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 Twenty-One: Talk to Me
Critical Thinking, as an elective he attends at his parents' insistence, is probably the weirdest, most thought-provoking class in his week. It's on Tuesday afternoons, at the same time most of his peers have Study Hall, and more often than not, it's rather mentally draining. The teacher, an unremarkable looking fellow with laughter lines and thinning hair, is actually part of the English and History faculty, and he is adamant that the ability to think critically, to analyse, to question - always to question - is the most important thing they'll ever acquire in school.
In saying that, Harry shares the class with only eight others. Mike is one of them, as is Hermione and Santana, but he's never spoken with any of the others outside of their regular, teacher-mandated discussions.
At present, Santana's slouched in her seat, entertaining herself with a chatterbox, and Mike's leant back on the hind-legs of his chair, struggling to balance a pencil on the bridge of his nose. Hermione's working on English study, her copy of 'The Crucible' accompanied by a mechanical pencil and a pad of sticky notes. She's set herself the task of identifying notable themes within the text, and as such, she's lost completely in a world of her own making.
Harry casts his gaze over the room, over his listless classmates, and meets the eyes of Kurt Hummel. He's tall and thin, with delicate, almost feminine features, and he is one of the football teams' favourite targets. In saying that, Harry almost expects him to look away, shamefaced, but he does not. Instead, Kurt Hummel looks back at him from across the room, almost defiant, and Harry's a little impressed despite himself.
It's no wonder the douche canoes on the football team still target him. Kurt Hummel is a lot tougher than he appears, and to the others, it's become a challenge to break him.
He huffs a laugh, amused, and turns towards the front of the classroom. As he does so, their teacher, Mr Sinclair, barges into the room in his usual frazzled, breathless state. The door slams against the wall, Hermione startles with a squeak, Santana jolts up from her mindless slouch, and Mike's chair drops onto all four legs with a rough clatter and an unpleasant screech.
"Sorry I'm late," Sinclair babbles, "My juniors are studying Shakespeare, and of course, I need to answer their questions, but God help me, if I have to explain the differences between thee, thou, thy, and thine one more time…"
He trails off into incomprehensible rambling, and Harry opens his notebook to a blank page. He dates it absently as Sinclair gets himself sorted, and it takes a few more minutes for the man to get their class underway.
"All right, a question for all of you. We'll be discussing it for half an hour, and if I'm pleased by how the discussion goes, you can take off a little early."
"Yippee," Santana deadpans. Hermione smothers a laugh.
Mr Sinclair gives them a scenario from World War II, regarding the influx of immigrants into the United States, and Harry's not the only one a little uncomfortable with it. Rachel Berry, across the circle, fidgets in her seat. Santana crosses her arms over her chest, defensive. Mike clears his throat, loud in the pervading silence, and then avoids eye contact with everyone.
"Using what critical thinking tools I've already taught you, I want you to share your opinion, and then justify it. Feel free to disagree and debate - debate, Miss Lopez, - between yourselves. Remember, the only wrong answer here is the one that can't be rationalised. Have at it."
Mr Sinclair makes himself comfortable on top of one of the desks, and Harry occupies himself with writing the problem down in his notebook. It doesn't take him long, however, and he spends a few more minutes contemplating which ways he might look at the question. It takes his mind off other things - like the conversation he's due to have with Quinn in a few hours - but he still has no desire to contribute to the discussion that's not yet begun.
Across the circle, Rachel Berry straightens out her pleated skirt, clears her throat, and stubbornly refuses to wilt under the attention that lands on her. Harry appreciates her legs more than he perhaps should - seriously, how can someone so short have such long legs? - and then makes a valiant attempt to focus on what she has to say.
"As most of you likely know, I'm Jewish. My biological mother's family originates from Poland, my father's family is from Austria. For as long as I can remember, I've heard stories from my grandparents about their family lost in World War II. Their parents, their siblings, their friends. With that in mind, I am firmly of the opinion that the US government's stance on European refugees should have been a lot less restrictive than it was. It would have saved a lot more lives."
"What about the drain on resources?" Hermione challenges. It's no surprise, really. Hermione's a pragmatist at heart, and moreover, Harry's fairly certain she takes a certain degree of pleasure from stirring the pot. "A lot of these people wouldn't have been able to speak English. How could they have contributed to society without being a burden on others? Moreover, how could the US government guarantee that these people weren't German spies, unwilling or not?"
That, predictably, sets a cat among the pigeons, and even as Hummel nods his agreement, Berry isn't the only one outraged. Santana's swearing at Hermione in Spanish, Rachel's descended into rapid-fire Yiddish, and Mr Sinclair suddenly looks like he's regretting all of the choices in his life that's led him to this point. Harry, in accordance with Berry but for different reasons, throws in his two cents, Mike and Santana get properly involved, and Harry comes to the conclusion that the 'discussion' is the most fun he's had all day.
-!- -#-
After the Steam House is closed up for the day, Harry and Quinn steal a lift home with Harry's mum, Lily. It's vaguely awkward, but Quinn spends the trip telling him about her meeting with the school's Christ Crusaders - a forum of likeminded, devout, Christian students - and it's not quite as uncomfortable as it could be. Nevertheless, it's still a relief to make it home, and Harry's quick to shepherd Quinn downstairs, away from the scrutiny of his family. He's told to keep his bedroom door open - what good that is when he's got an entire storey between them, Harry can't fathom - but rather than test his parents' patience, he begrudgingly does what he's told.
"Make yourself comfortable," Harry gestures vaguely at his room. It's the first time Quinn's been inside it, and as she settles on the edge of his bed, she studies everything with an open, unabashed sense of curiosity.
With off-white walls and a nondescript brown carpet, Harry's bedroom isn't anything particularly glamorous. He's got a twin-sized bed wedged in one corner, with a bedside table beside it, on which is a couple of dogeared novels and an empty water bottle. The only other furniture in his room consists of a study desk wedged into the corner right of his door, and the over-stuffed bookshelf beside it. It's cluttered with novels, with figurines, with trophies and photographs, and Harry hopes - fruitlessly - that Quinn doesn't pay attention to it.
"I didn't know you play guitar." Her focus is on the acoustic steel-string propped up on a stand next to his bedside table, well-worn and well-loved.
"I don't really have the time anymore, but yeah," he shrugs, "I dabble. "The guitar was my grandfather's, on my mother's side. Mum gave it to me when I turned 13."
"Will you play for me?"
"What, now?"
Quinn shrugs, suddenly hesitant. "I mean, only if you want to."
Harry hesitates, but with Quinn's open, hopeful face, he relents with a nod. He hasn't played in ages, and he hasn't got anything in particular prepared, but there are a few pieces he can probably perform in his sleep, and it's one of those songs he resorts to now.
"All right," he settles beside Quinn on the edge of his bed, his guitar in his lap, and fiddles with the tuning pegs until he's satisfied with the sound, "It's been a while, and I technically should probably warmup before I do this, but whatever. Just don't tell Kate. I'll never hear the end of it, otherwise."
With one of her index fingers, Quinn draws an X over her heart, and without ado, Harry dives straight into the introduction of 'Take It Easy' by the Eagles. It's one of his mother's favourite songs, one of the first he learned on guitar, and a whole lot easier to play than 'Hotel California', too.
Quinn listens raptly, a smile on her face, and afterwards, she claps.
"You're good," she compliments, "When you said you dabble, I figured you were just, you know, average, but I guess you've had lessons?"
"Yeah," Harry confirms, "Not for guitar, but I've had vocal coaching. Piano and cello lessons, too."
"You're one of those annoying people who happen to be good at everything, right?" Quinn asks. She's half joking.
"Not really. At least, I don't think so."
As he returns his guitar to it's accompanying stand, Quinn stands up to study the odds and ends on his shelves. There are photos of him, of he and Kate, being silly, having fun, pulling pranks. There are photos of friends, teams, music groups come and gone. There's a formal photo of Harry with his dad, with his mum, with both of them, with all four of his grandparents and then some. There are trophies, medals, pennants and ribbons.
And then, of course, there are books.
Most of them are hand-me-downs from his parents, Stephen King and Douglas Adams and George R R Martin. There are others though, Tolkien, the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen. There's 'Catcher in the Rye', and 'Catch 22', and 'The Great Gatsby', nestled between works like 'The Chronicles of Narnia' and 'His Dark Materials'. He hasn't read them all - far from it, in fact - but he's working on it, and that's better than nothing.
"What, no comics?"
"No, not any more."
They'd been left behind in Chicago, packed up in a box, and donated to his local 'Daily Planet' for other enthusiasts to appreciate. He'd lost interest in them at some vague, indistinct point during middle school, and as he'd been packing up his shit before his sojourn to Wales, he'd had no desire to keep them any longer. He'd barely thought about them since.
"Your family seems pretty close."
Harry shrugs. "We are, I guess. I haven't really thought about it. It just… is."
"But you don't like to talk about your grandparents?"
"I like to talk about them just fine. It's their jobs I don't care to mention."
"Why?"
"It always changes things," Harry answers bitterly, "Suddenly, I'm a snob because I don't eat cafeteria food, or I'm a dick because I don't pay for dinner, or I'm a show-off if I do. Never mind I can't touch my trust fund until I'm 21, and the only money I can depend on is whatever I earn myself, and the 25 dollars I get each week from my parents."
Quinn turns away from the shelves, approaches him where he sits on the edge of his bed, and then tugs him into a hug. SHe's standing, and his face is far closer to her boobs than he'd expected to be at this point in their relationship, but he hugs her back regardless, and the gesture of comfort is more appreciated than he cares to admit.
"It won't change things here," Quinn stubbornly declares, "I won't let it."
Harry doesn't think it'll happen the way Quinn wants, but he's not about to burst her bubble. Instead, as she settles beside him on his bed, he contents himself with cuddling her, with conversation about anything and everything under the sun, and there is nowhere else he'd rather be.