“I’m not arguing with you about this.” John shrugs his trenchcoat off and lies it across the back of the chair, before brushing past you and sitting down in the dark living room on the couch with a sigh. “It’s not up for discussion. We – you are staying in London. You learn a few sigils and spells and you think you’re good enough to go to the States?” Your father scoffs and reaches for a pack of cigarettes, lighting one with a spark from his hand.

Of course, you’re good. You’re better than he’s making you out to be. Magic is an intrinsic part of you, it flows in your blood. But you’re young and inexperienced, and John thinks you’re yet to be disillusioned by the true world of magic. John thinks that’s inevitable.

If he could have his way, you would’ve somehow not inherited a single drop of magic from him or your mother, Zatanna. After Zatanna left the both of you to go back to America and work for the League, he delayed training you in any type of mystic arts. But plates started flying off shelves, and pure heat would roll off you in waves when you became emotional. He reluctantly trained you in magic.

He regretted it. John has so much hope for your future. He’d never tell you, but he hopes you leave him and go somewhere far, far away. Somewhere safe, without rituals or demons or spells. But for now, he sits on the couch and tries to ignore your whining and begging, how you’re pleading for him to let you go to Metropolis, or Gotham, or whatever your new obsession is.