Summary: On 7 July 2005, London experienced a deadly terrorist attack. Auror Harry Potter was on the way home from an overnight shift and decided to take the tube. This story is not my usual light-hearted fluff. AU, side-Starbuck (James/Sirius), Drama, mentions of violence, descriptions of the aftermath.

A/N: Hi all, I've joined the International Wizarding School Championship writing competition, and this story is my eighth entry. To readers of my other stories, this is set in the same universe as a previous one, Sirius Trouble, though it takes place much earlier in the timeline.

Warning: This story contains a depiction of the real-world terrorist bombings in London on 7 July 2005. While it does not include graphic descriptions, the events described may bother some readers. See Author's Endnote for more information.

IWSC Competition Information:

Story Title/Link: Complex Superiority

School and Theme: Beauxbatons, Charing Cross - Look at how wizards blend into the Muggle World and how they cope with Muggle problems.

Main Prompts: [Word] Superior

Other Prompts: [Potion] Draught of Peace, [Object] Family heirloom

Year: 6

Wordcount: 3220

A/N: This is an AU where James Potter was not home the night of Voldemort's attack in 1981. James survived, and eventually married Sirius Black. Together they raised Harry who was still the Boy Who Lived and The Chosen One, and other major plot points of the war still played out as we know them.

Complex Superiority

Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everything is war. — Bob Marley

Harry opens his eyes, confused as to what's just happened. He's lying on the floor in the dark with only a few emergency lights, and he hurts. There's someone lying across his lap and someone else crying, though they sound far away. He frantically thinks back to just minutes prior, his brain trying to make sense of the chaos and the insufficient data it's receiving.

There'd been no space to sit on the train leaving Edgware Station, so he'd held on to the handle and stood, moving with the sway of the train. He'd listened to the background noise, prattle really, of the morning commuters and let his thoughts drift. He'd been exhausted and not really paying attention to anything but the humming of the tracks lulling him into a stupor. Then a huge bang sounded from somewhere not too far off, and the train screeched to a halt.

And now, darkness and screaming. And is that soot coming from the ceiling? Harry waves his hand through the falling black flakes, looking up, trying to find the source. Unable to see through the darkness and the people, Harry begins to notice his other senses returning to him.

The smell of urine nearly overwhelms everything else. There's a woman next to him, screaming, and others—men, women; so many others—sobbing, weeping, frightened. He has a moment where he suddenly sees the battle-wracked grounds of Hogwarts and students crying out, then pulls himself back and concentrates on the train around him, grounding himself in the present. Still, he touches his wrist holster and feels for the reassuring weight of his wand. It's mostly useless, he realises; surrounded by so many Muggles and unable to really see, he's not sure how his wand can help.

The people on him, around him, begin to shift and he's able to move, taking stock of his injuries. He reaches up and feels a gash across his hairline, but it doesn't appear to be actively bleeding. His legs seem fine, though sore; but as he tries to stand, his shoulder screams out at him to halt his progress.

His Auror-trained mind immediately assesses: dislocated shoulder on his wand arm; sore neck—likely whiplash; ringing ears—possible damage to his eardrums. Using his good arm to stand, Harry manages to pull himself up, still looking for the source of the crash.

He's unable to see more than a short distance, inhibited by the darkness and smoke and mass of humanity. Instead, he focuses on a flash of light shining on the face of a young woman—younger than him—who sits sobbing. He moves between her and the torchlight someone is pointing in her direction and tries to speak to her, to calm her, but gets no response. "Miss, are you okay? Can I help you?"

She seems to notice him and stares, unblinking. Shock, he thinks. He figures he's in shock as well as he feels his hands trembling. He flexes his fingers to calm the shake, then leans closer and talks to her, calming her. What's your name? Where are you going this morning? Are you from London? Any question he can think of to get her to focus.

They wait. There's nowhere to go; no information to be had. He hardly notices his body's reaction to everything; still, his logical mind knows it's there and itches to simply Apparate away to St Mungo's to get help. But even without the Statute of Secrecy, he can't just leave these people. He can't leave this young woman who clearly needs him.

He has no idea how long they wait, just that it's a long time. A voice comes over the speaker urging them to exit the train through the back. They walk through the tunnel as instructed, and he stays with the woman. As long as someone needs his help, he can push his own fear, his own pain, away.

He sees the escalators ahead and walks with the other survivors—because he knows now that's what they all are, and not everyone on the train is included in that number—to the street above. He guides the young woman to a paramedic and leaves her there, assuring her she'll be okay, that she's strong, that she shouldn't let this experience change her. As if that were possible.

Refusing any help for himself, he wanders off down the road, swerving between people who stop and ask him how he is. He realises that he must look frightfully bad, and the pain has returned, but he just doesn't care. He can't Apparate like this, and given the state of his wand arm, he's not sure he could send a Patronus for help even if he weren't surrounded by Muggles.

The fresh air clears his mind slowly as the crowds thin farther from the station, and he remembers his medallion. Knowing his father is probably already aware of his current physical state thanks to that little family treasure, he walks in the direction he thinks is towards St Mungo's.

James Potter arrived at work on Thursday, 7 July 2005, in high spirits. It was nearly the end of the week, he'd just closed his big case, and he was scheduled to take the next day off for a much anticipated long weekend. He glanced at his husband standing next to him and grinned.

"This Senior Auror stuff is brilliant, isn't it? No night shifts, no stakeouts, and just the good cases."

Sirius Black nodded in agreement. "Absolutely. And hey, there's one of those less fortunate souls there just coming off his overnight-shift. Hey, Harry, how's Junior Auror life serving you?"

James laughed as their son—well, Sirius's godson, but he'd helped James raise the boy after Lily was killed on that fateful Halloween almost twenty-five years before, so he was Harry's father in all but blood—flipped them the two-finger salute.

"Harry, you look exhausted," James said quietly, hoping not to embarrass the young man. "You aren't going to Apparate like that, are you?"

Harry sighed, and James knew he'd probably overstepped and would hear about it later. "No, Dad, don't worry. And I refuse to wait on the morning Floo rush to pass, either. I'm going to take the tube home."

James nodded and smiled. "Be safe, Son. Is Ginny still at Training Camp?"

"Yeah, one more week. Thank Merlin this is her last season; I can't say I'll miss having her gone so much. She loves the Harpies, but the travel and training schedule is less than ideal. I'm getting out of here now, though, or I'll just keep rambling. I'll see you both tomorrow night. Love you."

James looked down at his watch. Just a few minutes past eight o'clock. Only nine hours until his long weekend. He couldn't wait.

Not quite an hour later, James stood filling his second cup of coffee of the morning. He hated mornings full of desk work, filing, and such, but he also knew that it was always part of wrapping up a closed case.

A flash of pain shocked his chest, and he dropped his mug, spilling the coffee and shattering the porcelain. "Sirius!" James broke into a run down the hallway, aiming at the corner of the room where Sirius sat at his desk. "Sirius." He couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead, he pulled the medallion, an exact match to his son's, from under his shirt. Sirius's face paled.

"What's happened?" Sirius whispered, the fear evident in his voice.

"I don't know. I'm not getting a clear reading yet." James stopped and wrapped his hand around the disc, concentrating on the messages Harry's medallion was sending his. The medallions were Familial Magic—passed through the Potter family for centuries—allowing the holder to know the instant the person wearing its mate was in extreme duress or pain. Harry was experiencing both.

"He's injured; I can tell that much. His mental state is foggy; shock maybe? Padfoot, what's happened to our boy?"

Sirius sat back, and from the look on his face, James assumed he was quickly sketching a plan. Harry could be anywhere in Muggle London, so the first step was to locate him.

A commotion in the centre of the room drew their attention. Hermione Granger, Junior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, rushed into the office of the Head Auror, clearly in a state of urgency. Sirius stood up and looked at James. "Does Harry still carry his tellyphone?"

Normally, James would have rolled his eyes at Sirius's mangle of the term, but this time he was too relieved to criticise. "Yes, I believe he does. Ginny usually insists. Hermione has one too, doesn't she?"

"Right. Come on."

James followed Sirius, who was already running across the room to Gawain Robards' office where the door stood open. The men paused as they heard Hermione speaking.

"—explosions. The Prime Minister's office let us know immediately and has asked for our assistance. We have no way of knowing if there are any wizards or witches caught down there, but having Auror involvement will help either way."

Robards nodded. "Three explosions, you say? That can hardly be a coincidence." He glanced at James and Sirius in the doorway and waved them in.

Hermione moved over to allow the men to stand next to her, and they saw a look of horror in her eyes. "No, they don't believe it is. Rescuers are still making their way down, so there's no verified data yet, but the unofficial word is that it's Muggle terrorists, similar to those who attacked New York a few years ago."

Robards swore, but James was still replaying Hermione's words. Rescuers are still making their way down… down…

In terror, he grabbed her arm. "Hermione, we missed the beginning. Where were the explosions?"

"In the underground. Specifically just outside Liverpool Street station, Edgware Road Station, and King's Cross."

James placed those locations on the map in his mind, and only years of Auror training helped him remain standing. Sirius must have noticed, as he quickly conjured a chair behind him and pushed him down.

Through the buzzing in his ears, he could hear Sirius's voice. "Hermione, Edgware Station is relatively close to here, isn't it?"

She nodded and spoke with concern in her voice. "It is. About a five minute walk, actually. Why? What's wrong? James?"

He looked up and met her brown eyes. "Harry took the tube home after his shift." Her eyes widened, but he had to tell her. "I felt—" He cut off and glanced at Robards. Familial Magic was very private, but having gone through the war so close to Harry, Hermione knew.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile. "I won't get a signal down here. I need to get outside and call him. Gawain, please get a couple of teams together to help the Muggle authorities. Kingsley will send someone down in a few minutes with more specific instructions."

She strode out of the office, James and Sirius running alongside. She was pressing buttons on her phone and swearing under her breath. "Damn the lack of communication around here. It's been twenty minutes already wasted on running messages back and forth. The Muggle media already has reports going, and we're left scrambling. We're always so sure we're the superior breed of human, but we can't even figure out a way to get instant communication in emergencies. I can't even use the Muggle methods stuck in this damned hole in the ground!" The panic in her voice was rising, and she let it out in anger. "Superior, indeed. Superior arses, more like."

They made their way out through the street entrance of the Ministry, and Hermione was finally able to dial out on her mobile. They watched closely as she became more concerned. After several moments of heavy silence, she stabbed at her phone with her finger, then started quickly punching in buttons as she spoke. "Okay, it's ringing but no answer." They all stood quietly as she finished sending him a text message in the hope he might see it. She tucked the mobile into her bag, took a deep breath, then looked up to meet James's stare. "What exactly did you feel?"

James had been holding his panic at bay, sure they'd get an answer when Hermione called. With that hope gone, he began to breath faster and could feel the dread pooling in his stomach. "He's hurt. I think he's in shock. I'm getting something around his wand arm, but I can't tell what."

Hermione gave a curt nod. "If he's conscious, he'll make his way to St Mungo's; he knows we'll look there. We'll try that first, and if he's not there, we use our credentials and go to the station." She shot a quick Patronus to the Minister, filling him in on her whereabouts and the reason, then took each man's arm and Disapparated.

Harry reaches St Mungo's—how exactly, he's not sure—and the Welcome Wizard moves immediately. "Mr Potter! What happened to you?"

Harry has enough awareness to feel a small rise of irritation at the special treatment. The Boy Who Lived, Man Who Vanquished nonsense gets old, but for now, he just stares at the man. He'd asked him a question, hadn't he? What was it?

A Healer in the telltale green robes approaches him, and Harry realises that he's sitting on a bench with no idea when that happened. Damn. The shock, he thinks. The Healer holds a bottle with a turquoise blue potion to his mouth, and he drinks. His mind processes the flavour and colour. Draught of Peace, he identifies. He can almost hear Snape in his head, his low tones reciting, "A potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. If you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients, you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep…"

The potion begins to work, and Harry focuses on his surroundings as the shock recedes. He's been moved to a private examination room now, and the pain in his shoulder is nearly gone; now it's just sore. Someone must have fixed it. His breath hitches as he tries to process what he should be doing next. Dad, Sirius, Ginny.

He reaches for his satchel; he carries it and the mobile it houses almost everywhere. The bag, however, is gone, and Harry quickly tries to remember where he's left it. Images of the train, the soot, the darkness, the screams come back, and he has to force himself to breathe.

Right. He supposes the bag is gone now. He can't call Hermione; he can't call Ginny. He reaches into his holster and draws his wand, feeling immediately better, but is sure he can't even summon the energy for a Lumos Charm.

Voices outside the room become louder and are soon recognisable. Relief floods through him, and he feels emotion clogging his throat. Both his fathers enter the room, followed closely by his best friend.

"Harry!" He's gently pulled into James's embrace, and Harry feels the tears begin to fall.

"Hi," he murmurs. "There was an explosion on the tube," is all he can manage, his voice rough and cracking.

Another pair of arms surround him now, and he can smell citrus and engine oil. Dadfoot.

He wants to sleep, but gathers his strength and focuses on the moment; there'll be time to sleep later. He meets Hermione's eyes and sees the worry and stress draped across her like a mantle. If he's to glean details from anyone, it's her.

"'Mione, do they know what happened?"

Hermione conjures a chair in front of him and sits. "I'm still trying to gather information, but fortunately, the Muggles seem to know much more than we do. There were three separate explosions on the tube trains, and—"

"Three?" he cuts her off. Three. Not an accident. His mind flashes to Death Eaters in black robes and masks, and his breathing quickens.

Hermione nods. "Muggle terrorists, Harry. There was a fourth explosion on a double-decker bus a short time later. The Prime Minister is set to make a news statement in a few minutes."

The long silence that follows is nearly tangible until Harry closes his eyes and asks, "Is there a telly anywhere?"

"No. The Healers here were completely unaware anything had even happened, though I've suggested they make preparations, as you can't possibly be the only magical person injured. Honestly, the speed with which the Muggles have been able to respond just goes to show how woefully inadequate our law enforcement communications are. We need to take a look at what they're doing and do our best to replicate their competency. We first received word of the explosions about four minutes after they occurred, directly from the PM's office. I learned from Kingsley about ten minutes ago, a full two hours later, that our teams are finally on the ground assisting at each site. It took us over an hour and a half to spread the information, gather our teams, and deploy, and we have magic. This is our superior government in action?"

Listening to Hermione rant about something he's sure will be her next cause makes Harry chuckle, which feels odd given the circumstances, so he stops. He reaches for her hand—his own still shaking—noticing the char and filth marring his skin. "Hermione, if you're able to speed things up and bring the Aurors into the new century, you'll be my hero." He yawns and his head hurts. "Have you talked to the Healers? Can I go?"

His dad and Sirius exchange looks.

"What?" Harry asks, and he can hear the defensive whine in his voice but can't seem to care; he's just too tired.

"You're coming home with us for a few days, or at least until Ginny is home. Hermione called her while we were waiting on the Healers to finish with you, and she's trying to make arrangements to return early. In the meantime, you have a concussion, a sprained wrist, and you're still in shock."

Harry doesn't argue and simply nods, which seems to draw even more attention from those around him. He closes his eyes and leans back, ready to sleep. As he does, he remembers the young woman—the girl, really—on the tube train with him. He hopes she's well, that she's being taken care of as he is. He refuses to think of the others he saw in the next train who won't be going home tonight.

In the days that follow, his mind plays through Hermione's words about the attacks. It's been seven years since the Final Battle; it's been almost four years since similar Muggle terrorist attacks in America. In that time, Wizarding Britain has stayed the same, very few people understanding technology or the Muggle world around them. As information unfolds about those who committed this atrocity, Harry becomes increasingly convinced that Wizarding Britain needs to progress and embrace the Muggle technology around them. To save the Muggles, and to save themselves.

Harry thinks back again regularly to the girl on the train, and though most of that early July morning is foggy in his memory, he clearly remembers his final words to her. Don't let this experience change you. He thinks about how it has changed him and his perceptions, and he alters his wish for her. Don't let this experience become meaningless.

He hopes it hasn't.

A/N: Harry's experience is an amalgamation of real, first-hand accounts of the events of 7 July 2005. I've done my best to pay tribute to the experiences of those who lived it, without drawing too much from one single person's account.