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 Two: Meeting the Club
Harry sat on the steps of the garage, knees tucked close to his chest, watching the bikes roll in. It was the day after he was discharged from the Hospital.
They were loud—engines roaring, tires crunching against the gravel. The men riding them were even louder, voices carrying over the noise as they shouted greetings and jokes. But none of it scared him the way Uncle Vernon's anger had.
The air smelled of oil, metal, and cigarette smoke, laced with the faint scent of leather and the distant hum of rock music from an old radio propped up near the toolboxes. The garage was alive—a constant rhythm of movement, the clank of tools, low conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. It was messy, chaotic, and nothing like the quiet, cold house he used to live in.
And yet… it felt safe.
Clay had brought him here after breakfast, muttering something about how "sitting around the house all day ain't good for a kid." He was always busy, always talking in low, serious voices with other men wearing the same leather jackets with the reaper patch. But he wasn't unkind.
He never yelled.
Never raised a hand.
And Harry had his own bed now. A real one. One he could call his own.
Gemma—the woman from the hospital—passed by and handed him a sandwich, barely pausing in her stride. "Eat."
Harry took it without argument, his stomach rumbling slightly. He still wasn't used to food coming freely.
Behind him, a shadow shifted.
"She treating you alright?"
Harry looked up. Clay stood there, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."
Clay exhaled, shifting his weight like he wasn't sure what to say next. Finally, he grabbed a chair, flipping it around before settling down beside him.
"You remember anything else?" His tone was casual, but there was something heavier beneath it. "Before the crash?"
Harry shook his head. "No."
It was a lie.
He remembered things. Strange things. Things that didn't make sense.
Like the time his hair grew back overnight after Aunt Petunia hacked it off in a fit of anger.
Or when Dudley and his gang chased him, and he suddenly ended up on the school roof without knowing how.
Or how, sometimes, when he got too scared… things just happened.
But he wasn't going to tell Clay that.
Not yet.
Clay studied him for a long moment, then reached into his kutte, pulling something small from the inside pocket. He held it out.
A silver ring.
"This was my dad's," he said, voice gruff as he placed it in Harry's small hand. "Figured you might wanna hold onto it."
Harry turned it over carefully, the metal cool against his skin. It was heavy, solid. Has a compass design. A real thing. Something that mattered to someone.
He looked up at Clay, confused. "Why?"
Clay ran a hand over his beard, sighing. "Look, kid… I ain't great at this." He gestured vaguely between them. "But you got no one else. So, for now—you got me."
Harry's fingers curled around the ring.
No one had ever said that to him before.
And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, he believed it.
He wasn't alone anymore.
The garage was quieter than usual.
Most of the guys had cleared out—either running errands or heading home—leaving behind the low hum of a radio and the occasional clatter of tools. The scent of oil, metal, and gasoline filled the air, mixing with the warm California breeze drifting in through the open bay doors.
In the far corner, Harry sat on the concrete floor, knees pulled up, a notebook balanced against them.
The pages were smudged with pencil strokes—lines, shapes, half-formed sketches of things he didn't quite understand. He had drawn before, back at school, when he could find scraps of paper no one wanted. But this?
This was different.
He wasn't just doodling.
He was remembering.
The curve of headlights cutting through rain.
The screech of tires losing grip.
The sudden twist of metal, warping under the force of the crash.
The way the raindrops had looked on the glass just before everything went wrong.
His fingers tightened around the pencil, pressing too hard.
Snap.
The graphite cracked.
Harry swallowed, hunching lower as if making himself smaller could push the thoughts away.
A shadow passed over him.
"Didn't know we had an artist in the shop."
Harry flinched, snapping the notebook shut before glancing up.
John Teller, the father of Jax, stood over him, wiping grease from his hands with a shop rag. He wasn't as physically imposing as Clay—didn't take up space the same way—but there was something steady about him. A quiet kind of presence.
Harry hesitated, gaze dropping to the floor. "I was just… drawing."
John didn't push. He just nodded toward the notebook, voice calm. "You don't have to hide it, you know."
Harry said nothing.
After a beat, John jerked his head toward the far end of the garage. "C'mon. Lemme show you something."
Harry hesitated before slowly getting to his feet, trailing after John toward one of the bikes near the workbench.
This one wasn't like the others.
It was older, unfinished—its frame exposed, parts laid out neatly beside it. Unlike the gleaming, roaring machines lined up outside, this one looked like a story still being written.
John rested a hand on the frame, his touch almost reverent. "Been workin' on this one a while. She's a classic—'56 Panhead. Real beauty when she runs."
Harry stared at it, uncertain what he was supposed to see.
John crouched beside the bike, running his fingers along the engine like he was listening to something only he could hear. "Y'know, building a bike ain't just about metal and bolts. It's about understanding it—knowing how it all fits together, how it moves."
He tapped a part near the engine. "You don't rush it. You listen. Learn."
Harry shifted on his feet, unsure what to say.
John didn't force the conversation. He just grabbed a wrench and started working, the quiet between them settling into something comfortable.
He didn't explain every motion. Didn't narrate what he was doing. But he also didn't ignore Harry.
After a moment, he glanced up. "Ever worked with tools before?"
Harry shook his head.
John considered that, then held out a wrench. Not too heavy, not too big. The right size for small hands.
"Alright. See this bolt here?" He tapped a spot near the engine. "Try loosening that."
Harry hesitated, then knelt down, gripping the wrench. He twisted, but it didn't budge.
John smirked. "Little more pressure."
Harry tried again, putting more weight into it.
The bolt gave a reluctant creak before finally turning.
A small flicker of something—pride? Relief?—bloomed in his chest.
John nodded approvingly. "Not bad, kid."
Harry wiped his hands on his hoodie, smudging grease onto the fabric.
For the first time in days, his hands weren't shaking.
John leaned back, stretching his legs out. "Y'know, I started working on bikes when I was about your age."
Harry glanced at him. "Really?"
John nodded. "My old man ran a shop. Taught me everything I know." He exhaled, running a hand along the frame. "Figured I'd pass it on someday."
Harry didn't know what to say to that.
John didn't seem to expect a response. He just sat there, at ease in the silence.
After a moment, he turned to Harry again. "You keep drawing, alright?"
Harry blinked. "Why?"
John gave a small shrug. "Because remembering's important."
He tapped the bike lightly. "And because not everything worth fixing has to be made of metal."
Harry didn't fully understand what that meant.
But for the first time in a long time… he didn't feel broken.
Maybe—just maybe—everything would heal with time.
The bike rumbled to a stop in front of a house.
The Teller house felt different from Clay's.
It wasn't as quiet. It wasn't as rough as the clubhouse. It felt… warm. Lived in. Loud in a way that wasn't harsh or angry—just full. Like a place where people had stayed for a long time and left pieces of themselves behind.
Harry stood near the doorway, small and uncertain, his fingers curled around the edge of his hoodie. The smell of grilled steak, garlic, and something buttery filled the air. His stomach twisted—not in fear, but in hunger.
"C'mon, kid."
Clay's voice was gruff but not unkind as he nudged Harry forward into the dining room.
The table was already full.
At the head, John Teller sat with quiet authority, his steady gaze taking everything in. Gemma moved between the kitchen and table, setting down plates, her presence sharp yet effortless, like she had been running the house forever. Across from them, Piney took a slow drag from his cigarette, the soft hiss of his oxygen tank the only sound he made.
And then there were the boys.
Jax Teller, seven years old and already carrying himself like he ran the world, sat next to his best friend, Opie Winston. Jax had that same cocky smirk Clay always wore—like he already knew what came next and was two steps ahead of everyone else.
Opie was quieter. Calmer. His steady brown eyes flicked toward Harry, watching but not saying anything.
Gemma, wiping her hands on a dish towel, gestured to the empty chair next to Jax. "Sit down, sweetheart."
Harry hesitated.
He wasn't used to being invited to a table.
At the Dursleys' house, meals were about being quiet, about waiting until everyone else was finished. About not being seen.
Here… he was just expected to sit.
Slowly, he pulled out the chair and climbed up. His feet barely touched the ground.
Gemma placed a plate in front of him—steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a biscuit.
Harry stared at it.
"Eat." Gemma's voice was firm but not unkind. "You're too damn small."
Jax, already chewing, grinned. "Yeah, my mom's bossy like that."
Gemma shot him a look. "Watch it, Jackson."
Jax just laughed, Opie smirking beside him.
Harry still hadn't touched his fork.
From the other end of the table, Piney took a sip of his drink and grunted, "What, kid? They not feed you where you came from?"
Harry flinched.
Jax, still chewing, scowled at Piney. "Hey, that's mean."
Piney just shrugged, but before he could say anything else, John spoke.
"He'll eat when he's ready."
His voice was steady, final. The kind of voice no one argued with.
Piney exhaled through his nose and went back to his drink.
Clay, sitting next to Harry, leaned back in his chair. "Kid's still getting used to things." His tone was low, protective. A warning.
Jax leaned over, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You better eat, kid. My mom'll put you in a headlock if you don't."
Gemma snorted. "Damn right I will."
Harry wasn't sure if they were joking or not.
Opie finally spoke, his voice quiet but solid. "You ever had steak before?"
Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "Not… really."
Jax's eyes went wide. "Dude. You're missing out."
Opie nudged his plate slightly toward Harry. "Try it."
Harry hesitated.
Then, slowly, he picked up his fork. His hands were steady as he cut into the steak—tender, warm, real food.
He took a bite.
It was… good.
Jax watched him closely. "Well?"
Harry swallowed, then gave a small nod.
Jax grinned. "Told you."
The conversation carried on—voices rising, laughter mixing in—but something inside Harry settled.
He glanced around the table.
Clay.
John.
Piney.
Jax.
Opie.
Gemma.
They weren't ignoring him. They weren't treating him like a burden.
Slowly, he picked up his fork and took another bite.
For the first time in his life, dinner didn't feel like punishment.
For the first time, he wasn't eating alone
The night air was cool and quiet, the distant hum of motorcycles fading into the background.
Harry sat on the wooden steps of the Teller porch, knees tucked up to his chest. The house behind him was still full of life—John and Piney talking in low voices, Gemma washing dishes, Clay's deep voice cutting through it all.
But out here, it was just the three of them.
Jax. Opie. And him.
Jax plopped down beside him, stretching his legs out lazily, hands folded behind his head like he owned the place. On Harry's other side, Opie sat quieter, his gaze fixed on the way the porch light cast long shadows across the yard.
For a while, no one spoke.
Then Jax broke the silence.
"You eat slow."
Harry blinked, turning his head. "Huh?"
Jax smirked. "Dinner. You ate slow."
Harry shifted slightly, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "I just… wasn't used to it."
Jax frowned, like he was trying to piece together something that didn't make sense. "You weren't used to eating?"
Harry hesitated. "…Not like that."
Jax was only seven, but he wasn't stupid. His eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering in their blue depths.
"That's dumb. People gotta eat."
Harry just shrugged.
Opie, who had been silent until now, spoke without looking away from the yard. "Maybe he didn't get to."
Jax's head snapped toward him, then back to Harry. His face scrunched up, like the thought bothered him more than he knew how to say.
After a pause, Jax nudged Harry's arm. "Well, you're here now. And my mom's crazy about making sure people eat, so… you're screwed."
Harry blinked.
Then, before he could stop himself, he let out a tiny laugh.
Jax grinned, looking pleased with himself.
The conversation faded again into comfortable silence. The night air smelled like cigarette smoke, motor oil, and the lingering scent of dinner.
Jax leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky. "You ever think about what you wanna do when you grow up?"
Harry frowned slightly. "I don't know."
Jax shrugged. "You could work at TM."
"Or be a mechanic," Opie added.
Harry tilted his head. "…Maybe."
Jax nudged his shoulder. "You'd be good at it. You already draw bikes all the time."
Harry blinked. He hadn't told Jax that.
"…How did you know?"
Jax smirked. "Saw your notebook at the table. You were holding onto it like it was gold."
Harry hesitated. He thought about denying it, but… there wasn't any teasing in Jax's voice.
Just fact.
Opie stretched his legs out, shooting Jax a knowing glance. "Think Clay's gonna let him near a bike?"
Jax snorted. "Not yet. But one day." He grinned at Harry. "I'll teach you."
Harry looked at him, a little surprised. "You will?"
Jax nodded like it was obvious. "Yeah. 'Cause we're brothers now. Didn't I say so yesterday?"
Harry froze.
Brothers.
Jax had said it the day before, but Harry hadn't given it much thought.
The word felt foreign and warm at the same time. Like something he wasn't used to but might want.
Jax seemed to realize Harry didn't know what to say, so he just shrugged and changed the subject.
"You ever been in a fight?"
Harry shook his head. "No."
Jax grinned. "Wanna learn?"
Harry wasn't sure how to answer that.
Opie sighed. "Jax, you can't just teach people how to fight."
Jax huffed. "Why not? He's small. People are gonna mess with him."
Opie gave Harry a thoughtful look. "You ever wanna learn, just let us know."
Harry nodded slowly. He didn't know if he wanted to fight.
But… he liked knowing that if he ever did, Jax and Opie would have his back.
And for the first time, he wasn't alone.
He had friends.
Maybe even brothers.
The deep rumble of motorcycles filled the air as Clay pulled into the lot outside the clubhouse.
Harry climbed off the bike carefully, adjusting the helmet Clay had given him. Around them, the garage was alive with movement—the rhythmic clanking of tools, the scent of oil and leather, and the occasional burst of gruff laughter spilling from inside the clubhouse.
It wasn't his first time here.
Yesterday, John had put him to work in the garage, showing him different tools and how they fit together. Harry had mostly just handed things over, but John had never gotten frustrated when he grabbed the wrong one. He'd just corrected him and moved on.
It had been… nice.
But today was different.
Today, Clay was bringing him inside the clubhouse.
Harry followed cautiously, fingers twisting the ring Clay had given him, its weight grounding him as the biker pushed open the heavy door.
The clubhouse was loud—filled with laughter, deep voices, and the occasional clink of a beer bottle against wood. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and leather, but it wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it felt… solid. Like a place that had been standing for a long, long time.
Clay strode in first, Harry trailing just behind.
At the bar, Tig, Bobby, and Chibs were already hanging around, their kuttes slung over their shoulders like armor. Nearby, John and Piney sat watching the scene unfold, silent but attentive.
Tig noticed them first.
"Well, well, well." He smirked, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. "Look who's back."
Harry stood still, uncertain. He still wasn't used to so many eyes on him.
Bobby leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at Clay. "What's the deal? You pickin' up orphans now?"
Clay didn't even glance at him.
Tig, however, had a different look in his eyes—something almost like respect.
"You guys don't even know." He exhaled a long stream of smoke. "This kid? Total badass."
Chibs, sipping his drink, raised an eyebrow. "Aye?"
Tig leaned forward, like he was about to tell a ghost story.
"You shoulda seen the wreck, man." His voice dipped lower, dramatic. "Totaled car. Bodies crushed. Rain coming down like some kinda biblical shitstorm."
Harry shifted uncomfortably.
Tig, completely unaware, grinned. "But this kid? Not a scratch."
Bobby scoffed. "C'mon, man."
"I'm serious!" Tig gestured at Harry. "I'm telling you, if this kid doesn't get his first ink by ten, I'll be shocked."
Harry blinked. "…Ink?"
From a nearby stool, Jax smirked. "Tattoos, dude."
Harry frowned. "I can't get one. I'm five."
Tig smirked. "Yeah? Give it a few years."
Clay groaned. "Jesus Christ, Tig."
Tig threw his hands up. "What? Kid's already tougher than half the guys in here."
Chibs chuckled. "Aye, he's got a point."
Piney, who had been quiet until now, huffed. "Kid, you got a horseshoe up your ass or somethin'?"
Harry blinked, confused. "…What?"
Tig laughed. "Means you're lucky, kid."
Harry thought about that.
He didn't feel lucky.
But he didn't say that.
Instead, he just shrugged.
Jax hopped off the stool, grinning as he moved beside Harry. "Well, I told him I'm gonna teach him how to ride a bike one day."
Clay sighed. "Jesus, Jax, he's five. And you are barely older."
Jax shrugged. "So? Gotta start young."
Bobby smirked. "At this rate, he'll be runnin' this place in twenty years."
John, who had been listening quietly, took a slow drag from his cigarette. "Guess we'll see."
The conversation moved on, the men laughing, joking, drinking—but Harry stayed quiet, taking everything in.
The clubhouse. The way these men talked, the way they joked, the way they treated each other like family.
And for the first time, he thought…
Maybe he was part of it.