floating around in my mind for quite some time, and around August 2016 I decided that I would finally stop procrastinating and start writing it down. This, at long last, is the first chapter, after God-knows how many rewrites, drafts, concepts and ideas.