Oaxaca, Mexico - Three Days Later
Harry Potter stood in the middle of a dusty Mexican plaza, watching John Constantine argue with a local police officer in a mixture of broken Spanish and increasingly frustrated English, and reflected that this was definitely not how he'd expected their Mexico trip to begin.
"No, no, no," John was saying, waving his cigarette for emphasis. "Ahogamiento supernatural. Super-bloody-natural drowning. The bloke died in his bedroom, fifty miles from the nearest puddle!"
The officer, a tired-looking man in his forties, just shook his head and continued writing in his notebook. "Señor, there is no such thing as supernatural drowning. The man had a heart attack. Perhaps he choked on water he was drinking."
"He was found with his lungs full of saltwater and seaweed that doesn't grow anywhere within three hundred miles of here!" John's voice was reaching the pitch that usually preceded either violence or a very creative magical solution to bureaucratic problems.
Harry decided it was time to intervene before John did something that would get them both arrested. "Excuse me," he said politely to the officer, switching to the Spanish Dr. Chen had been teaching him. "Officer, we understand this seems unusual, but we specialize in... unusual cases. Perhaps we could examine the scene quietly, without disturbing your investigation?"
The officer blinked in surprise at hearing fluent Spanish from an eight-year-old English boy, then looked between Harry and John with the expression of someone trying to decide if this was worth the paperwork.
"You speak Spanish?" John asked, momentarily distracted from his argument.
"Dr. Chen says a proper education includes languages," Harry replied. "Besides, you were about to start a diplomatic incident."
"I was not about to—" John began, then stopped. "Right, yeah, probably was. Good catch, kid."
Twenty minutes and a small bribe later, they found themselves standing in the bedroom where Miguel Hernandez had died three days ago. The room still smelled of saltwater and something Harry's enhanced senses identified as deep ocean magic—old, primal, and saturated with grief.
"Bollocks," John muttered, running his hands through the air above the bed. "This isn't demon work. This isn't even human magic. This is..." He paused, his expression growing troubled. "This is something I've never encountered before."
Harry extended his own magical senses and immediately staggered. The residual emotions in the room hit him like a physical blow—not malice or hunger, but an overwhelming sadness so profound it made his chest ache.
"It's not trying to hurt people," Harry said quietly, one hand pressed to his scar where the Horcrux fragment was beginning to stir in response to the raw emotion. "It's... grieving. Something is in so much pain that it's crying itself back into existence."
John looked at him sharply. "You can feel its intent?"
"More than that. I can almost hear it." Harry closed his eyes, following the thread of sorrow that seemed to permeate the very air. "It's singing. A lament. Something about... lost children? Lost worshippers?"
"Right," John said, stubbing out his cigarette with more force than necessary. "We need local expertise. Someone who understands the magical traditions of this region."
They spent the rest of the day asking discreet questions around town, following leads that took them from Catholic priests who crossed themselves nervously at their inquiries, to street vendors who sold "healing crystals" that were obviously just colored glass, to an elderly woman who read palms in the market and immediately told them they were looking for death.
It was nearly sunset when they found themselves in a small cantina on the outskirts of town, sharing a table with a weathered indigenous healer named Rosa who claimed to know about "the old powers."
"You seek knowledge of the weeping god," Rosa said without preamble, her English accented but clear. "The one who drowns men on dry land."
"You know about it?" Harry asked eagerly.
"My grandmother knew the stories. Her grandmother sealed that particular sorrow away, back when the Spanish were still burning our temples." Rosa's expression grew grave. "Someone has broken that seal. Probably by accident—developers, archaeologists, someone who didn't understand what they were disturbing."
"Can it be stopped?" John asked.
"Stopped? No. This is not a demon you can banish, Constantine. This is grief made manifest, sorrow given form by centuries of accumulated power. It cannot be fought—only understood, and perhaps... comforted."
"Comforted," John repeated flatly. "Right. And how exactly does one comfort an ancient god of sadness?"
Rosa smiled, but it was sad rather than amused. "That is not a question for an old woman. You need to find a child of the old ways, someone who can speak the language of gold and illusion." She stood, gathering her shawl around her shoulders. "Find El Dorado. He will know what must be done."
After she left, John and Harry sat in contemplative silence for several minutes.
"El Dorado," Harry said finally. "That's a place, right? The city of gold?"
"Also a person, apparently," John said, lighting another cigarette. "Though how we're supposed to find a legendary figure who may or may not actually exist..."
"Excuse me," said a voice from the cantina's entrance. "I believe you're looking for me."
They turned to see a man in his thirties standing in the doorway, wearing simple clothes but carrying himself with unconscious authority. His skin was bronze, his hair black, and when he moved, there was something about him that suggested both great power and careful control.
"You're El Dorado?" Harry asked, studying the newcomer with interest.
"Among other things," the man replied, approaching their table with fluid grace. "I am Diego de la Vega y Sánchez, though most know me by my heroic identity. And you are John Constantine and Harry Potter, come to Mexico to solve a problem you do not understand."
"Bit presumptuous, isn't it?" John said, though his tone was more curious than hostile.
"Perhaps. But when an ancient rain god begins weeping itself back into existence, those of us who guard the old magic tend to take notice." El Dorado settled into the empty chair at their table. "Especially when the grief becomes so powerful that people begin drowning in their own beds."
Harry leaned forward with interest. "You can feel it too? The sadness?"
"I can hear its song," El Dorado confirmed. "The lament of Tláloc's younger brother, the god of sorrowful rain. He has been sleeping for five hundred years, bound by blood and sacrifice to protect the people from his grief. But someone has broken the binding."
"How?" John asked.
"Developers clearing land for a resort hotel. They found what they thought was a simple Zapotec ruin and began excavation without consulting anyone who might have warned them." El Dorado's expression darkened. "They breached the inner chamber three days ago."
"Same day the drownings started," Harry observed.
"The god is trapped between sleeping and waking," El Dorado continued. "Each time he stirs, his grief spills out into the world. The drownings are just the beginning—if he fully awakens, his sorrow will spread across the entire region."
John rubbed his face tiredly. "Right. So how do we put him back to sleep?"
"We cannot. The old bindings were broken by modern machinery and ignorance. But perhaps..." El Dorado looked thoughtfully between John and Harry. "Perhaps we can offer him something better than sleep. Peace."
"How?" Harry asked.
"That," El Dorado said with a slight smile, "will require all three of us working together. Your master's strategic mind, your compassionate heart, and my understanding of the old ways."
The Temple - That Night
The ancient temple was nothing like the grand Aztec pyramids Harry had seen in books. Hidden deep in the jungle, accessible only through El Dorado's teleportation, it was a modest stone structure covered in centuries of growth. But the moment they materialized in the clearing around it, Harry could feel the power radiating from within.
"Sweet Jesus," John muttered, immediately beginning to sketch protective circles in the dirt around their position. "The magical pressure here is like standing next to a bloody reactor."
Harry nodded, one hand pressed to his scar where the Horcrux fragment was becoming increasingly agitated. The raw emotion pouring from the temple was like nothing he'd ever experienced—grief so pure and overwhelming that it threatened to drown him in sympathy.
"Can you manage it?" El Dorado asked, noticing Harry's struggle.
"Yeah," Harry said through gritted teeth, reinforcing his mental barriers the way John and Jason had taught him. "But the thing in my head doesn't like all this emotion. It's trying to... twist it. Make it darker."
"Then we work quickly," El Dorado said. "Constantine, can you create a containment circle around the temple itself? Something to prevent the god's manifestations from interfering while Harry and I work?"
"Can do," John replied, already pulling ritual components from his kit bag. "But I'm working with magic I don't understand here. This isn't going to be pretty."
For the next hour, John worked to create a barrier using every protective technique he knew, adapting his familiar London street magic to work with the alien power structures of pre-Columbian mysticism. It was exhausting, dangerous work, and Harry could see the strain on his guardian's face.
Meanwhile, El Dorado had begun his own preparations, creating intricate patterns in the dirt with what appeared to be actual gold dust while chanting in a language that predated Spanish by millennia.
"Harry," El Dorado called softly. "I need you to listen to the god's song. Can you tell me what you hear?"
Harry closed his eyes and extended his senses toward the temple. Immediately, the lament washed over him—not words, but pure emotion given voice. Loneliness. Loss. The memory of prayers that would never come again, of children who had forgotten their names, of a purpose that had been stripped away by conquest and time.
"He's mourning his people," Harry said quietly. "The ones who used to sing to him, who brought him offerings, who understood his power. They're gone, and he doesn't know how to exist without them."
"Good," El Dorado said approvingly. "Now, can you show him that his grief is understood? Not fix it—that is beyond any of us—but acknowledge it?"
Harry nodded, though the effort of maintaining his mental barriers while projecting empathy toward such a powerful entity was enormous. The Horcrux fragment was actively fighting him now, trying to turn his compassion into something cold and manipulative.
Not today, Harry thought fiercely at the soul fragment. Today we help someone.
He reached out with his magic—not the structured spells Dumbledore had taught him or the combat techniques Jason had drilled into him, but the intuitive, emotional magic that had been his first response to John's kindness. Pure intent, given form by will and powered by genuine desire to help.
The response was immediate and overwhelming. The god's attention turned toward Harry like a spotlight, and suddenly the boy could feel everything the ancient entity was experiencing—centuries of accumulated sorrow, the weight of forgotten prayers, the echo of a civilization that existed now only in ruins.
But instead of being crushed by it, Harry found himself responding with his own memories of loss and loneliness. The cupboard under the stairs. The years of being told he was worthless, unwanted, wrong. The desperate hunger for connection that had driven him to such extremes.
I understand, Harry projected, not in words but in pure emotion. I know what it's like to be forgotten. To have no one who remembers your name with love.
The god's lament faltered for a moment, surprise rippling through the overwhelming sadness.
But I also know, Harry continued, drawing on memories of John's rough kindness, Tim's patient teaching, Dumbledore's gentle guidance, that sometimes new connections can grow even when old ones are lost. Different, but still real.
El Dorado was weaving his own magic now, creating illusions that showed the temple as it had been in its glory days—filled with worshippers, bright with offerings, alive with purpose. But instead of stopping there, he began to show it as it could be again—not with the old rituals, but with new forms of respect. Archaeologists who understood what they were studying. Tourists who came to learn rather than exploit. A modern world that could appreciate the old powers without trying to own them.
The combination of Harry's emotional honesty and El Dorado's hopeful visions began to have an effect. The crushing weight of sorrow didn't disappear, but it began to... settle. Like a wound that was finally being properly tended.
"That's it," John called from his position at the perimeter, sweat streaming down his face as he maintained the protective circle. "The manifestations are calming down. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
For another hour, Harry and El Dorado worked together—the boy offering understanding and the man providing hope, while Constantine held back the chaotic energies that leaked around the edges of the working. It was the most complex magical collaboration Harry had ever been part of, requiring him to constantly adapt his approach as the god's responses shifted and changed.
Finally, as dawn began to break over the jungle, the lament faded to a whisper. The oppressive weight of sorrow lifted, replaced by something that wasn't happiness—that would have been impossible—but a kind of peaceful resignation.
The god of sorrowful rain had returned to his slumber, but this time it was willing rest rather than enforced imprisonment.
"Right," John said, slumping against a tree as the magical pressure finally began to ease. "Please tell me we're not going to have to do that again anytime soon."
"The binding will hold," El Dorado confirmed, beginning the complex process of sealing the temple properly. "Better than before, because it was made with understanding rather than force."
Harry sat down heavily beside John, exhausted from the night's work but feeling oddly satisfied. "Is it wrong that I felt sorry for him? Even though he was killing people?"
"Not wrong at all, kid," John said, ruffling Harry's hair. "Shows you've got the right instincts for this work. The dangerous ones are the entities that don't have any pain left in them—those are the ones that become pure malice."
El Dorado approached them as he finished his sealing work. "You both did well tonight. The god was able to find peace because you offered him genuine understanding rather than trying to simply overpower him."
"So what happens now?" Harry asked. "Do you stay here to make sure he doesn't wake up again?"
"For a while, yes. And I will work with the local authorities to ensure the temple is properly protected from future disturbance." El Dorado smiled slightly. "But I suspect our paths will cross again, Harry Potter. You have a gift for this kind of work—the magic that heals rather than destroys."
As they prepared to leave the jungle clearing, Harry looked back at the temple one last time. It looked so small and unassuming, yet it had contained such vast sorrow. It reminded him of his own scar—a seemingly minor mark that held something much larger and more dangerous.
"John?" he said as El Dorado prepared to teleport them back to town.
"Yeah?"
"When we get back to London, can we visit Tim? I want to tell him about the collaborative magic. I think he'd find it interesting."
"Course we can, kid." John lit a cigarette, his first since the night began. "Might have some interesting observations about working with unfamiliar magical traditions."
As the jungle clearing disappeared around them, replaced by the dusty streets of the Mexican town, Harry reflected on what he'd learned. Magic wasn't just about power or technique—it was about understanding, empathy, and the willingness to risk yourself to help others find peace.
It was, he thought as they walked toward their hotel, probably the most important lesson he'd learned yet.
Even if it had nearly gotten him drowned by a grieving god in the middle of the desert.
"Next time," John said, apparently reading his thoughts, "we're taking a nice, simple case. Maybe a straightforward possession or a bog-standard demon summoning."
"Where's the fun in that?" Harry asked with a grin.
John looked down at his eight-year-old ward—who had just spent the night comforting an ancient deity and managing a Horcrux fragment simultaneously—and shook his head in amazement.
"Kid, you're going to be the death of me."
"Probably," Harry agreed cheerfully. "But at least it'll be interesting."
As they walked through the early morning streets of Oaxaca, neither of them noticed the figure watching from a rooftop above—El Dorado, making sure they departed safely, but also making mental notes about the extraordinary magical education of one Harry Potter.
Someday, the golden hero reflected, the magical world was going to need someone who could bridge different traditions, someone who understood that power without compassion was worthless.
Harry Potter, he suspected, was going to be exactly that person.
The question was whether the world would be ready for him when the time came.