Hello all, after several years of absence I am back. Truly I say, a lot has occurred in that time and I am curious to see how my story will be received and in turn progress.
I own nothing but the ideas, and even then…
There may be a few errors in the transcript because I am currently writing and editing on my phone.
Read, hopefully enjoy, and review.
—Raiba
Chapter 5: The Torchwood Pact
Harry perches stiffly on a steel chair in the heart of Torchwood Three, the Cardiff base a sprawl of shadowed corners where machines hum and screens cast a pale, restless glow. The air bites with a metallic tang, mingled with the faint buzz of electricity—a world apart from the Dursleys' house he's endured for a decade, three years free of the cupboard yet never fully unshackled from its weight.
Jack Harkness leans against a desk cluttered with wires and blinking devices, his navy greatcoat draped over a nearby chair, his steady brown eyes slicing through Harry's guarded stare. It's June 25th, and the sealing rune Jack pressed onto Harry's neck in their last clash prickles faintly, muting Ulquiorra's voice—once a sharp, constant presence in his mind—to a fractured, distant murmur. "You've got spirit, Harry," Jack says, his voice smooth but carrying a firm edge. "But it's raw—wild. That alley fight proved it. Stay with me 'til September 1st—I'll teach you to hold your own. Muggle skills, magic, survival. Then I'll get you to King's Cross for that train." He tilts his head, noting Harry's taut frame. "You're not tied to that place anymore, are you?"
Harry's fingers curl into his palms, nails pressing into flesh. Three years ago, Ulquiorra's power forced the Dursleys to bend, granting him Dudley's room—a brittle triumph that crumbles now. With Ulquiorra sealed, his Hierro falters under light blows, his Regeneración drags like a fading ember, his Sonído stumbles into awkward lurches. He's not the broken boy of the cupboard, but without that strength, he's exposed—vulnerable, trash, as Ulquiorra's faint whispers hiss. He meets Jack's gaze, voice cold and precise: "You bound him. My power's gone."
Jack's jaw tightens, though a flicker of softness crosses his eyes. "That voice? It's not gone—just held back. You were leaning on it too hard, and it nearly swallowed you. I sealed it so you can stand alone." He steps closer, crouching to meet Harry's icy stare. "Stay or go. Your call."
Harry's thoughts sharpen, cold and clear. The Dursleys' house flickers in his mind—not the cupboard, but a prison of disdain he's outgrown. Torchwood offers a path—to rise, to silence the weakness Ulquiorra's echo despises. "I'll stay," he says, each word measured, a promise to himself as much as Jack. He rises, shoulders squared despite the unease gnawing within, his stance steady with a quiet resolve.
Jack stands, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Good choice. First, we hit Diagon Alley—you're not starting that school with nothing." He grabs his coat, slinging it over his shoulder, and nods toward the exit. "Come on, we'll take the van."
They descend a steel staircase to a garage beneath the hub, where a sleek black van waits, its surface gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights. Jack slides into the driver's seat, the engine rumbling to life with a low growl, and Harry climbs in beside him, the leather cool against his back. The van rolls out, weaving through Cardiff's narrow streets—gray stone buildings blur past, giving way to open roads as they head east toward London. The drive stretches over hours, the hum of tires on asphalt a steady drone, the Welsh countryside fading into England's rolling hills. Harry sits silent, staring out the window at the shifting landscape, the box in his pocket a faint weight he tries to ignore. Jack keeps his eyes on the road, the silence between them comfortable yet heavy with unspoken questions.
By midday, London's sprawl emerges—towers of glass and brick rise against a hazy sky. Jack navigates the city's tangle, pulling up near Charing Cross Road. The Leaky Cauldron squats between a bookshop and a record store, its faded sign barely visible to the untrained eye. "Here we are," Jack says, cutting the engine. They step out, the city's noise washing over them—horns blaring, voices chattering—and Jack leads Harry through the pub's dim interior, past grizzled patrons hunched over pints, to the brick wall at the back. He taps it with a casual flick, the bricks shifting to reveal Diagon Alley.
The alley unfurls before them—cobblestones shimmer under a summer sun, shops thrum with life: Eeylops Owl Emporium with its rustling wings, Florean Fortescue's with its wafting scent of sugar. The clamor scrapes at Harry's dulled senses, but he strides ahead, face a blank shield, steps deliberate as if marking a path through the bustle.
At Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore looms with shelves stacked high, their leather spines worn and inviting. Harry gathers his Year 1 books—The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), A History of Magic—each volume a tool to claw back strength, their weight grounding his arms. A girl with red hair bumps into him, her own stack spilling across the polished floor. "Oh, sorry!" she gasps, flustered as she scrambles to collect them. "I'm Susan Bones."
Harry bends down, retrieving her books with steady hands, his movements crisp and efficient. "Harry Potter," he replies, voice a low, distant hum, handing them back without meeting her gaze. Susan hesitates, caught by his chill, but a tall woman in Auror robes—Amelia Bones—approaches, her sharp eyes fixing on Jack near the counter.
"Harkness," Amelia says, her tone cutting through the shop's murmur. "Still nosing where you're not welcome?"
Jack smirks, arms crossed casually. "Just helping a kid, Amelia. You'd do the same."
The air tightens—old friction, Harry senses, perhaps Torchwood brushing against Ministry lines. Amelia's lips press thin, but she turns to Susan. "Let's go." As they depart, Harry shifts aside, a quiet gesture of space, though his grip on his books hardens—weakness stings, and he'll not let it linger. He follows Jack out, the bookstore's wooden door creaking shut behind them as they weave through the crowded street, the chatter fading into a dull hum.
Ollivanders Wand Shop rises ahead, its narrow facade wedged between brighter storefronts, its sign faded but proud. The final stop in this whirlwind of school supply collecting. The bell jingles as they enter, and faint dust motes swirl in the slanted light filtering through a single, grimy window. Shelves stretch to the ceiling, packed with slender boxes, their edges worn from years of quiet waiting. Ollivander emerges from the shadows, his white hair a wild halo, his silver eyes glinting as they settle on Harry—not just at him, but through him, as if peering into the depths of his being. "Harry Potter," he intones, voice soft yet carrying an eerie weight. "A soul woven with complex shadows… let us find what calls to you."
Harry stands still, unease prickling beneath his cold mask. Jack lingers at the back, a silent figure against the wall, his presence steady but unobtrusive. Ulquiorra taught Harry to sense Reiatsu—life's pulse—and he reaches out, tentative and unsteady. Ollivander's essence hums faintly, a warm thread of energy woven with age and craft, but Jack's is a void—nothing, despite his solid form leaning casually by the door. Harry's brow furrows slightly, the oddity a thorn in his focus, but Ollivander's already moving, pulling wands from the shelves with a practiced offers a wand—beech and dragon heartstring, ten inches, firm. Harry takes it, gives a sharp flick, and a shelf cracks, splinters scattering across the floor. "No, no," Ollivander mutters, snatching it back with a swift, birdlike motion. Another—ash and unicorn hair, nine inches, pliable—produces a weak fizzle, a spark that dies in the air. Harry's frustration mounts with each failure, his cold exterior thinning—trash, weak, unfit. He grips the next wand—ebony and phoenix feather—too hard, and a vase shatters, shards glinting in the dim light. Ollivander's eyes narrow, assessing, and Harry's breath quickens, the sting of inadequacy sharp. He sets it down, hands steady despite the tremor within, and waits as Ollivander turns to a higher shelf, his ladder creaking under his weight."Perhaps this," Ollivander says, retrieving a slender box with a faint sheen of dust. He opens it, revealing a wand—holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple—its wood pale and smooth, catching the light in a soft, almost living glow. "Try it."
Harry takes it, and a jolt runs through him, sharp and unexpected. The air shifts, a faint hum rising as he holds it, but his frustration lingers—none have worked, none have answered. He grips it tighter, willing it to prove him more than trash, and something stirs—a faint green spark dances at his fingertips, flickering like a distant flame. The box on the counter trembles, then tumbles to the floor with a soft thud, not a clean leap but a stumble. Harry's breath catches—the failure bites, but a warm breeze swirls around him, gentle yet insistent, brushing his dark hair and stirring the dust in the shop. In his mind's eye, a shimmering Reiraku glints—a delicate thread of energy tying him to the wand, faint but 's gaze sharpens, his silver eyes glinting with recognition. "Curious… very curious," he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Holly and phoenix feather—a resilient pairing, yet bound deeper and more truly than most. This one has chosen you, Harry Potter, through struggle and silence." He tilts his head, peering through Harry again, as if tracing the tangled threads of his soul.
Harry holds the wand firm, its hum a quiet challenge beneath his cold resolve. He turns it in his hand, feeling the smooth grain, the subtle weight, and senses its potential—a tool to carve strength from weakness. Jack watches from the back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on the scene.
Outside, the alley's noise filters through the door as Jack leans against the wall, hands in his pockets. "Staying 'til September, then?" Harry faces him, wand in hand, voice a shard of frost: "Yes." His head dips slightly, a reflex of acknowledgment, and Jack nods. "Let's get moving." They step into the van, the engine rumbling back to life as Jack pulls away from Charing Cross Road, the city's hum fading into the distance.
The drive back to Cardiff stretches long, the afternoon sun dipping low as they retrace their route through England's rolling hills and Welsh valleys. Torchwood Three's steel embrace greets them as dusk settles, the van rolling into the garage with a quiet groan. Jack leads Harry to a sparse room off a corridor—steel walls frame a simple bed, a desk sits beneath a single bulb casting stark light, and a small window offers a sliver of Cardiff's skyline. "Your space," Jack says, then gestures for Harry to sit, his tone turning serious. "That box you took—it's yours, I can tell, but it's risky. Hand it over 'til you're ready."
Harry's hand hovers over his pocket. The box—sealed, its true nature hidden—pulses faintly, a tether he's clung to since the alley. Without Ulquiorra, it's a lifeline he resents needing. He pulls it out, offering it with a steady grip, his movements deliberate. "Return it when I'm strong," he says, eyes cold and unyielding."
When you're ready," Jack replies, taking it with a nod and locking it in a glowing vault embedded in the wall, its light pulsing briefly before dimming. "You've got my word."
Training begins that evening, a regimen that spans June 25th to September 1st. Jack transforms a corner of the hub into a gym—thick mats cover the floor, padded balls sway on ropes tied to the ceiling. "Muggle basics," he declares. "No tricks." Harry moves with stiff precision—blocks, dodges, punches, kicks—his small frame unsteady without Ulquiorra's flow. A ball flies; he raises an arm, it strikes, leaving a bruise that blooms fast. His Hierro falters—he's trash. He grits his teeth, pushing it to toughen, each block, each bone breaking hit a step to reclaim strength.
Spiritual drills follow in the same space, the air growing thick with effort. Jack marks targets—wooden posts, a chalked circle on the mat. "Move," he says, tossing a ball. Harry lunges, a shaky, clumsy Sonído—he trips, the ball rolling free beyond the circle. "Not enough," he mutters, Ulquiorra's echo hissing: Trash. He stands, trying again—by August, short bursts steady slightly, however leaving him winded, sweat beading on his brow.
Regeneración lags—a cut from a splintered post lingers for hours, a mark of frailty on his skin. He stares at it, willing it faster—late August, small wounds heal within an hour, a gain he seizes with cold determination.
Nights shift to study in his room, the bulb's light casting sharp shadows across the desk. Harry pores over the Grimoire—red, its pages hinting at Reiatsu and power, cryptic yet stirring. Schoolbooks pile beside—Magical Drafts and Potions, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. He flicks his wand, Lumos, a dim spark in the quiet. Frustration snaps—"Work!" and the light flares, a pen rolls across the desk with a faint green shimmer. Jack names it later, stepping in one evening: "That's Fullbring—your soul pullingl on objects spirits. Keep at it." Harry tests it, distant and focused; the pen shifts, a book twitches by August's end. His Wingardium Leviosa lifts a feather, the desk creaking faintly with a pale green spark—Fullbring and magic blend he notices, a tool he will sharpen.
Jack watches from the doorway at times, offering steady guidance and encouragement. "Your strength, it's growing—push it. Harder, faster, stronger." Harry nods, training on, his movements precise despite the weariness creeping in. Ulquiorra's whispers "Weak… trash" slip through the seal, faint but relentless. Harry works, cold and unyielding, to silence that voice with proof.
September 1st dawns with a crisp edge, the sky over Cardiff a pale wash of gray and gold. Jack drives Harry to King's Cross, the black van cutting through London's early haze, its engine a low growl beneath the city's waking hum. Harry sits silent, wand in his pocket, trunk rattling in the back, the city's blur a distant backdrop to his thoughts. They reach the station, and Jack weaves through the morning crowd—porters shouting, families bustling—to the barrier between platforms nine and ten. "Through there—9. Run at it, don't hesitate, don't blink." he says, pointing to the solid brick wall. Harry grips his trolley, resolve a cold ember in his chest. He charges, the wall parting like mist, and steps onto Platform 9—steam curls from the scarlet Hogwarts Express, its polished curves gleaming in the morning light, voices buzzing as trunks clatter and owls hoot from their cages. He stops at the edge, the platform's energy washing over him, Jack beside him, greatcoat swaying in the breeze."You're on your own now, but I will be waiting if you need me" Jack says, his hand firm on Harry's shoulder, voice carrying a weight of a father. "Make it count."
Harry nods, a slight shift of posture, as Ulquiorra's voice pierces
through the seal—soft, sharp: "Step forward… prove yourself."