March 2017 — Mid-Wilshire Precinct, Los Angeles
A light rain trickled down the high windows of the Mid-Wilshire precinct, turning the morning light dull and weary.
The clock on the wall read 7:42 a.m., but for those who worked there, the day already felt old.
Captain Zoe Anderson stood leaning against the side of the dark wood desk, arms crossed, her navy blue suit jacket perfectly aligned.
Across from her, seated in a manner too relaxed for the liking of many superiors but not for her was Sergeant Wade Grey, black coffee in hand, attentive expression.
“So,” Zoe broke the silence, her voice firm, “that’s it.
A recruit.”
Wade raised an eyebrow.
“One,” he repeated, as if savoring the word.
“For all of Mid-Wilshire.”
“Budget and politics.
Always politics.” Zoe replied dryly.
She turned and picked up a beige folder from the table.
Unlike the others, this one was noticeably thicker, with extra attachments held in place by metal clips.
Wade leaned forward.
“Judging by your face, you’re not a fresh out of the academy.”
Zoe let out a short sigh, opened the folder, and pushed it toward him.
“Harry James Potter.
Thirty-seven years old.
British.
Dual American citizenship.”
Wade slowly flipped through the first few pages.
“Thirty-seven?” he murmured.
“That’s not recruit training, it’s… retraining.”
“I thought the same thing.”
He continued reading.
The humor in his face faded, replaced by something more attentive, more cautious.
“Wait,” he stopped.
“Where’s high school?”
Zoe rested her hands on the table.
“It’s not there.”
Wade went back a few pages, then moved forward.
“Just… college?” he looked up.
“Cambridge?”
“Exactly.”
“Zoe…” he closed the folder slowly.
“This isn’t normal.”
She tilted her head.
“Not at all.”
Wade opened the folder again, now more carefully.
“It says here that he graduated in… applied criminology and behavioral psychology.” He whistled softly.
“With honors.”
“Continue.”
“Professional experience…” He frowned.
“This is all redacted.”
Zoe approached.
“Read the unredacted part.”
Wade cleared his throat.
“International security consultant.
Collaboration with British special forces.” He paused.
“Zoe… this mentions SAS.”
“And further down,” she added, “MI6.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
“So why on earth would someone like that come to be a recruit in Los Angeles?” Wade asked.
Zoe crossed her arms again.
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
Wade slammed the folder shut with a dry click.
“And who approved this?”
“Directly from central command.” She sighed.
“With federal recommendation.”
Wade shook his head slowly.
“This reeks of a covert operation.”
“Or someone trying to disappear.” Zoe retorted.
Before Wade could answer, a firm knock echoed on the door.
“Come in,” Zoe said.
The door opened revealing a tall man, impeccable posture.
He wore the LAPD recruit uniform, but there was something… wrong.
Not in a bad way.
Just discordant.
He looked too old to be there.
Not tired—experienced.
Dark brown hair, slightly disheveled, a few gray strands at the temples.
Thin-rimmed glasses, which he carefully removed as soon as he entered.
“Captain Anderson.
Sergeant Grey.” His voice had a subtle, controlled British accent.
“Harry Potter.
Introducing myself as instructed.”
Wade assessed him from head to toe.
“You may enter, Mr.
Potter,” said Zoe.
“Close the door.”
Harry obeyed.
Every movement was precise, economical.
Military.
Zoe indicated the chair.
“Sit down.”
He sat, his hands resting on his thighs, his back straight.
“Let’s get straight to the point,” Zoe began.
“Your file is… unusual.”
Harry tilted his head slightly.
“I’ve heard that before.”
Wade gave a half-smile.
“I bet you have.”
Zoe opened the folder.
— There’s no record of your school.
None.
Just your direct admission to Cambridge.
— Correct.
— That’s highly irregular.
— Zoe said.
— I agree.
— Harry replied calmly.
Wade crossed his arms.
— Do you want to explain?
Harry took a deep breath.
— Some parts of my life aren’t… officially documented.
Zoe narrowed her eyes.
— That’s not an answer.
— It’s the only one I can give without lying.
The air in the room grew thicker.
— What exactly did you do for the SAS?
— Wade asked.
Harry looked directly at him.
— I can’t go into operational details.
— Then why are we reading this?
— Wade retorted.
— Because it was deemed relevant for risk assessment.
— Harry replied.
Zoe slammed her pen on the table.
— Mr.
Potter, you are in an LAPD precinct.
Not in Whitehall.
“I know exactly where I am, Captain.”
There was something in his eyes.
Not arrogance.
Vigilance.
“Then tell us,” Zoe said, “why would someone with your… baggage want to start from scratch as a recruit?”
Harry was silent for a few seconds.
When speak his voice lost some of its rigidity.
“Because I’m tired of decisions made in windowless rooms.
Tired of orders that don’t save anyone I can see.”
Wade uncrossed his arms.
“That’s almost… noble.”
“It’s just honest,” Harry replied.
Zoe watched him for a long time.
“You know there’s no glamour here,” she said.
“There are reports, patrols, mistakes, consequences.”
“That’s exactly why I’m here.”
“And your age?” Wade asked.
“Do you think you can keep up with recruits twenty years younger?”
A corner of Harry’s mouth lifted.
“I’ve kept up with younger men under real fire.”
Silence returned.
Zoe closed the folder.
“Very well,” she said.
“Officially, you will be treated like any other recruit.”
“Of course.”
“Unofficially,” she continued, “I’ll be watching your every move.”
“I hope so.”
Wade stood up.
“I’ll be direct,” he said.
“If you’re a problem, I’ll be the first to notice.”
Harry also stood up.
“If I’m a problem, Sergeant, I ask that you do your job.”
The two stared at each other for a second that was far too long.
Zoe cleared her throat.
“Sergeant Grey will assign you to a training officer shortly.”
Harry nodded.
“Thank you, Captain.”
He turned to leave, but Zoe called back.
“Mr.
Potter.”
He stopped.
“Welcome to Mid-Wilshire,” she said.
“Here, ghosts of the past often return.”
Harry put his glasses back on.
“Mine never went away.”
He left, letting the door close softly behind him.
Wade exhaled.
“Zoe… who the hell is this guy?”
She looked at the closed door.
“Someone who survived things that aren’t in that file.”
Wade shook his head.
“This is going to be trouble.”
Zoe allowed herself a small, tense smile.
“Or it’s going to save lives.”
Outside, Harry Potter walked down the police station corridor, the distant sounds of radios and telephones mingling with his own thoughts.
Los Angeles wasn’t London.
But monsters… existed everywhere.
And he knew exactly how to recognize them.