The next afternoon, Harry sat at the kitchen table pretending to focus on his mathematics homework while actually watching John pace nervously around the flat. John had been like this all morning—checking his watch, smoking more than usual, and making small adjustments to the furniture that served no apparent purpose.
"John?" Harry said finally, setting down his pencil. "You're making me nervous."
"Sorry, kid." John stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. "Just... when you meet this bloke, remember what I taught you about first impressions, yeah?"
"Be polite, don't stare, and don't comment on anything unusual about their appearance," Harry recited dutifully.
"Right. And Harry? This particular friend... he's got some unusual aspects to his personality. Don't be alarmed if he seems a bit... different."
Before Harry could ask what that meant, there was a knock at the door—not the patient, authoritative knock of Dumbledore, but something sharper, more precise. Like someone who was accustomed to being answered immediately.
John took a deep breath and opened the door to reveal a tall, distinguished man in an impeccably tailored suit. He had dark hair streaked with silver, sharp intelligent eyes, and the bearing of someone who'd spent lifetimes in positions of authority.
"Mr. Blood," John said formally. "Thanks for coming."
"John." The man's voice was cultured, precise, carrying just a hint of an accent that was impossible to place. "I trust this is the young man who requires... instruction?"
Harry stood up politely as John gestured him forward. "Harry, meet Jason Blood. Jason, this is Harry Potter."
Jason Blood studied Harry with the intensity of someone conducting a scientific examination. His gaze lingered for a moment on Harry's scar, and Harry saw something flicker in his eyes—recognition, and something deeper.
"Mr. Potter," Jason said slowly. "Tell me, John, how much do you know about the true identity of the one who gave the boy that scar?"
John frowned. "Voldemort. Dark Lord, killed Harry's parents, tried to kill Harry when he was a baby. Why?"
"His given name was Tom Marvolo Riddle," Jason said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of certainty. "Born to a witch named Merope Gaunt and a Muggle named Tom Riddle Senior. He attended Hogwarts School, was sorted into Slytherin House, and was considered one of the most brilliant students of his generation."
Both John and Harry stared at him. "How do you know that?" John asked.
Jason's smile was grim. "Hell keeps excellent records, John. Particularly of those who traffic in soul magic. My... other half has access to certain infernal databases that your Ministry of Magic would find quite disturbing."
"Other half?" Harry asked, confused.
John lit another cigarette, thinking rapidly. "You're saying Hell has been tracking Riddle?"
"Since his first murder, yes. When Tom Riddle killed his father and grandparents at age sixteen, he crossed certain... boundaries. The underworld takes notice when mortals begin experimenting with the fundamental laws of death and soul separation."
Jason moved around Harry in a slow circle, assessing his posture, his balance, his overall physical condition. "The fragment in your scar, Mr. Potter, is not merely a piece of soul. It's a violation of the natural order that has attracted considerable attention from... higher powers."
"What kind of attention?" Harry asked, touching his scar reflexively.
"The kind that makes training you in physical combat a matter of some urgency," Jason replied. "Tell me, young man, what do you know of strategy and tactics?"
"Not much," Harry admitted. "John's taught me some basic awareness exercises, but mostly I just try to shield and hope for the best."
"Hope," Jason said dryly, "is not a strategy. It is, at best, a backup plan for when all actual strategies have failed."
He gestured to the living room, where John had cleared a space on the floor. "Physical combat begins with understanding your own capabilities and limitations. You are small, young, and unlikely to overpower most opponents through brute force. Therefore, you must rely on speed, intelligence, and the element of surprise."
For the next hour, Jason put Harry through a series of basic exercises—balance, coordination, spatial awareness. Nothing too strenuous, but enough to assess Harry's natural reflexes and physical capabilities.
"Adequate foundation," Jason concluded as Harry finished a series of movement drills. "Better than I expected for someone with no formal training. You have good instincts."
"But?" Harry asked, sensing there was more.
"But instincts alone will not save you when facing supernatural threats. You need discipline, technique, and most importantly..." Jason paused, his expression growing serious. "You need to understand exactly what you're carrying in that scar of yours."
John went very still. "Jason—"
"No, John. If I'm to train this boy properly, I need to know what we're dealing with." Jason looked directly at Harry. "You're aware of the fragment, aren't you?"
Harry touched his scar reflexively. "Yes, sir. It's a piece of Voldemort's soul. John's taught me how to contain it."
"Containment is merely a temporary measure," Jason said grimly. "That fragment represents something far more dangerous than even John may realize. And Tom Riddle—Voldemort—created not one, but seven such abominations."
Without warning, Jason's expression changed. His eyes flashed yellow, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an otherworldly resonance:
"Change, change, O form of man! Release the might from fleshy mire! Boil the blood in heart of fire! Gone! Gone! The form of man— Rise, the Demon Etrigan!"
The transformation was instantaneous and terrible. Jason Blood's distinguished form erupted into something else entirely—a massive, yellow-skinned demon with glowing red eyes, pointed ears, and a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. But what struck Harry most was that despite the fearsome appearance, the creature's eyes held the same sharp intelligence as Jason's.
"Holy shit," Harry breathed, then immediately clapped his hands over his mouth. "Sorry! Language!"
The demon—Etrigan—threw back his horned head and laughed, a sound like grinding millstones.
"Fear not, young Potter, thy words ring true, Though crude they be, they'll surely do. For I am Hell's own scholar bright, Who brings to thee dark knowledge's light."
John lit a cigarette with hands that were only slightly unsteady. "Harry, meet Etrigan. Jason's... other half."
Etrigan crouched down to Harry's eye level, which somehow made him seem even more imposing rather than less.
"Within thy scar, dark poison dwells, A fragment torn from deepest hells. Tom Riddle split his soul in seven, And barred his path to any heaven."
"You can sense it?" Harry asked, fascinated despite his initial shock.
"As clear as daylight, bright and true, The corruption seeps from out of you. But know this, child, with scar so deep— The Lord of Hades cannot sleep."
John leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
Etrigan's expression grew grim, his rhyming cadence taking on an ominous tone:
"When Riddle split his soul in parts, He stole from Death what Death holds dear. Seven pieces, seven darts, That make the Dark Lord's presence clear.
But Hades rules the realm of death, And guards his borders fierce and well. These soul-thefts steal his very breath, And fill his halls with cursed hell."
Harry felt a chill run down his spine. "Hades is angry about the Horcruxes?"
"Angry is too small a word to use, For rage that shakes the very ground. When mortals make such wicked ruse, And leave death's realm disturbed and unbound."
Constantine was taking notes now, his expression intent. "What does that mean for Harry?"
Etrigan stood to his full imposing height, his voice taking on the weight of prophecy:
"The fragment in young Potter's head, Grows stronger with each passing day. It feeds on magic, hate, and dread, And seeks to lead the boy astray.
But deeper still, the danger grows, For Hades' wrath builds like a storm. Should Potter die while Horcrux shows, His soul may take a twisted form."
"Meaning?" John asked sharply.
"Meaning, Constantine, wise and sly, Should Harry perish with that scar, The fragment will not let him die— But trap his soul both near and far."
The room fell silent except for the sound of John's cigarette burning down to his fingers. Harry felt the Horcrux fragment stir in his scar, as if it recognized the truth in Etrigan's words.
"So how do we remove it?" Harry asked quietly.
Etrigan's expression softened slightly, though on his demonic features it was still somewhat terrifying:
"Destruction comes through sacrifice dear, When love conquers the darkest night. But safer paths may yet appear, If Hell's own knowledge brings thee light.
Seek ye the Phoenix, flame reborn, Whose tears can heal what magic breaks. And find the blade by angels worn, That cuts what mortal steel forsakes."
"Phoenix tears and an angelic blade," John muttered, making more notes. "Anything else?"
"One thing more, thou must understand, The boy needs skills both fierce and true. For when the final hour's at hand, 'Tis blade and fist that will see him through."
With that cryptic statement, Etrigan began to glow with sulfurous light. His form shifted and condensed, returning to the distinguished figure of Jason Blood, who staggered slightly and had to steady himself against the wall.
"Apologies," Jason said, straightening his tie. "Etrigan can be... overwhelming when he chooses to manifest fully."
"He spoke in rhymes," Harry said wonderingly. "Everything he said rhymed."
"Ancient binding spell," Jason explained. "It's how his demonic nature is contained within human form. The rhyming is both limitation and protection."
John was studying his notes with a frown. "Phoenix tears and an angelic blade. That's not exactly a trip to the corner shop."
"No," Jason agreed. "But it gives us options beyond the traditional methods. Which, given Harry's unique situation, may be necessary."
He turned back to Harry with renewed focus. "But Etrigan was correct about one thing—you need physical skills to complement your magical abilities. Are you prepared to begin proper training?"
Harry nodded eagerly. "When do we start?"
"Now," Jason said simply. "First lesson: how to move when something is trying to kill you."
For the next hour, Jason put Harry through basic evasion drills—how to duck, roll, and change direction quickly enough to avoid attacks from multiple angles. It was exhausting work, but Harry found himself enjoying the physical challenge.
"Better," Jason said as Harry successfully avoided three simultaneous attacks from floating cushions. "You're learning to think three-dimensionally. Most people only consider threats from their own level."
"Is that what went wrong with the shadow-wraiths?" Harry asked, breathing hard.
"Partly. You were also too focused on your shields and not enough on your positioning. Never let yourself get backed into a corner if you can avoid it."
As the lesson wound down, Harry felt more confident than he had since the Camden Market incident. His shoulder still ached from the wraith's claws, but now he had a plan for making sure it didn't happen again.
"Same time next week?" Jason asked, gathering his coat.
"Please," Harry said immediately. "And Jason? Thank you. For the training and for... the other information."
Jason's expression grew serious. "Harry, what Etrigan told you today—about Hades and the fragment becoming stronger—that's not meant to frighten you. It's meant to prepare you. Knowledge is power, and in your situation, knowledge may be the difference between freedom and eternal imprisonment."
After Jason left, Harry and John sat in contemplative silence for several minutes.
"John?" Harry said finally.
"Yeah?"
"When Etrigan was talking about the fragment getting stronger—I could feel it. Like it was listening and... learning."
John's expression grew grim. "Learning what?"
"How to hide better. How to wait." Harry touched his scar thoughtfully. "I think it knows we're looking for ways to remove it."
"Then we'd better find those ways before it gets clever enough to stop us," John said. "Phoenix tears and an angelic blade. Right then, looks like we've got some shopping to do."
"Where do you even find things like that?" Harry asked.
John smiled grimly and lit another cigarette. "Kid, you'd be amazed what you can find if you know the right people to ask."
As evening settled over London, Harry practiced the movement drills Jason had taught him while John made a series of increasingly cryptic phone calls. Outside, the city hummed with its usual mix of mundane and magical chaos, but inside the flat, plans were taking shape.
Plans that involved demons and angels, ancient magic and modern determination, and a seven-year-old boy who was rapidly learning that some problems required more than just magic to solve.
The question was whether they could find the solutions before the fragment in Harry's head found a way to stop them.
Time, as always, would tell.