The next morning arrived with the kind of deceptive calm that, in Harry Potter's experience, always preceded either a pleasant breakfast or a minor apocalypse. The distinction, he had learned, often came down to whether Alfred was wielding a butter knife or whether mysterious strangers were expected to arrive before noon.
Sitting at Wayne Manor's breakfast table—a mahogany behemoth that could have doubled as a landing strip for small aircraft—Harry, a six-year-old who was nearly seven and already possessed the sort of sarcasm that could wither adults twice his size, examined his plate of eggs Benedict with the intensity of a scholar deciphering ancient hieroglyphs.
"This," he announced with the gravitas of someone about to declare war or peace, "is not merely breakfast. This is... civilization distilled into edible form. Alfred, I'm beginning to suspect you could teach magic to Hogwarts professors, and they'd weep with envy at your mastery over toast alone."
Alfred Pennyworth, arranging fresh orchids in a crystal vase with the precision of a man who had survived decades of aristocratic chaos, superhero-level lunacy, and the occasional interdimensional crisis, allowed himself the faintest smile—the equivalent of raucous laughter from anyone less dignified.
"Master Harry," Alfred replied in his perfectly modulated Michael Caine cadence, "it's deeply gratifying to know that my culinary endeavors are appreciated. One does try to maintain the standards of civilized society, particularly when feeding young gentlemen who might otherwise survive on nothing but chaos, cereal, and whatever dubious sustenance passes for nutrition in less... refined households."
"Cereal," Harry shot back, stabbing his fork into a perfectly poached egg with theatrical precision worthy of a West End production, "is highly underrated, thank you very much. It requires no pretense, makes no grand claims about civilization, and doesn't judge you for eating it straight from the box at three in the morning when existential dread strikes."
He paused, considering the perfectly golden yolk now decorating his fork. "Though I suppose if one absolutely must elevate breakfast to an art form, I could accept this... but only grudgingly. And with the understanding that I'm making a tremendous sacrifice for the sake of propriety."
Across from him, Zatanna Zatara—who was currently performing small, precise levitations with her orange juice, making the liquid loop lazily through the air like it had better things to do than obey basic physics—raised a perfectly arched eyebrow that would have made her stage magician father proud.
"You're being ridiculously dramatic," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone children used when they were absolutely right but trying not to sound too smug about it. "I mean, it's just eggs."
Harry dropped his fork with a theatrical clatter and pressed his hand to his chest as if mortally wounded. "Just eggs?" he gasped, eyes wide with mock horror that would have impressed the Royal Shakespeare Company. "Zatanna, my dear, innocent child, eggs are indeed just eggs—unless they're Alfred's eggs, in which case they're practically a diplomatic incident waiting to happen. One bite, and I swear you can feel the subtle vibrations of the universe realigning itself for your personal benefit."
Zatanna snorted, the sound making her suspended orange juice perform what could only be described as an aerial giggle. "I think your universe might be a little overcooked, Potter."
"Overcooked?" Harry's voice pitched higher, his British accent thickening with indignation. "Never! I've seen overcooked eggs, Z—tragic, rubber-like disasters that could be used as cricket balls. This," he gestured grandly at his plate, "is sublime. Celestial, even. Possibly worth a knighthood. Alfred, where's my knighthood?"
"Knighthoods, Master Harry," Alfred replied dryly, not looking up from his flower arrangement but somehow managing to convey both amusement and gentle reproach, "are typically reserved for actual heroics. Though I daresay consuming this breakfast without lodging a single complaint might qualify as heroic in certain circles."
Harry let out a dramatic sigh that could have powered a small windmill and pretended to swoon against his chair. "You wound me, Alfred. Here I am, single-handedly defending the moral fiber of humanity through breakfast appreciation, and no recognition whatsoever?"
"Perhaps one day, sir," Alfred murmured, his voice carrying decades of patient affection, "you shall earn it through slightly more conventional means."
"Conventional?" Harry perked up, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Alfred, surely you know by now that conventional is the mortal enemy of interesting. Besides, I'm six. Nearly seven. My heroics are necessarily on a smaller scale, but they're no less significant."
Zatanna, clearly enjoying the theatrical breakfast performance, leaned forward with the gleam of someone who knew exactly how to stir the pot. "Speaking of heroics," she said, making her orange juice perform a perfect spiral in midair, "Papa says that Constantine person is coming today."
She punctuated her sentence by letting the juice hover just long enough for Harry to flick it with one finger, sending droplets scattering like tiny amber stars.
"Ah, Constantine," Harry said, his eyes lighting up with a mixture of curiosity and that natural, precocious sass that made adults either love him or question their life choices. "The man who apparently smokes too much, tells jokes that make people reconsider their mortality, and has elevated sarcasm from a personality quirk to an actual lifestyle. Sounds absolutely delightful. Perhaps he'll teach me to look sophisticated while being completely insufferable."
"Papa says he's been through a lot," Zatanna added, her expression growing more serious but retaining that spark of mischief. "So he's a bit... grumpy. And sarcastic. And scary. But really good at saving people from things that shouldn't exist."
Harry leaned back in his chair, steepling his tiny fingers like a miniature supervillain planning world domination. "So essentially, he's a grown-up version of me, but with significantly worse fashion sense and a smoking habit that would make a chimney jealous."
Zatanna tilted her head, studying him with the analytical gaze of someone who had inherited her father's theatrical instincts. "And you think you have fashion sense?"
Harry shot her a look that could have melted steel—or at least significantly dented it. "Darling Zatanna, even a six-year-old can distinguish between calculated chaos and couture catastrophe. My hair may have a mind of its own, but at least my clothes don't look like they've been through a magical washing machine set to 'apocalypse.'"
Zatanna giggled, a sound like silver bells having a tea party, and in a perfect display of sibling-esque mischief, made his fork float precisely one inch above the table. Harry's eyes followed it with the expression of someone watching a mildly interesting scientific experiment.
"Right," he said conversationally. "You're going to make breakfast a floating circus now? Fine. I accept my levitating cutlery with the grace and dignity befitting my station. Just know that one wrong move, and those eggs will find themselves redecorating your hair."
"Promises, promises," Zatanna replied sweetly, her smirk suggesting she had just solved the universe's greatest puzzle and found it mildly amusing.
Alfred, seemingly unfazed by the magical chaos erupting around his carefully maintained breakfast service, poured a cup of Earl Grey with the precise patience of someone who had learned the art of ignoring children, magic, and the occasional interdimensional incident.
"Master Harry," he said, setting the delicate china cup beside the floating fork, "do remember that one day, you may face enemies far more troublesome than mischievous young witches levitating your breakfast utensils. Tea, in such moments, is always worth savoring."
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a grin that transformed his entire face. "Noted, Alfred. But today... today is for appreciating eggs, surviving levitating juice acrobatics, and determining whether I can survive an encounter with Mr. Grumpy Pants Constantine without either of us spontaneously combusting from sheer sarcasm overload."
Zatanna's grin widened, and she whispered conspiratorially, "I think you'll get along famously. Papa says Constantine respects people who can match his wit."
Harry, chewing with exaggerated dignity, nodded solemnly. "Naturally. I am, after all, a master of British wit. Constantine might think he's the reigning champion of verbal sparring, but Harry Potter doesn't bow to anyone—not even grown-ups with mysterious coats and questionable life choices."
The massive oak doors to the dining room opened with barely a whisper, and Bruce Wayne entered with the sort of controlled energy that suggested he had already run a mental marathon through Wayne Enterprises logistics, Batcave patrol schedules, and approximately seventeen contingency plans for minor apocalypses before most people had finished their first cup of coffee.
His presence filled the room like a well-tailored storm system—quiet, powerful, and somehow reassuring in its barely contained intensity. Bruce's gaze swept the breakfast scene with the efficiency of high-tech radar, cataloging potential threats, which in this case included one levitating fork and a six-year-old armed with what appeared to be weaponized charm.
"Constantine will be here within the hour," Bruce announced, settling into his chair with the quiet authority of someone who could command a boardroom, a battlefield, or a breakfast table with equal effectiveness. Alfred materialized beside him with a perfectly timed cup of coffee that was undoubtedly exactly the right temperature and strength.
"Giovanni has completed the final ward adjustments," Bruce continued, accepting the coffee with a subtle nod that conveyed volumes of appreciation, "and the workspace we've established should be adequate for magical containment during the procedure. We've also prepared medical facilities equipped for... unconventional complications."
Harry, perched on the edge of his chair like a tiny general receiving a briefing, folded his arms and fixed Bruce with a look that combined curiosity, skepticism, and just enough sass to keep things interesting.
"And if it all goes sideways?" Harry asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Mr. Zatara mentioned that soul magic is tricky business—apparently the magical equivalent of performing brain surgery with a chainsaw. What's the contingency plan if this procedure transforms me into a moody, slightly homicidal wizard with trust issues and an unfortunate tendency toward dramatic monologuing?"
Bruce's expression remained steady, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the Wayne equivalent of raucous laughter. "First," he said with the absolute certainty of someone who had probably already war-gamed this exact scenario, "you don't turn homicidal. That's completely non-negotiable. But seriously, we have medical facilities fully equipped for magical anomalies, Giovanni has connections with specialists in arcane medicine, and I have... resources... for handling worst-case scenarios."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on that particular Batman timbre that could make hardened criminals reconsider their life choices. "If something goes wrong, Harry, you won't just be in good hands—you'll be in hands that understand exactly what 'going wrong' might look like, and exactly how to fix it."
Harry's eyebrows rose, his voice dropping into that perfect blend of precocious confidence and razor-sharp British wit that made him seem decades older than his actual age. "That's... surprisingly reassuring, actually. Though let's establish some ground rules: if I end up with glowing eyes, start speaking in ancient evil dialects, or develop an inexplicable urge to build a tower somewhere dramatic and lightning-prone, I expect immediate apologies from everyone involved."
He paused thoughtfully. "And possibly that medal we discussed earlier, Alfred. Surviving magical soul surgery with my sense of humor intact should definitely qualify for some sort of recognition."
Alfred, who had been arranging toast points with the meticulous care of someone creating edible architecture, allowed himself the faintest chuckle—a sound like distant thunder wrapped in velvet.
"I shall certainly consider the medal, Master Harry," Alfred replied, his voice carrying that perfect blend of affection and dry humor that had sustained him through decades of Wayne family dramatics. "Though I would venture to suggest that surviving such an ordeal without descending into excessive melodrama would be reward enough for all concerned."
Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands with the air of someone settling in for a proper philosophical debate. "Melodrama? Me? Alfred, I'm wounded by the suggestion. I prefer to think of it as... theatrical flair for educational purposes. One must keep things interesting, after all, or people start taking themselves far too seriously."
He grinned, his eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that suggested trouble was not just possible but inevitable. "You should see me in an actual crisis. I make panic look absolutely charming."
Bruce's expression softened almost imperceptibly, though his voice retained that calm, commanding quality that could stop riots or start revolutions. "Harry, I need you to understand something important—this procedure is entirely your choice. No one is forcing you. No one will be disappointed or angry if you decide the risks outweigh the benefits. We can find other ways to handle the soul fragment if you're not comfortable with this approach."
Harry set down his fork with deliberate precision, the small gesture somehow carrying the weight of a much larger decision. The playful atmosphere around the table shifted slightly, becoming more focused, more serious.
"Mr. Wayne—Bruce," Harry began, his tone losing some of its theatrical flourishes while retaining that underlying strength, "it's actually quite rare for adults to ask what I want instead of just deciding for me. Most grown-ups seem to think my opinion is something like... decorative background noise. Pleasant, perhaps, but ultimately irrelevant to the actual decision-making process."
He straightened in his chair, looking remarkably composed for someone whose legs barely reached the floor. "But I want this thing out. I want to know which thoughts are genuinely mine and which ones belong to the man who destroyed my family. I want the dreams about places I've never seen and people I've never met to stop haunting me at three in the morning. I want to be just Harry Potter, not Harry Potter plus the unwelcome ghost of someone thoroughly unpleasant."
The weight of his words settled over the breakfast table like morning mist—quiet, pervasive, and somehow transforming the entire landscape.
Alfred, who had been polishing a silver spoon with ceremonial precision, paused in his work. "Master Harry," he said gently, his voice carrying decades of wisdom and compassion, "your clarity and courage are... quite remarkable. Few adults, I dare say, demonstrate such self-awareness, let alone someone still mastering the complexities of long division."
Harry offered a small, genuine smile—no theatrical flourishes, no sass, just simple appreciation. "Thank you, Alfred. Though I should mention that courage is considerably easier when the people around you actually understand the situation and are genuinely committed to helping you survive it, rather than just pretending it's another Tuesday and hoping for the best."
Bruce nodded, his gaze steady and assessing. "Then you know what needs to be done. We're ready when you are."
Harry's grin returned, sharper and more mischievous than before. "Oh, I definitely know what needs to be done. But let's establish another ground rule, Bruce—if Constantine tries to make me meditate, suggests I need to 'find my inner peace,' or heaven help us all, instructs me to breathe deeply and think happy thoughts, I will argue him into a corner using nothing but sarcasm and aggressively deployed British charm."
Alfred straightened slightly, placing the morning newspaper beside Bruce's coffee cup with ceremonial precision. "And one has absolutely no doubt, Master Harry, that you shall emerge victorious from such an encounter."
Harry's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Naturally, Alfred. After all, it's what I do. It's practically my specialty."
---
The sound of a car pulling into Wayne Manor's circular drive cut through the relative quiet of the morning like a knife through silk, followed immediately by what could only be described as a heated discussion between the driver and a passenger whose working-class British accent suggested years of bitter experience with American automotive engineering.
"Bloody American cars," came a gravelly voice from outside, audible even through the manor's thick walls. "Built like tanks, handle like shopping trolleys, and probably get about three miles to the gallon. Give me a proper London taxi any day—at least those have character."
Bruce didn't even turn toward the window, though his posture shifted slightly into what Harry had learned to recognize as 'preparing for controlled chaos' mode. "That'll be Constantine," he said with the resigned patience of someone who had already mentally prepared for a day of supernatural complications and cigarette smoke.
"Alfred," Bruce continued, standing with fluid grace, "please show him to the study. I suspect he'll want to assess the situation before we discuss the finer points of magical soul surgery."
Alfred inclined his head with the dignity of someone who had served as butler, confidant, and occasional voice of reason to multiple generations of Waynes. "Right away, Master Bruce. I shall endeavor to prevent the house from spontaneously combusting in his presence."
"And Alfred?" Bruce called as the butler reached the doorway.
"Yes, sir?"
"Maybe open a few windows. Just in case."
---
Twenty-five minutes later, John Constantine strode into Wayne Manor's study looking like the poster child for every chain-smoking, trench-coat-wearing private investigator who had ever solved a case through a combination of supernatural knowledge, dubious connections, and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.
His beige trench coat had clearly seen better decades—possibly better centuries—and hung on his frame with the casual disregard of someone who viewed fashion as an unnecessary complication. His tie sat at a jaunty angle that suggested either complete disdain for convention or the sort of practical carelessness that comes from having more pressing concerns than personal grooming. A cigarette dangled from nicotine-stained fingers with the casual menace of someone who considered lung cancer just another occupational hazard, like papercuts or demonic possession.
"Right then," Constantine announced in that distinctive Liverpudlian drawl, his voice carrying equal parts world-weary charm and barely contained menace. Sharp blue eyes swept the room like he expected it to explode at any moment—or possibly like he was calculating exactly how much it would cost to replace if it did.
"Giovanni Zatara tells me you've got Harry bloody Potter in residence," he continued, taking a long drag from his cigarette that somehow managed to look both casual and deeply contemplative. "Apparently, the lad's carrying around a chunk of some dead dark wizard's soul like a particularly nasty souvenir, and you want me to perform magical surgery on a six-year-old without reducing anyone—including myself—to a small pile of smoldering ash."
He exhaled smoke in a lazy spiral that somehow carried its own attitude. "Lovely house, by the way. Gothic Revival meets contemporary money, just enough architectural intimidation to make guests question whether they're about to enjoy afternoon tea or undergo enhanced interrogation techniques. Very Bruce Wayne."
Bruce didn't flinch, though his eyes tracked Constantine's movements with the precision of someone accustomed to monitoring potential threats. That calm, unshakeable presence radiated from him as he gestured toward one of the leather chairs arranged around a coffee table that probably cost more than most people's cars.
"Mr. Constantine," Bruce said with diplomatic courtesy that somehow managed to sound genuinely welcoming, "we appreciate you coming on such short notice. Harry understands the situation as thoroughly as possible and has elected to proceed with the soul fragment removal, assuming you determine the procedure to be medically feasible and reasonably safe."
Constantine settled into the offered chair with the boneless grace of someone who had learned to be comfortable anywhere, from penthouse apartments to abandoned warehouses to the occasional interdimensional nightclub.
"Informed decision, eh?" Constantine repeated, his voice carrying just enough skepticism to qualify as professional caution rather than outright dismissal. "Right. And I'm sure a six-year-old has the emotional maturity, technical knowledge, and life experience necessary to properly weigh experimental magical medical procedures against potential psychological trauma, existential complications, and the possibility of everything going spectacularly wrong."
From the doorway, Harry's voice rang out with crystalline clarity, cutting through Constantine's skepticism like a precision instrument designed specifically for deflating cynical adults.
"Actually," Harry said, stepping into the room with his hands positioned firmly on his hips and his chin lifted at precisely the right angle to convey both confidence and mild indignation, "I absolutely do have the emotional maturity and technical knowledge required to make informed decisions about my own welfare and continued existence. Thank you very much for your concern, but it's entirely unnecessary."
Constantine turned his sharp, assessing gaze on Harry, his expression cycling rapidly through surprise, recalibration, grudging admiration, and what might have been the faintest hint of respect.
"Well, well, well," Constantine said slowly, his cigarette pausing halfway to his lips. "Potter. Considerably smaller than I expected. Far more articulate than most six-year-olds I've encountered, and definitely more self-possessed than half the adults I've worked with. You must be the famous Boy Who Lived."
"I'm nearly seven," Harry corrected with the sort of precision that suggested this was an important amendment to the historical record, straightening his posture as if those extra months carried significant weight. "And recent circumstances have forced me to develop somewhat advanced communication skills. You're hardly the first... challenging personality I've had to navigate."
Constantine's mouth twitched—half amusement, half incredulity, and entirely intrigued. "Challenging personality? That's what they're calling it these days? Most people tend toward... less diplomatically phrased descriptions when discussing my particular approach to human interaction."
Harry tilted his head with the thoughtful expression of someone conducting a fascinating sociological experiment. "I find diplomacy considerably more effective than blunt confrontation, particularly when dealing with individuals who deploy deliberately abrasive behavior as a psychological defense mechanism. However," his eyes glinted with unmistakable mischief, "if you have a preference for brutal honesty over civilized conversation, I am entirely capable of... adjusting my methods accordingly."
The study fell silent for a moment, the only sound the quiet crackle of Constantine's cigarette and the distant tick of an antique clock that had probably witnessed decades of Wayne family drama.
Giovanni Zatara chose that moment to enter, sweeping through the doorway with the sort of effortless charisma that made it clear where Zatanna had inherited her theatrical instincts. His leather satchel, undoubtedly filled with instruments that existed in no mundane medical textbook, was slung casually over one shoulder as he observed the ongoing verbal sparring match with obvious appreciation.
"I told you, John," Giovanni said, his accent adding warmth and sophistication to every syllable. "Harry is quite remarkable. The child's mind is... how do you say... a fortress. Far more organized and resilient than most adults either of us has encountered."
Constantine's sharp gaze returned to Harry, now carrying a different quality—the look of a professional recognizing another professional, regardless of age or circumstance.
"Right then, Potter," Constantine said, leaning forward slightly and fixing Harry with the sort of intense stare usually reserved for particularly challenging crossword puzzles or suspicious magical artifacts. "You've been having dreams that don't belong to you, experiencing feelings that don't match your reality, and occasionally knowing things you've never learned. I need you to explain this situation in complete detail—no sugar-coating, no fairy-tale versions for the adults. I don't do bedtime stories."
Harry considered this request with the gravity of someone who understood that accuracy might literally be a matter of life and death. He moved to one of the study's leather chairs—a piece of furniture that could have comfortably seated three normal-sized people—and settled himself with deliberate care, perching on the edge with his spine straight and his hands clasped in his lap like a tiny general preparing to brief seasoned commanders on enemy intelligence.
"The dreams started when I was very young," Harry began, his voice taking on that precise, carefully measured quality that made listeners forget they were hearing from someone who still needed help reaching high shelves. "Usually, they're places I've never been to but somehow recognize. Graveyards with elaborate headstones covered in names I've never heard but somehow know. Enormous houses with countless rooms that seem to shift and change when I'm not looking directly at them. Sometimes what appears to be a government building with moving staircases and corridors that definitely violate several basic principles of architecture."
Constantine scribbled in a battered notebook with the intensity of someone tracking an approaching apocalypse, his cigarette dangling precariously from his lips as smoke coiled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals.
"Right," he muttered, not looking up from his notes. "And the people in these dreams—they're always terrified of someone, aren't they? Someone they call 'my lord' or 'the Dark Lord,' but you never get a proper look at his face?"
Harry's eyes widened slightly. "How did you—yes, exactly. The people are always cowering, or pleading, or running. And there's this voice, cold and high, that makes everyone freeze like rabbits caught in headlights. But I never see who's speaking clearly—it's like trying to look at someone through frosted glass."
"And the feelings," Constantine continued, his pen moving rapidly across the page. "Can you distinguish between emotions that belong to you and the ones that come from your... uninvited guest?"
Harry paused, his brow furrowing in concentration as he considered the question with scientific precision. "Sometimes I get angry for reasons that don't match anything happening in my actual life. Like when the Dursleys were being particularly awful—which was frequent—I'd feel this rage that was... older than mine. Sharper. More focused on specific people and events that I've never experienced personally."
He gestured vaguely, as if trying to capture something invisible. "It's not just generic 'life is unfair' frustration. It feels like inherited fury. Like someone else's grudges taking up residence in my emotional responses."
Constantine nodded with growing respect, his note-taking becoming more detailed and methodical. "That's textbook soul fragment behavior, that is. Your brain's essentially become a timeshare property, and the previous tenant left some very personal belongings behind."
Harry's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "That's... actually a surprisingly apt metaphor. Though I'd prefer to think of it as an unwelcome subletter who refuses to pay rent or follow house rules."
"And the knowledge," Giovanni interjected, settling into another chair with fluid grace. "You mentioned that sometimes you know things you shouldn't—names, places, details that no one has told you?"
Harry lifted one eyebrow, that tiny smirk returning to his lips. "Mostly names, yes. In the dreams, I'll know someone's name before they introduce themselves, or details about locations I've never visited. Last month, when we were staying at that hotel in Chicago, I just knew it was built on an old cemetery. No signs, no historical markers, no one mentioned it. The knowledge was just... there. Like accessing a filing cabinet in my brain that someone else had organized."
Constantine finally looked up from his notebook, his cigarette now more ash than tobacco, eyes narrowing with the focus of a hawk considering particularly interesting prey.
"Right," he said slowly, "that's the sort of thing that makes experienced mages sit up and take notice. Inherited memories are serious business, Potter. Very serious indeed."
He leaned back, studying Harry with new intensity. "Now then, time for the main event. I need a proper look at that scar of yours. You comfortable with that, or should I expect a lecture on personal boundaries and consent protocols?"
Harry's expression shifted into that perfect blend of curiosity, mild suspicion, and barely contained sass that had become his signature look.
"That depends entirely on how invasive we're talking," Harry replied, his voice carrying just enough challenge to keep things interesting. "A gentle pat on the forehead? A poke with something mystical and potentially sharp? Will my head explode in a shower of sparks and regret?"
Constantine's grin was all sharp edges and professional confidence tinged with dark humor. "No explosions, I promise. Think of it as... someone taking a very careful look at your thoughts from the outside. Like a cold breeze brushing through your skull. Strange, definitely weird, maybe a bit ticklish, but not painful. Should be over in a few minutes."
He paused, taking one final drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in a crystal ashtray that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. "Mostly."
Harry leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with theatrical precision. "Mostly? That's reassuringly vague. Just dangerous enough to be interesting, I take it?"
He considered this for a moment, then shrugged with the nonchalant air of someone who had already made peace with the inherent chaos of his existence. "Alright, proceed with your mystical head examination. I'd quite like to know what exactly I'm carrying around up here before we start discussing extraction procedures."
Constantine stood, moving closer with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to dealing with chaos, danger, and precocious geniuses in equal measure. "Fair warning, Potter—your brain might decide to show me something unexpected. Don't be surprised if I make commentary along the way."
Harry wagged one finger with playful warning. "Mr. Constantine, commentary is not just welcomed but actively encouraged. I expect observation, analysis, and appropriately sarcastic remarks throughout the entire process. Bonus points if you can maintain an air of professional dignity while standing there with smoke practically curling around your head like some sort of mystical chimney."
Constantine's laugh was rough around the edges but genuinely appreciative. "You, my diminutive friend, are going to be either the death of me or the most entertaining patient I've ever worked with. Possibly both."
He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to Harry's eye level, his hands moving with surprising gentleness as he prepared to examine the famous lightning bolt scar. "Let's see what secrets that famous forehead of yours is hiding, shall we?"
Harry leaned forward cooperatively, his green eyes bright with curiosity and anticipation. "Secrets? That's a serious accusation, Mr. Constantine. I take my reputation for transparency very seriously indeed. Proceed with appropriate caution, or you might find yourself explaining your methodology to a six-year-old who has strong opinions about proper investigative procedures."
Constantine's grin widened, revealing teeth that had seen better decades but still carried plenty of character. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of underestimating the legendary Potter sass just because you happen to be... vertically challenged. Something tells me this is going to be far more interesting than my usual Tuesday morning."
---
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