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 Fifty-Three: Everything Has Changed
After everything is said and done, it's oddly jarring to return to Lima, and to McKinley High. Nothing has changed, but in some respects, Harry feels as though he's aged a lifetime in a matter of days.
As a result, the daily grind is stifling. The petty dramas, the homework, his commitment to a game he doesn't even care about. Why is it all so important when across the ocean, people are being killed in their metaphorical back yards? What are they even doing? What is he doing?
"It's not like it's anything new," Puck reasons. They'd scarfed down lunch to steal in some time in the weight room, whereHarry has been venting, and Puck's been listening. It's perhaps one of the most serious conversations they'll ever have. "it's just personal, now."
It's just personal, now.
It's just personal, now.
It's just personal, now.
Maybe Puck's words wouldn't have the same weight if spoken by someone whose grandparents hadn't survived the Holocaust, or maybe Harry's just willing to listen now, where he wasn't sooner. Either way, he drops heavily onto the padded bench attached to one of the weight machines, drops his head in his hands, and thinks about all of the conflict in the world. The Middle East, Africa, South America, and where the hell ever else.
There's always conflict somewhere. There's always going to be someone killing someone else for the sake of their own ideals and/or ambitions. Harry's just never paid attention before.
Not until, as Puck said, it got personal.
"God, I feel like an asshole."
Puck shrugs. "We're all assholes. Besides, it's not like you've had a reason to think about all of it, you know? It's not like it's being reported on the regular."
"No," Harry agrees bitterly, "Maybe it should be."
"Not going to argue with you there, dude."
Harry sighs, and they sit in a heavy, solemn silence. Harry thinks of his father, who'd fought in the Falklands, and of his grandfather, who'd fought in Korea. His Great-Grandfather had been a veteran of World War I, an analyst in World War II, and they are only the most recent in a long line of Potters serving in the British military, or navy, or since applicable, the air force.
Harry has never really thought about following in their footsteps. His father has never indicated any expectation for him to do so, and neither has his grandfather. He's wondering now though, wondering if it's the right thing to do, if it's not, if it will only result in more conflict in the long run.
That aside, Harry can't imagine holding a gun, never mind using it for it's intended purpose.
The very thought makes his stomach churn.
"I'm sorry you lost someone, man," Puck says. He's entirely sincere in his sentiment.
"Yeah," Harry sighs, inexplicably weary, "Me too."
It turns out Bartholomew Crouch Jr was a devout, fanatical member of a sect of people intent on 'purifying' the British Isles. Very alt right in their ideology, and in a world where globalisation is alive and thriving, Harry can't fathom people like that honestly, genuinely existing. Naive of him, perhaps, but true, nevertheless.
Harry glances at his friend, and asks lightly, "You ever thought about joining the army?"
Puck shrugs. "It's crossed my mind, but no, not seriously. Gotta get through high school, y'know?"
Harry nods. "High school. Right."
"You thinking about it?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
Harry's phone alarm blares to life, and neither of them talk further about the matter. They head to their respective classes instead, and Harry tries to lose himself in sketching. He's mostly unsuccessful, and he gives up altogether when Daphne Greengrass drops into the seat across from him.
She looks remarkably put together, her face clear of tears, but Harry doesn't have it in him to ask about her dad. He's not sure he'll like the answer, either way, and he wonders if that makes him a terrible human being.
"Hi," Harry greets her.
"Hello," she answers. She doesn't ask him how he's going, doesn't express her sympathies, doesn't ask him about London, about his absence, about anything, actually. She just opens up her sketchbook, produces a pencil from somewhere Harry can't figure out, and starts to draw.
Harry shares a glance with Brittany, who is as perplexed as Harry feels, but infinitely more unflappable. She simply smiles, shrugs, and returns to her own sketching efforts, humming quietly to herself.
Harry exhales, resigns himself to never understanding the fairer sex, and retrieves his pencil from where he'd dropped it. He stares at his half-hearted attempt at a cityscape, erases it, and starts again. Rather than the London skyline though, he draws the street level entrance to King's Cross Station as he'd last seen it, the sidewalk full of flowers, tributes, candles and framed photographs. It hurts, but it's almost cathartic, in a way, and it consumes his focus until the end of class.
Wordlessly, Harry packs up his things, shoulders his bag, and walks with Brittany out of class. He's perplexed, then, when they're once again joined by Greengrass.
"How's your day going?" He asks, for lack of anything else to say. He doesn't know this girl, and the extent of their past interactions can be summed up to one emotional conversation in which neither of them were in any state to get to know each other.
It's apparently enough though, or something.
Harry's not too sure, truth be told. But then, he's not too sure about much of anything, these days.
"I can't complain," Daphne answers, "And yours?"
"It's nice to have Harry back," Brittany opines airily.
Harry somehow finds it in himself to smile at his friend, and then answers Greengrass, "It's fine. Ready for it to be over."
They make idle chit chat until they have to split to their respective classes. There, Greengrass stops him with a hand on his arm, and Harry looks at her, expectant.
"You were in London, right?"
Harry nods, slowly. "Yes, I was."
Daphne nods, and frowns minutely. There's a small furrow between her eyebrows, and there's something oddly charming about it. "I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm sorry, too, that you have to remember London like that. It's…"
"I've been to London before, many times. I know." He clenches his fists, relaxes them, and then forces a smile, "It's sort of admirable, in a way. There was an attack in the middle of the city, and they just… Kept on keeping on. I can appreciate that sort of spirit."
Daphne's smile is fleeting. "Londoners are a rare breed, aren't they?"
Harry hums his acknowledgement. The warning bell blares. "I've got to go."
"Yeah, me too," Daphne tugs the strap of her satchel higher on her shoulders, "It was… I guess I'll see you around, Potter."
"Yeah," Harry agrees. He steps back, towards the corner, and Daphne turns on her heel. He's not sure she hears him say, "See you."
Harry retreats into his Health class, drops into his usual seat beside Matt, and tries to focus on the lesson.
He mostly fails, but it's okay. Somehow, things don't seem quite as terrible as they had that morning. He's still agitated, still far too conscious of the compatriots of Crouch Jr in the shadows of Britain, making plans, causing trouble, but for now, he's 15 years old, he's just spoken to a girl he's harboured a crush on all year, and things aren't great, but they're okay.
Everything else will just have to wait, and for now, Harry can live with that.
He can do nothing else.
Author's Note: Okay, so this is the end of Part 1. Not the way I saw it ending, to be honest, but I'm satisfied. Part 2 is in the works, if barely, but I probably won't post it until November, at least. Possibly December. It will most likely be another story entirely, but I'll post an AN when I upload Chapter 1.
All of that said, I just want to thank everyone for following, favouriting, and reviewing this labour of love of mine. I appreciate your support, more than I can say, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Until Part 2, guys and gals. -t.