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 Two: Home

When practise is over, Harry makes his way to the student parking lot. He wreaks of Axe because some dumbass in the locker room thought it would be hilarious to spray an excess of Africa all over the place, but he's clean, dressed comfortably in a pair of his WMHS sweats, a V-neck tee, and his Titans pullover. He's tired, worn out from the long day and the arduous training session, and it's a relief to find that his father is already there.

James Potter, at 45, is as tall and sturdy as he's ever been, with sable hair cropped close to his scalp,and hazel eyes framed by rectangular, silver-framed glasses. He's still dressed in his work clothes, sans necktie and suit jacket, and he briefly turns away from his conversation with another parent to acknowledge Harry's approach.

"How are you going, kiddo? Good practise?"

"Yeah, it went well," Harry answers, glancing curiously at the stranger his father seems to know. The man is broad and sturdy, with blonde hair going grey at the temples, with age lines around his blue eyes, and Harry waits patiently for introductions.

"Ah, sorry. Russell Fabray, this is my son, Harry. Harry, Mr Fabray is a colleague of mine. It turns out his daughter is in your grade."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Harry shakes the man's hand, "Quinn seems like a very bright girl."

"She is," Mr Fabray beams, abundantly proud, "She wants to attend Yale."

Harry's a little thrown by the revelation. He's 15 years old, and most days, he can't decide what cereal to eat in the morning. He's barely even thought about college, never mind what he wants to study, and where. It's a far, distant prospect, to be stressed over in Junior Year, alongside SAT's and prom and the constant questions about what he wants to do when he grows up.

"That's ambitious," he says, for lack of anything else to say.

Mr Fabray laughs as though it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. "SHe's an ambitious girl. Always has been."

"It's a good trait to have," James opines.

"That it is," Mr Fabray agrees, "Can't get anywhere without it."

Their conversation continues, about children and work and the property market, and Harry tunes them out with an inaudible exhale. He's sore, he's hungry, and all he really wants is to return home, to demolish whatever meal they're having for dinner, to relax in the comfort of his own bedroom.

Subsequently, time seems to drag by, and it almost feels as though an hour has passed when Quinn finally joins them. .

Apparently, Coach Sylvester kept them late. Again.

Quinn is introduced to Harry's father, who is quickly charmed by the pretty, witty blonde. She uses the same facade with their teachers, a polite, considerate, virtuous young lady. Harry would be in awe of her ability to wrap his father, a retired SAS soldier and a former officer of MI5, around her finger, if he wasn't so perturbed by it.

Harry's not sure why it bothers him so much. Everyone he knows is a different person around adults, but there's something about Quinn Fabray that rubs him the wrong way, and it irks him that he can't work out why.

Blessedly, they don't linger much longer, and a few minutes later, Harry is slumped into the passenger seat of his father's Escalade, headed home. There's a Beatles album playing through the speakers, and outside his window, the horizon is a bright, burnished orange as the sun sets over Lima.

"How was school?" James asks.

"It was school," Harry answers.

"That's enlightening," James deadpans.

"What did you want me to say?"

"How are your classes going?"

"They're fine," Harry answers, "I mean, Modern History is boring as hell, but I haven't failed anything yet."

That's not saying much, of course. It's only been a bit over a month since the year started, and there have only been a few minor assessment pieces since. He's got significant projects due in late October, but for the most part, most of his major assessment won't take place until after Thanksgiving. He generally avoids thinking about those, however.

"Yet?"

Harry shrugs, somewhat defensive. He's a good student, and he works hard in his classes, but he's not a genius. He's satisfied with a B+/A- average, and he'll never excel at everything. Japanese, in particular, makes him want to tear his hair out.

James pulls into their driveway, and glances at Harry askance. "Try not to fail anything, all right?"

Harry rolls his eyes, and answers sardonically, "I'll do my best."

The evening news is on the television, and his mother, Lily, is seated on the couch with a book in her lap. James makes a beeline for her, side-stepping the two dogs, Frodo and Sam, and the cat, Loki, to greet her with a kiss.

Harry leaves them to their reunion, bypassing the living room to descend the staircase at the end of the hall. It opens into an entertainment area, complete with a 55 inch television, assorted game consoles, and shelves upon shelves of DVD's, video games, and CD's. There's a sliding door that opens onto the back patio, but Harry's room is on the other side of the entertainment area, concealed by a dividing wall.

In theory, his room is supposed to be a guest bedroom. Because he and Kate, his sister, can't share a bathroom to save their lives, however, Harry's adopted it as his own, and thus far, it's worked well for him. He has his own space, easy access to the video games and an even easier way to sneak out of the house, and best yet, it's far away from any thirteen year old girls his sister brings home with her.

With a brief detour to deposit his dirty clothes in the laundry at the end of the hall, Harry makes his way to his bedroom, drops his things by the door, and flops gracelessly across his mattress. He should get a start on the homework he hasn't already completed, should at least help his parents with dinner, but he's mnakkered, and the last thing he wants to do is get out of bed.

Beside his head, his phone buzzes to life. It's a text message from Puck, informing him that he'd better be on Call of Duty later that night, and also that Quinn Fabray has asked for his number, via Santana Lopez, and Harry can just imagine his friend's stupid face.

Irked, because Puck has no qualms about handing out his number like candy, and also because it's Fabray and Lopez who asked for it, Harry replies with a succinct 'fuck you', and a request not to give his number to anyone else. He also offers a confirmation that he'll be online, and reluctantly pulls himself to his feet. His study desk is cluttered with books he's read, and others he is yet to start, but he has room enough for his homework, and he's made decent headway by the time his mother announces that dinner's ready.

Lily Potter's a professional pastry chef and chocolatier, but she's also taken a couple of courses in Italian and French cuisine. She also dabbles in the cuisine of other cultures, and it's fairly safe to assume that when she cooks, it's something to appreciate.

That said, it's also abundantly obvious when it's his dad who has prepared their meal. He's not a bad cook by any means, but he's not a professional either, and he doesn't generally broaden his culinary horizons beyond the basics of meat, vegetables, and a helping of carbs. Nevertheless, Harry inhales the food on his plate without complaint, goes for seconds, and listens absently to the dinner conversation as he does so.

Kate, in typical 13 year old fashion, is rhapsodising over her new favourite book series, Twilight. Their mother, who has read it, points out all the things wrong with it, from poor grammar to the unhealthy relationship between Bella and Edward, to the overused plot device that is the unrealistic love triangle. It's entertaining, but afterwards, Kate eats in mutinous, sulking silence, which inevitably makes everyone else uncomfortable.

"What about you, Harry? Are you reading anything new?"

"Nothing interesting. Just crap for school."

Between his studies, his extra-curricular activities, and his part-time job at his mother's cafe, Harry hardly has any free time of his own. As such, the only novels he's picked up since the start of term are those on the required reading list for Advanced English, and they're all littered with colour-coordinated post-it notes that identify themes, notable quotes, and significant plot points. It's not something he considers pleasure reading, but as far as his mother is concerned, it's better than nothing.

His parents spend the rest of Harry's time at the dining table in conversation about the aforementioned novels. Harry's not surprised to learn that, between them, they have already read the entirety of the required reading list, and most of the recommended list, too. James and Lily are veracious readers, and have worked hard to foster an appreciation for the written word in both of their children.

Nevertheless, he's not particularly interested in hearing their respective opinions concerning 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', and if the constant eye rolls are anything to go by, neither is Kate.

He finishes his second helping of dinner as his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's a text message from an unknown number - an emoji laden 'Hi, it's Quinn. Hope you don't mind I got your number' - and Harry has no idea how he ought to reply.

He saves her contact information, slides his phone shut, and opts to delay his response with kitchen clean-up. He and his sister have an alternating schedule of chores, vacuuming and laundry and cleaning the pool and what have you, and they've both learned to stop complaining about it.

The fact is, chores guarantee less restrictions on their respective social lives. In the past, he's had to endure a month without video games, without friends over and without permission to go to anyone else's place and/or parties, and it's a month he intends never to repeat.

Moreover, Harry has no desire to give his parents any reason to renege on their deal to go halves on his first car. He's saving up for it, yes, but he's also kind of depending on their contributions to the cause. He's never had reason to spend so much money in his life, and if he's honest with himself, he cringes at the very thought of it.

That said, he wants a car too much to renege himself, and he's got roughly ten months to get used to the idea.

With the kitchen cleaned, he feeds the dogs and the cat, ensures their water bowls are filled, and then retreats to his bedroom. Sam follows him, content to flop lazily at the foot of Harry's bed.

Harry, meanwhile, produces his phone from his pocket, replies to Quinn with an affable 'Hey, no worries. Now I have yours', and returns to his homework.

Quinn doesn't reply, but between homework, and Call of Duty afterwards, Harry doesn't wait for one.