Welcome to the Jungle
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or Glee. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Part One: 15
Chapter Four: Oh, What A night
Because they're a relatively young team, with an offensive lineup made up predominantly of freshman, no one really expects the McKinley Titans to qualify for playoffs. Coach Tanaka's resigned himself to a year of conditioning and growth spurts and team bonding, and Harry is completely fine with that. It gives him time to familiarise himself with the QB position, to improve his throws and whatnot, and it also allows his fellow team members to adapt to a QB that they, in turn, are not familiar with.
The state of things takes a lot of the pressure off Harry, but a lot of people still watch, still analyse and critique, still focus a lot of attention on the Titans' quarterback, but the weight is a lot easier to bear with the knowledge that he doesn't need to be his best. He just needs to improve, just needs to adapt to an entirely new team, and it's nice not to be thrown directly into the deep end of an entire community's hopes and dreams.
In saying all of that, it's exceedingly gratifying when they win that Friday's game against Carmel High. Admittedly, the other school's football team is abysmal, but the win is no less satisfying for it, and at Ethan Summerby's place, everyone's in high spirits.
Because they'd opted to stop for dinner beforehand, Harry and Ron arrive relatively later than everyone else. By the time they do, the house is crawling with their classmates, buoyant with that night's dual victory (soccer and football) against Carmel High.
Beside him, Ron watches, wary. He has only attended the soccer parties, and they are significantly more low-key than the keggers thrown by the football team. As such, the redhead is a little thrown by the shear number of people that have managed to cram themselves into the home in front of them.
"You all right there, Ron?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Ron asks.
Harry shrugs. "Just checking, mate."
Behind them, Fred leans out of the driver's seat window of the car he and George share. It's an old Ford Anglia that's certainly seen better days, but the twins more or less worship it, and Harry's certainly not going to say anything.
"Just call one of us when you guys want to be picked up, all right?"
"Yeah, all right," Ron answers, pivoting on his heel to have a proper conversation with them. Harry follows suit. "Thanks, Fred, George."
"Yeah," Harry echoes, "I owe you guys one."
Fred and George are Ron's older twin brothers. They're juniors, part of the defence line-up on the soccer team, and they have no interest in attending any more high school parties. Apparently, they lose their appeal after a while. As such, the twins have other plans, but Harry hadn't pried and neither of them had thought to share.
"No problem, dude," George says. He's lifted his upper body through the passenger side window, propped against the door with his arms crossed over the roof of the car, "Have fun."
"Thanks," Harry answers.
"Don't do anything stupid," Fred adds, "Mom will blow a gasket if you get arrested, Ron."
"Or hospitalised," George contributes lightly. "Seriously, don't screw up."
"I won't," Ron assures them, "I probably won't even stay long."
"Also, if you're going to hook up-"
"I got it!" Ron shouts, and his entire face is bright red. Even his ears.
"In that case, smell you later, dudes."
George drops back into his seat, they crank up their windows, and pull away from the curb. Ron and Harry watch them until the car disappears around a corner. Behind them, Lady Gaga's 'Just Dance' blasts from the surround sound speakers inside Summerby's home.
Harry combs a hand through his hair, rolls back his shoulders, and makes his way to the door. Ron falls into step beside him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and their presence is noticed at once.
"About time you showed up, asshole," Dean Thomas greets his teammate, "We were going to send out a search party."
"We stopped for dinner," Ron explains.
"Probably smart," Dean acknowledges, glances at Harry, and raises his bottle of beer, "Good game, dude."
"Likewise," Harry answers, looks around briefly, and asks, "Where can we get some drinks around here?"
"The kitchen. Where else?"
The kitchen is crowded, mostly by athletes. The soccer team captain, Cedric Diggory, is taking body shots off his girlfriend, Cho Chang, and someone's started up beer pong at the dining table. Most surprisingly, however, is the sight of Hermione settled contentedly in Viktor Krum's arms. She's not dressed in the unflattering clothes she favours in school, but instead, a pair of skin-tight black jeans, and a cherry red camisole that clings to her figure. She looks very nice, actually, her hair artfully tamed and curled, her face accented by the slightest amount of makeup, and others have noticed.
"Did you know about that?" Harry asks.
"No," Ron answers, "Viktor's pretty private. Doesn't talk much."
"He has a hard time with English, doesn't he?"
Ron shrugs, nonchalant, and helps himself to an unopened bottle of water. "He gets by."
Viktor's a transfer student from Bulgaria. He's been at McKinley High for a little over a year, and according to Ron, he's the best striker the soccer team has. There are rumours about professional teams and college scouts, though they're all unconfirmed. Among all the speculation, however, no one has thought to ask Krum to provide the facts.
"Should we be concerned?" Harry asks, "He's a senior."
"His birthday's in August, so there's - what? - two years between them? That's not a big deal, I don't think. Besides, Hermione's a big girl. She can handle herself."
Harry concedes to Ron's reasoning, mostly because he doesn't ever want to face Hermione Granger's wrath. She's all about women's rights and female empowerment, and if Harry ever implies, through word or deed, that she can't handle herself, he'd likely be faced with a world of hurt.
Hermione catches sight of them, disentangles herself from Krum's arms, and approaches with a grin.
"You made it!" She hugs them both, "Congratulations, guys. You both did good."
"Thanks, Hermione," Ron answers, a small, fond grin on his face.
Harry echoes Ron's acknowledgement, and adds, "You look fantastic. Trying to impress someone, are you?"
She rolls her eyes. "Hardly. Viktor was interested long before he saw me all dolled up like this."
The girl drags them over to her boyfriend, and after the congratulations are passed around, they chat idly about weekend plans and classes, and whether or not McDonald's is better than Burger King. It's cool, because there are no airs, and Viktor apparently doesn't give a shit about the fact he's in the company of underclassmen. It's nice, simply hanging out and shooting the breeze, and it doesn't matter that Viktor is the only one of them who is at all intoxicated. They're all having a good time, and it's all that really matters.
Naturally, it doesn't last.
The thing about high school parties, and particularly those with alcohol, is that something inevitably goes wrong. Either something's broken, or the police are called, or someone's imbibed to the point of alcohol poisoning. It's par for the course where teenagers are concerned, because none of them care to drink safely, or even know how to.
His parents, who are neither deaf, dumb, nor blind, have reiterated this time and time again since Harry was 13 years old. Moreover, he's been to a fair few parties already, and he's almost begun to expect trouble.
That said, he doesn't expect it to be his friends involved. Puck, with his Western European upbringing, knows he doesn't need to get obliterated to have a good time. Mike and Matt are actually pretty responsible, and Finn is too much of a chickenshit to let himself get wasted.
As such, when Mike finds him, Harry offers his friend a fist bump, heedless of the drama outside.
"What's up?"
"Dude, it was fucked up, but Brit's passed out and Santana won't stop crying, and we're pretty sure Puck's got a concussion."
Harry frowns, concerned. "What happened?"
Mike leads Harry out onto the front porch, and Hermione, Ron, and Viktor follow. It's quieter there, less of a struggle to communicate, and Mike delves into the retelling without hesitation.
Apparently, Brit passed out in the living room, but Quinn was sitting with her, so it was all good. But then a couple of upperclassmen insisted on taking her upstairs, and Quinn, who thought it would be better for her away from the chaos, did not protest. She followed them though, and started to worry when the two guys didn't return to the hall. She called Santana, who was with Puck, and they found Brittany with her clothes off, unconscious, and with the two guys arguing about who would have her first.
"That's sick," Hermione says.
Harry agrees, but he is also incredulous because, seriously, do these things actually happen in real life? It sounds like something out of a soap opera, but it's certainly not something Mike would lie about.
"Puck beat the shit out of them," Mike continues soberly, "Quinn texted us, and we pulled him off them. I don't know how he managed both of them on his own, though I'm pretty sure Santana helped. Anyway, Quinn and Santana got Brit dressed, and we got her and Puck out of there, but we don't know what to do with them."
"Christ," Harry mutters. He cards both his hands through his hair, "Where are they?"
"Couple houses down," Mike answers. He thumbs over his shoulder in the direction in question. "Puck said to let you know what was going on."
"Right," Harry acknowledges, "I'll go back with you, then."
He shares a brief exchange with Ron, who doesn't begrudge Harry the change of plans. With his Saturday morning training session cancelled in the wake of that night's win, he was supposed to crash at The Burrow, but with everything he's just heard, those plans are more or less thrown out the window.
"Just go," Hermione insists, "Take care of your friends. We'll be all right here."
Ron nods his agreement. "Call us if there's anything we can do to help."
Harry nods, bids them a good night, and walks alongside Mike in silence. As he does, he checks his phone, concerned to find a number of text messages and missed calls awaiting him. He notes, absently, that his phone is also on silent, the vibration off, and it's no wonder why he hadn't received any of them in time to help properly.
He'll make sure it never happens again.
When they reached their huddled group of friends, Santana is still crying, that ugly, drunk kind of cry that never seems to end. Her makeup is smudged around her eyes, and she wipes roughly at her running nose, and it is, unequivocally, the most ruffled he's ever seen the hispanic Cheerio.
Brittany's beside her, conscious but insensate, impossibly small in her rumpled clothes and someone's coat. She rests her head in Santana's lap, and Quinn watches over them with a sharp, sober gaze..
A little further away from them, Puck sits on the curb, his head in his hands. Finn and Matt bridge the gap between Puck and the girls, and barring Santana's sobs and Brittany's slurred mumbles, none of them make a sound.
Harry looks at each of them, changed unequivocally by what they've just experienced, and there is nothing he can possibly say that will make it better.
He doesn't even try.