One Year Later - New York City
At eight years old, Harry Potter looked nothing like the malnourished, frightened child who had huddled in a London alley two years ago. The boy walking through JFK Airport beside John Constantine moved with quiet confidence, his green eyes constantly scanning their surroundings with the kind of awareness that came from extensive training. His clothes were well-fitted, his posture straight, and when he spoke, it was with the slightly sardonic edge he'd picked up from his guardian.
"So," Harry said, adjusting the strap of his small travel bag, "remind me why we couldn't just Apparate directly to wherever we're going?"
"Because, kid," John replied, lighting a cigarette despite the no-smoking signs, "American magical authorities are even more paranoid about unauthorized arrivals than the British ones. And we're not exactly here on official business."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. Two years of living with Constantine had taught him that there were often multiple layers to any situation, and that the official story was rarely the complete one.
"What's the real reason?" Harry asked as they made their way toward the exit.
John glanced down at him with something approaching pride. The kid had learned to ask the right questions, to look for the angles that adults tried to hide. "Real reason is that our contact specifically requested we come in through normal channels. Giovanni Zatara doesn't like surprises, and he's doing us a favor by helping with this case."
"Zatara," Harry repeated, testing the name. "He's a magician?"
"Stage magician and real magician," John confirmed. "One of the best in both categories. Performs for normal audiences while handling supernatural problems behind the scenes. Think of him as what I might be if I had better public relations skills and actually bathed regularly."
Harry snorted with amusement. John's self-deprecating humor was something he'd grown to appreciate, even if he didn't always understand all the references.
They caught a taxi into Manhattan, Harry watching the city scroll past with fascination. London was home, but New York had an energy all its own—a mixture of mundane and magical that felt different from anything he'd experienced.
"What exactly are we dealing with?" Harry asked as their taxi wove through traffic.
"Escaped entities from a botched summoning," John said, flicking ash out the window. "Some amateur occultist thought he could bind a pack of shadow-feeders to do his bidding. Predictably, it went tits-up, and now there are at least six hungry nasties loose in Manhattan."
"Shadow-feeders," Harry mused, running through his mental catalog of supernatural creatures. "They drain psychic energy through fear and despair, reproduce by fragmenting when they feed enough, and are vulnerable to direct light and pure intentions."
"Look at you, showing off," John said with a grin. "Yeah, that's about right. Problem is, Manhattan at night is basically an all-you-can-eat buffet for things that feed on urban anxiety."
Their taxi pulled up outside what appeared to be an upscale apartment building on the Upper West Side. The doorman nodded to John with the kind of recognition that suggested this wasn't his first visit.
"Mr. Constantine," the doorman said politely. "Mr. Zatara is expecting you. Penthouse level."
As they rode the elevator up, Harry could feel the building's magical protections settling around them like layers of silk—subtle, sophisticated, and completely different from the aggressive wards that protected John's London flat.
"Remember," John said as they approached the penthouse door, "Zatara's old school. Formal. Polite. Try not to swear until at least the second conversation."
"I'll be good," Harry promised, though his grin suggested he was already planning to test those boundaries.
The door opened before they could knock, revealing a distinguished man in his forties with dark hair, sharp eyes, and the kind of presence that suggested both worldly experience and considerable magical power. Giovanni Zatara looked exactly like what Harry imagined a professional magician should look like—elegant, mysterious, and slightly theatrical.
"John," Zatara said warmly, extending his hand. "It's been too long."
"Giovanni," John replied, accepting the handshake. "Thanks for agreeing to help with this mess."
Zatara's gaze shifted to Harry, and his expression grew concerned. "This is the boy you mentioned? John, surely bringing a child into this situation—"
"Kid can handle himself," John interrupted, his tone carrying just enough edge to suggest this wasn't open for discussion. "Two years of training with some very competent teachers. He's probably safer in a supernatural crisis than most adults."
Harry straightened slightly, meeting Zatara's assessing gaze with calm confidence. "Mr. Zatara, John wouldn't bring me along if he thought I'd be a liability. I know my capabilities, and I know when to stay out of the way."
Zatara studied Harry for a long moment, taking in his posture, his calm demeanor, and most importantly, the controlled magical signature that spoke of extensive training.
"Indeed," Zatara said finally. "Well then, young man, welcome to—"
A crash from deeper in the apartment interrupted him, followed by a string of what sounded like very creative cursing in at least three languages.
"Zatanna," Zatara said with the long-suffering tone of a parent dealing with a particularly adventurous child. "One moment, gentlemen."
He disappeared into the apartment, leaving John and Harry in the elegant foyer. They could hear a rapid conversation in what Harry was pretty sure was Italian, with Zatara's voice getting progressively more exasperated.
"Zatanna?" Harry asked quietly.
"His daughter," John explained. "About your age. Talented kid, but she's got her father's tendency toward dramatic gestures and her own ideas about appropriate levels of risk."
A few minutes later, Zatara returned, looking slightly harassed and followed by a girl who was clearly trying very hard to look innocent. She had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, bright eyes that missed nothing, and was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that had definitely seen better days.
"John Constantine, Harry Potter," Zatara said with resignation, "meet my daughter Zatanna. Who was supposed to be at her friend Sarah's house for a sleepover, not hiding in the backseat of my car."
"Hi," Zatanna said cheerfully, completely unrepentant. "Sorry about the whole stowaway thing, Dad, but you know I can't resist a good supernatural mystery."
Harry found himself grinning despite the situation. There was something immediately appealing about Zatanna's combination of mischief and confidence.
"Zatanna Maria Zatara," her father said sternly, "this is not a game. These entities are dangerous."
"Which is exactly why you might need backup," Zatanna replied reasonably. "Besides, I've been practicing the new containment spells you taught me, and you know I'm better at detection magic than most adults."
John was watching this exchange with obvious amusement. "She's got a point, Giovanni. Kid's got good instincts."
"See?" Zatanna said triumphantly. "Even the famous Constantine thinks I should come along."
"That's not what I—" John began, then caught Harry's expression. The kid was looking at Zatanna with the kind of fascination that suggested he'd never met anyone quite like her before.
Which, John realized, he probably hadn't. Harry had spent most of his life around adults who were either hostile to his magical nature or intensely focused on training him to survive. He'd never had the chance to just be around another magical kid who treated extraordinary abilities as perfectly normal.
"Tell you what," John said, making a decision that would either be brilliant or catastrophic. "Why don't you kids stay here while Giovanni and I handle the initial reconnaissance? Keep each other company, compare notes on magical theory, maybe order some pizza."
Both Zatara and Harry looked at him with surprise, though for different reasons.
"John," Zatara said carefully, "are you certain that's wise?"
"Giovanni, your apartment is warded better than most government buildings, and both kids are smart enough to stay put if things get dangerous." John stubbed out his cigarette. "Besides, this might be good for Harry. Kid needs friends his own age."
Zatara considered this, then nodded slowly. "Very well. But Zatanna, you will stay in this apartment unless the building is literally collapsing around you. Understood?"
"Understood, Dad," Zatanna said, though her tone suggested she was already planning to interpret that instruction very creatively.
After the adults left, armed with various magical implements and looking grimly determined, Harry and Zatanna found themselves alone in the elegant apartment. For a moment, they just looked at each other, each trying to figure out the other.
"So," Zatanna said finally, settling onto the plush sofa and gesturing for Harry to join her. "Harry Potter. Are you a British wizard?."
"Yes," Harry replied, sitting down across from her. "Well, half-blood. My mum was Muggle-born."
"Muggle-born?"
"Er, non-magical parents. What do you call them in America?"
"No-Maj," Zatanna said. "Though Dad just says 'normal people' when he's being polite." She tilted her head curiously. "So how'd you end up with Constantine? He doesn't exactly seem like the guardian type."
Harry found himself telling her the whole story—the Dursleys, the alley, John's rescue, the training, the gradual building of something that felt like family. Zatanna listened with rapt attention, occasionally asking questions that showed she understood the magical aspects of his situation.
"So you've been learning from Constantine, this Tim Hunter guy, Professor Dumbledore, and some immortal demon-bound swordsman?" Zatanna summarized when he finished. "That's either the most comprehensive magical education ever or a really creative way to drive a kid completely mad."
"Bit of both, probably," Harry said with a grin. "What about you? What's it like growing up with a stage magician who's also a real magician?"
"Confusing," Zatanna said immediately. "Half the time I can't tell if something's happening because of real magic or because Dad's just really good at sleight of hand. And don't get me started on trying to have normal friends over when Dad might accidentally levitate the furniture during dinner conversation."
For the next hour, they swapped stories about magical mishaps, compared notes on spells they'd learned, and discovered they had surprisingly similar senses of humor. Harry found himself relaxing in a way he rarely did around adults—Zatanna didn't expect him to be constantly alert for danger or to prove his competence every few minutes.
"Want to see something cool?" Zatanna asked, bouncing slightly with excitement.
"Always," Harry replied.
Zatanna held out her hand and spoke a single word: "Thgil."
Light immediately began flowing from her fingers, but instead of Harry's usual golden butterflies, Zatanna's magic formed itself into a miniature dragon that flew complex aerial maneuvers around the room.
"Backwards speech," she explained. "Dad taught me that speaking spells in reverse gives them more precision and makes them harder for enemies to counter."
"That's brilliant," Harry said, genuinely impressed. "Can you teach me?"
"Sure! What kind of magic do you usually do?"
Harry created one of his light butterflies, making it dance around Zatanna's dragon in an impromptu aerial ballet.
"Oh, that's beautiful," Zatanna breathed. "You're doing that without any verbal components at all. Just pure will and intent."
"John says I think in magic instead of thinking about magic," Harry explained. "Makes it easier to adapt spells on the fly, but harder to teach to other people."
They were so absorbed in comparing magical techniques that they almost missed the sound of breaking glass from the apartment's balcony.
Both children went very still, their magical constructs dissolving as they focused on the potential threat.
"Dad said the building was warded," Zatanna whispered.
"Yeah, but wards can be overwhelmed if something's strong enough," Harry replied, already moving toward the source of the sound. "Or if something's already inside the perimeter when they're activated."
They crept toward the balcony doors, keeping low and trying to stay out of sight. Through the glass, they could see something that definitely didn't belong in Manhattan—a writhing mass of shadows roughly the size of a large dog, with too many eyes and a hunger that was almost palpable even through the magical barriers.
"Shadow-feeder," Harry identified quietly. "Must have escaped from wherever John and your dad are hunting them."
"It's testing the wards," Zatanna observed. "Looking for weak spots."
As they watched, the creature suddenly stopped its prowling and turned directly toward their hiding spot. Its multiple eyes fixed on them with predatory intelligence.
"Shit," Harry muttered, forgetting John's instructions about language. "It can sense us."
"Language," Zatanna said automatically, then immediately contradicted herself: "Actually, no, that's exactly the right response. It's breaking through!"
The balcony door exploded inward as the shadow-feeder forced its way through the compromised wards. The creature was even more unsettling up close—constantly shifting between states of matter, with a smell like rotting meat and burning electrical components.
"Kids," it spoke, its voice like grinding glass. "Young magic. Perfect for feeding. Perfect for growing stronger."
Harry and Zatanna backed away from the creature, but they were already trapped in the apartment with nowhere to run.
"Ideas?" Zatanna asked, her voice remarkably steady for someone facing down a supernatural predator.
"Several," Harry replied, his magical training kicking in. "But they're all going to be loud, bright, and probably damage your dad's furniture."
"Dad can buy new furniture," Zatanna said immediately. "Do it."
Harry grinned—a sharp, predatory expression he'd learned from watching John Constantine prepare for a fight. "Right then. Cover your eyes."
He raised both hands and reached deep into his magical core, pulling up not the gentle light-weaving Tim had taught him, but the harsh, aggressive combat magic Jason Blood had drilled into him. The apartment filled with blazing white light that sent the shadow-feeder screaming backward.
But Harry wasn't done. While the creature was still reeling from the light assault, he began weaving a binding spell—not the formal, structured magic Dumbledore had taught him, but the improvisational, desperate magic John had shown him for survival situations.
"Zatanna," he called, maintaining his magical assault while speaking rapidly. "I need you to say 'gnidnib'—that should be 'binding' backwards, right? On three. One, two—"
"gnidnib!" Zatanna shouted, her magic flowing out to reinforce Harry's improvised spell.
The combination of their abilities—Harry's raw power and adaptability with Zatanna's precision and training—created something neither could have managed alone. The shadow-feeder found itself wrapped in bands of solidified light that tightened with each attempt to escape.
"Impressive," the creature hissed, still struggling against their binding. "But temporary. When I break free—"
"You won't," Harry interrupted, and there was something in his voice that made Zatanna look at him with surprise. It was the tone John used when he was done playing games—cold, certain, and absolutely implacable.
Harry began channeling more power into the binding, but instead of simply strengthening it, he began changing its nature. The light-bands grew brighter, hotter, more aggressive.
"This is a banishment," he told the creature conversationally. "Not destruction, because that would leave psychic residue all over your dad's nice apartment. You're going back to whatever dimension you crawled out of, and you're going to stay there."
"You cannot—" the creature began.
"I bloody well can," Harry said firmly, and with a final surge of power, the shadow-feeder simply... wasn't there anymore.
The apartment fell silent except for the sound of both children breathing hard from magical exertion.
"That," Zatanna said finally, "was the most impressive piece of combat magic I've ever seen anyone our age perform."
"Tim and Jason are good teachers," Harry said modestly, though he was clearly pleased with the praise.
"Harry," Zatanna said seriously, "how old are you again?"
"Eight. Well, eight and a half."
"Eight and a half," she repeated slowly. "And you just banished a shadow-feeder. By yourself. Using improvised magic."
"You helped," Harry pointed out. "The binding wouldn't have held without your precision work."
Before Zatanna could respond, the apartment door burst open and Giovanni Zatara rushed in, wand drawn and looking like he'd been through a war zone.
"Zatanna!" he called urgently. "We felt the magical discharge from six blocks away—" He stopped short, taking in the scene: two children sitting calmly on his sofa, his apartment mostly intact except for the broken balcony door, and absolutely no sign of supernatural threats.
"Hi, Dad," Zatanna said cheerfully. "We had a visitor, but Harry took care of it."
John Constantine appeared in the doorway behind Zatara, looking equally concerned and battle-worn. His eyes immediately found Harry, scanning for injuries.
"You alright, kid?"
"Fine," Harry replied. "Shadow-feeder broke through the perimeter wards, but it wasn't much of a challenge. Zatanna helped with the binding work—she's really good at precision casting."
Zatara was staring at his daughter with the expression of a man trying to process too much information at once. "A shadow-feeder broke into my apartment. And you two... handled it."
"Harry banished it," Zatanna said proudly. "Cleanest piece of dimensional magic I've ever seen. No residue, no damage except the door, and definitely no chance of it coming back."
John lit a cigarette with hands that were slightly unsteady—not from his own encounter, but from the realization of what could have happened to Harry.
"Right," he said slowly. "And how exactly did an eight-year-old manage to banish a creature that's been giving us trouble for three hours?"
Harry shrugged, suddenly looking very young again. "Same way I'd handle any problem. Figure out what it wants, figure out what it's vulnerable to, then use the tools I've got to exploit the vulnerability."
"The tools you've got," Zatara repeated faintly.
"Combat training from Jason Blood, adaptive magic from Tim Hunter, formal technique from Professor Dumbledore, and practical survival skills from John," Harry listed matter-of-factly. "Plus Zatanna's really good at precision work, so we made a good team."
Zatara looked at John with something approaching awe. "Constantine, what exactly have you been teaching this boy?"
"How to survive," John said simply. "Seems to be working."
As they cleaned up the minimal damage and warded the balcony properly, Harry and Zatanna continued chatting like nothing unusual had happened. They compared notes on the banishment spell, discussed improvements for next time, and made plans to stay in touch via letters.
"You'll write?" Zatanna asked as they prepared to leave. John had gotten word of another case in Mexico that required immediate attention.
"Course I will," Harry promised. "And maybe next time we visit America, your dad will let you come along on the actual case."
"Not bloody likely," Zatara muttered, but he was looking at Harry with newfound respect.
As they said their goodbyes, Zatanna pulled Harry aside for a moment.
"Harry," she said quietly, "you know you're not normal, right? Not even for magical kids."
"Yeah," Harry said with a slight smile. "John's been telling me that for two years. Is that bad?"
"No," Zatanna said firmly. "It's brilliant. Just... be careful, okay? People are going to expect things from you. Big things. Don't let them turn you into something you're not."
Harry nodded solemnly. It was advice he'd been getting from all his teachers in various forms, but hearing it from someone his own age somehow made it feel more real.
"Thanks, Zatanna. For the help, and for... being normal about everything."
"What's normal?" she asked with a grin. "I live with a stage magician who fights demons in his spare time. You live with a grumpy supernatural investigator who's teaching you to save the world. I think we're well past normal."
As they flew toward Mexico on a red-eye flight, Harry stared out the airplane window and thought about friendship. For the first time in his life, he'd met someone his own age who understood magic, who wasn't intimidated by his abilities, and who treated extraordinary things as perfectly ordinary.
"Zatanna seems nice," John observed, lighting a cigarette despite the no-smoking regulations.
"She's brilliant," Harry said immediately. "Smart, brave, good at magic, and she didn't act like I was weird for knowing how to banish shadow-feeders."
"Kid, most eight-year-olds don't know how to banish shadow-feeders."
"Most eight-year-olds haven't had teachers like mine," Harry pointed out reasonably.
John smiled around his cigarette. The kid had a point. And watching Harry interact with Zatanna had been illuminating—for a few hours, Harry had gotten to just be a magical child talking to another magical child, without the weight of destiny or training or survival pressing down on him.
It was good for him. Hell, it was probably necessary for him.
"We'll make sure to visit the Zataras again," John said casually.
Harry's face lit up with genuine happiness. "Really?"
"Really. Kid needs friends. Besides," John added with a grin, "after today, I think Giovanni's going to want to compare notes on advanced magical education. Not many eight-year-olds can impress him that thoroughly."
As the plane lifted off into the night sky, Harry settled back in his seat with a sense of contentment he hadn't experienced before. He had a home with John, teachers who cared about his development, and now, for the first time, he had a friend.
The magical world was vast and complex and often dangerous, but it was also full of people like Zatanna—brilliant, brave, and ready to face whatever came next with humor and determination.
Harry Potter was eight years old, and for the first time in his life, the future looked not just survivable, but actually exciting.
Mexico, John had warned him, was going to be interesting.
Harry couldn't wait.