5:58 PM — Mid-Wilshire Police Station, Captain’s Office
Captain Zoe Anderson’s office was silent, illuminated only by the soft late afternoon light filtering through the partially open blinds.
The city outside continued to move, but inside everything seemed suspended, as if that space were a neutral point between decision and consequence.
Zoe sat behind her desk, hands resting on a closed briefcase.
There was no hurry in her posture.
There was intention.
The door was knocked twice.
“Come in,” she said.
Harry Potter opened the door and entered, closing it carefully behind him.
He wore his patrol uniform, posture correct, expression neutral.
He didn’t seem nervous—but he was alert.
“Captain,” he said.
Zoe looked up.
“Potter,” she replied.
“Close the door and sit down.”
Harry obeyed without hesitation, pulling the chair in front of the table and sitting down with an upright posture, hands resting on his knees.
He didn’t cross his arms.
He didn’t lean back.
He was present.
Zoe observed this for a moment before speaking.
“This isn’t a reprimand,” she began.
“Nor a disciplinary assessment.”
Harry nodded slightly.
“Understood, ma’am.”
“It’s not a promotion either,” she continued.
“Nor an automatic privilege.”
She opened the folder on the table, revealing a few papers, but didn’t push them toward him yet.
“It’s a conversation about anticipation.”
Harry kept his gaze steady.
“I’m listening.”
Zoe leaned back in her chair.
“I made some calls last night,” she said.
“Old contacts.
People I served with before coming to the LAPD.”
Harry showed no surprise.
“I figured,” he replied honestly.
Zoe arched an eyebrow slightly.
“Not every recruit imagines that.”
“I’m not your average recruit either,” Harry replied, without arrogance.
Just a fact.
Zoe nodded.
“No.
You’re not,” she agreed.
“And that’s exactly what I confirmed.”
She paused deliberately.
“I spoke with Mike, a military contact of mine,” she continued.
“And with Cris Alonso, from SWAT Squad 20.”
Harry took a deep breath, but remained silent.
“They’d both heard of you,” Zoe said.
“Even before you set foot in Los Angeles.”
“That often happens,” Harry replied.
“Not always in a helpful way.”
“In this case, it was,” Zoe said.
“No negative warnings.
No character flaws.
On the contrary.”
She leaned slightly forward.
— The consensus was clear: you are exceptional, but not impulsive.
Trained, but disciplined.
Capable, but restrained.
Harry kept his gaze on her.
— I’m glad that was the reading.
Zoe opened the folder and slid one of the sheets across the table.
— That being said… — she continued — I’m considering expediting some processes, if you’d like.
Harry looked at the paper, but didn’t touch it yet.
— Specifically?
— he asked.
— Assault rifle certification, — Zoe said — and, at a later stage, sniper certification.
The silence that followed wasn’t one of shock.
It was weighty.
Harry took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing a millimeter.
— Madam… — he began — first of all, I want to make it clear that I don’t expect preferential treatment.
— And you won’t get it.
— Zoe replied immediately.
— This isn’t a shortcut.
— Then I’m willing to listen.
— Harry said.
Zoe nodded.
“To be clear,” she said, “this only happens if you want it.
It’s not a command requirement.
It’s not an expectation.
It’s an option.”
Harry tilted his head slightly.
“If you authorize it…” he said, “I want it.”
Zoe held his gaze.
“Why?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately.
He thought.
He chose his words carefully.
“Because in certain situations,” he said, “a properly trained police officer with a long gun reduces risk, not increases it.
And because I know how to operate under clear rules.”
Zoe observed every microexpression.
“You already have training,” she said, more as a statement than a question.
“Yes,” Harry replied.
“Assault rifle and sniper.”
Zoe waited.
“By the British government,” Harry added.
“In a military and intelligence context.”
Zoe nodded slowly.
“I assumed that,” she said.
“But here it’s different.” “I know,” Harry replied.
“Different rules.
Different jurisdiction.
Different public expectation.”
“Here,” Zoe continued, “you’re not an operator.
You’re a police officer.”
“That’s exactly why I want to do it all again,” Harry replied.
“From scratch.
To LAPD standards.”
Zoe rested her hands on the table.
“No automatic equivalency,” she said.
“No ‘prior experience’ skipping steps.”
“As it should be,” Harry agreed.
“Complete psychological evaluation,” Zoe continued.
“Physical tests.
Full patrol rifle course.
And only then… maybe… sniper.”
“Understood,” Harry said.
“Cris Alonso will be brutally honest,” Zoe added.
“If you go into the sniper process, she won’t make it easy.”
A corner of Harry’s mouth lifted slightly.
“I’d be disappointed if she made it easy.”
Zoe allowed herself a small smile.
“Good,” she said.
“So we’re aligned.”
She finally pushed the sheet toward him.
“This isn’t an order,” she explained.
“It’s initial permission for you to formally express your interest.”
Harry took the paper carefully and read it quickly.
“Thank you for your trust,” he said sincerely.
Zoe inclined her head.
“Trust is built on consistent behavior,” she replied.
“And you have been consistent.”
She paused briefly, then added:
“But I’m going to make something very clear, Potter.”
Harry looked up.
“If at any point I feel this is pulling you toward a place you no longer want to be…” Zoe said, “I’ll pull the brakes myself.”
Harry held her gaze.
“I would appreciate it,” he replied.
“I’ve lived too long without brakes.”
Zoe nodded, satisfied with the answer.
“Last question,” she said.
“If you don’t get certified here… if something gets in the way…”
“Then I’ll keep patrolling,” Harry replied without hesitation.
“As best I can.”
The silence that followed was one of mutual understanding.
Zoe closed the folder.
“Very well,” she said.
“You can go.
Talk to Angela about the next administrative steps.
And…” she paused, “good work so far.”
Harry stood up.
“Thank you, Captain.”
He walked to the door, but stopped before opening it.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Regardless of what happens…” Harry said, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Zoe watched him for a second longer.
“I know,” she said.
“And that’s why this is happening the right way.”
Harry nodded, opened the door, and left.
Zoe remained seated for a few seconds after the door closed.
“Right, Potter…” she murmured to herself.
“Let’s see how far you want to go now.”
Outside, the police station remained alive, noisy, real.
And, for Harry Potter, this wasn’t the beginning of something dangerous.
It was just another step chosen, not imposed in a life he was finally leading on his own terms.”
Chapter 25 — Standard Is Not a Limit
Following Days — Mid-Wilshire Police Station and LAPD Training Camp
The routine returned to its predictable blocks.
Patrol.
Reports.
Training.
Repetition.
For Harry Potter, the days following his conversation with Captain Zoe Anderson were exactly like that, and he made sure they were.
No spotlights, no out-of-context comments.
Just work.
In the morning, he patrolled with Angela Lopez, Tim Bradford, or Talia Bishop, alternating shifts according to the schedule.
In the afternoon, when authorized, he went to the LAPD training camp, where he would officially begin his patrol rifle certification.
The rifle was simple.
Standard.
Functional.
An M4 configured according to LAPD protocol: 14.5″ barrel, standard rail, basic optics, nothing customized.
None of the sophisticated platforms Harry had used in international operations.
And that was precisely what made the process legitimate.
The sun wasn’t even high when Harry arrived at the shooting range.
Other officers were already there, some younger, others veterans seeking recertification.
The lead instructor, Sergeant Miller, observed the candidates with an experienced eye, clipboard in hand.
“Very good,” Miller said loudly.
“This course isn’t about who shoots best.
It’s about who shoots within the standard.”
Harry listened silently.
“A patrol rifle isn’t a toy,” Miller continued.
“It’s a responsibility.
Every shot is a decision that can’t be undone.”
Angela was there too, not as an instructor, but as an authorized observer.
She leaned against a column, arms crossed, attentive.
Tim Bradford, on administrative leave that day, had shown up out of curiosity.
“I bet he…” “It’ll go well,” Tim murmured to Angela.
“Going well” isn’t the problem,” she replied.
“The problem is not scaring the guys.”
Harry received the rifle, calmly and meticulously performed the standard inspection.
He checked the chamber, bolt, magazine.
Everything according to the manual.
“Have you operated an M4 before?” asked the assistant instructor.
Harry nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Military?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t matter here,” the instructor said.
“Here you follow our protocol.”
“Understood,” Harry replied.
No ego.
No unnecessary correction.
“Line!” shouted Miller.
“Targets fifty yards!”
Harry positioned himself.
Feet firmly planted, posture relaxed, breathing controlled.
When the command came, he didn’t fire immediately.
He waited.
He adjusted.
And then he began.
Tack.
Tap.
Tap.
The shots were Clean, spaced, consistent.
Not fast.
Precise.
When the line was secure and the targets collected, the murmur began.
“Who’s the guy in lane three?”
“That’s competition rifle grouping…”
“He didn’t miss a single one.”
Miller approached Harry’s target, frowning slightly.
“This here…” he said, “is above the minimum standard.”
Angela crossed her arms tighter, trying not to smile.
“It’s only the beginning,” she murmured.
The course progressed.
Firing on the move.
Partial cover.
Timed magazine change.
Simulated failure.
Harry executed everything with economy of movement.
No unnecessary gestures.
No unnecessary haste.
“He’s not rushing,” Tim commented.
“But he’s always on time.”
“Because he doesn’t waste anything,” Angela replied.
In one of the timed series, the instructor announced:
“Maximum time: forty-five seconds.” Penalty for error.
Harry finished in twenty-eight.
No penalty.
Miller looked at the stopwatch, then the target, then Harry.
“Where did you practice this?” he asked.
“In different contexts,” Harry replied.
“Because here you just set the best time in the group,” Miller said.
Harry simply nodded.
The last day of certification was the most dreaded.
Real-life simulation: targets appearing and disappearing, civilians mixed in, mandatory shooting decision.
It wasn’t just about hitting the target, it was about choosing when not to shoot.
Miller was clear:
“One mistake here…” he said, “fails.”
Harry took a deep breath.
When the simulation began, the world seemed to shrink.
The noise, the lights, the overlapping controls.
He advanced calmly.
Identified threat.
Waited for the civilian to move out of the line.
Fired.
Stopped.
Another target appeared.
He didn’t shoot.
The instructor He watched intently.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” he asked afterward.
“Because there wasn’t enough confirmation,” Harry replied.
“The risk outweighed the benefit.”
Silence.
Miller made a long note on his clipboard.
“Right,” he said.
“Let’s get to the final numbers.”
The result
All the candidates gathered.
Miller cleared his throat.
“First of all,” he said, “congratulations to everyone who passed.
Not everyone passes.”
He paused.
“But there’s something I need to officially record.”
Angela felt her stomach clench slightly.
“Candidate Harry Potter — Miller continued — he didn’t just pass.
He turned the clipboard, showing the data.
— He broke three internal patrol rifle certification records.
A murmur ran through the group.
Best average grouping.
Best time without penalty.
Highest rate of correct decision under stress.
Miller looked at Harry.
— Your name goes in the unit’s record book.
Silence lasted a second.
Then came the looks.
Respect.
Surprise.
A little disbelief.
Angela smiled, finally.
Tim let out a long breath.
— Of course he will… — he murmured.
Miller approached Harry.
— That doesn’t mean you know everything.
— he said.
— It means you know how to listen.
Harry nodded.
— Thank you, sir.
At the police station, the news spread quickly but without official fanfare.
Just hushed comments, different glances.
“I heard you’ve become a statistic,” Angela commented, leaning against his desk.
“I prefer to remain a person,” Harry replied.
She laughed.
“You know that changes things.”
“I know,” he replied.
“But it doesn’t change my job tomorrow.”
She nodded.
“Next step?” she asked.
Harry thought for a second.
“Continue patrolling,” he said.
“And, when the time comes… sniper.”
Angela watched him intently.
“Cris will destroy you.”
“I hope so,” Harry replied.
“If she doesn’t destroy you, it doesn’t count.”
Angela smiled, shaking her head.
“You really don’t learn to be ordinary, do you?”
Harry shrugged.
“I’m learning to be responsible.”
And for him, that was more important than any record.
That night, the name Harry Potter entered the LAPD’s books.
But the next morning, he would be back in the patrol car.
And that, more than any statistic, was exactly where he wanted to be.
pat/SHADOWGHOST07
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