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.

Note: In this particular chapter, italics in double quotation marks "like so" signify another language. In single quotation marks 'like so', it signifies text messaging. I usually hate keys like this, because as an author, I should make it obvious within the chapter itself, but because there are two different types going on here, I thought I ought to clarify. Just in case.

Part One: Fifteen

Chapter Nine: Father and Son

When Harry reaches the school parking lot after football training, it's to find his dad on the phone, an unhappy frown on his face. He stands straight-backed, and he speaks quickly in rapid-fire Welsh to the person on the other end of the line. There's no telling who it is, perhaps one of Harry's grandparents, or one of his father's friends from back home, but either way, the man doesn't like whatever he's hearing, and he also doesn't want Harry to overhear it, either.

"I have to go," he says, "I'll talk to you later."

He hangs up as Harry approaches, and offers the teen a strained smile.

"Everything all right, Dad?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," James answers, "That was just Sirius. It looks like he and the kids are joining us for Christmas this year. Are you ready to go?"

Harry nods, dissatisfied with his father's response, but sure he won't get any more out of him. The man's a functional mute when he wants to be. "Yeah, let's go. I'm starving. What are we having for dinner?"

"Your mum's in the mood for curry. She was rambling about Thai spices when I spoke to her at lunch, so something along those lines, I'd assume."

Harry's stomach rumbles at the thought. Curry isn't his favourite dish, but he'll generally eat anything his parents put in front of him, particularly his mother. Her food is always delicious, or at least interesting, and moreover, he's always hungry. It's a byproduct of puberty or something, and also of an active lifestyle, which Harry has in spades.

"Sounds good," he mumbles, distracted as his phone chimes with an incoming message. It's from Quinn, an enquiry about how football training had gone, decorated with emoticons, and Harry replies quickly. Puck would suggest that he delay his response, but Harry doesn't have the patience for mind games, and neither does he care much for them. As such, his response is swift, a simple 'It was unremarkable, if painful. How was your afternoon?'

At the wheel, his father arches an inquisitive eyebrow. "Is that Quinn?"

"Yeah," Harry answers, "Why?"

"No reason," James shrugs, "You two have gotten rather close."

Quinn's been over to his house a few times since that disastrous afterparty, but that's nothing particularly strange. The others have been, too. In fact, the last gathering he'd had here was just before autumn had truly made its presence known, and they'd spent an entire afternoon clustered in his family's backyard, where they have a pool and enough space to play a few pick-up games of soccer, football, and to everyone but Harry's bemusement, cricket.

In saying that, however, his parents aren't idiots, and in fact, are rather observant. Harry would not be surprised to learn they'd seen a prospective relationship with Quinn coming, perhaps even before Harry himself had.

He bites the inside of his cheek, hesitates briefly, and then just blurts it out. It's embarrassing, and he's surely going to be heckled to high heaven for it, but he needs a lift on Saturday evening, and emergencies excepting, his parents never appreciate it when he asks them for one without any prior notice. "I asked her out. On a date. On Saturday."

His father smiles, unsurprised, knowing, and perhaps amused. "And what did she say?"

"She said yes." Harry can't suppress his own grin, and he turns his face towards his passenger side window to try and hide it.

James chuckles lightly, drums his fingers on the steering wheel, and asks, "Where will we be taking you?"

"I, err, haven't gotten that far yet."

As he speaks, Quinn replies with word that her afternoon was uneventful, filled with homework, projects, and revision. She informs him, also, that she's on her way to Mass, after which she has her youth group, and Harry has no real idea how to respond to that.

He settles on 'I hope it goes well. Talk later?' which, he hopes, doesn't sound too dismissive. Quinn's faith is important to her, and he has no intention of disregarding or disrespecting that, but it's not something he can completely identify with. His parents are both active members of the Church of England, had baptised Harry and Kate into the same, but they hadn't expected the same spiritual commitment from their children. Instead, James and Lily had educated the two, and left it up to them to decide in their own time whom or what they believed in.

Harry still hasn't made that particular decision, but he wonders what it's like for Quinn and Puck, who's faith is such an intrinsic part of their respective lives, of their very identities. It's something they've never doubted, never questioned, and that's not something Harry can completely relate to. After all, he has questioned the existence of God. He has questioned the inconsistencies in the Bible. he has questioned whether or not he can really believe in something that has never been scientifically proven, and although he hasn't yet found his answers, he's sure the fact that he doubts at all is particularly telling.

"May I offer some advice?"

"Uh, yeah, okay," Harry answers, baffled. Excepting the mortifying, never to be repeated, plainly traumatising sex talk, and those two brief lessons on how to shave, his father has never offered Harry any unsolicited advice. He's happy to answer questions when they are asked, happy to offer opinions and suggestions when they are sought from him, but James Potter is generally of the opinion that Harry and Kate need to make - and learn from - their own mistakes. As such, the request - and the intent behind it - is surprising.

"Take her somewhere where you two can talk, but also somewhere where you don't necessarily have to talk about yourself. Dating, it's about getting to know each other, discovering whether or not you're compatible as a couple. You can't really do that in a movie theatre, or at a school dance, you understand?"

"Where should I take her, then?"

"That's for you to decide, kiddo," James answers lightly, "I can't give you all the answers now, can I?"

"That's helpful," Harry mumbles, rolling his eyes, "But thanks. For the advice."

"Anytime, kiddo," James answers, "That's what I'm here for."

Simultaneously, his father pulls into their driveway, and his phone buzzes with another message from Quinn. She's simply texted 'Definitely' with another smiley face, and Harry pockets his phone before he can be sucked into an exchange of emojis. Then he gathers up his things, and follows his father into the house.

Upstairs, he can hear Kate blasting Lady Gaga from her speakers, and Harry idly wonders how long it'll take before she and their dad get in a row about it. It won't be the first time, and undoubtedly, it won't be the last, either.

"Honey, I'm home."

"Kitchen, James," Lily answers.

As Harry's father wanders off to reunite with his wife, Harry greets Frodo and Sam with pats and scratches. They're excited, dancing on their paws as Harry dotes on them, their tails wagging, their nails clicking on the hardwood floors. They're always happy to see him, friendly and playful, and Harry makes a mental note to take them to a dog park on Sunday. His mum and dad have been walking them, but they're primarily Harry and Katie's responsibility, and both of them haven't particularly been showing it as of late.

Eventually, Frodo and Sam wander off in search of treats from Lily, and Harry retreats downstairs. He throws a load of his laundry - sweat-soaked, grass stained training clothes and all - into the washing machine, before he wanders into his bedroom to start his homework. It's exceedingly tempting to waste time on the Internet, to look up stupid shit on Youtube, to download some new music or whatever, but alas, school takes precedence. Moreover, his mother would kick his arse if she caught him procrastinating when they're both well aware that he doesn't have the time to do so.

Harry exhales roughly, drops gracelessly into his desk chair, and waits, eagerly, for the weekend. With what he has to look forward to, it can't arrive soon enough.

Author's Note: Once upon a time, my dad was driving me to a friend's place, and asked out of the blue, "Are you seeing anyone?" Incidentally, I was at the time, albeit discreetly, and so I'm sure he has some sort of radar for his children's love lives. It's not even the first/last instance, but I won't mention those.