Three weeks into Harry's training with Dumbledore, John got the call that every guardian dreads.
"Constantine." The voice on the other end was crisp and professional, but carried an undertone of genuine concern. "We have a situation involving your boy."
John was on his feet immediately, cigarette falling forgotten from his lips. "What kind of situation? Where is he?"
"Camden Market. He was there with his tutor—Dr. Chen, I believe—when something triggered a supernatural manifestation. The area's been cordoned off, but..."
"But what?" John was already grabbing his coat and kit bag.
"The boy went missing about twenty minutes ago. Last anyone saw, he was heading toward the source of the disturbance."
John swore creatively and hung up, already moving toward the door. Harry wasn't supposed to be anywhere near Camden Market today. Dr. Chen usually took him to the British Museum for their Friday afternoon educational outings.
The taxi ride to Camden felt like it took hours, though John's watch insisted it was only fifteen minutes. By the time he arrived, the supernatural pressure in the area was thick enough to taste—sulfur and ozone and something else, something that made his teeth ache.
He found Dr. Chen standing behind a police cordon, looking frantic and guilty in equal measure.
"John, thank God," she said, rushing toward him. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened. One moment Harry was examining a vintage book stall, the next there was this... this sound, and then—"
"Where?" John interrupted, scanning the area with both his normal and magical senses.
"The old Stables Market. That area's been condemned for months, but Harry just... he said something was calling for help and ran toward it before I could stop him."
John's blood ran cold. A seven-year-old with Harry's power level, unsupervised, running toward an active supernatural manifestation. It was the stuff of nightmares.
"Right," John said, checking his supplies. "Stay here. Don't let anyone follow me in."
The Stables Market had been closed for renovation work, which explained why the supernatural entity had chosen it as a base of operations. Empty buildings were like catnip for things that preferred to avoid human attention. What it didn't explain was why Harry had gone in alone.
John followed the trail of disturbed magical energy through the abandoned market stalls, past overturned vendor carts and scattered renovation equipment. The supernatural signature was getting stronger, and underneath it, he could feel Harry's magic—bright, defiant, and clearly under stress.
He found them in the old horse stables at the back of the market: Harry backed against a brick wall, hands raised defensively, while three shadow-wraiths circled him like sharks scenting blood. The boy's magical shields were holding, but barely, and John could see the strain on his small face.
"Oi!" John shouted, immediately drawing the wraiths' attention. "Over here, you bastards!"
The shadow creatures turned toward him with predatory interest, leaving Harry free to slump against the wall in exhaustion. John didn't waste time with subtlety—three quick banishment spells sent the wraiths shrieking back to whatever dimension they'd crawled out of.
"You alright, kid?" John asked, crouching beside Harry and quickly checking him for injuries.
"I'm okay," Harry said, though his voice was shaky. "They were feeding on something. Someone. I could hear them crying for help."
John looked around the stable and spotted what Harry had sensed—a homeless man huddled in the corner, unconscious but alive. The wraiths had been slowly draining his life force when Harry had stumbled onto them.
"You came in here to help him?" John asked.
"I could hear him. In my head. Like... like Michael, but not dead. Just... fading." Harry's voice was small but determined. "I couldn't leave him."
John felt a complex mixture of pride and terror. The kid's instincts were good—better than good. But his execution had been dangerous to the point of reckless.
"Harry," John said carefully, "what happened to your shields? You should have been able to handle three wraiths easily."
Harry's face flushed with embarrassment. "They were faster than I expected. And when they attacked together... I couldn't keep track of all of them at once. One got behind me and—"
He gestured to his left shoulder, where John could see claw marks through his jacket. Not deep, but enough to draw blood and disrupt his magical focus.
"Right," John said, helping Harry to his feet. "We're getting you out of here."
Twenty minutes later, they sat in a café while a paramedic checked Harry's shoulder and pronounced it "superficial but requiring proper cleaning." The homeless man had been taken to hospital, where doctors would find nothing more wrong with him than malnutrition and exhaustion.
"You did good, kid," John said as the paramedic finished bandaging Harry's shoulder. "Stupid, but good."
"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly. "I know I wasn't supposed to—"
"No, you're not in trouble for helping someone," John interrupted. "But we need to talk about what went wrong."
Dr. Chen, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the entire incident, finally spoke up. "This is my fault. I should have kept a closer eye on him."
"No," John said firmly. "This isn't about supervision. Harry's always going to be drawn to help people in trouble—it's who he is. The problem is that he doesn't have the physical skills to back up his magical abilities when things go sideways."
Harry looked up with interest. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, kid, that magic isn't always enough. Sometimes you need to be able to move fast, think tactically, fight dirty when necessary." John lit a cigarette, thinking. "Your shields failed because you couldn't track multiple opponents. Your positioning was all wrong. And when that wraith got past your defenses, you had no backup plan."
"So what do I do?"
John was quiet for a long moment, considering options. Harry needed physical training, combat awareness, the kind of skills that would keep him alive when magic wasn't enough. But John's own combat training was decades old and focused on bar fights, not supernatural encounters.
Harry needed someone better. Someone who understood that sometimes the best magic in the world wouldn't save you if you couldn't move fast enough to use it.
"I think," John said slowly, "it's time you met another friend of mine."
"Another teacher?" Harry asked.
"Something like that." John stubbed out his cigarette, his expression thoughtful. "Someone who can teach you that your body is just as important a weapon as your magic. Maybe more important, in some situations."
"Like martial arts?" Harry's eyes lit up with interest.
"Among other things. This particular friend... let's just say he's very good at staying alive in dangerous situations. And at making sure other people don't get the drop on him."
Dr. Chen looked concerned. "John, are you sure? Harry's only seven. Isn't combat training a bit... extreme?"
"Kid nearly got himself killed today because he couldn't handle three opponents at once," John said bluntly. "In our line of work, 'extreme' is a survival skill."
Harry was bouncing slightly in his chair with excitement. "When can I meet him?"
"Soon," John said, already mentally composing the phone call he'd need to make. It would be a delicate conversation. His contact wasn't exactly known for his patience with children, but he owed John a favor or two. And more importantly, he was the only person John knew who could teach Harry the kind of skills that might keep him alive long enough to use his magical education.
"John?" Harry asked as they prepared to leave the café.
"Yeah?"
"This friend of yours... he's not going to try to make me normal, is he?"
John smiled at that. "Kid, normal is the last thing anyone would accuse this particular friend of being. Trust me on that."
As they walked back through Camden Market, past the now-cleared supernatural incident site, John reflected on how much Harry's world was about to expand again. First magical training with three different perspectives, now physical combat training with someone who redefined the concept of dangerous.
He just hoped his contact would agree to take on a seven-year-old apprentice. Because knowing Harry Potter, this wouldn't be the last time he threw himself into danger to help someone else.
And next time, John wanted to make sure the kid had every possible advantage to come home in one piece.
The question was whether his old acquaintance would see training a child as worth his time. John suspected he was about to find out just how much that favor was really worth.
But first, he had a very specific phone call to make.
That evening, after Harry had gone to bed with his shoulder properly bandaged and strict instructions to rest, John sat in his chair with a whiskey and his mobile phone, staring at a number he hadn't called in over two years.
Jason Blood. Demonologist, immortal, and quite possibly the most dangerous man in Britain when properly motivated. Also, if John was being honest, probably the only person he knew who could teach Harry the kind of combat skills that might keep him alive when magic wasn't enough.
The problem was that Jason Blood didn't particularly like children. Or people in general, really. And asking an immortal demonologist to babysit a seven-year-old, even one as unusual as Harry, was the sort of request that could get John laughed at. Or cursed. Possibly both.
But after today's incident, John was out of better options.
He lit another cigarette, took a sip of whiskey for courage, and dialed the number.
The phone rang three times before a crisp, educated voice answered. "Blood."
"Jason. It's Constantine."
There was a pause. "John. It's been some time. To what do I owe the... pleasure?"
John could hear the slight emphasis on 'pleasure' and winced. Their last encounter had involved a possessed artifact, a very angry archbishop, and a considerable amount of property damage. Jason had not been entirely pleased with John's methods.
"I need a favor," John said without preamble. "A big one."
"How big?"
"I need you to train someone. Combat skills, tactical awareness, the works."
Another pause. "I assume this someone is not of the usual criminal persuasion you typically associate with?"
"No, this one's... different. Special." John took a drag of his cigarette. "It's a kid, Jason. Seven years old. Magical. Powerful. And today he nearly got himself killed because he's got a hero complex and no idea how to handle multiple opponents."
The silence stretched so long John wondered if the connection had been lost.
"You want me," Jason said finally, his voice carefully neutral, "to train a seven-year-old child in combat."
"Yeah."
"A magical seven-year-old child."
"Yeah."
"John, have you completely taken leave of your senses?"
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I know how it sounds. But this kid... Jason, he's got more raw power than most adult wizards, and he's completely untrained in anything resembling physical combat. He walks into dangerous situations because he wants to help people, and one day that's going to get him killed."
"Then perhaps you should teach him not to walk into dangerous situations."
"Can't. It's who he is. Kid hears someone in trouble, he goes to help. Can't train that out of him, and wouldn't want to if I could." John leaned forward. "But I can make sure he's got the skills to survive when his good intentions put him in over his head."
"There are martial arts instructors, John. People who specialize in teaching children."
"None of them have fought demons. None of them understand what it's like to face something that's faster, stronger, and meaner than anything human." John's voice grew serious. "Jason, this kid is going to be facing supernatural threats his entire life. He needs to learn from someone who's survived them for centuries."
Another long pause. Then: "What sort of power are we discussing? Specifically."
John considered his words carefully. "The kind that makes Dumbledore nervous. The kind that has Ministry watchers keeping track of him from a distance. The kind that..." He paused. "The kind that comes with a price he didn't choose to pay."
"Ah." Jason's voice carried a note of understanding. "Something dark, then. Something that rides along with the power."
"Something like that, yeah." John didn't elaborate. Jason would understand the implications well enough.
"And you believe physical training will help him manage this... burden?"
"I believe physical training will help him survive long enough to learn to manage it properly. Today he got overwhelmed by three shadow-wraiths because he couldn't track multiple opponents and had no backup plan when his shields failed."
"Shadow-wraiths are hardly the most challenging of supernatural entities."
"No, but next time it might be something worse. And I'd rather the kid was prepared."
John waited while Jason considered this. He could almost hear the immortal weighing the request, calculating the risks and benefits with the kind of long-term thinking that came from having lived for over a millennium.
"This child," Jason said finally. "He's important to you."
It wasn't really a question, but John answered anyway. "He's family."
"I see." Another pause. "And you're certain he needs this training? You're not simply looking for someone to share the burden of responsibility?"
"Jason, after what happened today, I'm certain he needs every advantage we can give him. The magical training, the academic education, and yes, the physical skills to stay alive when everything else fails."
"Very well. I'll meet with the boy. But I make no promises beyond that initial assessment."
John felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "That's all I'm asking for."
"Where and when?"
"My place. Tomorrow afternoon, if you're free. Two o'clock?"
"I'll be there. John... this child. What's his name?"
John hesitated for just a moment. "Harry Potter."
The silence that followed was so complete John thought the line had gone dead.
"Potter," Jason said finally, his voice carefully controlled. "As in, the Harry Potter?"
"Yeah."
"The Boy Who Lived. The child who survived the Killing Curse."
"That's him."
"John Constantine," Jason said slowly, "you never do anything by halves, do you?"
"Not really my style, no."
"Tomorrow at two, then. And John? You'd better hope this child is as exceptional as you claim. Because if he's not..." The line went quiet for a moment. "Well. Let's simply say that disappointment tends to bring out the worst in my other half."
The line went dead, leaving John staring at his phone with the uncomfortable feeling that he'd just set something very large and potentially dangerous in motion.
From the bedroom came Harry's voice, sleepy but concerned: "John? Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, kid," John called back, stubbing out his cigarette. "Everything's fine. Just making arrangements for tomorrow."
"What kind of arrangements?"
John smiled grimly. "The kind that are going to make sure you never get cornered by three shadow-wraiths again."
There was a moment of silence, then Harry's voice, bright with curiosity: "Is it the friend you mentioned? The one who's going to teach me to fight properly?"
"That's him. Get some sleep, Harry. Tomorrow's going to be... interesting."
As John finished his whiskey and prepared for bed, he reflected that 'interesting' was probably an understatement. Jason Blood was brilliant, dangerous, and had combat experience stretching back over a thousand years. He was also bound to a demon prince who was known for his... explosive temperament.
Tomorrow, John would be introducing a seven-year-old boy to quite possibly the most dangerous combat instructor in the western hemisphere.
What could possibly go wrong?