"Right then," John said, stubbing out his cigarette with more force than necessary. "Time for our quarterly visit to hell."
Harry looked up from his mathematics workbook, immediately recognizing the tone that meant John was about to do something he really didn't want to do.
"The Dursleys?" Harry asked, his stomach dropping.
"'Fraid so, kid. Blood protection needs refreshing." John was already reaching for his coat, moving with the grim efficiency of someone preparing for an unpleasant but necessary task. "Dumbledore's orders were clear—every few months, just long enough to renew the charm."
Harry closed his workbook with a sigh. The visits to Privet Drive were always brief and supervised, but they never got easier. The Dursleys' mixture of fear and resentment was palpable, and the house itself felt wrong now—too small, too suffocating, like trying to breathe through a wet cloth.
"How long this time?" Harry asked, pulling on his shoes.
"Hour at most. Just long enough for you to call it 'home' and remind the magic that you're still technically living there." John's expression was sympathetic but determined. "I know it's bollocks, but the protection's kept you alive this long."
Twenty minutes later, they stood outside Number 4 Privet Drive, looking up at the aggressively normal suburban house with its perfectly manicured lawn and gleaming windows. Harry could feel the blood wards humming faintly—ancient magic that had kept Voldemort and his followers at bay for seven years.
"Remember the rules," John said quietly. "Minimal contact, no arguments, and if Vernon starts his usual bollocks, let me handle it."
Harry nodded, squaring his small shoulders. He was no longer the terrified, malnourished child who'd lived in the cupboard under the stairs. A year with John had filled him out, given him confidence, taught him his own worth. The Dursleys couldn't hurt him anymore—not really.
That didn't mean he had to like being here.
John knocked on the door with deliberately excessive politeness. "Dursley residence! Official visit!"
The door opened to reveal Vernon Dursley, looking exactly as Harry remembered—purple-faced, mustached, and radiating the particular kind of rage that came from having one's comfortable prejudices repeatedly challenged by reality.
"You," Vernon spat, his small eyes darting between John and Harry. "I thought we were done with this nonsense."
"Not quite done, I'm afraid," John said with false cheer, pushing past Vernon into the hallway. "Quarterly maintenance visit. Won't take long."
Petunia appeared from the kitchen, dish towel in hand, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
"Hello, Aunt Petunia," Harry said politely, though he made no move to approach her.
"Boy," she acknowledged with a sniff, then turned to John. "We've held up our end of the bargain. We've change his room ready, told the neighbors he's at boarding school. What more do you want?"
"Just a brief visit to refresh the protection," John said, lighting a cigarette despite Petunia's horrified expression. "Harry needs to spend a bit of time here, call it home, remind the magic that you're family."
"We are NOT family," Vernon roared, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. "That freak is no relation of ours! We only—"
"Only agreed to take him in because you understood the consequences of refusing," John finished calmly, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "Amazing how quickly people become civic-minded when their own necks are on the line."
Harry bit back a grin. John had never explained exactly what he'd threatened the Dursleys with to secure their cooperation, but whatever it was had been remarkably effective.
"Can I see my old room?" Harry asked, partly to break the tension and partly out of morbid curiosity.
Petunia's face tightened. "It's... it's been converted to storage."
"The cupboard under the stairs is now storage?" John's voice carried a dangerous edge.
"Yes!" Petunia said quickly. "His room is now next to Dudley's. We've been using it for... things."
Harry climbed the stairs, John close behind him, leaving the Dursleys to mutter resentfully in the hallway. The room that had briefly been his was indeed full of storage—Dudley's broken toys, Vernon's old business files, boxes of Christmas decorations that had seen better years.
"Cozy," John observed dryly, looking around at the cramped space. "Really captures that 'home sweet home' feeling."
Harry sat on his new bed, now covered with boxes. A year ago, this small space had seemed like luxury compared to his cupboard. Now it just felt... small.
"In the past this might have felt huge to me," Harry said quietly. "Like having my own castle."
"And now?" John asked, settling beside him.
"Now it feels like a closet." Harry looked around at the cluttered space. "Is that bad? That I can't feel at home here anymore?"
"Kid, the fact that you can't feel at home in a place where you were systematically abused is not bad—it's healthy." John ruffled Harry's hair. "Home isn't a place anyway. It's people who want you around."
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley thundering through the front door, followed immediately by his voice: "Mum! There's a weird man smoking in our house and he smells like—OH BLOODY HELL IT'S HIM!"
"Language, Dudley!" Petunia shrieked.
"But Mum, it's the freak! He's back! He's going to do magic at us!"
John and Harry exchanged glances, then burst out laughing.
"Come on," John said, standing. "Let's go see how much your cousin's grown."
They found Dudley backed against the living room wall, staring at Harry with the expression of someone who'd just encountered a particularly venomous snake. At eight years old, Dudley had grown wider rather than taller, maintaining his resemblance to a young pig in a school uniform.
"Hello, Dudley," Harry said pleasantly. "How's school?"
"Stay away from me!" Dudley squeaked. "I know what you can do! Mum told me about the magic!"
"Oh, did she now?" John asked with interest, turning to Petunia. "Been sharing family secrets, have we?"
Petunia's face flushed red. "He needed to understand why... why certain precautions were necessary."
"What kind of precautions?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"Iron horseshoes above the doorways," Vernon muttered. "Salt circles around the garden. That man at the occult shop said they'd keep the dark magic out."
John burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall for support. "Iron horseshoes? Salt circles? Mate, this isn't the bloody middle ages. And Harry's not 'dark magic'—he's just magic."
"All magic is dark," Vernon declared with the conviction of the willfully ignorant. "Unnatural. Against God's plan."
"Actually," Harry said thoughtfully, "according to my science books, everything's made of atoms, and atoms are mostly empty space held together by invisible forces. That's basically magic too, if you think about it."
Vernon's mustache began to twitch alarmingly. "That's SCIENCE, boy! Completely different!"
"Is it though?" Harry asked with the innocent curiosity of childhood. "I mean, both involve invisible forces making impossible things happen. The only difference is whether you understand the rules or not."
"Don't be clever with me, you little freak!"
"Oi," John said sharply, his amusement evaporating. "Language."
"He's not my nephew," Vernon spat. "I don't have to—"
John moved faster than a man his age should have been able to, suddenly standing nose-to-nose with Vernon. He didn't do anything obviously threatening, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Listen very carefully, Vernon," John said quietly. "That boy is under my protection now. And I take a very dim view of people who think they can abuse children just because they're different."
"You can't threaten me in my own home!"
"I'm not threatening you," John said with a cold smile. "I'm educating you. There's a difference."
He stepped back, the moment of menace passing as quickly as it had come. "Right then, Harry. You've been here long enough to satisfy the charm. Time to go home."
"This is his home!" Petunia protested, though she didn't sound like she believed it.
"No," Harry said simply, standing up from the sofa. "Home is where people want you around. This is just... a place I used to live."
As they prepared to leave, Dudley worked up the courage to speak again.
"Is it true what Mum says? That you can make things happen just by thinking about them?"
Harry considered this. "Sometimes. But mostly I have to concentrate really hard and know what I'm doing."
"Could you... could you make my homework disappear?"
"Dudley!" Petunia shrieked.
"What? If he can do magic anyway..."
"I could," Harry said seriously, "but then you wouldn't learn anything. And learning things is important, even if it's hard."
Dudley looked confused by this concept, as if the idea that homework might have actual educational value had never occurred to him.
"Besides," Harry added with a grin, "if I made your homework disappear, your teacher would just give you more."
As they walked back to the car, Harry felt the blood wards settle around him—ancient magic recognizing his presence and renewing itself for another few months.
"Feel that?" John asked.
"Yeah. Like... like putting on armor you can't see."
"That's exactly what it is. Invisible armor that keeps the nastiest things in the world from being able to touch you." John lit a cigarette as they pulled away from Privet Drive. "Worth an hour of Vernon's bollocks, if you ask me."
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time, can we schedule the visit during Dudley's tea time? He's much less likely to try talking when his mouth is full."
John grinned. "Kid, that's brilliant. Why didn't I think of that?"
An hour later, they were settled back in their own flat when the familiar pressure of powerful magic pressed against the wards. But this time, Harry recognized the signature immediately.
"Dumbledore," he said, looking up from his homework.
"Alone this time," John observed, moving toward the door. "Wonder what he wants."
Professor Dumbledore stood in the hallway looking exactly as he had during their previous meetings—tall, distinguished, and carrying himself with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being the smartest person in the room.
"Mr. Constantine, Harry," Dumbledore said warmly. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"Just homework," Harry said, gesturing to the mathematics problems spread across the kitchen table. "Dr. Chen says I need to master long division before we move on to fractions."
"Ah, the building blocks of mathematical literacy," Dumbledore said approvingly. "May I?"
John gestured him inside, already reaching for the kettle. Over the past year, he'd learned that Dumbledore's visits usually meant important conversations, and important conversations went better with tea.
"How did the renewal visit go?" Dumbledore asked as he settled into John's least uncomfortable chair.
"About as well as expected," John said dryly. "Vernon tried to start a fight about the nature of magic versus science, Dudley asked Harry to make his homework disappear, and Petunia spent the entire time looking like she'd swallowed something unpleasant."
"But the wards renewed properly?"
"Yeah, they're solid for another few months." John handed Dumbledore a mug of tea. "Which brings me to a question—how long do we have to keep doing this? Kid's seven now, and those people..."
"Are his only living blood relatives, yes." Dumbledore's expression grew serious. "The protection will remain necessary until Harry comes of age, I'm afraid. Though I understand how difficult these visits must be."
"It's not so bad," Harry said from the kitchen table, though he didn't look up from his homework. "They can't hurt me anymore. They're just... sad, really."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Sad?"
"They're so afraid of anything different that they can't even be curious about it," Harry explained, working through a particularly complex division problem. "Dudley wanted to know about magic, but he's been taught to be scared of it instead of interested. That seems sad to me."
John and Dumbledore exchanged a look over Harry's head—the kind of look adults shared when a child said something unexpectedly wise.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said quietly. "Fear often does limit one's capacity for wonder."
"Speaking of which," John said, settling into his own chair, "what brings you by today? Social call, or is there something we need to discuss?"
Dumbledore's expression grew more serious. "Actually, there are several matters I hoped to address. First, I wanted to discuss the possibility of providing Harry with some additional magical instruction."
Harry looked up from his homework with interest. "What kind of instruction?"
"Formal training in some of the more traditional magical arts," Dumbledore explained. "Transfiguration, perhaps. Advanced defensive magic. Subjects that would complement your current education rather than replace it."
"The kid's already got a full schedule," John pointed out. "Academic lessons, practical magic training, homework. When would he have time for more formal instruction?"
"Perhaps one afternoon a week," Dumbledore suggested. "Nothing too intensive. Simply an opportunity to ensure Harry has access to the full range of magical education available to him."
"What's the catch?" John asked bluntly.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but his expression remained serious. "No catch, per se. But I will admit to having concerns about Harry's magical development that warrant discussion."
"The Horcrux," Harry said quietly, touching his scar without thinking.
Dumbledore went very still. "You know about it?"
"Course he knows about it," John said with a slight edge to his voice. "Kid's got a right to understand what's in his own head."
"Indeed he does," Dumbledore said quietly. "Though I confess I had not expected such openness about the matter."
"Harry," John said carefully, "why don't you go practice your shielding exercises in the bedroom for a bit? The Professor and I need to have a conversation."
Harry wanted to protest—it was his head they were talking about, after all—but something in John's tone suggested this wasn't negotiable. He gathered his workbook and headed toward the bedroom, though he left the door slightly ajar.
Once Harry was out of immediate earshot, Dumbledore's demeanor shifted to something more grave.
"How much does he know?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
"Everything," John said flatly. "What it is, how it got there, what it's doing to him. Kid deserves to understand his own situation."
"And how is he managing it?"
"Better than you'd expect. Mental walls, containment exercises, regular monitoring. The fragment's contained, but..." John took a long drag of his cigarette. "It's getting stronger. More aware. And it responds to his emotional state—particularly when he uses magic for positive purposes."
"That is concerning," Dumbledore said gravely. "I had hoped the fragment would remain dormant longer."
"Yeah, well, we're managing it. But it's becoming clear that what I can teach him won't be enough long-term." John looked directly at Dumbledore. "Which is where your offer of additional training comes in, I assume."
"Partly," Dumbledore admitted. "I have considerable experience with Tom Riddle's creations. There are techniques for managing and eventually removing Horcruxes that few others possess."
"Eventually removing?" John's voice sharpened with interest.
"The process is complex and dangerous," Dumbledore warned. "It cannot be rushed, and it requires very specific conditions. But yes, it can be done."
"What kind of conditions?"
"That requires considerably more research," Dumbledore said. "And access to resources that are not readily available. But in the meantime, proper training could help Harry strengthen his natural defenses and learn to better manage the fragment's influence."
From the bedroom came the soft sound of Harry practicing his light-weaving exercises—controlled, steady magical emanations that spoke of impressive discipline for a seven-year-old.
"The boy has progressed remarkably under your guidance," Dumbledore observed. "Both magically and personally. A year ago, he was a frightened, traumatized child on the verge of becoming an Obscurus. Now..."
"Now he's a confident kid who knows his own power and isn't afraid to use it to help people," John finished. "Yeah, I'm proud of him."
"As you should be. But John, you must understand—Harry's power will only continue to grow. And as it does, so will the attention it attracts."
"Let them try," John said grimly.
"I don't doubt your ability to protect him," Dumbledore said gently. "But some battles require resources beyond any individual's capability. That's where formal magical education becomes not just beneficial, but necessary."
"And the Ministry? What's their stance on all this?"
Dumbledore's expression grew carefully neutral. "The Ministry believes Harry Potter is living quietly with his relatives, receiving appropriate oversight and causing no trouble. They have no reason to investigate further."
"You mean they don't know about any of this."
"They know what they need to know," Dumbledore said diplomatically. "No more, no less."
From the bedroom, Harry's voice called out: "John? I think I did something interesting with the shielding spell."
"Coming," John called back, then looked at Dumbledore. "We're not done talking about this."
"Of course not," Dumbledore agreed, rising. "But perhaps I might see what young Harry has accomplished? I confess to considerable curiosity about his progress."
They found Harry in the bedroom, standing in the center of what appeared to be a perfect sphere of shimmering magical energy. It wasn't just a shield—it was a complete magical environment, containing and channeling his power while remaining completely stable.
"Bloody hell," John muttered. "Kid, that's not a shielding spell. That's a personal magical ecosystem."
"Is that bad?" Harry asked, though he didn't seem particularly concerned.
"No," Dumbledore said quietly, his eyes wide with something approaching awe. "It's extraordinary. Harry, how does it feel to maintain that construct?"
"Natural," Harry said, stepping out of the sphere and letting it dissolve. "Like breathing, but with magic."
Dumbledore and John exchanged a look that Harry didn't miss.
"What?" Harry asked. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No, kid," John said, ruffling his hair. "You did something remarkable. But it also means we need to talk about accelerating your training even more."
"The offer of additional instruction stands," Dumbledore said formally. "In fact, I believe it may be more necessary than I initially thought."
"Can I think about it?" Harry asked.
"Of course," Dumbledore smiled. "Though I suspect you already know what your answer will be."
Harry grinned. "I want to learn everything I can. But I want to stay here, with John."
"That was never in question," John said firmly. "Any training happens on our terms, in our time, with our oversight."
"Agreed," Dumbledore said. "I'll contact you with scheduling options. Perhaps we can start with some basic Transfiguration—it's excellent for teaching precision and control."
After Dumbledore left, Harry and John sat in the living room, processing the conversation.
"John?" Harry said finally.
"Yeah?"
"The thing in my head—it really is getting stronger, isn't it?"
John considered lying, then decided Harry deserved the truth. "Yeah, kid. It is."
"Are you worried?"
"I'm concerned," John said carefully. "But I'm not panicking. We knew this might happen. And now we've got more resources to help deal with it."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "I don't want to hurt anyone. If it gets dangerous..."
"Then we'll handle it," John said firmly. "Together. That's what family does."
"Promise?"
"Promise," John said, pulling Harry into a brief hug. "Now, how about we see if I can manage dinner without setting anything on fire?"
"No chance," Harry said with a grin. "But I'll get the takeaway menus ready just in case."
As they headed to the kitchen, neither of them noticed the way Harry's magical signature had shifted during the conversation—becoming more focused, more purposeful, and significantly more powerful than it had been just an hour before.
The game was changing, whether they were ready or not.