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: Fifteen
Chapter Eighteen: Manic Monday
It's late, and conversation over the dining table has turned to British and US politics, economics, and international relations. The dishes have been cleared away, the dessert wine's been produced, the homemade hazelnut torte, too, and Harry is bored out of his mind. Kate is, as well, and she's spent the last 20 minutes plaiting the ends of her hair between slow, thoughtful sips of her sauternes.
They've both been offered only half of what the adults have, which in itself is only half a glass, though that's nothing new. THey've both been drinking wine since the age of ten, progressively less deluded as they've grown older. They're old enough to warrant no water, but they're still not allowed as much as the adults, but neither of them are too bothered by that.
Apparently, the fact they're allowed to imbibe at all is in order to foster a healthy respect and appreciation for wine, and for alcohol in general. It's also such a European ideology, and it makes him laugh.
It's a fairly liberal mindset, as far as parenting, children, and alcohol are concerned, but there is something to be said about the lack of novelty in the act of drinking, of getting drunk, to Harry. It's not a view many of his peers share, too caught up in the thrill of doing something illegal, rebelling against their parents' authority, testing (and ignoring) their limits, and all the rest of it.
Admittedly, he gets it. He's recently been introduced to weed, and it is still foreign and illicit enough to give him a thrill that has nothing to do with drugs and everything to do with the accompanying illegality. It's just that, to him, alcohol's a little overrated, and that opinion can be attributed firmly to his upbringing.
He hasn't spoken about this with Kate, who has recently begun posting shit on Facebook and MySpace about parties and all the other trash he sees from his peers, but he's fairly certain she feels the same way. He hopes as much, anyway, but then, she is only 13. Her birthday's not until January, and she - like him - has a few more years to make up her mind either way.
"I hear you've found yourself a girlfriend, Henry?" Dorea enquires. She says his name as though it were 'Henri', and it's easy to forget the woman was born and raised in Paris. Her father's family - infamous in certain circles - have been pure English for generations, but her father eloped with a French nurse after World War I, and was nearly disowned for it. As a result, and despite Germany's occupation of France in World War II, it's only as an adult that she's considered the United Kingdom home. For the most part, however, her accent is all Wales.
Emphasis on the 'for the most part', of course.
Harry offers his parents an unimpressed frown, but they both appear shameless. Kate's got a smirk on her face, amused and glad not to be under the same scrutiny, and Harry curbs the desire to kick her under the table. Meanwhile, his ears are burning, and his face has probably never been so red.
"Yes, I've been seeing someone. Her name is Quinn."
"She's a lovely young lady," James contributes. "Very intelligent."
"Quite ambitious, too," Lily offers. "Her goal is to attend Yale."
"Well, I am looking forward to meeting her," Dorea acknowledges, "Is she pretty?"
"I think so," Harry answers. He's not too enthused by the prospect of his girlfriend meeting his grandmother, but he's not too sure he'll have much of a choice in the matter either way. Dorea Black isn't afraid to get her hands dirty in order to accomplish whatever she sets her mind to. As such, if she's truly invested in meeting Q, there isn't much that could stop her.
"That's what matters," Dorea acknowledges, "Though you ought to remember; physical beauty isn't everything."
The advice is rather ironic, coming from a woman who's cosmetics label is a household name across the western world. It's no less true, however, if easy to forget (not to mention difficult to believe) in an age of social media, photoshop, and all the rest of it.
"I know," he says, and he's not sure what else to say. He's not about to go into length about why, exactly, he'd asked Quinn out, because it's none of their business and a little too personal for his taste, and he'd never hear the end of it from Kate besides.
Blessedly, his grandmother turns the interrogation towards school, towards he and Kate's classes and extra-curricular activities, and it's marginally less uncomfortable than questions about his romantic life. Eventually, however, he calls it a night, siting work the following morning, and retreats downstairs before he can be sucked into another conversation about the state of the US economy, or President Bush, or the current state of things in the Middle East.
He collapses into bed with a tired groan, and he's asleep before his head hits the pillow.
-!- -#-
In the late 1800's, Peverell Industries was built from the ground up by William Potter, the then Lord Potter, Earl of Ceredigion. It was one of the foremost producers of coal in Wales, provided a great deal of employment among the region, and subsequently boosted the country's economy to new heights. It has since expanded, into oil, technology, and the ironic pursuit of clean energy, and both Harry and Kate - if she so wishes - are each expected to one day contribute to it in some way, shape, or form.
Dorea Black has done so, with her cosmetics label, and Harry's mother, Lily, has done the same with her slowly expanding Steam House chain. His father, James, often acts as a business representative in Charles Potter's stead, as an advisor as well, and Harry hasn't the foggiest idea of how he will successfully follow in their enormous footsteps. Thus far, he's not tried to think about it too much, but the presence of his grandparents has brought those concerns to the fore, and Harry can't help but brood over it.
Quinn notices, predictably. It's Monday morning, they're in the library once again, and Mike and Hermione are, too. As has become something of a routine, the four of them are actually sitting together, spread out around a table that fits eight, elbows deep in projects and revision. It's kind of fortunate, because the influence of Mike, Hermione, and Quinn pushes him to do better, and subsequently, his grades are better than they've ever been.
It doesn't matter much, of course - he's only a freshman, after all - but it's gratifying nevertheless. It also means he's been pretty cheerful, all things considered, and his present mood doesn't reflect that.
"Are you okay?" Quinn asks.
"Yeah," Harry answers, "Just a lot on my mind."
"Your grandparents, right?"
Harry waves his hand in a 'so so' motion. "Sort of. Not really. Just, you know, family expectations."
Quinn grimaces, chagrined, sympathetic, and understanding. "Did you want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Well, if you change your mind…"
He smiles, and squeezes her hand. "I'll let you know."
-!- -#-
The WMHS basketball club fields two teams for each gender: JV, and Varsity. A dude named Graham Montague is the captain of the varsity team, and he meets the new JV team - Finn, Harry, Puck, Matt, Mike, and their three reserves - in the locker room. He's a senior, tall, broad, and somewhat hostile, but he informs them of what they need to know without complaint, and then barks at them to be on the court in 10 minutes, or expect to do half-court suicides.
Suffice to say, they hustle.
The thing is with the JV and Varsity basketball teams? They're already established, and they have a record of excellence. They've been state champions for the last four years, and Harry, Finn, Mike, Matt, and Puck (and their reserves) are expected to continue the record of wins. As such, the pressure is somewhat intimidating, and Harry's absurdly terrified of failure.
On the upside, the five of them already know how to work together, and the fact is sure to serve them well on the court.
At least, Harry hopes so.
"Potter," Cedric Diggory greets him with a fist bump, "Welcome to the team, dude."
"Thanks, man," Harry acknowledges. He introduces his friends, none of whom Cedric's actually met properly, and then asks, "What can we expect today?"
"Warm-ups and stretches, some drills, and then a scrimmage for the last half hour, maybe. Morning sessions are for fitness, strength-building, endurance and all that. Afternoons are for team-building, game skills and strategy."
Their coach arrives then, a tall, androgynous lady by the name of ROlanda Hooch. SHe's a stern, no-nonsense woman whom also happens to coach the male and female soccer teams, and she is utterly intimidating. She's not the frightening and psychotic blend of Coach Sylvester, mercifully, but nevertheless, Harry quickly finds himself unwilling to get on her bad side.
Instead, he follows her direction without complaint, and endures.
By the end of the training session, he's exhausted, and he has no idea how he'll make it through his Karate class that evening. It's not for another couple of hours, in which he intends to chow down on a quick dinner and make some headway on his homework, but damn, it's been a long day already.
"You need a lift to the centre?" Mike asks. His dad's the Karate instructor, so Mike takes the class by default. He's actually already a first dan black belt, but as far as Mike's domineering father is concerned, there's always room for improvement.
"No," Harry declines, "Thanks, though."
Mike nods his acknowledgement, absently eats the last of his third granola bar, and watches as their new teammates steadily depart the parking lot. Some of them are walking, some of them are in cars, some of them wait for the activities bus, and both of their pick-ups are running late. "Coach Hooch is a hardass, yeah?"
"Yeah," Harry agrees, "Effective, though. The guys on the soccer team have a lot of respect for her."
"It's no wonder," Mike shrugs, "Her teams are winners."
"Can't argue that."
They sit in an easy, companionable silence until they're joined by the girls, recently released from their own training session. They look as worn as Harry feels, but they also look clean, and Harry assumes - correctly - that they've taken advantage of the locker room showers.
"You guys stink," Santana bluntly informs them.
"We know," Harry and Mike answer, simultaneous and monotone.
Mike explains further, "We've got a Karate class in a couple of hours. Didn't want to shower, only to shower again later."
Santana concedes to their logic with a nod. "You look wrecked, though."
"Feel it, too," Harry answers. "Long ass day."
"Poor baby," Quinn teases.
"I know," Harry answers, and leans into his girlfriend, "Pity me."
Quinn palms his face, laughing. "Keep dreaming."
"About you? Happily."
Quinn scoffs, but there's a pleased smile on her face. "Lame."
Harry shrugs, unfazed. "I try."
As the five of them descend into idle conversation, a sleek black Jaguar pulls into the parking lot, and slows to a stop in front of them. The passenger side window winds down, and Dorea Black leans out, smiling. Harry can see his grandfather in the driver's seat, and he honestly has to wonder what the actual fuck they are doing there, and with a car, no less.
"Are you coming, or what, Henry? Katherine is waiting."
Numbly, Harry does as he is told, and wilfully ignores the bug-eyed stares at his back. That… that he can't deal with right now.
He deposits his bags in the boot, drops mindlessly into the backseat, and waves at his speechless friends out the window. Then they are off, and he is ready for this hellish day to be over.