Harry grabbed Crazy Old Jack's hand and hurried him to the middle of the ring excitedly, like a child eager to show his father something. The crowds parted for the new fighters, then did a double take to see their leader about to fight a six year-old boy. The two stood facing each other in the middle of a mob of curious watchers, some excited, some worried, some a little tipsy.

Jack smirked at Harry, cocking his eyebrow in a subtle invitation to begin. Unlike the people Harry was used to fighting with, Jack allowed Harry to make the first move. In some of the old stories Harry read, allowing the enemy to make the first move was portrayed as a noble thing to do. Of course, this also gave the fighter an extra opportunity to assess their enemy's fighting skill or lack thereof. Jack didn't seem like anyone's idea of a noble fighter or a white knight. Harry was sure that the man was doing this to test him, feel him out, search for weakness. Well, despite Harry's young age and small size, Jack wouldn't find any weakness in him.

Harry began the match with a hard kick, a kick that could split a board of wood like it was nothing, to Jack's shin. Immediately, Jack retaliated with a series of quick punches to Harry's gut, knocking the wind out of him. Used to the pain, Harry didn't let it get in the way of punching, kicking, and biting every part of Jack that he could reach.

When Jack slumped over in pain, still refusing to give up the fight, Harry took the opportunity to reach the taller man's face and scratch at Jack's newly healed wounds. The fragile new skin broke easily, and Jack's face was soon bleeding just as it had immediately after the car crash. Jack instinctively grabbed Harry's wrists, his fingers easily circling the bony arms. He easily lifted the small boy. Jack held him at arm's length so that Harry's frantic kicks met only thin air. He smirked, meeting the boy's eyes for an instant before lifting Harry as high as he could reach, intending to throw the boy to the cement floor.

It was in that moment that it happened. Nobody knew exactly what it was, not even Harry, who, during his time at the Dursleys, had often been blamed for causing it. It wasn't really a specific event; just something strange that, had the neighbors been watching, would cause them to take a second look (much to Aunt Petunia's horror).

In this particular case, it referred to the mysterious, irresistible force that caused Jack to drop Harry as if the child had somehow managed to burn the man's hands. That wasn't all, though. As soon as Jack let go of Harry, he held his hands against his chest and crouched down, moaning in pain. Harry, used to being thrown hither and thither by his hot-tempered uncle, easily landed on his feet. A swift kick to the distracted Jack's head sent the man onto his back. Jack laid spread-eagle, eyes wide with shock, staring up at his victor.

Harry had experienced something similar to this with Uncle Vernon, had felt the same unexplainable force work through him. He had been four years old, and his uncle had a grip on his neck with one hand, while raising a large meaty fist inches from Harry's face. Harry had felt a strange, tingling sensation that began in the pit of his stomach and extended outwards throughout the rest of his body. In seconds, every part of his body pulsed with this strange sensation. At this point, the bewildered Vernon Dursley felt himself being thrown against the wall. He recovered quickly, though, and was on his feet before Harry had a chance to process what happened. Vernon sentenced Harry to three weeks in his cupboard for "creating freakishness in a perfectly normal house!"

Harry had grown up with the idea that strange things happened around him, but that had been the first time he considered the possibility that he was the one causing them. He spent the next few years trying to repeat the experience, allowing the indescribable power to flow through him. With practice, he could call this power to him more easily. However, he was not always successful at summoning this power, and, when it did come, it did not do all the work for him. He still had to do some pretty strong punching and kicking in order to weaken his opponent to the point where they could be defeated by that burst of energy.

The crowd in the basement stood in shocked silence for a moment, then a few of the men, appreciating a good fight and more than a few good drinks, let out a loud cheer. Grinning modestly, Harry bent down to help Jack to his feet. Laughing drunkenly from the adrenaline from the fight, they walked off hand-in-hand to a relatively quiet corner of the crowded basement.

Jack sat down on the dingy basement floor and leaned his head back against the wall. Harry imitated him, his hand still in Jack's. Noticing the fresh scars across the man's face and arms, Harry made to heal the wounds. However, Jack waved him off, stating that he wanted to keep his scars. Harry could relate to this. He did like the idea of having a multitude of scars, like a warrior who had fought bravely in some horrific battle. A really strong man, Harry figured, would walk around with scars littering his body and not even care. He would neither try to hide them or try to show them off, just stop the bleeding, keep them clean, and go about his business. Seeing the relaxed grin that made its way across Jack's scarred face, squeezing out more blood, Harry felt his respect for his would-be teacher rise.

"So, am I in Project Mayhem yet?" Harry asked.

"If you can get through the initiation," he responded. "C'mon."

And he pulled Harry to his feet and led him out of the pub, down a dingy sidewalk towards a bus stop. The other passengers (mostly people on their way home from an exhausting day at a job that paid too little and was slowly killing them, as no tourists actually came into this area) stared at the man and the boy as they made their way to the back of the bus, still hand-in-hand. Jack was still smirking about something that only made sense to him, and both were covered in cuts and bruises, as if they had just been in a fight.

Jack and Harry settled into the bench-like seat at the back of the bus, where they could have more space and privacy. Jack put his arm around Harry's slender shoulders, then bent down to pick up a discarded newspaper from that morning. Harry leaned against Jack and listened as the man flipped through the paper and quietly read out the various headlines inside.

'Vintage Vehicles Vandalized at Car Show,'

'An Explosion of Explosions in London: Record Cases of Arson this Month,' and

'Statues Decapitated'

Harry furrowed his brows. Was Jack having him on? He himself occasionally tried to read his uncle's newspaper, but the stories in there were all boring, usually about business, finances, and who was running for office. The stories Jack read didn't seem like the kinds of things that showed up in a real newspaper. However, a quick look at the paper confirmed that Jack had been stating the actual headlines. His breath caught as he noticed that Jack was absorbed in an article headlined 'Police Investigating Underground Fight Clubs.'

Was Jack in danger of going to jail? Was he? His aunt and uncle had always told him that he would wind up there eventually, but he and Jack really weren't doing anything wrong. All they had done was beat the crap out of each other for the fun of it. Most of the people he had left behind on Privet Drive did that kind of stuff all the time, except the people they went after did not want to be in a fight. So, really, this Fight Club was better than the respectability he had run away from.

Harry's musings were interrupted when the bus came to a stop. Jack pulled him off and walked him towards a dilapidated three-story house that seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere. The man explained Harry's initiation as he led the boy up the front walk. "Stay on the front porch for three days, no matter what, and you're in. We're not giving you food, water, or encouragement, so if you want to be a part of Project Mayhem, you'll have to suck it up."

Harry nodded in understanding. He could do this. He had read about warriors going through more heinous initiations and had experienced longer periods of hunger and thirst at the Dursleys.

Jack led him over to the house's front porch, where a young man with platinum blond hair was already standing, toes against the front step. "You're too fucking pretty for this, Mister Angel-Face," Jack snapped, giving the blond man a swift punch in the gut. "Now get the Hell out of here." The newly-christened Angelface didn't move. He merely stood doubled over, watching Jack warily, should he decide to strike again.

Then, Jack turned to Harry. "Sorry, kid, you're too young. Now get back home; it's almost dinnertime, and your mother's tits are full."

Harry didn't move, not even when Jack slapped him round the head. Jack must have caught on to the fact that neither of his visitors would be leaving anytime soon, as he went into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Woot. Next chapter: Harry's three days on the porch. I hope you are enjoying the story so far.