Two weeks after Harry's birthday, John's mobile rang at half-past five in the morning. Harry woke to the sound of muffled cursing and John's voice getting progressively more irritated.
"No, I don't care if it's 'just a small incursion'... Because small incursions have a habit of becoming big bloody disasters... Fine. Give me the address."
Harry padded out to the kitchen to find John already pulling on his coat, cigarette dangling from his lips as he gathered his kit.
"Work?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Demon manifestation in Hampstead. Some posh git thought he'd try summoning something to improve his investment portfolio." John shook his head in disgust. "Rich idiots are the worst kind of idiots."
"Can I come?" Harry asked hopefully. Over the past year, he'd accompanied John on several jobs, and each one taught him more about the practical applications of magic than hours of theory.
John paused, considering. "It's just a basic banishment. Should be straightforward enough. But you stay in the car until I give the all-clear, right?"
"Right," Harry agreed, already reaching for his shoes.
Twenty minutes later, they sat outside a Georgian mansion in Hampstead, watching smoke pour from the upper windows. It wasn't regular smoke—it moved with purpose, forming shapes that hurt to look at directly.
"Bloody amateur," John muttered, checking his supplies. "Probably used some half-remembered Latin from a Hollywood film."
Harry extended his magical senses toward the house and immediately recoiled. "John, that doesn't feel like just one demon."
John's expression sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"It feels like... like a whole family of them. And they're angry about being summoned."
John swore creatively and reached for his mobile. "Change of plans. This isn't a simple banishment job anymore."
He dialed a number Harry recognized. "Tim? Yeah, it's John. I need backup in Hampstead... No, it's not small anymore. Some idiot's opened a proper gateway."
While they waited for Tim to arrive, John walked Harry through what they were likely to face.
"Multiple entities mean we need containment before banishment," John explained, sketching diagrams on a notepad. "Can't just send them back one at a time—they'll overwhelm the summoner's circle and spread throughout London."
"What can I do?" Harry asked.
"Your job is observation and early warning. That magical sensitivity of yours is better than most detection spells. You spot anything I miss, you sing out immediately."
Tim arrived fifteen minutes later, looking like he'd thrown on clothes and apparated directly from his bed. His magic felt more controlled than ever, but there was an edge to it that suggested he was taking this seriously.
"How bad?" Tim asked without preamble.
"Seven entities minimum, possibly more," John said. "And they're not going quietly."
Tim nodded grimly. "Right. Harry, you're with me. John's going to need someone watching his back, and your senses are sharp enough to spot trouble before it starts."
They approached the house carefully, John and Tim weaving protective wards around them as they moved. Harry could feel the magic settling over him like armor—not quite his own power, but close enough that he could sense its structure.
The front door was hanging off its hinges, and the smell of sulfur was overwhelming. But underneath it, Harry detected something else.
"There's human magic here too," he said quietly. "Not just the summoner. Someone else has been working spells in this house."
John and Tim exchanged glances. "Recent?" Tim asked.
Harry concentrated, trying to parse the magical signatures. "Old. Really old. Like, years old. But it's still active."
"Shit," John muttered. "The bastard didn't just summon demons. He summoned them into a house that was already magically prepared."
They found the summoner in what had once been an elegant drawing room. He was cowering behind an overturned sofa while seven demons of various sizes and temperaments ransacked his home with obvious glee.
"Help me!" the man cried when he saw them. "I was just trying to—"
"Shut up," John said without sympathy. "Tim, can you contain them while I break down the summoning circle?"
"On it," Tim replied, and suddenly the room filled with brilliant white light that made the demons shriek and retreat.
Harry watched in fascination as Tim's magic wove itself into a cage of pure energy, trapping the demons but not quite banishing them yet. It was the most advanced magic he'd ever seen performed.
"John," Harry called, studying the chalk marks on the floor. "The circle's been modified. Look at these symbols—they're not standard summoning."
John cursed as he examined Harry's discovery. "Binding circles. The idiot wasn't trying to summon temporary help—he was trying to permanently enslave them."
"Which means they're going to be even more pissed off when we send them home," Tim said through gritted teeth, his containment spell clearly taking effort to maintain.
John began the complex process of unweaving the binding circle while Tim held the demons and Harry kept watch for any changes in the magical environment. It was delicate work—one wrong move and the demons would break free with enhanced power and a serious grudge.
"Harry," John said as he worked, "I need you to do something for me. Can you feel the Horcrux fragment right now?"
Harry touched his scar reflexively. "It's... agitated. Like it's interested in what's happening."
"Keep monitoring it. If it starts getting active, let me know immediately."
Harry nodded, dividing his attention between the demons, the house's magical defenses, and the thing living in his head. It was a complex mental juggling act, but he was getting better at it.
Twenty minutes later, the last demon vanished with a parting curse that turned all the mirrors in the house black. Tim slumped against the wall, exhausted from maintaining the containment, while John methodically destroyed the summoning materials.
"Right," John said to the trembling summoner. "Let's have a little chat about why you thought demon summoning was a sensible investment strategy."
The man—Mr. Blackwood, according to his identification—was exactly what Harry had expected: middle-aged, entitled, and completely unaware of how close he'd come to unleashing hell on London.
"I found the book in my grandfather's library," Blackwood stammered. "It said I could summon entities to serve my financial interests. I thought it was just... old superstition."
"Your grandfather," John said slowly, "was Charles Blackwood?"
The man nodded eagerly. "You knew him?"
"Of him. He was a practicing occultist back in the thirties. And judging by the wards on this house, a competent one." John's expression was grim. "Which means you've been living in a magically prepared space your entire life without knowing it."
Tim straightened, understanding the implications. "The house has been slowly absorbing ambient magical energy for decades."
"Exactly. So when our friend here performed his little ritual, he didn't just open a small summoning circle—he tapped into seventy years of accumulated power."
Harry was studying the walls, tracing faint patterns that were only visible to magical sight. "John, there are more symbols here. Hidden ones. They're not just containment wards."
John followed Harry's pointing finger and went very still. "Tim, get everyone out of this house. Now."
"What?" Blackwood protested. "This is my home!"
"Not anymore," John said grimly. "Harry's right. These aren't just containment wards. They're preparation circles. Your grandfather wasn't just practicing magic—he was preparing this house for a major summoning. Something that required decades of power accumulation."
Tim was already herding Blackwood toward the exit. "What kind of summoning?"
"The kind that brings through something that doesn't want to leave," John said, pulling out his phone. "Harry, I need you to tell me exactly what you're sensing right now."
Harry closed his eyes and extended his senses fully. The house felt different now—awakened, aware, hungry. And underneath it all, something vast was stirring.
"There's something big coming," Harry said, his voice small. "Really big. And it knows we're here."
John was already speed-dialing. "Chas? I need you at the Blackwood house in Hampstead with the van. Full banishment kit, and bring the industrial salt... Because we've got about ten minutes before something seriously nasty comes through a seventy-year-old summoning circle."
As they evacuated the house, Harry felt the Horcrux fragment in his scar react with what could only be described as anticipation. Whatever was coming, the piece of Voldemort's soul was looking forward to it.
"John," Harry said urgently, "the thing in my head likes what's happening."
John swore and grabbed Harry's shoulders. "Listen to me very carefully. Whatever happens next, you do not let that fragment influence you. You stay yourself, you stay in control, and if I tell you to run, you run straight to Tim and don't look back."
Harry nodded, though he could feel something large and ancient pressing against the boundaries of reality, testing the barriers that separated dimensions.
"Tim," John called, "how much power have you got left?"
"Enough," Tim replied, though Harry could see the exhaustion in his posture.
"Good. Because we're about to find out what happens when an amateur accidentally completes a ritual his grandfather spent decades preparing."
The house behind them began to glow with eldritch fire, and somewhere in the distance, something roared with a voice like breaking worlds.
Harry gripped his magical shields tighter and prepared to face whatever was coming. After all, this was what John had been training him for—the moments when normal rules didn't apply and only preparation and power could save the day.
He just hoped a year of training would be enough.
The first thing that came through wasn't the massive entity they'd sensed—it was a scout. A writhing mass of shadow and teeth that materialized in the Blackwood's garden, testing the boundaries between worlds like a finger probing a wound.
"Bloody hell," John muttered, already pulling symbols from his coat. "It's sending advance forces."
"Is that normal?" Harry asked, maintaining his shields while backing toward the street where Tim was setting up a containment perimeter.
"Nothing about this is normal, kid." John's hands moved in practiced patterns, chalking protective symbols on the pavement. "Seventy years of accumulated power doesn't just dissipate quietly."
The shadow-scout let out a sound like breaking glass mixed with screaming wind, then lunged directly at Harry. It seemed to recognize him as the youngest, the most vulnerable target.
Harry's shields flared bright gold as the thing struck them, but instead of bouncing off, it began to chew through the magical barrier with disturbing efficiency.
"It's eating my magic!" Harry called out, pouring more power into his defenses.
"Course it is," John said grimly, completing his circle. "It's a bloody Devourer-spawn. Tim!"
"Working on it!" Tim shouted back, his own magic weaving complex patterns in the air. Where his spells touched the creature, it hissed and recoiled, but it didn't retreat.
Harry felt the Horcrux fragment in his scar pulse with something like hunger, and for a terrifying moment, he could sense what the creature was thinking—it wanted the darkness in his head, drawn to it like a magnet.
"The thing in my scar," Harry said urgently. "It's calling to them!"
John swore creatively. "Right, change of tactics. Harry, I need you to do something that's going to feel completely wrong."
"What?"
"I need you to let your magic go completely dark for exactly three seconds. Feed the Horcrux fragment just enough to make these things think you're one of them."
Harry's eyes went wide. "John, I can't—"
"You can and you will, because otherwise we're all going to be demon food." John's voice carried absolute authority. "Tim, be ready to grab him the moment his aura shifts."
Harry closed his eyes and did the hardest thing he'd ever attempted—he stopped fighting the Horcrux fragment and let it surge forward, just for a moment. His magical aura shifted from bright gold to sickly green-black, and the shadow-creature paused in confusion.
That pause was all John needed. His banishment spell hit the Devourer-spawn like a freight train, sending it shrieking back through the dimensional barrier.
But the damage was done. The brief display of dark magic had been like ringing a dinner bell. The house behind them erupted in otherworldly fire as something vast began to force its way through the weakened barriers.
"Chas!" John bellowed into his mobile. "Where's my bloody van?"
"Two minutes out!" came the crackling reply.
"Make it one!" John grabbed Harry's arm. "How you feeling, kid?"
Harry checked himself carefully. The Horcrux fragment had settled back into its usual dormancy, apparently satisfied with its brief moment of freedom. "I'm okay. Still me."
"Good." John looked at the house, which was now glowing like a small sun. "Because the real show's about to start."
The entity that emerged from the Blackwood house wasn't fully corporeal—it was more like a living void wrapped in malevolent intelligence, with eyes like burning coals and limbs that seemed to bend space around them. It was easily twenty feet tall and growing larger as more of it forced its way through the dimensional rift.
"Ashaketh the Unbinder," Tim said, his voice tight with recognition. "I've read about these. They unmake magical protections, turn spells back on their casters."
"Course it bloody is," John muttered, already organizing his kit. "Harry, I need you on barrier duty. Nothing fancy, just keep it from getting past this street. Tim, you're with me on the big banishment. This thing needs to go back where it came from and stay there."
Harry nodded and began weaving his shields into a proper wall of magical force across the street. It was exhausting work—Ashaketh's mere presence was like trying to hold back the tide with a teacup.
John and Tim began the banishment ritual, their voices joining in a complex harmony of Latin, Enochian, and something that sounded like reverse Welsh. The demon turned its attention to them, recognizing the threat.
When it attacked, it didn't use claws or teeth—it used unmaking. The spell simply stopped existing where the demon touched it. John's first binding dissolved like sugar in water.
"Persistent bastard," John growled, immediately beginning a second incantation. "Harry, how's that wall holding?"
"It's not," Harry admitted through gritted teeth. The thing's presence was eroding his magic faster than he could rebuild it. "Maybe thirty seconds left."
That's when Chas arrived, van skidding to a stop with the screech of tortured tires. He began throwing salt in precise patterns while John and Tim worked their way through increasingly desperate banishment attempts.
"The circle!" Harry suddenly realized. "It's still powering the summoning! We have to break the connection!"
John looked back at the house, which was now more hole in reality than building. "Kid's right. The bloody thing's anchored to this dimension by the original summoning circle."
"I can get to it," Tim said, but John shook his head.
"No, you're needed here for the banishment. Harry—"
"No," Harry said firmly. "I'm seven, John. I can't take on a demon's anchor point alone."
John looked like he was about to argue, then Chas spoke up from behind his salt barrier. "Explosive disruption?"
"What?"
"C4. Big boom. Very effective against magical circles." Chas grinned. "I may have come prepared for multiple contingencies."
Five minutes later, they were crouched behind the van while Chas's "contingency plan" reduced the Blackwood house to rubble and scattered the seventy-year-old summoning circle across half of Hampstead.
The effect on Ashaketh was immediate and dramatic. The demon let out a sound like reality tearing, then began to collapse in on itself as the dimensional rift snapped shut like a rubber band.
"NEXT TIME," it managed to roar as it was pulled back to whatever hell had spawned it, "I WILL REMEMBER THE CHILD WITH DARKNESS IN HIS SOUL."
Then it was gone, leaving behind nothing but smoking ruins and the lingering smell of sulfur.
"Well," John said after a moment, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "That was educational."
Harry slumped against the van, exhausted. "Are they all going to be that hard?"
"God, I hope not," Tim said, looking nearly as drained as Harry felt.
Chas was already on his mobile, presumably arranging cleanup with whatever supernatural sanitation department handled this sort of thing. "Next time," he called over, "we bring bigger explosives."
"Next time," John said firmly, "we check for seventy-year-old summoning circles before we go inside the house."
Harry couldn't argue with that logic.
Three hours later, they sat in an all-night café near Camden Market, sharing tea and trying to pretend their clothes didn't smell like sulfur and otherworldly smoke. The Blackwood house was nothing but smoldering ruins behind them, and somewhere in the wreckage, a seventy-year summoning circle had finally been permanently destroyed.
"So," Harry said, stirring sugar into his tea with the careful precision of someone whose hands were still shaking slightly, "that was a big one."
"That," John said, lighting what had to be his twentieth cigarette of the night, "was a bloody disaster that we managed to prevent from becoming an apocalypse."
Tim nodded wearily. "The entity your grandfather was trying to summon, Mr. Blackwood, was a Domination-class demon. If it had fully manifested..."
"We'd be looking at London under demonic occupation within a week," John finished. "Your grandfather was either completely mad or planning something that would have made Aleister Crowley look like a village vicar."
Blackwood, who had spent the past three hours alternating between denial and terror, just stared into his coffee cup. "I had no idea. I thought it was just... family history."
"Family history that nearly ended the world," Harry pointed out with the blunt honesty of childhood.
"Harry's right," John said. "And that brings us to an important lesson." He turned to Harry with a serious expression. "What did we learn tonight about trust and assumptions?"
Harry thought about it. "That just because someone seems harmless doesn't mean they are? And that people don't always tell you the whole truth, even when they think they are?"
"Exactly. Blackwood here wasn't lying when he said he thought it was harmless. But his ignorance nearly got us all killed." John took a long drag. "In our line of work, paranoia isn't a character flaw—it's a survival skill."
Tim nodded approvingly. "Always verify. Always investigate. And always assume that whatever you're walking into is more dangerous than it appears."
"But," Harry said thoughtfully, "you still helped him. Even though he was stupid and nearly destroyed London."
"Yeah," John said after a moment. "Because stupid doesn't mean evil. And everyone deserves a chance to learn from their mistakes—assuming they survive them."
As they prepared to leave, Blackwood approached them hesitantly.
"I want to make amends," he said. "For what I nearly caused. Is there anything I can do?"
John studied the man's face for a long moment. "Donate your grandfather's entire occult library to the Royal College of Surgeons. They've got a secure collection for dangerous materials. And never, ever, touch anything magical again."
"And maybe," Tim added, "consider therapy. You've just learned that your family home was a seventy-year magical time bomb. That's the sort of thing that tends to leave psychological scars."
After Blackwood left, the three of them sat in comfortable silence for a while, processing the night's events.
"John?" Harry said finally.
"Yeah?"
"The thing in my head—it really wanted whatever was trying to come through to succeed."
John's expression grew serious. "I noticed. It's getting stronger, isn't it? More aware?"
Harry nodded reluctantly. "Not enough to be dangerous yet. But... it's learning. Watching. Like it's waiting for something."
Tim and John exchanged glances. "We might need to accelerate your training," Tim said carefully. "If the fragment is becoming more active..."
"Yeah," John agreed grimly. "Tomorrow we start you on some of the advanced containment work. And I think it's time you learned about binding spells—the kind that can hold things a lot nastier than poltergeists."
Harry felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with apprehension. Advanced magic meant more power, but it also meant more responsibility. And more danger.
"I'm ready," he said, and was surprised to find that he meant it.
"Course you are, kid," John said, ruffling his hair. "You've got the best teachers in London. What could go wrong?"
Tim and Harry both stared at him.
"John," Tim said slowly, "you never, ever say 'what could go wrong' after a night like this."
"Right," John said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Forget I said that. Let's just go home and pretend we're normal people who don't fight demons for a living."
As they walked through the pre-dawn London streets, Harry reflected that normal had never really been an option for him anyway. But having John and Tim as family—chosen family—made the abnormal feel like exactly where he belonged.
Even if it did involve the occasional near-apocalypse.