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 Three: Finding his Place

Half a week had passed since Harry settled into his new home.

And now, it was time for something that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

His First Therapy Session.

The ride to the reservation was quiet.

Harry sat behind Clay on the bike, small arms wrapped tightly around his waist. The open road stretched ahead, the wind cool against his skin.

They had left Charming behind nearly twenty minutes ago. The buildings had faded into open land, giving way to red dirt and rolling hills. The air smelled different here—earthy, rich, untouched.

Harry shifted slightly, the uneasy feeling still curling in his belly.

"Where are we going?" he finally asked, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the wind.

He already knew why they were going.

But not where.

Clay didn't answer right away.

Then, after a beat, he said, "To see someone I trust."

Harry frowned but didn't push further. The answer didn't settle his stomach.

When they finally pulled up to a small, wooden building, Harry immediately noticed it didn't look like a doctor's office.

No hospital beds. No white walls. No sharp smell of antiseptic.

Just a modest cabin, a porch swing swaying gently in the breeze.

Clay killed the engine and pulled off his helmet. "C'mon, kid."

Harry climbed off carefully, his sneakers kicking up dust. His gaze flicked between the quiet cabin and Clay's unreadable expression.

The door opened before they could knock.

A woman stood in the doorway.

She was older, maybe in her sixties, with long, silver-streaked black hair pulled into two braids. Her dark eyes were calm, steady—the kind that saw things people didn't say out loud.

"Clay." Her voice was smooth, knowing. "Been a while."

Clay grunted. "Yeah. Hope you don't mind me droppin' in."

She arched an eyebrow, then looked down at Harry. "This him?"

Harry shifted under her gaze, gripping the hem of his hoodie.

Clay nodded. "Yeah. This is Harry."

The woman studied him for a long moment, then stepped aside. "Come in."

Inside, the cabin was warm and simple.

A woven rug covered part of the wooden floor. A few dreamcatchers hung near the windows, their feathers swaying slightly in the breeze.

There were no medical charts, no cold, sterile instruments.

Just chairs, bookshelves, and the faint scent of sage in the air.

Harry relaxed—just a little.

The woman settled into a chair across from them, then gestured toward the seat in front of her. "Sit, child."

Harry hesitated.

He glanced at Clay, searching for reassurance.

Clay nodded once. "Go on."

Slowly, Harry climbed into the chair.

The woman folded her hands in her lap. "I'm Aiyana," she said. "I help people when their minds are too heavy."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that.

Clay shifted, arms crossed, looking about as uncomfortable as Harry felt. "Look, doc—"

She raised a hand, cutting him off. "I told you before, I'm not a doctor."

Clay grunted. "Whatever."

Aiyana turned back to Harry. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to."

Harry hesitated.

Then, very quietly, he asked, "What am I supposed to say?"

Aiyana tilted her head slightly. "Whatever is sitting in your chest."

Harry frowned. "…Nothing's sitting in my chest."

Aiyana smiled softly. "Then we sit in silence."

Harry blinked. "That's it?"

She nodded. "For now."

Clay let out a long breath. "Alright, kid. I'll be outside." He gave Aiyana a look. "You let me know if he needs anything."

She nodded, but her attention was already back on Harry.

As Clay stepped onto the porch, Harry sat there, uncertain but…

Not afraid.

For the first time, he didn't feel like he was being examined.

Just seen.

~ skip ~

It was Saturday again, and Jax was determined to teach Harry how to play poker—with Opie as his loyal second-in-command.

The afternoon sun streamed through the Teller kitchen window, casting long streaks of light across the scarred wooden table. The smell of coffee and motor oil still lingered in the air from earlier that morning, mixing with the faint scent of leather from Jax's kutte hanging on the back of his chair.

Harry sat across from Jax and Opie, watching as Jax shuffled the deck with way too much confidence for a seven-year-old.

"Alright, kid," Jax said, grinning. "Lesson one—poker is all about the face."

Harry blinked. "The face?"

Opie, stacking a small pile of poker chips—which, in reality, were just pennies and bottle caps—nodded. "Yeah. If you look nervous, people know you got a bad hand. If you look too happy, they know you got a good one."

Jax leaned in, voice lowering like he was passing down ancient wisdom. "The trick is to look like you don't give a shit."

Harry frowned. "Like Clay?"

Opie snorted, nearly knocking over his stack of pennies. "Exactly."

Jax smirked. "See? Kid's already ahead of the game."

Jax dealt the first hand, sliding the cards across the table with exaggerated flair—like a kid who had watched his dad do it too many times.

"Alright, this is Five-Card Draw," Jax explained. "You get five cards, you trade out the ones you don't like, and then we bet."

Harry peeked at his cards.

A pair of eights.

Jax smirked like he had already won. "Now, this is where you gotta be smart. You could have a terrible hand, but if you play it right, you can still win."

Harry nodded, adjusting his grip. "So it's about tricking people?"

Opie grinned. "Pretty much."

Jax flicked a few pennies onto the table. "Alright, I'm betting."

Harry hesitated, then matched him. "Me too."

Opie watched closely as Harry traded out two cards.

The next round of betting came.

Jax leaned back in his chair, all smug confidence, looking like he had the winning hand for sure. "Alright, let's see 'em."

They all placed their cards down.

Jax had one pair.

Opie had nothing.

Harry… had three eights.

Jax's mouth fell open. "What? No way."

Harry blinked. "Did I win?"

Opie chuckled. "Yeah, kid. You won."

Jax squinted at him. "You're not supposed to be good at this yet."

Harry shrugged, completely unfazed. "You said to act like I don't care."

Jax groaned, flopping back in his chair. "We've created a monster."

Opie smirked. "Wanna go again?"

Harry grinned. "Yeah."

Jax pointed an accusing finger at him. "I swear to God, if you keep winning, I'm telling Clay you're a cheater."

Harry just picked up his cards, fighting back a small smile.

This was fun.

~ skip ~

The day after his third weekly therapy session, Harry found himself stuck in yet another situation that made his stomach twist.

A morning full of endless tests—math, reading, writing—one after another, just to see where he stood in different school subjects.

Now, he sat in a small school office, feet barely touching the ground. The air smelled like old books and pencil shavings, and the tick-tick-tick of the wall clock felt too loud in the quiet space.

He hated tests.

Not because they were hard.

They weren't.

He just knew that if he did too well, people would start asking questions. And questions meant attention.

But Clay had told him to do his best.

So he did.

Across the desk, Ms. Callahan, the school's assistant principal, flipped through a thick folder, her brows furrowing deeper with each passing second.

After a long pause, she finally spoke. "Well… this is unexpected."

Clay, seated beside Harry, raised an eyebrow. "What?"

She adjusted her glasses, still scanning the papers. "Harry scored in the top five percent for his age group. In fact… his reading comprehension, writing, and math skills place him two years ahead."

Clay blinked. "Two years?"

She nodded. "If we place him where he belongs based on these scores, he would be in second grade."

Clay exhaled through his nose. "And that's Jax's grade?"

"Yes. Jackson Teller and Opie Winston are in the same class."

Harry shifted slightly, suddenly wishing he hadn't tried so hard.

Ms. Callahan glanced at him, curiosity in her expression. "Harry, where did you learn this material? Have you had extra tutoring?"

Harry hesitated.

Then, in a quiet voice, he admitted, "I did my cousin's homework."

Ms. Callahan frowned. "Your cousin's?"

Harry nodded, his hands tightening in his lap. "He's two years older. I had to do his homework, or… I got in trouble."

Clay went still beside him.

His jaw tightened.

His hands curled into fists.

If those pieces of shit were still alive, he'd kill them himself.

Not quickly, either.

Ms. Callahan, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him, simply nodded. "Well, regardless of how you learned it, you clearly understand the material. I see no reason to hold you back."

She closed the folder with finality. "Harry will be placed in second grade."

Clay let out a slow breath, visibly trying to rein himself in. He reached out and ruffled Harry's hair—gentler than usual. "Look at you. Smarter than you let on, huh?"

Harry shrugged.

He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not.

But Clay?

He knew one thing for sure.

If those Dursley bastards were still breathing, they wouldn't be for much longer.

Jax Teller was not a quiet kid.

So when he found out Harry was going to be in his class, the entire schoolyard heard about it.

"No way!" Jax grinned, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders like they'd been best friends forever. "You're in my class? This is awesome."

Opie, standing next to him, smirked. "Guess you're stuck with us now."

Harry blinked up at them. "You don't mind?"

Jax snorted. "Mind? Dude, this is great! Now I don't have to wait until after school to mess with you."

Harry wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

Opie nudged Jax. "Maybe don't scare him off, man."

Jax just grinned wider. "C'mon, this is gonna be fun."

And for the first time, Harry thought maybe school wouldn't be so bad.

~ skip ~

The club bar was quiet that afternoon—just the sound of shuffling cards, soda fizzing in half-empty cans, and the occasional crunch of snacks as three boys sat around a booth.

And then Jax had an idea.

A bad one.

"Dude, we should steal the paint," Jax whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Harry, who had never stolen anything in his life, immediately shook his head. "That's a bad idea."

Jax grinned. "Nah, it's a great idea."

Opie, standing beside him, smirked. "Bad ideas and great ideas are basically the same thing."

That was absolutely not how that worked.

And yet, ten minutes later, Harry found himself standing outside the TM supply shed, watching as Jax and Opie carefully lifted a can of black spray paint from the workbench.

"We're gonna make it look cool," Jax explained.

Harry frowned. "Make what look cool?"

Jax just grinned.

Fifteen minutes later.

The wooden back wall of Teller-Morrow Automotive stood before them, now boldly tagged in messy black spray paint.

The paint was still dripping.

Harry's stomach dropped.

"Oh, no," he muttered. "This is bad."

Jax, still holding the can, looked very pleased with himself. "Nah, this is art."

Opie tilted his head. "Could be worse."

Harry stared at him, panicked. "How could this possibly be worse?"

Footsteps.

A shadow fell over them.

Then—

"What the hell are you three doing?"

Harry's stomach plummeted.

They turned slowly to see Clay standing behind them, arms crossed, expression a mix of exasperation and barely restrained amusement.

Jax, never one to back down, cleared his throat and said, "Uh… making the place look cool?"

Opie nodded. "It's… artistic."

Harry seriously considered running.

Clay pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christ."

Harry had been in trouble before.

With the Dursleys, trouble meant pain, hunger, a locked cupboard.

Here, it meant…

Scrubbing paint off a wall in the blazing sun while Jax dramatically complained about child labor laws.

Harry's arms burned. His hands were raw from gripping the soapy rag, and his knees ached from kneeling on the pavement.

Turns out, getting paint off a wall was a hell of a lot harder than putting it on.

Jax groaned beside him, dramatically throwing down his sponge. "This is cruel and unusual punishment."

Clay, leaning against a nearby workbench with his arms crossed, smirked. "Yeah? You wanna go tell that to the judge?"

Jax scowled. Opie just kept scrubbing.

Harry didn't complain, even though his arms hurt. He already knew it was better to just do the work. Complaining never helped—not with the Dursleys, and not with Clay watching.

After a long moment, Clay finally sighed. "Alright, kid, that's enough. You're going to Gemma's."

Harry frowned. "But—"

"Now."

Jax made a face. "Why does he get out of it?"

Clay raised an eyebrow. "Because I don't feel like explaining to Gemma why I let her new kid break his damn wrist scrubbing a wall."

Harry blinked.

New kid.

Jax grumbled but didn't argue.

Harry dropped the rag and stood, rubbing his sore fingers, before following Clay to the bike.

He swore, that he was never listening to Jax again.

…Probably.

By the time they reached the Teller house, Harry's arms still felt like jelly.

Clay knocked on the door, and Gemma opened it with a knowing smirk.

"He get kicked off cleanup duty?" she asked, arms crossed.

Clay grunted. "Didn't want him passing out in the damn lot."

Gemma huffed. "You go easy on him, but Jax and Opie are still scrubbing?"

Clay smirked. "Jax's idea. He gets the full sentence."

Gemma snorted. "Figures."

Her gaze flicked to Harry. "You eat?"

Harry shook his head.

Gemma rolled her eyes and stepped aside. "C'mon, kid. Let's get you something."

Later, Harry sat at the kitchen table, nibbling on a grilled cheese, his arms still aching.

Across from him, Thomas sat kicking his feet in his high chair, babbling away.

Gemma leaned against the counter, sipping coffee.

"So. Learned your lesson?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah."

Gemma smirked. "And?"

"…Next time, use a stencil?"

Gemma barked out a laugh. "You little shit."

Harry hid a small smile.

Thomas squealed, holding his arms out toward Harry.

Gemma arched an eyebrow. "Wanna hold him?"

Harry hesitated. "What if I drop him?"

Gemma huffed. "Then I'll kill you."

Harry snorted. "You and Clay say the same thing."

Gemma smirked. "That's 'cause we're both right."

Still, when she shifted Thomas toward him, Harry carefully took him, adjusting his grip like he'd seen Gemma do.

Thomas grabbed onto Harry's hoodie, letting out a happy, gurgling noise.

Harry stared down at him, feeling that strange warmth in his chest again.

"See?" Gemma said, watching them. "He likes you."

Harry swallowed. "Why?"

Gemma's smirk softened. "Babies know things."

Harry looked down at Thomas, who was now chewing on his own fist.

Maybe babies really did know things.

Because even though his arms still ached from scrubbing that stupid wall…

He didn't mind being here.

~ skip ~

The TM break room smelled like whiskey, cigarette smoke, and bad decisions.

The Sons had their monthly poker night, a time to wind down from some of the shit that happened and just have fun as brothers.

The table was cluttered with beer bottles, poker chips, and a half-eaten bag of pretzels. The usual suspects were there—*Clay, Tig, Bobby, Chibs, Piney, and John—*with Harry wedged between Clay and Chibs, his legs barely reaching the floor.

The kid wasn't even supposed to be playing.

But Jax, the little shit, had taught him how to bet earlier that week, and when Tig jokingly asked if Harry wanted to sit in, the kid had shrugged and grabbed a stack of chips.

And now, somehow, he was winning.

Again.

Tig slammed his cards down. "You gotta be shittin' me."

Harry grinned as he pulled the pile of chips toward him. "You shouldn't have bluffed."

Bobby let out a booming laugh. "Jesus, Tig, you just got hustled by a five-year-old."

Chibs smirked, taking a sip of his beer. "Takin' candy from grown men. That's a whole new low, lad."

Clay rubbed a hand over his face. He didn't know if he should be proud or concerned. "Kid, where the hell did you learn how to play?"

Harry shrugged. "Jax showed me. But I used to watch my uncle and his friends play sometimes."

John raised an eyebrow. "The same uncle who made you do your cousin's homework?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. He was bad at poker."

Tig groaned. "Figures."

Piney, who had mostly been observing, let out a chuckle. "Kid, you ever think about goin' pro?"

Harry tilted his head. "You can do that?"

Bobby barked out a laugh. "We are not turning him into a gambler."

Chibs smirked. "I dunno. Could be the club's best moneymaker."

Clay shot him a look. "No."

Harry, hiding a smirk, started stacking his chips again. "So… another round?"

Tig groaned. "You're gonna bankrupt me, kid."

Harry shrugged. "You don't have to play."

Tig scowled. "Oh, now it's personal."

Clay sighed, shaking his head.

Yeah. This kid was definitely a Morrow.

~ skip ~

The air was cool and still, the distant hum of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves the only sounds breaking the silence.

Harry sat cross-legged on the front porch, hands resting lightly on his knees, his breathing slow and steady.

He hadn't meant to sit for so long.

At first, it had just been practice.

Aiyana had told him that the mind is like the sky—thoughts were just passing clouds.

For weeks, he had tried to get that right. Tried to let things drift without reaching for them, without holding on too tight.

Tonight, for the first time, it had worked.

His thoughts had been far away, moving like leaves floating down a river.

He didn't feel heavy.

He didn't feel lost.

He just… was.

And then—

The crunch of motorcycle boots on gravel.

Harry's eyes snapped open.

Clay stood at the base of the porch, arms crossed, watching him. The porch light cast long shadows over his kutte, his face unreadable.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Clay grunted. "You been sittin' out here all night?"

Harry blinked. All night?

He turned his head slightly, realizing the sky was darker than he remembered. The temperature had dropped, and his legs felt stiff from sitting too long.

"…I guess so."

Clay sighed, stepping onto the porch.

He dropped his keys onto the table by the door and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his Zippo.

"Jesus, kid." He took a slow drag, exhaling a steady stream of smoke. "I get home late one time, and you turn into a damn statue."

Harry stretched his legs out, rolling his shoulders. "I didn't mean to."

Clay exhaled smoke, shaking his head. "That some of that meditation shit Aiyana's got you doin'?"

Harry nodded.

Clay huffed, but there was no judgment in it—just curiosity.

"…Does it help?"

Harry thought about it.

He still had bad dreams. Still woke up some nights feeling like something was pulling at him from the inside.

But… when he meditated, it was different.

It was like he wasn't trapped in his head anymore. Like he had room to breathe.

So he nodded. "Yeah."

Clay studied him for a long moment, then exhaled another cloud of smoke.

"Well," he said finally, "long as you don't start levitatin' or some shit, we're good."

Harry smirked. "I don't think that's how it works."

Clay shrugged. "Never know. You already survived a wreck that shoulda killed you. Wouldn't surprise me if you start floatin' next."

Harry chuckled softly.

Clay flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, then nudged Harry's shoulder lightly.

"C'mon, kid. Inside. Before you turn into a damn lawn ornament."

Harry stood, shaking out his legs before following Clay into the house.

And for the first time, he realized—

Meditation wasn't just about being alone with his thoughts.

It was about knowing he had a place to come back to.

~ skip ~

The garage was always loud during the day—a constant symphony of rumbling engines, clanking tools, and voices shouting over the grind of metal on metal.

But now, in the late afternoon light, it was quiet.

Harry sat on a stack of old tires, his notebook balanced on his knees, pencil moving carefully across the page. He wasn't thinking too hard—just drawing what he saw.

The garage in the distance.

The motorcycles lined up outside.

The back wall, where Jax's terrible spray paint job had once been.

Except, in his drawing, it wasn't terrible.

The same black-and-white color scheme, but the lines were smoother, sharper. The design wasn't just random letters and messy shapes—it was something real.

A skull twisting into flames, gears woven into the background like clockwork.

It was how it could have looked.

How it should have looked.

He was so focused, he didn't notice he wasn't alone anymore.

"Kid's got an eye."

Harry jumped, nearly smudging the page.

He turned quickly to see John Teller standing nearby, looking over his shoulder.

John wasn't a loud man. He didn't fill a room the way Clay or Tig did, but when he spoke, people listened.

Harry swallowed. "I… it's just a sketch."

John tilted his head slightly. "That supposed to be the same wall Jax vandalized?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."

A low chuckle came from behind him.

Harry turned again to see Clay, arms crossed, smirking.

"Well," Clay said, "guess we know who the real artist is."

Harry felt his face heat up. He glanced down at his drawing, suddenly uncertain. "It's not that good."

John crouched down slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.

"You ever thought about doing something with this?"

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"

John gestured at the drawing. "Your art."

Harry looked at it again. He hadn't really thought about it like that.

Drawing was just… something he did.

Something that made his mind quieter.

Clay nudged John with his elbow. "Think we should let him fix Jax's mess?"

John smirked. "Would probably improve the place."

Harry's eyes widened. "Wait, you mean—"

Clay grinned. "One day, maybe. Not yet."

John tapped a finger against the edge of the notebook. "But if you want to get better, we can set you up with some art classes."

Harry's fingers tightened around the paper. "You mean… like real classes?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Real classes. If you want 'em."

Harry didn't know what to say.

Nobody had ever asked him if he wanted to learn something before.

He swallowed hard, then nodded.

"…Yeah. I think I'd like that."

Clay smirked. "Then it's settled."

Harry looked down at his drawing again, feeling lighter than before.

For the first time, he wasn't just sketching because it was an escape.

He was sketching because it could be something real.

~ skip ~

The garage felt different at night.

During the day, it was loud—engines roaring, tools clanking, men laughing, shouting, swearing. But at night, when most of the guys had cleared out, the air felt heavier. Quieter, but not peaceful.

Harry sat on an overturned milk crate, notebook balanced on his lap.

It wasn't the first time he'd tucked himself away here, sketching quietly while the grown-ups worked. If he stayed still enough, they barely noticed him.

He liked that.

But tonight was different.

He could feel it.

In the way Clay stood a little stiffer.
In the way Tig kept glancing at the open garage doors.
In the way Chibs and Bobby spoke in low voices near the workbench.

Something was happening.

Something he wasn't supposed to see.

A van pulled up outside, its headlights flashing once before shutting off.

The garage doors were mostly closed, leaving just a narrow gap—enough for shadows to slip inside.

Harry's pencil stopped moving.

Two men stepped in. Not club members—he could tell that right away.

Their kuttes lacked the reaper, and they carried themselves differently. Less like they belonged, more like they were here on business.

One had a thick beard, a baseball cap pulled low.
The other was thinner, his sharp eyes darting around the room, like he was checking for prying eyes.

Harry held his breath and hunched lower.

He knew how to be invisible.

Clay met them near the workbench, arms crossed over his chest. "You're late."

The bearded man shrugged. "Had to make sure we weren't followed."

Tig snorted. "If someone was tailin' you, we'd already know."

The thin man set a black duffel bag on the counter.

It landed with a soft but heavy thud.

Harry's fingers tightened around his pencil.

Clay unzipped the bag, just enough for Harry to see a glimpse of metal.

Guns.

Harry's stomach twisted.

He knew what guns were. Uncle Vernon had complained about them enough on the news—calling the people who owned them thugs, criminals, bad people.

But Clay wasn't bad…

Was he?

The men spoke in low voices, their words tangled in numbers, shipments, favors—the kind of talk adults thought kids couldn't understand.

Harry's hands felt sweaty.

Should he be seeing this?

Then—one of the men glanced toward him.

Harry stiffened.

For a second, the thin man's sharp eyes locked onto his.

Harry froze, heart hammering.

Then Clay shifted, stepping into the man's line of sight.

"He's not your problem."

Clay's voice was calm but final. A warning.

The man's gaze lingered, like he was debating saying something.

Then he smirked, shaking his head. "Didn't think you were runnin' a daycare, Morrow."

Clay didn't react. "You got what we need or not?"

The man chuckled, but let it go.

The conversation moved on.

The deal wrapped up quickly.

The bag was zipped shut.
Money was exchanged.
Hands were shaken.

And just as fast as they had arrived, the men were gone.

The garage was silent again.

Harry didn't move.

Not until Clay finally turned, his sharp eyes finding Harry in the corner.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—Clay jerked his chin.

"C'mere, kid."

Harry hesitated, then slowly got up, his legs feeling shaky as he walked toward Clay.

Clay crouched down, leveling their gazes.

He didn't look mad.

Just… tired.

"You know what you just saw?"

Harry licked his lips. His voice came out small. "Guns."

Clay nodded, exhaling through his nose. "Yeah." He studied Harry's face. "You scared?"

Harry wasn't sure.

He wasn't sure if he was scared of the guns, the men, or what it meant that Clay had acted like this was normal.

"…No."

It wasn't quite a lie.

Clay searched his face for a moment longer, then reached out—not roughly, but firm—and ruffled Harry's hair.

"Don't worry about it, kid." Clay's voice was low. "This ain't your business."

Harry swallowed.

But he'd already seen enough to know that wasn't true.

Especially if he was here to stay.

Which he planned on.