Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing in the regards to Harry Potter or Sons of Anarchy. All properties therein are those of their creators. I am only writer working with worlds and characters that I like.

Chapter One: Blood and Asphalt

The rain lashed against the car in heavy sheets, distorting the world outside into a chaotic blur of water and darkness. It had started just before sunset, and now, hours later, it showed no signs of letting up. The windshield wipers struggled, their rhythmic swipes barely clearing enough of the slick, winding road ahead.

In the back seat, Harry sat curled in on himself, knees drawn up, trying to take up as little space as possible. He wasn't supposed to be here. This was meant to be a family trip to Disneyland, but since no one had been willing to watch him, he'd been reluctantly brought along.

Uncle Vernon had been muttering furiously ever since they left the airport, his voice a low, grumbling storm of complaints. Something had gone wrong—really wrong. The heater blasted hot air into the cramped space, but it did nothing to thaw the cold pit in Harry's stomach.

He turned his gaze to the rain-speckled window, watching the endless stretch of road swallowed by the night. The occasional glow of neon signs flickered past, momentary beacons in the darkness. He'd seen a sign a while back—Charming, California—but the name meant nothing to him.

The rental car smelled of stale fast food, damp upholstery, and Dudley's sweat.

Beside him, his cousin snored loudly, his face pressed against the glass, oblivious to everything. Dudley had stuffed himself sick at the last gas station, whining for snacks until Vernon caved, buying him whatever he wanted. Now, crumbs clung to his shirt, and his stomach strained against the seatbelt.

Up front, Vernon's knuckles had gone white around the steering wheel, his thick fingers gripping too tightly. The deeper they drove into the storm, the angrier he became.

"These damn American roads—no signs, no proper markings!" he bellowed, his voice vibrating through the car.

Petunia clutched her purse, her lips thin and pinched. "Vernon, just slow down! We'll find a motel—"

But he wasn't listening. His furious eyes flicked between the road and the crumpled map in his lap. The car jerked as he adjusted his grip, the tires skidding slightly on the rain-slick pavement.

Dudley snored on, unaware.

Harry clenched his hands in his lap, forcing himself smaller. The air inside the car was thick, suffocating. Something felt… wrong.

Then Vernon missed the turn.

The headlights caught the sharp curve a second too late.

The wheel jerked violently—too hard, too late.

The tires lost their grip.

The world tilted.

Petunia screamed.

The back end of the car swung wildly, spinning into the darkness.

CRASH.

The impact sent Harry slamming into the side of the car. Pain exploded through his shoulder. Dudley jolted awake with a shriek, flailing as the car twisted.

Glass shattered. Metal groaned, the screeching sound tearing through the night.

They flipped.

Once.

Twice.

Something hard cracked against Harry's skull, and for a moment, the world blurred into a whirlwind of pain, motion, and noise.

Then—stillness.

Silence, except for the rain, which still hammered down as if nothing had happened.

Harry's ears rang. His body ached. The seatbelt dug into his chest, keeping him pinned. A warm, wet trickle slid down his forehead, blurring his vision.

The front seat was… too still.

"Mum…?" Dudley's voice was weak, frightened.

Harry turned his head—just in time to see Dudley's chin slump forward, his whole body going limp.

A cold dread clenched around Harry's lungs. His fingers fumbled with the seatbelt, weak and shaking. He had to get out—

A sound.

Distant. Deep.

Engines.

Roaring closer.

Then, darkness swallowed him whole.

The wreck smelled of burning rubber and spilled gasoline. The rain hadn't let up, turning Highway 99 into a slick, treacherous stretch of road leading into Charming, California. Smoke curled into the night air, mixing with the sharp tang of oil.

Headlights sliced through the darkness.

Clay Morrow pulled his bike to a stop, boots splashing into a shallow pool of rainwater mixed with motor oil. Behind him, two more Sons slowed, their engines rumbling like distant thunder.

"Shit," Tig muttered, swinging off his bike. He stepped closer, peering into the wreckage. "Bad one."

Clay grunted, surveying the scene. The blue sedan was mangled, its front end crushed against a tree. The windshield was nothing but a web of shattered glass, rain dripping through the cracks. Inside, the driver slumped lifelessly against the wheel, his thick neck bent at a grotesque angle. Blood darkened his short-cropped hair. The woman beside him wasn't moving either—her face frozen in an expression of terror and pain.

Then Clay's eyes flicked to the back seat.

His chest tightened.

A kid.

Two of them, actually—but Clay's focus locked onto the smaller one, half-buried beneath a suitcase. A mess of black hair, too still. Too quiet.

His gut twisted.

"Check if anyone's breathing," he ordered, already yanking at the mangled back door. He didn't think there was much hope for the others—but the kid… the kid might have a chance.

He reached inside.

The small boy was limp, barely more than skin and bone. His unruly hair was sticky with blood, his pale skin streaked with grime. Clay hesitated, then pressed two fingers to the kid's throat.

A pulse.

Faint. But there.

He exhaled sharply. "This one's alive."

Tig let out a low curse. "Shit, boss. What do we do?"

The third man was already on his radio, calling for an ambulance, but Clay wasn't listening. His eyes were still locked on the kid, barely breathing, barely there.

He was just a baby.

No one deserved to die like this. Least of all a child who hadn't even had a chance to live.

"Get him out," Clay said, his voice gruff, leaving no room for argument. "We're taking him to St. Thomas."

Tig hesitated, but there was something in Clay's tone that warned against questioning him.

Wordlessly, he reached into the wreckage, carefully pulling the too-light body from the back seat. The kid barely stirred, whimpering at the movement, his small frame trembling even in unconsciousness.

Clay took him. Held him.

The kid barely weighed anything at all.

"You're alright, kid," he muttered, voice low, steady. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince—the boy or himself.

Then he turned, carrying the child toward the waiting bikes, toward whatever future lay ahead.

~+ Two Weeks Later +~

Harry Potter woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of hospital machines. Pain throbbed in every inch of his small body, a dull ache that flared into something sharper when he tried to move. A gasp escaped his lips as his ribs protested, and his eyes flew open.

The room around him was unfamiliar—too bright, too clean.

Not Privet Drive. Not the cupboard under the stairs.

His gaze darted wildly across the sterile white walls, the thin hospital sheets, the humming medical equipment. A hospital.

Not home.

A woman sat beside the bed, flipping through a magazine. She had dark, wavy hair and sharp eyes, a newborn cradled in her arms. When she noticed him staring, she set the magazine aside and leaned forward.

"Well, look who finally decided to wake up," she said, her voice warm but edged with something unreadable.

Harry shrank back instinctively, pressing into the pillows. His heart pounded against his sore ribs, his body tensing for an anger that never came. The woman, however, didn't scowl or frown like Aunt Petunia always did. Instead, she simply observed him, her expression unreadable.

After a moment, she tilted her head. "You remember anything, kid?"

Harry hesitated. His mind was foggy, like trying to grasp smoke. He reached for memories and found only fragmented flashes—headlights slicing through the rain, tires screeching—then nothing.

His throat felt raw when he spoke. "Car… crash."

The woman nodded, and for a brief moment, something like sympathy softened her sharp gaze. "Yeah. You were in a bad accident, sweetheart."

Harry swallowed hard. He tried to remember more. Uncle Vernon yelling. Aunt Petunia's sharp voice. Dudley whining about something.

Then—nothing.

His stomach clenched.

"Where—" His voice cracked as panic crept into his chest. His eyes darted around the room. "Where are they?"

The woman's gaze flicked toward the door before she sighed. "They didn't make it, kid."

Silence stretched between them.

The words didn't register at first. Didn't make it.

They were gone.

The Dursleys were gone.

He didn't know how to feel. They had never loved him, never treated him like family. But they were all he had ever known. Now, even that was gone.

Something twisted in his chest. His small fingers clenched the hospital blanket, gripping onto something—anything—to ground himself.

The woman stood. "I'll get Clay."

Harry barely heard her. The weight of exhaustion pulled him back under before he could process anything else.

When Harry woke again, the world was still too bright, too clean, too white.

His head ached. His ribs throbbed. Everything felt wrong.

Someone else was sitting beside him now.

A broad-shouldered man with a beard and rough hands. Not Vernon. Not a doctor. Not anyone he knew.

The man studied him in silence, his expression unreadable. Harry's fingers curled into the blanket, his breath quickening. Who was he?

The memories rushed back—the crash, the hospital, the woman with the baby. But this man? He was new. Why was he here?

The man leaned forward slightly, voice low and calm.

"Hey, kid."

Harry flinched.

The man exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "Relax. You're safe."

Harry didn't reply. He just watched him, wary, uncertain.

But exhaustion was stronger than fear, and before he could think of anything else, his body dragged him back into unconsciousness.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a cold glow over the hospital room. The air smelled sterile, tinged with the faint, stale scent of disinfectant.

Clay Morrow sat in the hard plastic chair beside the hospital bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Across from him, a tired-looking doctor in his mid-fifties flipped through a clipboard, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly disheveled.

Clay wasn't a good man. He knew that.

He ran guns. Lied when it suited him. Killed when he had to.

But something inside him had twisted in a way he hadn't expected when he saw the kid—small, scared, and completely alone.

The state was already sniffing around, talking about foster homes. Clay knew what happened to kids in the system. No family. No protection. Easy prey.

He wasn't about to let that happen.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, snapping Clay from his thoughts. "Physically, the kid's stable. Minor head trauma, some bruising, but no internal bleeding or fractures. Honestly, he got lucky."

Clay nodded stiffly. "Good."

The doctor sighed. "That's not the whole story, though."

Clay narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

The doctor's gaze flicked toward the sleeping boy before lowering his voice. "I ran additional tests. The kid—Harry—he's severely malnourished. His weight is dangerously low for his age, his ribs are visible, and there are clear signs of long-term neglect." He hesitated. "This isn't just a rough couple of days. This kid's been underfed for years."

Clay's jaw tightened.

The doctor continued, his voice quieter now. "He also has older bruises. Some could be normal childhood scrapes, but others… I'd bet my license some were caused by repeated physical discipline." He hesitated. "And I don't know if you noticed, but he flinches when someone moves too fast."

Clay had noticed.

The kid flinched like a beaten dog.

A slow, simmering anger settled in Clay's chest. Who the hell hurts a kid like that?

"What do we do?" he asked, voice rough.

The doctor handed him a pamphlet. "He needs proper nutrition. High-protein, high-calorie meals, but small portions—his stomach isn't used to full meals. Gradual exercise to rebuild strength. If he gets the right care, he'll recover." He hesitated. "But there's something else."

Clay met his gaze. "What?"

The doctor sighed. "This kid needs stability. He's been through hell—physically and emotionally. He needs someone to look out for him."

Clay glanced at the hospital bed. Harry lay still, small and fragile against the stark white sheets. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths.

Clay wasn't a father. Hell, he wasn't even a decent role model.

But this kid had no one.

And Clay sure as hell wasn't about to let the system chew him up.

A soft sound broke the silence.

Harry shifted beneath the blankets, his fingers twitching. His brow creased, and slowly, his green eyes fluttered open.

Clay leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Hey, kid."

Harry flinched. His body tensed.

Clay sighed. "Relax. You're safe."

Harry didn't respond, just watched him warily.

Clay rubbed his chin. "What's your name?"

A long pause. Then, softly:

"…Harry."

Clay nodded. He already knew. The cops had found a passport in the wreck—Hadrian Potter.

"Alright, Harry. Listen up." His voice was steady. Sure. "You got any other family?"

Harry hesitated, then shook his head.

Clay's chest tightened. That meant it was official.

He exhaled, running a hand through his beard. "Alright. Here's the deal. You don't got anyone, and I'm not letting social services throw you into some shitty foster home. So you're comin' with me."

Harry's fingers curled into the blanket. "With… you?"

Clay nodded. "That's right. You're a Morrow now, kid."

And just like that, the adoption process had begun.

A month had passed since Harry woke up in the hospital.

A month since the crash.

A month since he'd lost everything he had ever known.

And in that time, something strange had happened.

He'd healed.

Not just the bruises and scrapes from the accident, but the hollow ache in his stomach—the one that came from years of going hungry. The tight, anxious feeling in his chest that made it hard to breathe around strangers had begun to fade.

He still felt small in a world full of loud voices and bigger people, but it wasn't as scary anymore.

Now, he sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, flipping through his notebook.

Clay had given it to him during the first week—a plain, unlined notebook with a couple of pencils tucked inside. No one had ever given Harry something just because.

Since then, he had filled the pages with sketches.

Some were simple doodles. Others were memories—things he barely understood, like a flash of green light he didn't remember seeing but always dreamed about.

Most of them, though?

Most of them were motorcycles.

Clay sat in the chair beside him, arms crossed as he waited for the discharge paperwork to be finalized. He hadn't said much, but that wasn't unusual. Clay wasn't a talker.

After a moment, he nodded toward the notebook. "You gonna show me, or am I supposed to guess what you're drawing?"

Harry hesitated, then turned the book toward him.

Clay took the notebook, flipping it open to the latest sketch. The proportions were a little off, and the shading needed work, but it was unmistakably a Harley. The attention to detail was impressive for a kid his age—the wheels, the frame, the distinct shape of the engine.

Clay let out a low huff of approval. "Not bad, kid."

Harry ducked his head, a small, shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Clay flipped the page and found another drawing.

This one was different.

It wasn't just a motorcycle. It was a man on a motorcycle.

Broad shoulders, big hands gripping the handlebars, a leather vest with a patch drawn in careful lines.

Harry had drawn him.

Clay didn't speak for a long moment. Then, with his usual gruffness, he closed the notebook and handed it back. "Looks good."

Harry hugged it to his chest.

The door swung open, and the doctor walked in, clipboard in hand.

"Well, Mr. Morrow," he said, glancing between Clay and Harry, "everything's in order. Harry's cleared to leave."

Harry sat up straighter, barely stopping himself from swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He had been waiting to hear those words.

The doctor turned his attention to Clay. "I assume you've been keeping up with the recommended exercise routine?"

Clay snorted. "Yeah, yeah. We've been doin' that Tai Chi stuff."

Harry nodded quickly. "Every morning."

It had been part of his recovery plan. The doctor had explained that it would help with balance, flexibility, and strength. Harry had expected it to be boring, but… he actually liked it.

It was slow. Quiet. Unlike most things in his life before.

The doctor gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Keep at it." Then his expression grew more serious. "And you're still planning to take him to therapy?"

Clay's jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah."

The doctor's tone left no room for argument. "It's mandatory, Clay. Not negotiable. He's been through a lot. He needs to talk about it."

Harry lowered his gaze, tracing the edge of his notebook with his fingers. He wasn't sure how he felt about therapy. The sessions had been postponed because the in-house counselor had gotten sick, and the hospital hadn't found a replacement yet.

Clay exhaled sharply through his nose. "I got it."

He had already made arrangements. He'd found a therapist outside the hospital, a woman working out of the Wahéwa Reservation. Clay had liked her immediately, and that was saying something.

The doctor held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. "Then you're good to go."

Harry slid off the bed, Clay already grabbing the plastic bag of his things. The hospital slippers made soft, slapping noises against the tile floor as he followed him out.

Outside, the air was cool and damp, the scent of rain clinging to the asphalt.

Clay led him across the parking lot without a word.

Harry slowed when he saw where they were heading. His stomach twisted slightly. "We're riding that?"

Clay turned, smirking as he gestured to his bike. "You got a problem with it?"

Harry chewed his lip, staring at the big motorcycle. He had ridden on it once before, but now that he was fully awake and aware, it seemed… bigger.

"What if I fall?" he asked in a whisper.

Clay crouched down so they were eye level, resting his forearms on his knees. "I told you before, kid." His voice was steady, sure. "I don't let people fall."

Harry hesitated.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

Clay handed him a helmet—smaller this time. A kid's size. Someone must have gotten it just for him.

Harry fastened the strap as Clay climbed onto the bike.

"Alright, hop on."

He moved carefully, wrapping his arms around Clay's waist.

The bike rumbled to life beneath him.

Clay turned his head slightly. "Hold on tight, kid."

The wind misted against Harry's face as they sped into the night.

Toward his new home.

And for the first time in his life… Harry felt free.

The roar of the motorcycle faded as Clay pulled into the driveway of his house.

Harry blinked up at it, his small fingers still curled around the strap of his backpack. The house wasn't as big as the hospital, not as medical the Dursleys prefert, but it felt… different. Not cold, not hostile. Just unfamiliar.

Clay cut the engine and glanced back. "You good, kid?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded.

He wasn't sure what good was supposed to feel like.

Clay pulled off his helmet, ruffling Harry's already-messy hair before climbing off the bike. "Come on."

Harry slid off carefully, his legs still a little shaky. The month in the hospital had made him stronger —Tai Chi helped with that— but he still felt small next to Clay's heavy boots and broad stance.

The front door was already unlocked. When they stepped inside, Harry hesitated in the entryway. The house smelled like leather, coffee, ciggars, and something faintly like motor oil. It wasn't fancy, but it was lived in.

And it was his now.

Before Harry could take another step, a voice called from deeper inside.

"You finally brought him."

Gemma.

She emerged from the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her styled hair and sharp eyes made her seem like she owned the place, even though this was Clay's house, not hers. It's the woman with the baby, who was at the hospital as he first woke up.

Behind her, a boy with messy blond hair and blue eyes peeked around the corner.

Jax.

Harry's fingers tightened around the notebook in his hand as the older boy studied him. Clay told Harry about him, the first son of Gemma.

Clay sighed, rubbing his beard. "Yeah, Gem. I brought him."

Gemma's gaze swept over Harry, assessing him. Then, without a word, she stepped forward and adjusted the collar of his hoodie.

Harry flinched—too fast, too instinctive.

Her fingers froze.

Her sharp gaze flicked to Clay. She didn't say anything, but something unspoken passed between them.

Instead of commenting, she stepped back and gestured down the hall. "I set up the room like you asked."

Clay nodded. "Thanks."

She looked at Harry. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's show you your room."

Harry hesitated, glancing at Clay.

Clay jerked his chin toward the hallway. "Go on."

Harry followed cautiously as Gemma led him down the hall, his footsteps barely making a sound against the wooden floor.

She pushed open a door near the end of the hallway. "Here."

Harry peered inside, his breath caught..

The room was small, but… his.

A real bed. A dresser. A small desk with a lamp. On the bed sat a folded blanket and a brand-new pillow. It looked… warm. Safe.

Harry's throat tightened. No cupboard. No thin mattress on the floor.

For the first time in his life, Harry had a room of his own.

Before he could step inside, a voice from behind made him jump.

"That was the best guest room in the house."

Harry turned.

Jax stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He was older, taller, and watching Harry like he was trying to figure him out.

Gemma sighed. "Jax, don't start."

Jax ignored her, still looking at Harry. "So, you're the kid Clay picked up?"

Harry nodded slowly. "…Yeah."

Jax studied him for another second. Then, he stepped inside and flopped onto the bed, bouncing slightly. "Huh. Better than I remember."

Harry stared at him. "…This was your room?"

"Nah, but I used to play in here." Jax sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. "Guess it's yours now."

Harry wasn't sure what to say.

Jax tilted his head. "You talk, right?"

Harry frowned slightly, overwelmed. "Yeah."

Jax smirked. "Good. Would've been boring if you didn't."

Gemma sighed. "Jax, give the kid some space."

Jax grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "What? I'm just saying hi."

Harry still wasn't sure what to make of him. Jax wasn't mean, but he had that same confidence Clay had—like the whole world belonged to him.

After a pause, Jax nudged the notebook in Harry's hands. "What's that?"

Harry hesitated, then held it tighter. "…My sketches."

Jax raised an eyebrow. "You draw?"

Harry nodded.

Jax smirked. "Cool." He stood up, stretching. "Alright, kid. If you're living here, guess that makes you my little brother now."

Harry blinked. "Your… what?"

Jax shrugged, as if it was obvious. "Well, Clay brought you here. You're staying in my old playroom. That makes us family."

Harry didn't know how to respond to that.

Jax didn't wait for an answer. He clapped Harry on the back—too hard, but not cruel. "C'mon, I'll show you where we keep the good snacks."

Harry hesitated. Then, for the first time that day… he smiled.

Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.