Buenos Aires, Argentina - Six Months Later
Harry Potter, now nine years old and considerably more confident than the boy who'd trembled in a London alley three years ago, stood outside a dusty bookstore in San Telmo and tried to decide if the building was actually tilting to the left or if that was just his imagination.
"It's not your imagination," John Constantine said, lighting his third cigarette in the past ten minutes. "The whole bloody thing is leaning like the Tower of Pisa. Question is whether it's architectural incompetence or magical interference."
"Magical interference," Harry said immediately, extending his senses toward the building. "There's something wrong with the space inside. It's... bigger than it should be. And older."
They'd been in Buenos Aires for two days, following up on a lead from one of John's old contacts—a former Interpol agent named Carlos Mendez who'd retired to Argentina after one too many encounters with things that weren't supposed to exist. Carlos had called in a favor, asking John to investigate a string of disappearances that had the local police baffled.
The victims weren't technically missing. They were still there, still breathing, still going through the motions of daily life. But according to their families, everything that made them who they were had simply... vanished. Memories, personalities, quirks, dreams—all gone, leaving behind perfectly functional but utterly empty human shells.
"It's like they've been photocopied," Carlos had explained over dinner the night before, chain-smoking and looking like he hadn't slept in weeks. "The body is there, but the soul... nothing. And they all have one thing in common—they were last seen browsing in that bookstore."
Harry studied the faded sign above the shop: "Librería del Laberinto"—The Labyrinth Bookstore. The name alone was enough to make his magical senses twitch with unease.
"Right then," John said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Standard rules apply. Stay close, don't touch anything without asking, and if I tell you to run—"
"I run straight to the extraction point and call for backup," Harry finished. "I know, John. This isn't my first supernatural investigation."
"No, but it's the first one that feels specifically designed to target kids with complicated soul situations," John replied grimly. "Whatever's in there, it's been watching us since we arrived in the city. I can feel it... anticipating."
Harry touched his scar reflexively. The Horcrux fragment had been unusually quiet since they'd landed in Argentina, which was somehow more unsettling than its usual attempts to influence his magic.
The bell above the door gave a discordant chime as they entered, and Harry immediately understood why John was so worried. The bookstore was impossibly vast inside, with shelves stretching up into shadows that seemed too deep for the building's actual height. Narrow aisles wound between the stacks like a maze, and every surface was covered with books in languages Harry couldn't identify.
But it was the mirrors that made his skin crawl.
They were everywhere—antique looking glasses wedged between the bookshelves, reflecting not just the store but distorted versions of it. In one mirror, the bookstore appeared to be underwater. In another, it was filled with snow. And in a third, Harry caught a glimpse of himself, but wrong somehow. Older, sadder, with eyes that held a coldness he recognized from his nightmares.
"Don't look too long at any single reflection," John warned quietly. "Mirrors like these... they don't just show what is. They show what could be."
"Can I help you gentlemen?"
The voice came from an elderly man who seemed to materialize from between the shelves like smoke. He was thin, well-dressed in an old-fashioned suit, and spoke with a slight German accent that made John's eyes narrow suspiciously.
"Just browsing," John said casually, but Harry could feel him reaching for the protective charms in his coat. "Heard you had some interesting first editions."
"Oh yes," the man said, his smile too wide and too eager. "We have some very rare items indeed. In fact, we have a special collection in the basement that might interest you. Items of... particular significance to those with discerning tastes."
"Basement?" Harry asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer was going to be bad.
"Where the real treasures are kept," the man said, his eyes fixed on Harry with uncomfortable intensity. "Would you like to see? I think you'd find our collection of alternate histories particularly fascinating."
John stepped closer to Harry, his protective instincts clearly triggered. "That's very kind, but—"
"Oh, but I insist," the man said, and suddenly his polite facade dropped entirely. "You see, we've been expecting you, Mr. Potter. Your story is so very... incomplete. We'd like to help you explore some other possibilities."
The mirrors around them began to pulse with silvery light, and Harry felt reality itself starting to bend around the edges. The bookstore was shifting, corridors appearing where none had been before, leading down into depths that definitely hadn't existed when they'd entered.
"Shit," John muttered, grabbing Harry's arm. "Kid, we're leaving. Right now."
But when they turned toward the entrance, there was only another corridor lined with mirrors, stretching away into infinity.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," the man said pleasantly. "You see, you've entered the Labyrinth now. The only way out is through. And through... well, through requires a certain payment."
"What kind of payment?" Harry asked, though he was already pretty sure he didn't want to know.
"Stories," the man said, his eyes gleaming. "Memories. The weight of who you are and who you might have been. Don't worry—it's quite painless. You simply... stop being yourself, and become something much more manageable."
The mirrors were definitely alive now, showing increasingly disturbing reflections. Harry saw himself as he might have been if the Dursleys had succeeded in breaking him completely—cowering, broken, magic suppressed to the point of Obscurus formation. He saw himself as Voldemort might have wanted him—arrogant, cruel, the Horcrux fragment fully ascendant.
And most disturbing of all, he saw himself as he could have been if his parents had lived—happy, normal, loved, but also soft, unprepared for the realities of the magical world.
"Don't look," John said sharply, but his own voice was strained. The mirrors were affecting him too, showing possibilities Harry couldn't see but that were clearly painful.
"But they're so interesting," the man said, gesturing to the reflections with obvious pride. "All the lives you could have lived, Mr. Potter. All the choices that led you away from happiness. Wouldn't you like to explore them? Perhaps even... trade?"
Harry felt the Horcrux fragment stir for the first time since they'd arrived, responding to the offer with something like hunger. The piece of Voldemort's soul wanted this—wanted to see Harry doubt himself, question his choices, lose himself in regret and possibility.
"No thanks," Harry said firmly, reinforcing his mental barriers the way Jason Blood had taught him. "I'm quite happy with the life I've got."
"Are you?" the man asked, and suddenly the mirror reflections became more vivid, more real. "Even knowing that your parents died because of you? Even knowing that you carry a piece of the man who killed them in your very soul? Even knowing that everyone who cares about you is in constant danger because of what you are?"
For a moment, Harry felt the weight of those truths pressing down on him. The guilt, the fear, the knowledge that his very existence put people at risk. The Horcrux fragment fed on those feelings, growing stronger, whispering that maybe it would be easier to just... let go.
Then he heard John's voice, rough with barely controlled panic: "Harry. Kid. Stay with me. Don't listen to the bastard."
And that was when Harry understood. This wasn't about him at all—it was about isolating him from the people who anchored him to his true self. The labyrinth wanted to separate him from John, from the found family that had taught him who he really was.
"You know what's funny?" Harry said, his voice gaining strength as he looked directly at the man. "You're right about all of that. My parents did die because of me. I do carry a piece of Voldemort in my head. And yeah, the people I care about are in danger because of what I am."
The man smiled triumphantly, thinking he'd won.
"But here's the thing," Harry continued, and his magic began to rise around him—not the violent combat magic Jason had taught him, but the gentle, creative power Tim had shown him. "None of that changes who I choose to be. None of that makes the good things in my life less real."
Light began to flow from Harry's hands, but instead of his usual butterflies, he created something new—small, glowing figures that looked like people. A gruff man in a trench coat teaching a small boy to build mental walls. A teenager with ancient eyes showing another child how to weave starlight. An old man with twinkling eyes offering friendship and formal training.
"What are you doing?" the man demanded, and for the first time, he sounded uncertain.
"Telling a better story," Harry said simply.
The light figures began to move, acting out scenes from Harry's real life. John rescuing him from the alley. Tim teaching him that magic could be beautiful. Dumbledore showing him that knowledge was a gift. Zatanna proving that friendship was possible. El Dorado demonstrating that power could heal instead of destroy.
"These aren't the only possible stories," Harry said, his voice growing stronger as more light figures appeared. "I could have been broken, or dark, or naive. But I'm not. I'm someone who was found by people who saw potential instead of problems. I'm someone who chooses to help instead of hurt, even when it's dangerous."
The mirrors around them began to crack, their reflections wavering as Harry's story-light filled the labyrinth.
"This is impossible," the man snarled, his polite facade crumbling entirely. "The Bibliothecary feeds on regret and doubt! You cannot simply reject what you are!"
"I'm not rejecting what I am," Harry said, and his light figures began to tell new stories—tales of other children who'd been broken and found healing, of darkness transformed into light, of families chosen rather than born. "I'm accepting all of it. The good, the bad, and the complicated. But I'm also choosing which story gets to win."
John was staring at Harry with something approaching awe. "Kid, what you're doing—it's like you're rewriting the fundamental rules of this place."
"Because that's exactly what he's doing," the man said, and now his voice carried a note of panic. "The labyrinth operates on narrative principles! If he can author a stronger story—"
"Then your whole system breaks down," John finished, his expression shifting to one of predatory glee. "Right then. Harry's got the right idea. Time for some creative storytelling."
John began his own contribution to the chaos—not with magic, but with words. He started spinning tales of his own past, but not real ones. Elaborate lies, contradictory histories, impossible adventures that couldn't all be true simultaneously.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I saved the Queen from a vampire?" John said conversationally, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of a born con man. "Or was it the time I convinced the vampire to save the Queen from herself? Actually, now that I think about it, I might have been the vampire. Memory gets a bit fuzzy after the third resurrection."
The man—who Harry was beginning to suspect wasn't entirely human—looked increasingly distressed as John's contradictory stories began to infect the labyrinth's logic.
"You cannot do this!" he protested. "The Bibliothecary requires truth! Genuine memory and identity!"
"Yeah, well, turns out my genuine identity is that I'm a liar," John said cheerfully. "Been making up stories about myself for so long I'm not even sure which ones are real anymore. Good luck cataloguing that, mate."
The combination of Harry's story-light and John's narrative chaos was having a devastating effect on the labyrinth. The mirrors were shattering one by one, their reflections becoming increasingly abstract and impossible.
But the man wasn't giving up without a fight. With a gesture, he summoned something from the depths of the basement—a creature that looked like it was made of old parchment and bound books, its eyes glowing with the light of stolen memories.
"The Bibliothecary," Harry breathed, recognizing the entity from John's descriptions of Nazi soul magic. "It's a golem. Made from the identities it's stolen."
The Bibliothecary spoke in a voice like rustling pages: "The boy-child's story is incomplete. His soul is fragmented, his identity disputed. He will be archived, catalogued, made coherent through our methods."
"Over my dead body," John snarled, stepping protectively in front of Harry.
"That can be arranged," the Bibliothecary replied, and suddenly the air around John began to shimmer with binding spells designed to hold him in place while it dealt with Harry.
But Harry had learned more than just light-weaving from his teachers. Jason Blood had taught him combat magic, and Constantine had shown him how to fight dirty when necessary.
"Hey, Bibliothecary," Harry called out, his voice carrying across the crumbling labyrinth. "Want to know what your real problem is?"
The golem turned its attention to him, which was exactly what Harry had been hoping for.
"Your whole existence is based on the idea that there's only one true version of any story," Harry continued, his magic building around him like a storm of possibilities. "But that's bollocks. Stories don't work that way."
He raised both hands, and suddenly the air filled with light constructs—not just figures now, but entire scenes, whole narratives playing out simultaneously. Stories of redemption and found family, of power used to protect instead of dominate, of children who refused to be defined by their worst moments.
"This is the story of a boy who was meant to be a weapon but chose to be a protector," Harry said, and his voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "This is the story of a man who could have been broken by loss but chose to save others instead. This is the story of family that isn't defined by blood but by choice."
The Bibliothecary recoiled as if struck. "Impossible. These narratives contradict the fundamental principles of classification—"
"Exactly," Harry said with a grin that would have made John proud. "People aren't books. You can't just file us away under neat little categories. We're all contradictions and complications and stories that don't fit in proper genres."
The light from Harry's constructs was growing brighter, overwhelming the dull glow of the stolen memories in the Bibliothecary's form. The golem began to crumble, its parchment skin falling away as the identities it had stolen were finally set free.
"This isn't possible," the man who wasn't a man whispered as the labyrinth collapsed around them. "The archives... the collection... fifty years of work..."
"Yeah, well," John said, lighting a cigarette as reality reasserted itself around them, "turns out you can't actually organize human souls like library books. Who'd have thought?"
The bookstore was collapsing, the impossible spaces folding in on themselves as the magical framework that supported them fell apart. Harry grabbed John's arm and together they ran for what they hoped was still the exit, dodging falling shelves and exploding mirrors.
They burst out onto the Buenos Aires street just as the building behind them gave a final, shuddering collapse and became just an ordinary, if badly constructed, bookstore again.
"Right," John said, breathing hard and looking at the now-normal building with suspicion. "That was definitely one of the weirder cases we've handled."
"The people who were affected," Harry said, suddenly concerned. "Will they be okay?"
"Should be," John confirmed, checking the magical emanations from the building. "When the Bibliothecary was destroyed, all those stolen identities should have returned to their proper owners. Might take a day or two for everything to settle back into place, but they should be fine."
Harry nodded, relief evident on his face. Then something occurred to him. "John? How did you know to use lies instead of truth?"
John grinned, the expression both proud and slightly manic. "Because, kid, sometimes the best way to fight a system based on absolute truth is with absolute bollocks. Besides," he added, ruffling Harry's hair, "you gave me the idea with all that stuff about stories not fitting into neat categories."
"We make a good team," Harry said with satisfaction.
"Yeah, we do," John agreed. "Though next time you decide to rewrite the fundamental nature of reality through interpretive light shows, maybe give me a bit more warning?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Harry asked with a grin that was pure Constantine mischief.
As they walked away from the collapsed bookstore, neither of them noticed the figure watching from a nearby café—Carlos Mendez, making notes about the extraordinary magical partnership he'd just witnessed. The boy was growing into something unprecedented, he reflected. Someone who could face the darkest aspects of magic and respond with hope instead of fear.
Three Hours Later - Hotel Bar
"So let me get this straight," Carlos said, nursing his third whiskey and looking between John and Harry with the expression of someone whose worldview had been thoroughly rearranged. "A nine-year-old boy just defeated a Nazi soul-magic labyrinth by... telling it better stories?"
"Bit more complicated than that," John said, lighting another cigarette. "Kid also had to accept all the dark parts of himself without being consumed by them, which is advanced psychological magic most adults never master."
"I had good teachers," Harry said modestly, though he was clearly pleased with the praise. "Besides, the labyrinth made a fundamental error in assuming that having darkness in you means you have to be defined by it."
Carlos stared at Harry for a long moment. "You're nine."
"Nine-ish," Harry corrected. "And I've had a very educational three years."
"Right," Carlos said faintly. "Well, on behalf of the Buenos Aires Police Department and several dozen people who nearly lost their souls to a magic library, thank you."
"Just doing the job," John said. "Though I have to admit, this one was particularly satisfying. Always nice to stick it to the Nazi occultists, even the ones who've been dead for decades."
"What happens to the bookstore now?" Harry asked.
"It'll probably just be a normal bookstore," Carlos said. "Though I suspect the selection will be considerably less... metaphysically dangerous."
As they finished their drinks and prepared to head back to London, Harry reflected on what he'd learned. The case had been different from Mexico—less about healing ancient pain and more about refusing to be defined by trauma and darkness. But the core principle was the same: understanding and empathy were often more powerful than raw magical force.
"John?" Harry said as they walked back to their hotel.
"Yeah?"
"Next time we're in South America, can we visit somewhere without ancient magical curses or Nazi occultists?"
"Kid," John said with a grin, "where's the fun in that?"
Harry laughed, and for a moment, he felt perfectly, simply happy. He had a guardian who understood him, teachers who challenged him, friends who accepted him, and increasingly, a sense of his own identity that couldn't be shaken by mirrors or doubt or the whispers of soul fragments.