The bus hissed to a halt, and Harry stepped off, blending into the steady flow of people spilling onto the busy streets of Lower Manhattan. The air was thick with the mingling scents of food from street vendors and the faint tang of car exhaust. It was early evening, and the shadows of the towering buildings stretched across the pavement, giving Harry a sense of quiet detachment. He moved through the crowd with purpose, his gait casual but calculated, avoiding any lingering looks.
He kept his eyes on the shifting masses of Muggles—an effortless habit formed over time. Here, among the jostling commuters and tourists, he was just another face in the crowd. No one noticed the way he slid into a narrow alley off the main thoroughfare, his figure swallowed by the shade of brick walls.
At the alley's end hung a weathered wooden sign: a Masonic compass etched deep into the wood, faded with time. The Compass was easy to overlook—if you weren't looking for it. Harry glanced at the sign for no longer than a breath before pushing open the creaking door.
The city's chaotic hum faded into the dim quiet of the tavern, where low voices murmured over clinks of glass. The wooden beams overhead felt close, as if the building itself had hunched inward to guard its secrets. Harry's eyes adjusted quickly to the low light, taking in the patrons spread throughout the small room. Their faces were mostly hidden, either by the shadowed corners or the deliberate downward tilt of hats and hoods.
He didn't need to look around twice. He moved toward a table near the back, one that gave him a view of the room without attracting attention to himself. His steps were deliberate but unhurried—he knew how to melt into the background, even in a place like this.
As he sat, he caught snatches of conversation—mundane magical trade, deals made in muttered tones. His focus drifted without forcing it, picking up the ebb and flow of voices. Occasionally, a glance flickered his way from another table, but each time the eyes moved on, losing interest. He was young, yes, but not a boy to be trifled with. His presence was quietly deliberate, not the kind that invited questions.
A woman with sharp eyes behind the bar slid him a Butterbeer, and he gave a polite nod without saying a word. He took a sip, allowing the sweet taste to linger on his tongue, though his thoughts were elsewhere. There was power here—not overt or loud—but something older, embedded in the walls and in the careful way these witches and wizards held their conversations. It reminded him of the lessons Grindelwald had drilled into him: power was best when hidden, waiting to be uncovered, not flaunted like some trophy.
The creak of a chair caught his attention. His eyes barely shifted, but his focus locked on a conversation between two men seated in the corner, their voices just low enough to avoid notice. Harry, subtle as ever, drew his wand beneath the table, muttering a barely audible spell to amplify their whispers.
"…South America, near the ruins," one of them said, voice rough from years of cigars. "Tied to one of the old ones, something they tried to bury long ago."
"Doesn't matter what they tried," the other replied, quieter. "It's still there. You know what they say about power like that—it doesn't just vanish."
The first man laughed, though it wasn't amusement that colored the sound. "No, it doesn't. But some things are meant to stay hidden."
Harry took another slow sip of his drink, his face impassive, though the words filtered through his mind with sharp clarity. There was no need to act on it now, not when his journey lay in another direction. But the mention of old power, buried and waiting, stuck with him. He filed it away, storing it in the same corner of his mind where he'd tucked away the book on Atlantis. The pieces would connect eventually. They always did.
For now, though, he was content to let the conversation drift back into the tavern's murmurs, his own presence slipping further into the room's shadows.
After a while, he'd had enough of the overly sweet drink, leaving the glass half-empty on the table. Rising to his feet, he moved through the quiet tavern with deliberate steps, slipping past the other patrons without a glance. His path took him to the back of the room, where a small, unmarked door was set into the wall behind the bar. He pushed it open, the hinges creaking softly, and descended a narrow stone staircase into the hidden passageway below.
The air was cool and dry, the walls rough with age. Glass lanterns hung from the ceilings, filled with flickering blue flames, casting shifting shadows across the uneven stones. This passage wasn't for casual visitors—only those who knew its secrets passed through, and Harry moved with the confidence of someone who belonged, thanks to Zuberi's guidance. His footfalls echoed faintly as he made his way down the sloping corridor, the noise from the Compass fading behind him.
At the end of the passage, the stone walls opened into a narrow, cobbled street that served as the entrance to the Cobble Fair. The alleyway stretched ahead of him, flanked by a tight row of shops and stalls. The early morning light filtered in from above, reflecting off the ancient cobblestones. Harry stepped into the open air, immediately sensing the shift in energy—quieter than Diagon Alley, less chaotic, but no less alive with purpose. It was a place of business, where rare goods changed hands, and secrets were traded beneath the surface.
Merchants were already setting up their stalls, their voices low as they exchanged quiet words with potential customers. Shelves lined with enchanted tools, potion ingredients, and magical artifacts crowded the alley. Back corners often had something valuable or dangerous discretely tucked away, not for open display—here, many deals were struck with a nod and a whispered price. Harry's eyes scanned the stalls as he walked, observing the flow of the market without slowing his pace. His movements were fluid, purposeful, ensuring he attracted no more attention than necessary.
Still, his youth and solitary presence didn't go unnoticed. A few merchants watched him with faint interest, subtle glances cast in his direction as he passed. Some sensed opportunity in the boy walking alone, while others simply marked him as someone different. Harry caught their looks but didn't react. He was used to being noticed, and it rarely concerned him. Whatever curiosity these people had, it wasn't something that would come back to him—not here, not now.
The market itself was narrow but packed with goods, everything from ancient scrolls to enchanted blades resting on the wooden tables. The darker corners of the alley buzzed with more illicit trade, merchants exchanging items that would raise questions in most magical circles. Harry avoided those areas without effort. He wasn't here for dangerous deals—his interest was elsewhere. Still, the American magical authorities had a more libertarian attitude about magic than the Europeans—Harry resolved to come back here when he had more time to explore.
As he walked, his eyes caught on a small shop nestled between two larger stalls. A worn wooden sign read Magia Antiqua, the shop Zuberi had recommended to him. The door was slightly ajar, revealing rows of shelves crammed with dusty tomes. Harry pushed the door open, stepping into the musty air of the bookshop.
Inside, the dim light filtered through narrow windows high on the walls, casting long shadows over the shelves. The smell of old parchment filled his lungs, a scent that carried history and secrets. His eyes scanned the spines of the books, some cracked and weathered, others locked behind glass cases. These were not ordinary texts—some contained knowledge that few dared to read.
One book, in particular, caught his attention. Its cover was worn, the leather faded with age, but the symbols etched into it were unmistakable. Ancient runes, tied to civilizations long gone. Harry lifted the book carefully, flipping through the brittle pages. The text was dense, filled with cryptic passages and fragments of folklore. But one word kept appearing in the margins, scrawled by a long-dead hand: Atlantis.
Harry's eyes flicked over the pages, his curiosity slowly building. The book spoke of ancient power, buried beneath the sands of time, waiting to be rediscovered. It was nothing concrete, just legends woven into the fabric of magical history, but the weight of it lingered. He closed the book, tucking it under his arm. It wasn't something to act on now, but it was worth keeping.
Behind the counter, the shopkeeper watched him closely. The man was gaunt, his skin pale and his eyes sharp. He said nothing as Harry approached but handed over the book in exchange for a few Galleons. There was no open suspicion in the shopkeeper's gaze, but Harry could feel the man's curiosity, a silent assessment of the young customer before him. Harry met his eyes for a brief moment, then nodded and left the shop without a word.
As he walked back into the marketplace, the weight of the book under his arm settled in his mind, though not heavily. It was a curiosity, something to fill the quieter moments of his journey. For now, the mystery of Atlantis would remain just that—one piece of a puzzle he wasn't yet ready to solve.
The merchants' glances followed him as he moved through the market, lingering a little longer than before. He dismissed the looks as harmless curiosity—nothing more than a passing interest. He was confident that no one here could track him, not with the skills he'd developed.
Harry made his way toward the less crowded end of the Fair, his path taking him back to the corridor that led to the Compass. The marketplace buzzed with more activity now, but Harry was already moving on. As he stepped back into the hidden passageway, the cool air of the corridor washed over him once more. The walls felt familiar, solid, a reminder of the quiet power that thrived beneath the surface of the city. Harry emerged into the daylight of Lower Manhattan, blending into the crowds once again, ready to continue his journey toward Mexico.
Harry had no intention of flying internationally—he knew better. Unlike the less paranoid British Ministry, the American magical authorities kept a close watch on international flights, with terminals laced in enchantments to catch any wizards trying to slip through the Muggle way.
Domestic flights, however, were different, slipping under the radar. So, he booked a quick trip from La Guardia to El Paso, blending in as just another traveler, using subtle suggestions with mesmerism to soothe any suspicions about an unaccompanied youth. Years with Grindelwald had made him an expert in crossing borders without a trace. Flying into a major city and walking across the border on foot was far less likely to trigger magical detection.
By the time his plane touched down in the dry heat of Texas, Harry was already moving to the next step of the plan.
—
The border crossing was a crowded mess of heat, noise, and bureaucracy. Harry shifted his weight as he waited in line, the dry sun beating down on the tarmac. His thoughts wandered briefly to his decision to cross here, in broad daylight. Shadow-walking through a remote part of the border at night had been an option, but the unknown variables had made it too risky.
MACUSA probably has systems in place for magical border crossings, he thought. Subtle wards, detection spells—anything that might trigger alarms the moment he stepped over. In the wilderness, if something went wrong, there'd be fewer ways out. No cover, no backup. Here, in the flow of Muggle travelers, his best move was to blend in. No one expected a wizard to take such a mundane route.
He glanced around, watching the routine shuffle of people waiting to cross into Mexico. The guards were alert, but the system was predictable, human in its limitations. Harry was confident—he had forged papers, and if things escalated, he had other means at his disposal. A slight curve tugged at the corner of his mouth. This was a challenge he welcomed, something to prove to himself.
The line moved, and soon enough, he found himself at the front. A border guard, middle-aged with sharp eyes and the look of someone who'd seen too many travelers, stepped forward. Harry handed over his documents without hesitation, keeping his expression neutral. The guard took them, scanning the pages with a practiced eye, but there was a brief flicker of doubt as he lingered over the details. A small wrinkle formed between his brows.
"You're traveling alone?" the guard asked, his voice carrying a note of suspicion, though it was casual enough on the surface.
Harry met his gaze directly. "Just passing through," he replied, his tone light, almost conversational. "Heading south." His posture was easy, his hands loose at his sides, but he could feel the subtle shift in tension. The guard's eyes drifted back to the papers, his grip tightening just slightly.
Harry remained still, letting the silence stretch for a beat too long. He knew the papers would hold up under Muggle means of scrutiny, but the pause suggested that the guard's instincts were telling him something wasn't quite right. It wasn't an ideal situation, but it wasn't unexpected either. Harry had prepared for this.
He let the moment hang for a heartbeat longer, then leaned forward ever so slightly, making eye contact. His voice softened, the words calm but carrying a weight beneath them. "Everything is in order. Just a routine trip."
No wand, no incantation. The mesmerism slipped in with the deliberate cadence of his speech, threading into the guard's thoughts like a gentle, persistent whisper. The compulsion didn't need to be strong—just enough to guide the mind away from doubt and toward acceptance. Harry could feel it settle, the faint flicker of uncertainty in the guard's eyes fading as the tension in his posture eased.
The guard blinked once, then twice, his hand loosening around the documents. "Looks fine to me," he muttered, the suspicion gone as if it had never been there. He handed the papers back, giving a quick nod. "You're good to go."
Harry took the documents with a polite nod of thanks, his movements smooth, unhurried. He slipped them back into his jacket, already stepping away without another glance. The guard had moved on, his focus shifting to the next traveler in line.
As he walked away from the border, the noise of the crossing faded behind him, replaced by the dry, open landscape stretching south. He boarded a bus bound for rural Mexico, the crowded city giving way to endless desert as they traveled deeper into the country. The road grew rougher, the passengers fewer as they moved further from the beaten path.
Harry stepped off at a remote stop late in the afternoon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the cracked earth. A small, dusty town was visible in the distance, but Harry turned his back to it, heading toward the wilderness instead. This was where he preferred to be now—away from people, from watchful eyes.
Once he found a secluded spot far enough from any roads, Harry slipped his rucksack from his shoulders and opened it, reaching for the cage nestled inside. Hedwig stirred as he lifted the door and released her. She stretched her wings, then gave him a reproachful hoot before taking off into the sky, disappearing into the fading light. Harry watched her for a moment, his eyes tracking her graceful flight as she soared higher, free to hunt.
With Hedwig gone, Harry turned back to his rucksack and pulled out the tent. He laid it flat on the ground and tapped it lightly with his finger. It sprang to life, unfolding and setting itself up with magical efficiency. The enchantments on the tent would now be active—designed to ward off Muggles, magical creatures, and anything else that might wander too close.
He stepped inside and set down his pack, the interior of the tent expanding to reveal a comfortable space with soft cushions and enough room to move freely. There was no need to cast additional wards—everything he needed for security was already in place, built into the enchantments. The tent was designed for precisely this kind of journey, for days and nights spent in isolated places where the wilderness pressed in.
As the night settled in, the stillness of the desert wrapped around him, the air cooling as the temperature dropped. Harry sat inside the tent, his back resting against the cushions, eyes half-closed. His mind drifted back to the border crossing—not out of worry, but out of satisfaction. It had gone exactly as planned. He had handled the guard with ease, his documents had passed inspection, and the mesmerism had worked as expected. He felt confident, even more than usual. This journey was full of risks, but none of them felt beyond his control.
Outside, the desert was silent. Too silent, perhaps. There was something in the stillness, something just beneath the surface, like a faint vibration in the air that hadn't been there before. Harry's eyes opened, scanning the interior of the tent, but there was no immediate sign of danger. The tent's enchantments held strong. It was just the quiet of the wilderness—nothing to worry about.
He pushed the thought aside, lying back against the cushions and closing his eyes. There were bigger things ahead. South America, the artifact he'd overheard in The Compass, the questions about Atlantis waiting to be answered. His mind began to drift toward those thoughts as sleep settled in.
The low roar of engines tore through the silence of the desert, jolting Harry from the edge of sleep. His eyes snapped open, his senses sharp before his body even moved. The sound was growing, closing in fast. There was no time to think, no time for anything but action.
He was on his feet in an instant, scanning the perimeter. Four bikes, lights cutting through the night, engines roaring louder with every second. They were coming straight for his camp. Cartel, he thought, already knowing. How had they found him? He knew Muggle-repelling wards only repelled casual interest. They must have known he was here, but who could have tipped them off?
His hand instinctively reached for his wand but paused. He wouldn't need it for this. A breath later, they were on him.
The first rider, reckless, sped toward him, the tires of the bike kicking up a storm of dust. Harry's magic snapped out before the man even realized what hit him. The loose ground beneath the bike shifted violently, pulled by an unseen force. The bike flipped, end over end, its rider thrown into the air like a ragdoll. He crashed into the dirt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Harry didn't wait to confirm he was dead—he was already moving.
Another rider was closing in, too fast. Harry's fingers twitched, and the bike jerked sideways, yanked off course by an invisible force. Harry grimaced at the strain, his knees nearly buckling—too much momentum, he had to be careful. The machine smashed into a rock, the rider crushed beneath it with a bone-cracking thud. One more down.
He barely had time to steady himself and turn before a machete-wielding figure leapt off his bike and charged him on foot. The man let out a yell as he swung the blade down at Harry's head. Without hesitation, Harry flung his hand up, sending the machete flying from the man's grip. The attacker's eyes widened in shock as the blade flipped in midair and shot down at his face. There was no time to dodge, and he collapsed to the ground.
Gunfire erupted—loud, chaotic. Bullets tore through the night, the sound sharp in Harry's ears. The last rider had dismounted and was firing blindly, panicked. Harry's magic flared again, but this time with precision. His eyes darted to the wrecked bike from earlier, and with a thought, the machine lifted from the ground, hovering between him and the shooter.
The bullets struck the floating bike, ricocheting off its frame as Harry advanced. He moved with calm efficiency, the bike hovering in front of him like a shield, absorbing the onslaught. The shooter's panic was palpable, his shots growing more erratic. Harry didn't stop, though sweat bega to pour down his face from the strain of holding the heavy vehicle aloft.
With a flick of his fingers, he flung the bike at the man. It collided with brutal force, sending the shooter sprawling to the ground, the gun falling silent. Harry picked up the gun and used it to end the crushed man's misery.
The first rider, the one who had been thrown from his bike, was starting to stir, dragging himself up from the dirt. Harry turned the gun—an Uzi machine pistol, he thought—and let out a burst of automatic fire. He let the Muggle weapon fall to the ground with a heavy metallic clank. Having served its purpose, he no longer had any need for it.
The desert fell silent again. The only sound was the wind stirring the dust, mingling with the scent of blood and oil. Harry stood in the center of the wreckage, his breath steady, his heart slowing from the brief surge of adrenaline. Four attackers, dispatched in mere moments. There had been no time to think, no time to reflect. Just action.
He looked over the scene one last time, ensuring there were no survivors. No threats. Then, just as swiftly as he had reacted, he moved on. There was no need to linger here. They were dead, and he had no interest in anything else they left behind.
Hedwig swooped down from the sky, landing lightly near him as he packed up his camp. His movements were quick, efficient. The tent folded up with a tap of his finger, disappearing back into his rucksack. Everything was packed, everything ready. He didn't look back at the bodies scattered across the dirt.
As he hoisted the rucksack over his shoulder, there was no remorse, no second thought about the men he had killed. They were threats—nothing more. And he had dealt with them. His mind was already shifting to the road ahead, to the journey south. He moved quickly, blending into the darkness as the desert swallowed the remains of the fight.