The black cab that pulled up looked exactly like every other London taxi, which John supposed was rather the point. Chas Chandler climbed out, his expression resigned in the way of a man who'd long since stopped being surprised by his best mate's requests.
"Let me guess," Chas said, looking between John and the small, bedraggled boy beside him. "Another one of your strays?"
"Something like that." John opened the back door and gestured for Harry to get in. "Kid, meet Chas. Chas, meet Harry. He's going to be staying with me for a bit."
Chas raised an eyebrow that suggested he had several opinions about John's child-rearing qualifications, none of them charitable. "Right then. Where to?"
"The flat. And take the scenic route—we've got an audience."
As the cab pulled away from the kerb, John settled back in his seat and lit another cigarette, despite the reproachful look from Chas in the rearview mirror. Through the rear window, he watched the surveillance team scramble to follow. Amateur hour, really. They weren't even trying to be subtle about it.
Harry pressed himself into the corner of the seat, still wary. His eyes darted between John and Chas, clearly trying to work out if he'd jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
"You alright back there, little man?" Chas asked, his voice gentler than it had been with John.
Harry nodded quickly, the instinctive response of a child who'd learned that drawing attention was dangerous. "Yes, sir."
John blew smoke toward the window and muttered something under his breath. The air in the cab shimmered for just a moment, like heat haze on summer tarmac.
"What was that?" Harry whispered.
"Just a bit of misdirection," John said. "Make it harder for our friends back there to track us properly. They'll see us heading toward Westminster when we're actually going to Bermondsey."
"Are they going to try to take me back?" There was real fear in Harry's voice now, the kind that spoke of previous experience with adults who made promises they didn't keep.
"They might try," John said honestly. "But they'd have to find you first. And by the time they do, i'll know enough to make things... difficult for them."
The cab wound through London's backstreets while John kept one eye on their tail and the other on the boy beside him. Harry was small for his age, definitely malnourished, and there was a wariness in his posture that spoke of systematic mistreatment. But underneath it all, that magical signature burned like a miniature sun.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside a grimy Victorian terrace in Bermondsey. The building looked like it had seen better decades, with peeling paint and windows that hadn't been cleaned since the Thatcher administration. It was exactly the sort of place you'd walk past without a second glance, which was rather the point.
"Home sweet home," John said, tossing some notes to Chas through the partition. "Cheers, mate."
"John." Chas's voice carried a warning. "You sure about this?"
John glanced at Harry, who was staring up at the building with the expression of someone trying to figure out if this was an improvement or not.
"No," John said quietly. "But I'm sure about what happens if I don't."
Chas nodded slowly. He'd seen enough of John's work to understand that sometimes the dangerous choice was still the right one.
The stairs up to John's flat creaked with every step, and Harry had to grip the banister to keep up. By the time they reached the third floor, he was breathing hard.
"Need to get some proper food in you," John muttered, fishing his keys from his coat pocket. "Christ knows when you last had a decent meal."
The door swung open to reveal John Constantine's idea of domestic living. The flat was small, cramped, and cluttered with the detritus of a man who spent most of his time elsewhere. Occult books were stacked on every available surface, mixed in with takeaway containers, empty beer bottles, and what looked like the components for several half-finished magical rituals.
Harry's nose wrinkled at the smell—stale cigarette smoke, old takeaway, and something sharper that might have been sulfur.
"Right," John said, suddenly aware that he was seeing his home through the eyes of a six-year-old. "It's not much, but it's warded seven ways from Sunday. Nothing's getting in here without my say-so."
He cleared a stack of books off the sofa, revealing cushions that had seen better years. "Sit yourself down. I'll... Christ, what do kids eat?"
Harry perched on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in his lap. "I don't eat much," he said quietly. "Aunt Petunia says I'm expensive enough already."
John froze in the act of opening the refrigerator. When he turned around, his expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes had gone very cold.
"Your Aunt Petunia," he said slowly, "sounds like a right piece of work."
He pulled a can of Coke from the fridge and handed it to Harry, who took it like it was made of gold. Probably didn't get fizzy drinks often.
"Tell me about your family, Harry. The Dursleys. What are they like?"
Harry's shoulders hunched automatically. "They're... they don't like me much. Uncle Vernon says I'm ungrateful. That they took me in when nobody else would, and I should be thankful for their generosity."
"Generosity," John repeated flatly. He lit another cigarette and sat down across from Harry, studying the boy's face. "What happens when the... strange things happen around you?"
"I get locked in my cupboard." Harry's voice was barely above a whisper. "Sometimes for days. And no meals."
John closed his eyes for a moment, taking a long drag. When he opened them again, Harry was watching him nervously.
"I did something wrong, didn't I?" Harry asked. "You're angry with me."
"No, kid." John's voice was rough. "I'm not angry with you. I'm angry with them. There's a difference."
He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, hands clasped. "Harry, I need to ask you some questions, and I need you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that?"
Harry nodded.
"Good. First question: that scar on your head. How did you get it?"
Harry's hand moved automatically to his forehead. "Car crash. My parents died, and I got this."
"Who told you that?"
"The Dursleys. Uncle Vernon says I was lucky to survive, but the crash made me... wrong."
John rubbed his face. Every answer was making this worse.
"Harry, look at me." John waited until the boy met his eyes. "There was no car crash. That scar came from something else entirely. Something magical."
"But—"
"Your parents weren't in a car crash, son. They were murdered. By a wizard."
Harry went very still. "That's not... Aunt Petunia said..."
"Aunt Petunia lied. About a lot of things, by the sound of it." John's voice was gentle but implacable. "Your parents were wizards And likely they died protecting you from something very dark."
"I don't understand." Harry's voice was small and lost.
"You don't have to understand it all right now," John said. "But you need to know the truth. That scar isn't from any accident. It's a magical wound. And there's a piece of the thing that killed your parents living inside it."
Harry's eyes went wide with terror. "Inside me?"
"Easy, kid. It's not going anywhere for now. But it's been feeding on your fear and anger, growing stronger. That's what's been making the strange things happen around you so violently."
John stood up and moved to one of his bookshelves, pulling down a leather-bound journal filled with his own cramped handwriting.
"The good news is, now that I know what we're dealing with, I can teach you how to keep it under control. Build some mental walls, so to speak. Won't get rid of it completely, but it'll stop it from turning you into a magical bomb."
"A bomb?" Harry's voice cracked.
"Figure of speech," John said quickly, though it really wasn't. "Point is, we can fix this. But it's going to take time and work. You willing to do the work?"
Harry nodded eagerly. The idea that he could control the strange things, that he wasn't broken or wrong, was intoxicating.
"Right then." John flipped through his journal, looking for the appropriate exercises. "First lesson: meditation. Sounds boring, I know, but it's the foundation of everything else."
He sat back down across from Harry, cross-legged on the floor. "Close your eyes. I want you to imagine your mind as a house. Can you do that?"
Harry closed his eyes and nodded.
"Good. Now, in this house, there's a room where the bad things live. The anger, the fear, the hurt. Can you see that room?"
"Yes," Harry whispered. In his mind's eye, he could see it clearly—a dark room filled with shadows that whispered horrible things.
"Right. Now, I want you to imagine building a door for that room. A strong door, with good locks. The shadows can't get out unless you let them."
For the next hour, John walked Harry through the basic mental exercises that would keep the Horcrux fragment contained. It was painstaking work, and Harry was exhausted by the end of it, but there was already a noticeable difference in his magical signature. Less chaos, more control.
"You did good, kid," John said, ruffling Harry's hair. "Better than most adults I've tried to teach this to."
Harry beamed at the praise, unused to adult approval.
"Right, next order of business." John looked around his flat with the expression of a man facing an impossible task. "Food. And sleeping arrangements. And... Christ, do you need clothes? Of course you need clothes, look at the state of you."
Harry looked down at his oversized, threadbare clothes. "These are fine. Aunt Petunia says—"
"Aunt Petunia's opinions are no longer relevant," John said firmly. "We'll sort you out proper tomorrow. For tonight..." He looked at his sofa dubiously. "You can have the bed. I'll take the couch."
"Oh no, I couldn't," Harry said quickly. "I can sleep anywhere. I'm used to my cupboard—"
John's expression went very still. "Your what?"
Harry realized his mistake immediately. "I mean, my room. It's just... small."
"Harry." John's voice was dangerously quiet. "Show me your hands."
Confused, Harry held out his hands. John took them gently, examining the calluses and old scars on the small palms.
"These are from housework," John said slowly. "Real work, not chores. How long have you been doing their cooking and cleaning?"
"Since I could reach the stove," Harry admitted. "But they fed me and gave me a place to sleep, so it's only fair—"
"No." John's voice was flat. "It's not fair. It's not remotely fair. You're six years old."
He stood up abruptly, began pacing the small space. "Right. First things first. You're never going back to that house."
"But you said I was being watched—"
"Will be dealt with." John's expression was grim. "There are ways around these things. But you, Harry Potter, are never setting foot in that house again."
"But where will I live?" The question came out smaller than Harry intended.
John stopped pacing and looked down at him. For a moment, his expression softened.
"Here," he said simply. "With me. I'm not much of a guardian, kid, but I'm a damn sight better than people who lock children in cupboards."
Harry stared at him in wonder. "You mean it?"
"I mean it." John sat back down. "Won't be easy. I travel a lot for work, and the work's dangerous. You'll be learning things most kids never dream of. But you'll be safe, and you'll be wanted, and you'll never have to hide what you are."
For the first time since his parents died, Harry felt like he had a home.
"Now then," John said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Let's see what I've got in the kitchen. And don't get your hopes up—my cooking makes army rations look gourmet."
As John rummaged through his mostly empty cabinets, Harry sat on the sofa and looked around the cluttered flat. It was nothing like Privet Drive with its pristine perfection and crushing silence. It was messy and strange and smelled funny.
It was perfect.
"Found some tinned soup," John called from the kitchen. "And some bread that's only mostly moldy. Living like kings, we are."
Harry smiled, a real smile this time. For the first time in his life, someone was making him food not out of obligation, but because they wanted to take care of him.
"Mr. Constantine?" he called.
"John," came the reply from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of a tin opener. "Just John."
"John," Harry corrected himself. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet, kid," John said, reappearing with two steaming bowls. "Wait until you taste my cooking. You might change your mind about staying."
But Harry was already sure he wouldn't change his mind. This strange, gruff man who smelled like cigarettes and magic had given him something the Dursleys never had: the sense that he belonged somewhere.
As they ate their simple meal by the light of a single lamp, the Horcrux fragment in Harry's scar seemed to settle into dormancy, contained for now by new mental walls and the simple, powerful magic of being wanted.
Outside, London's supernatural community began to whisper about the boy who'd disappeared from under the noses of Dumbledore's watchers. But inside the flat, Harry Potter was learning what it felt like to be home.