JFK Airport, New York - November 1990
Harry Potter stepped off the plane at JFK International Airport with the familiar mixture of excitement and nervousness that came with returning to a place that held good memories. The terminal was just as overwhelming as he remembered from his first visit with John—the constant bustle of international travelers, the mix of languages, the sheer American scale of everything.
But this time was different. This time, he was arriving alone, carrying a small suitcase that contained everything John thought he'd need for what might be a very long stay. This time, he wasn't just visiting—he was being placed somewhere safe while his guardian hunted something that wanted to kill them both.
He made his way through customs with the efficiency John had taught him, his paperwork in perfect order despite the unusual circumstances of a nine-year-old traveling internationally alone. The immigration officer barely glanced at his passport—apparently the documentation Zatara had provided was sufficiently convincing.
"Next!" the officer called, and Harry found himself in the arrivals area, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
"Harry! Welcome back!"
He turned to see Zatanna Zatara practically vibrating with excitement behind the barrier, her dark hair longer than it had been during his visit a year ago. Beside her, Giovanni Zatara stood with the same patient expression Harry remembered—a man who'd spent years managing his daughter's enthusiastic approach to everything.
"Zatanna!" Harry called back, grinning despite the circumstances that had brought him here. Seeing his friend's familiar face made the prospect of an indefinite stay in America feel less like exile and more like opportunity.
"How was the flight?" Zatanna demanded as soon as Harry reached them, immediately wrapping him in a hug that was somehow both comforting and overwhelming. "John said you'd be staying for a while this time—is it really because something's hunting you? Because that's both terrifying and kind of exciting, and I've been reading about protective wards, and—"
"Zatanna," her father interrupted gently, "perhaps we should move this conversation somewhere less public."
"Right, sorry," Zatanna said, though she looked more eager than apologetic. "I'm just happy you're back. It's been so boring here—well, not boring exactly, but normal-boring instead of magic-boring, if you know what I mean."
Harry did know what she meant. His life with John had taught him the difference between the tedium of normal existence and the complex boredom that came from being surrounded by magical possibilities but temporarily restricted from using them.
"Mr. Zatara," Harry said politely, extending his hand as they began walking toward the exit. "Thank you again for taking me in. John said to tell you he owes you a favor, and apparently that means something significant in your circles."
"It does indeed," Zatara replied with a slight smile. "John Constantine's favors are valuable currency. But you're welcome here regardless, Harry. Any friend of Zatanna's is family, and any child in need of protection has a place at our table."
As they made their way through the airport, Harry found himself noticing details he'd missed during his first, more rushed visit. The easy diversity of New York still amazed him—the mix of languages and cultures that seemed to coexist without the rigid class divisions he was used to in Britain. Street vendors called out in accents he couldn't identify, and the constant energy of the city felt like a living thing.
"It's different when you're staying longer, isn't it?" Zatanna observed, noticing his more thoughtful examination of their surroundings. "Last time you were here, you were focused on the case. This time you can actually see the city."
"It's brilliant," Harry said honestly. "Overwhelming, but brilliant. Everything here feels... bigger."
"That's America for you," Zatara said as they reached his car—the same sleek sedan Harry remembered from his previous visit. "For better and worse, we tend to approach everything with the assumption that more is better."
"Including magical education," Zatanna added with obvious excitement. "Dad, tell him about the arrangements you've been making."
"Arrangements?" Harry asked as they settled into the car.
"Well," Zatara said, pulling away from the curb and into the aggressive ballet of New York traffic, "if you're going to be staying with us for an extended period, we can't very well let your education suffer. I've spoken with several colleagues about providing instruction appropriate to your level."
"My level?" Harry asked uncertainly.
"Harry," Zatanna said with the blunt honesty of a ten-year-old, "you've been trained by John Constantine, Tim Hunter, and Professor Dumbledore. Most adult wizards would kill for that kind of education. Dad's trying to find teachers who won't bore you to death with basic theory."
"What Zatanna is saying," Zatara translated with amused patience, "is that we've arranged for you to study with some very advanced practitioners. People who understand that magical education should challenge rather than constrain natural ability."
Harry felt a flutter of excitement mixed with apprehension. His magical education had always been unconventional—practical training with John, creative problem-solving with Tim, formal technique with Dumbledore. The idea of learning from entirely new teachers, with different approaches and philosophies, was both thrilling and terrifying.
"What sort of practitioners?" Harry asked.
"Well," Zatanna said, barely containing her excitement, "there's Dr. Esther Ashford at Columbia—she's doing groundbreaking work on the intersection of magic and quantum physics. And Marcus Webb, who specializes in historical magical applications. And—oh, this is the best part—Dad managed to get us both lessons with Elena Vasquez."
"Elena Vasquez?" Harry repeated.
"Illusion magic specialist," Zatara explained. "She worked with the government during the war, developing magical camouflage and misdirection techniques. These days she teaches very select students. Zatanna has been begging for lessons with her for months."
"And now we both get to learn from her!" Zatanna said triumphantly. "It's going to be amazing!"
As they drove through the streets of Queens toward Manhattan, Harry found himself processing this new reality. He wasn't just being hidden in America—he was being given access to magical education that most wizards never experienced. The prospect of learning alongside Zatanna, of studying with teachers who approached magic as collaboration rather than competition, felt like an unexpected gift wrapped inside what should have been a crisis.
"Mr. Zatara," Harry said carefully, "John said this arrangement might last for months. Are you sure that's not going to be too much trouble? I mean, I can take care of myself mostly, but..."
"Harry," Zatara said firmly, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, "you are a child who needs protection, education, and care. Providing those things isn't trouble—it's responsibility. The magical community looks after its own, especially when they're facing the kind of dangers that Constantine described."
"What did John tell you exactly?" Harry asked.
"That something ancient and powerful is hunting you specifically," Zatara replied with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who'd dealt with supernatural threats before. "That keeping you safe requires removing you from the immediate area while he and his colleagues handle the problem. And that you're a remarkable young person who deserves better than to live in fear."
Harry felt his throat tighten with emotion. The casual way Zatara spoke about his worth, about the magical community's obligation to protect him, was still startling after years of the Dursleys' treatment.
"Besides," Zatanna added cheerfully, "now I have someone my own age to practice magic with. Do you know how hard it is to find other kids who can actually keep up with advanced theory?"
"Actually," Harry said with a grin, "I think you'll find keeping up with me is the challenge."
"Oh really?" Zatanna's eyes lit up with competitive excitement. "Care to make that interesting?"
"Zatanna," her father warned, though Harry could hear the amusement in his voice, "we've discussed magical competitions in the apartment."
"I know, I know," Zatanna said with exaggerated patience. "No spell battles inside, no summoning anything larger than a house cat, and absolutely no attempts to transfigure furniture into animals."
"That last one sounds like it comes from experience," Harry observed.
"The couch was only a rhinoceros for like five minutes," Zatanna protested. "And I changed it back before it damaged anything important."
"The television doesn't count as important?" Zatara asked dryly.
"Well, not compared to actual magical progress," Zatanna said with the kind of logic that made perfect sense to magical children and no sense at all to adults.
Harry burst out laughing—the first genuinely carefree sound he'd made since John had told him about the hunt. This was what he'd missed during his brief previous visit: the easy camaraderie, the assumption that magic should be fun rather than grim, the feeling of being around people who understood both the wonder and the responsibility of magical ability.
"Right then," Harry said as they pulled up in front of the elegant building that housed the Zatara penthouse, "what's first on the agenda?"
"Lunch," Zatara said practically. "Then we'll get you properly settled in your room—I had some modifications made since your last visit. After that, Zatanna has been planning what she calls 'proper New York tourist activities.'"
"What does that involve?" Harry asked with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
"Museums, Central Park, the Statue of Liberty," Zatanna listed innocently. "You know, the usual tourist stuff."
"And the unusual tourist stuff?" Harry prompted, recognizing the careful omission.
"Well," Zatanna said with a grin that reminded Harry suspiciously of John's expression when he was planning something inadvisable, "I thought we might visit some of the magical districts. There are parts of New York that most tourists never see—places where American magic really shows its character."
Zatara sighed with the long-suffering patience of a parent who'd learned to pick his battles. "Just promise me you'll stay within the tourist-safe areas of Mystic Quarter. And no purchasing anything that requires a permit."
"Define 'permit,'" Zatanna said with exaggerated innocence.
"Zatanna."
"Fine, fine. Only completely legal magical tourism. I promise."
As they rode the elevator up to the penthouse, Harry found himself smiling despite everything. Yes, he was in exile from Britain. Yes, something dangerous was hunting him. Yes, John was somewhere in Europe facing threats that might kill him.
But he was also in one of the most exciting cities in the world, about to begin an education that most young wizards could only dream of, and he was staying with people who treated magic as a source of joy rather than just another burden to bear.
When they reached the apartment, Zatara led him to a room that had clearly been prepared with care. It was larger than any space Harry had ever called his own, with a comfortable bed, a desk positioned to catch the afternoon light, and bookshelves already stocked with an impressive collection of both magical and non-magical texts.
"Your room," Zatara said simply. "I hope you'll be comfortable here."
Harry looked around at the space—really his space, prepared for him specifically, with attention to details like good lighting for reading and enough shelf space for the books he'd inevitably accumulate. For a moment, he couldn't speak around the tightness in his throat.
"Thank you," he finally managed. "It's... it's perfect."
"Good," Zatanna said, bouncing into the room with her usual energy. "Because you're going to be spending a lot of time here studying. American magical education is way more intensive than British—more theory, more practical application, more collaboration between students."
"Collaboration?" Harry asked.
"American magic is very democratic," Zatara explained. "We believe that magical knowledge grows stronger when it's shared rather than hoarded. You'll find the approach quite different from traditional British methods."
As Harry began unpacking his few possessions, he reflected on how strange life could be. A year ago, he'd been a frightened, underfed child hiding in London alleys. Now he was an honored guest in one of America's magical families, about to begin an education that would prepare him not just to survive, but to thrive.
John would be proud, Harry thought as he placed his few books on the shelf beside Zatara's carefully chosen collection.
And more importantly, he was finally beginning to understand what it felt like to be not just safe, but genuinely wanted.
It was, Harry decided as Zatanna began outlining their afternoon plans with characteristic enthusiasm, exactly the kind of adventure he'd been hoping for.
Even if it had come wrapped in circumstances that would have terrified him a year ago.