Harry Potter had faced death and won. But winning came with its own consequences. Mastery over death didn't mean peace—it meant eternity. And eternity had no place in the wizarding world that now saw him as a legend, a memory, a war hero to be honored from a distance.
So, Harry left.
The United States was as good a place as any to start fresh. He settled in a quiet town, setting up an auto shop—because even with magic running through his veins, there was something satisfying about working with his hands. It was practical, straightforward. A broken thing was a broken thing, and he could fix it.
It was in that shop that he met him.
The silver Pontiac Solstice rolled in late one evening, its sleek frame marred with deep dents and scratches. It looked like it had been through hell. Harry, arms crossed, took one look at the damage and whistled.
"Someone did a number on you, huh?"
The car didn't answer—obviously. But Harry swore he felt something hum beneath the hood.
His hands itched, magic surging instinctively, but he ignored it. He wasn't a wizard here. He was just a mechanic.
And so, he got to work.
Jazz didn't know why he kept coming back.
He shouldn't be here. Autobots didn't form attachments to humans—especially ones they barely knew. But ever since that first encounter, something about the man had drawn him in.
It wasn't just that Harry had fixed him up—though, Primus, that was a mystery in itself. He hadn't used normal tools, hadn't even seemed to register how unnatural it was that his hands moved with a precision that went beyond human ability.
It was something else.
The way Harry's emerald-green eyes flickered with something ancient. The way his presence felt—commanding, powerful. Jazz had fought alongside Optimus Prime, had seen war, had stood in the presence of beings far beyond human understanding.
And Harry Potter felt like one of them.
"You know," Harry drawled one evening, arms crossed as he leaned against the workbench, "most cars don't roll back into the shop this often. Either you drive like an absolute maniac, or someone's out to get you."
Jazz, in his alt mode, sat in the dim lighting of the shop, engine thrumming almost nervously.
"You ain't wrong," came the reply, voice distorted slightly through his speakers.
Harry didn't even blink at the talking car.
"Figured," he said simply, taking another sip of his beer. "You're not just a car, are you?"
Jazz hesitated.
"How long have you known?"
Harry smirked. "Long enough."
And that was the beginning of something neither of them expected.
Jazz was protective of Harry. Too protective.
It didn't make sense. He'd fought alongside humans before, had respected them, even liked them. But this? This instinct to guard, to shield, to stay close—it was different.
Harry wasn't fragile.
No, far from it.
Jazz had seen the way he moved, the way his muscles flexed under that grease-streaked tank top, the way his magic crackled in the air when he thought no one was looking.
He was lethal.
Deadly.
And hot as hell.
Jazz didn't know what to do with that realization.
One night, Harry was closing up when the attack came.
Decepticons.
He barely had time to react before explosions rocked the street outside. Jazz transformed in an instant, placing himself between Harry and the incoming enemy.
"Stay back!" Jazz barked.
Harry just rolled his eyes.
With a flick of his wrist, power surged through him, raw and untamed. The Decepticons never stood a chance.
When the dust settled, Jazz stared.
Harry smirked.
"Still think I need protecting?"
Jazz didn't have an answer.
But he knew one thing for sure—he wasn't leaving.
Not now. Not ever.
And for the first time in a long time, Harry wasn't alone.