The first rule the Mad Hatter established was simple.
"Babies," he announced to the kettle, the clocks, and the vaguely sentient coat rack, "require *consistency*."
The kettle snorted steam in disagreement.
Harry Potter, six days old or six months old depending on which clock you asked, lay on his back atop a patchwork quilt made of old maps and discarded riddles. He stared at the ceiling, which was currently upside down and raining teacups.
The Hatter paced.
"Consistency does not mean sameness," he clarified. "That would be dreadful. It means patterns. Predictable unpredictability."
Harry kicked his feet.
A teacup missed his head by an inch and politely apologized before shattering into butterflies.
"See?" the Hatter said triumphantly. "He understands already."
He stopped pacing and crouched beside Harry, peering at him closely.
"Now then. Let's review. You fall through floors, you transmute crockery, and you attract felines with boundary issues. All perfectly manageable."
Harry sneezed.
The room inverted.
The Hatter yelped as gravity swapped places with the ceiling. He grabbed the edge of the table—now on the floor—and dangled awkwardly.
"No sneezing spells," he scolded, upside down. "Those are for *after* crawling."
Harry blinked, then hiccupped.
The room snapped back to normal.
The Hatter landed in a heap, coat flapping indignantly.
"Right," he wheezed. "Magic regulation it is."
He rolled onto his feet and fished a small notebook from his pocket. It bit him.
"Stop that," he told it sternly, then flipped it open. The pages rearranged themselves into bullet points.
**BABY HARRY – NOTES**
* Strong ambient influence
* Reality-responsive magic
* Emotional triggers
* Laughing = weather event???
The Hatter tapped the page thoughtfully.
"Earth magic is rigid," he mused aloud. "Lines, laws, lovely little boxes. Wonderland magic is… conversational."
Harry waved a hand.
The shadows waved back.
"Ah," the Hatter said, pointing. "See? You're not casting spells. You're *chatting*."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"That's dangerous."
Harry gurgled in delight.
"Yes, yes, terribly dangerous," the Hatter agreed fondly. "We'll have to teach you manners."
He scooped Harry up and carried him outside.
---
Wonderland daylight was an opinion.
The sky that morning was chartreuse with purple stitching. The sun hovered off to the side, sulking. The grass hummed underfoot, vibrating softly with anticipation as Harry passed.
They arrived at a clearing where the ground formed a gentle bowl. Creatures gathered at the edges—curious, cautious, and whispering.
"What's the Hatter doing?"
"Is that the human?"
"He's very small."
The Hatter placed Harry in the center of the bowl and stepped back.
"Lesson one," he announced. "Milk."
He clapped his hands.
A dozen bottles appeared in the air, each filled with something different—glowing, bubbling, writhing.
Harry stared.
"Only one of those is actually milk," the Hatter said cheerfully. "The rest are metaphors, emotions, or extremely bad ideas."
Harry reached for the nearest bottle.
It vanished.
Harry frowned.
The ground rippled.
"No," the Hatter said sharply, tapping his cane. "We *ask*."
He crouched beside Harry, meeting his gaze.
"Magic listens. It wants to help. But if you shout, it panics."
Harry's lip trembled.
The wind picked up.
The Hatter softened instantly.
"Oh no, no—no panic," he murmured, placing a hand over Harry's heart. "We don't panic. We negotiate."
He closed his eyes.
"Milk," he said calmly, firmly, kindly. "Please."
A single bottle drifted down into his hand. Plain. Warm. Safe.
Harry drank.
The wind settled.
The creatures exhaled.
The Hatter sat back, relief evident.
"There we are," he said. "See? Manners."
Harry finished and yawned, eyelids drooping.
"That's enough for today," the Hatter decided. "Any more and you'll start summoning thunderstorms."
He lifted Harry and carried him home, the clearing slowly returning to its usual chaos behind them.
---
That night, Harry dreamed.
Dreams in Wonderland were not confined to the sleeper.
They leaked.
The Hatter awoke to find the walls breathing slowly, expanding and contracting with Harry's breaths. The clocks had synchronized themselves for once, ticking in time with the baby's heart.
"Hmm," the Hatter murmured, adjusting his hat. "Shared dreamscape."
He approached Harry's nest carefully.
Above the baby, images flickered—faces Harry had never seen, voices he had never heard. A red-haired woman crying. A man laughing too loudly. A golden-haired child bathed in praise.
The Hatter's jaw tightened.
"So," he said quietly. "That's what they left behind."
Harry whimpered in his sleep.
The dream darkened.
Green light flared.
The Hatter slammed his cane down.
"Absolutely not," he snapped.
The images shattered like glass.
Silence fell.
Harry settled, breathing evening out.
The Hatter stood there for a long moment, shoulders tense, eyes hard.
"No," he said again, more softly. "You don't get him. Not yet. Possibly not ever."
He waved a hand, and the walls relaxed. The clocks desynced. The house resumed its usual bickering.
The Hatter sat beside Harry until morning.
---
By dawn—whatever dawn was pretending to be that day—the Hatter had reached a conclusion.
He scribbled it into his notebook, underlined twice.
**CONCLUSION:**
The child is not broken.
The world is.
Harry Potter slept on, one tiny hand curled around nothing at all.
And somewhere deep within Wonderland, madness smiled back at him, recognizing a kindred spirit.