The late summer of 1989 bathed Little Whinging in a golden haze, the air thick with the scent of cut grass and blooming roses. On Privet Drive, Number 4 stood as a monument to conformity, its brick facade identical to its neighbors, its manicured lawn a facade of normalcy. Inside, the spare room—Harry's hard-won sanctuary—reflected his transformation. The scratched desk held a neatly arranged stack of books, their spines worn from study. A map of Surrey, pinned to the faded blue-striped wallpaper, was marked with routes to town, and the wardrobe concealed his growing stash: a pocketknife, a flashlight, dried herbs, and coins earned from small jobs. The bed, its blanket smoothed, creaked softly under the weight of his wiry frame as he sat, thinking about his future needs and how to get them.
Two years had reshaped him from a starved child into a calculated survivor. His forays into Little Whinging's underbelly had introduced him to Mick and his crew, a tight-knit group of teens who operated in the town's shadows. They weren't criminals in the villainous sense but scrappy survivors, loyal to each other, running errands, fixing cars, and helping locals for cash. His small jobs for them—delivering messages, keeping lookout—had earned their respect, and he saw them as allies, potential sources of information or aid when the wizarding world called.
But respect wasn't enough. His fragmented memory hinted at dangers - dangerous people, different threatening situations. His wiry strength and mental discipline, honed by self-help exercises and chores, weren't sufficient for combat. Mick's crew, with their street-savvy ways, offered a solution. They'd seen his resilience, his quiet dependability, and he sensed an opportunity to learn more than just the town's secrets. He needed to fight, to wield weapons, to prepare for a world where magic alone might not save him.
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The bond with Mick and his crew deepened in July 1989, as the summer heat settled over Little Whinging. The town's high street buzzed with activity: shoppers crowded the bakery, its windows steaming with fresh scones; the newsagent's racks overflowed with tabloids; The Black Dog pub spilled laughter and cigarette smoke into the air. The market square, its cobblestones warm underfoot, hosted stalls selling strawberries and cheap sunglasses. Harry went to the arcade, a familiar haunt where the air smelled of stale cola and the carpet stuck to his worn trainers. The flashing lights of pinball machines and the clatter of coins created a chaotic symphony, but his focus was on Mick, leaning against a claw machine, his scarred cheek catching the neon glow.
Mick, sixteen and lanky, had a sharpness that belied his easy grin. His leather jacket, studded with pins, marked him as the crew's unofficial leader. With him were Sarah, a wiry girl with cropped hair and a quick laugh, and Tom, a broad-shouldered teen who fiddled with a lighter. They'd warmed to Harry over months, impressed by his reliability on small jobs—delivering envelopes, fetching supplies, never asking too many questions. But it was a quiet moment in the arcade that solidified their trust.
Sarah, munching on a bag of crisps, eyed him curiously. "You're not like the other kids 'round here, Harry. Most'd be whining 'bout chores or school. You just… keep going." Her tone was light, but her gaze was probing, as if seeing the weight he carried. The arcade's noise faded, and Harry felt something, faint but present, urging him to open up—just enough.
"Had to learn fast," he said, his voice steady. "Home's not exactly cozy." He didn't elaborate, but Harry's memories—starvation, the cupboard, the Dursleys' cruelty—lent his words a raw edge. Mick's smirk faded, replaced by a nod of understanding.
"Rough deal, kid," Mick said, tossing him a coin. "But you show up, do the job right. That's what counts." Tom grunted in agreement, and Sarah offered him a crisp, a small gesture that felt like a pact. They saw him, not as a child, but as one of their own—someone who'd faced hardship and come out steady.
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The trust opened doors. A week later, in early August, Mick pulled him aside after a delivery to the mechanic's shop, a grimy building where the air reeked of oil and metal clanged over a radio's pop tunes. The courtyard behind the shop was a patch of cracked concrete, littered with cigarette butts and bordered by rusted barrels. The summer sun beat down, and Mick wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes serious.
"You're tough, Harry, but tough ain't enough if some git comes at you," he said. "Streets don't care how smart you are. Wanna learn to hold your own?" The offer was casual, but Harry saw the weight behind it—Mick was investing in him, seeing potential. He seized the opportunity, combat skills were a gap in his arsenal, critical for the dangers he sensed in his future.
He nodded, and Mick grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. The lessons began that afternoon, in the same courtyard, away from prying eyes. Sarah and Tom joined, their banter lightening the mood. Mick started with self-defense, teaching him to stand balanced, knees bent, hands up. The concrete was hard underfoot, and the air smelled of rust and sweat. Harry, small but wiry, mimicked Mick's stance, his muscles tensing as he blocked a slow punch. "Keep your eyes on their shoulders," Mick said. "Tells you where they're swinging." Sarah demonstrated, her quick jabs forcing Harry to dodge, his reflexes sharpening with each miss.
The crew was patient, their teaching laced with encouragement. Tom, usually quiet, showed him how to break a hold, his grip firm but not cruel. Sarah, laughing, tripped him onto the ground, then pulled him up, saying, "You'll get it, kid. Took me months." Their camaraderie was infectious, and Harry felt a rare warmth, not friendship, not yet, but a bond forged in shared effort. They saw his hard life in his steady gaze, his quick learning, and they respected it, treating him as an equal despite his age.
By late August, Mick introduced weapons, starting with a pocketknife. The blade, small but sharp, gleamed in the courtyard's fading light. Mick showed him how to hold it, thumb along the spine for control, and demonstrated quick slashes, aimed at arms or legs to disable, not kill. "Only pull it if you gotta," he warned. "Makes things messy." Harry practiced, his movements clumsy at first but growing precise, his adult mind mapping the knife's arcs like equations. The crew cheered his progress, Sarah tossing him an apple to slice mid-air, clapping when he nicked it.
Next came a cricket bat, scavenged from a dumpster, its wood chipped but solid. Tom taught him to swing it, using his hips for power, aiming for knees or ribs. The bat's weight strained Harry's arms, but he gritted his teeth, driven by the need to be ready. Brass knuckles followed, a cold, heavy pair Mick lent him. They fit awkwardly over his small hands, but a single punch to a wooden crate left it splintered, earning a whistle from Sarah. "Kid's got fire," she said, and Harry's chest swelled, not with pride but with purpose.
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September's cooler air swept through Little Whinging, the trees' leaves turning amber and red. Harry's training shifted to an abandoned lot near the bus station, a hidden patch of gravel and weeds ringed by sagging fences. The air carried petrol and decay, and the distant rumble of buses was a faint hum. Here, away from the crew and the town's eyes, he began blending magic with his combat skills, a secret practice to push his limits. His control had sharpened, and he saw magic as more than a boost to force or speed. He wanted to move weapons with it, like a rope guiding a knife through the air, to gain range, accuracy, and unpredictability.
He started with the pocketknife, alone in the lot at dusk, the sky bruising purple. Gripping the blade, he focused on Mick's lessons—speed, precision—but added a new intent: Move it without my hand. The warmth in his chest surged, and he visualized magic as a tether, wrapping the knife. His first try was clumsy; the blade wobbled an inch above his palm, then fell, clattering on the gravel. He gritted his teeth, undeterred, and tried again, refining his focus. By the third attempt, the knife floated shakily, tethered by an invisible force. He nudged it forward, and it drifted a foot, slow but controlled.
Over weeks, he trained in secret, returning to the lot when the crew was busy or after dark, the town's lights dim against the starry sky. The knife's movements grew smoother; he could rotate it mid-air, spinning it like a propeller, the blade catching the moonlight. He tested throwing it, willing the magic to guide its path. His first throws were wild, embedding the knife in a fence or missing entirely, but practice honed his skill. By mid-September, he could hurl the knife ten feet, the magic steering it to pierce a cardboard target with startling accuracy, faster than his arm alone could manage. The effort drained him, leaving his head throbbing, but the results were worth it.
The cricket bat was harder. Its weight resisted his magic, but he persisted, practicing in the lot's shadows, the fences shielding him from view. He visualized the bat as an extension of his will, the magic a rope to swing it. The pulse responded, and the bat lifted an inch, then two, wobbling but airborne. Swinging it with magic was trickier; his first attempt sent it spinning into a weed patch, but he refined the tether, focusing on control. After days, he could swing the bat in a slow arc, cracking a wooden plank with amplified force, the impact echoing. The bat shimmered faintly, a magical aura only he saw.
The brass knuckles were the most responsive. In the lot, punching a sandbag rigged to a fence, he willed the magic to guide his fist, imagining the knuckles tethered to his intent. The pulse surged, and his punch landed harder, the bag swaying, sand leaking from a seam. He tried moving the knuckles alone, floating them like the knife. They hovered, then shot forward, denting the bag with a thud. The speed and accuracy thrilled him, though the effort left him dizzy.
He kept these experiments hidden, practicing only when alone, wary of exposing his magic. The crew noticed his improved reflexes, his uncanny aim, but attributed it to natural talent. Sarah, watching him slice an apple mid-air with the knife, joked, "You're a bloody ninja, Harry!" Mick, impressed, said nothing but nodded, his respect clear.
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By late September, Harry's bond with Mick's crew was a cornerstone of his world. They'd seen his grit—taking hits without whining, mastering skills faster than expected—and trusted him as one of their own. In a quiet moment at the arcade, Mick handed him a worn leather wristband, a crew token. "You're with us, Harry," he said, his voice rough but warm. "Hard life or not, you've got our backs, we've got yours." Sarah and Tom nodded, their usual teasing softened by sincerity. The wristband joined his stash, a symbol of loyalty.
Their trust was practical, too. When Harry needed a book on local myths, Sarah nicked one from the library, grinning as she handed it over. Tom, working on a car, lent him a small wrench, saying, "Don't lose it, kid." Their world had its flaws—petty squabbles, risky jobs—but it was human, and Harry saw its value. These weren't just allies; they were a network, people who'd help him with information or help when the situation is unfavourable to him.
With Mick's crew behind him and magic guiding his weapons, he was no longer just surviving. He was preparing, one precise strike at a time.
[Word Count: 1971]
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Please share your thoughts in the comments, and also share some power stones if you feel like it.
I would love to hear from you who should be the female partner for Harry (there will only be one in this story) and also share your reason that you will feel that will make them look great together.
Relationship will probably happen in his 4th or 5th year, so you can work accordingly.