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 Fifteen: The Fear

After work, Harry spends Saturday afternoon kicking a ball around with Ron, and with a couple of his friend's on the soccer team. Dean and Seamus are a riot, talented, affable mid-fielders who have no qualms about heckling him about his place on the football team, but they're also very honest when they say they'd be happy to have him on their own team next season, too. It's flattering and appreciated, and Harry's sure nobody on the football team would like to hear that he's seriously considering it.

It's more than just the fact that he loves soccer. It's the scrutiny, the expectations, the peer pressure to get involved with the slushies, and the swirlies, and all the other gratuitous bullshit the football team is involved in. It's exhausting, it's wearing him out, and as is, the only thing that makes him hesitate is the fact he's already made a commitment to Coach Tanaka, and to his teammates. As tempting as it is to jump ship, he has no desire to leave them in the lurch.

"We're having a game night at mine," Seamus informs him. "Did you want to join us? It's nothing fancy, just some food, some drinks, maybe some COD."

"Sounds good," Harry acquiesces. "Thanks for the invite."

"No problem," Seamus shrugs, "Your good people, mate."

Harry chuckles. The form of address, prolific in the UK, sounds oddly incongruous with Seamus' Irish-American accent, but he somehow makes it work.

Harry wonders what their peers think about it.

"When should I be at yours, where do you live, and should I bring anything?"

Details and contact information are exchanged, and Harry splits off to clean up at home. Seamus doesn't live far from him, and thus Harry has every intention of just taking his skateboard there, but his father offers him a lift, and Harry's not about to turn it down.

Of course, he is unsurprised to find his father has an ulterior motive. It's unlike him to offer Harry a lift when their destination is close enough for him to get there independently. It's James and Lily's way of cutting the apron strings, along the same lines as doing his own laundry, keeping his bedroom, bathroom, and living space clean, contributing to the rest of the household chores, getting a job, and all the rest of it.,.

"I want you to continue your Martial Arts training."

Harry blinks, bemused. "Why?"

His father drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "I've heard some concerning news from Sirius. I want you and your sister to be prepared, in case you two ever have to protect yourselves."

"We're literally on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean," Harry deadpans.

Despite his words, however, a frisson of fear shoots down his spine. He doesn't know much about his father's work with the SAS, and even less about the man's work work with MI5, but Harry does know that both careers were - and remain - exceedingly dangerous. He's retired now, has hung up his gun and embraced life as a civilian, but if he's reading between the lines correctly, it's apparent that James Potter's past isn't done with him quite yet.

"What the hell, Dad? I don't have time!" Harry protests, startled. Admittedly, the football season ends in a week, but try-outs for basketball start only two weeks later, and he's already up to his armpits in assessment for school.

"I need you to make time, Harry," James answers. His jaw clenches, his hands around the steering wheel too, and then he consciously makes an effort to relax. "I'm not going to jeopardise your wellbeing under the delusion I can protect you on my own. A very dangerous man has escaped from prison, and I am not going to sit back and blindly hope he chooses not to branch out beyond Britain's borders."

"When do you expect me to sleep?" Harry asks, incredulous. His voice is far higher than he'd like.

"It's doable," James insist, "You've maintained a busier schedule than this."

That, he can't argue. He'd attended dance, music, and etiquette lessons until the end of Junior High (begrudgingly, for the most part) on top of his Martial Arts, Athletic, and Scholastic commitments. There had also been a couple of private art courses, though those had been summertime programs, and therefore, they'd had no impact on his regular schedule.

That said, his grades are a lot more important now than they had been in middle school, and he has no interest in jeopardising his prospects for university for Martial Arts classes that, arguably, he doesn't need. He's already proficient in Tae-Kwan-Do, Karate, and Jujitsu, after all, and isn't that enough?

"This is nonnegotiable, Henry."

Harry grimaces. It's rare that his parents use his given name, and when they do, Harry knows there's no swaying them. In this instance, his father's mind is set - presumably, his mother's, too - and subsequently, he'll be attending a couple of Martial Arts classes each week.

He resigns himself to the fact with a sigh, and asks, "What will I be learning?"

"Karate and Judo," James answers, and pulls up at the curb in front of Seamus' house. "We're here."

-!- -#-

Inside the house, Dean, Ron, and Seamus have been joined by another guy in their class, unfortunate enough to have been named Neville Longbottom. He's on the soccer team as well, on the defence line-up alongside Ron's older twin brothers, and he's apparently a shoe-in for the wrestling team, too. Everyone calls him Frankie, but Harry hasn't actually had the opportunity to meet him yet.

"Hey," Harry greets them. Ron and Dean are absorbed in a round of Mario Kart, but Frankie's hunched over a laptop, clacking away at the keys with the almost desperate focus of someone who's got an essay due in days, and too many words left to write.

Seamus hands Harry a Guinness, gestures for him to get comfortable, and then does the same with a guitar in his lap. He sips intermittently at his beer, idly plucks at the strings of his guitar, and hums under his breath.

"How long have you played?" Harry asks, content to make himself comfortable on the other end of the same couch Frankie's settled into. He gestures vaguely at the acoustic steel-string in Seamus' lap, and sips at his beer while he awaits an answer.

"God, I don't know, as long as I can remember, I guess."

"Do you play anything else?"

Seamus shrugs, nonchalant. "Piano. Ukulele. Do you play anything?"

"I had piano, cello, and singing lessons for years," Harry admits, "I taught myself the guitar in junior high, but I haven't played in ages. Don't have much time anymore."

"I hear you," Seamus commiserates, "Shit's hectic."

Harry grimaces. "Tell me about it."

They hang out for a while, alternating players and shooting the breeze, and Frankie eventually shuts his laptop to socialise instead. Seamus shares his guitar, and they take turns playing idle tunes, or memorised songs, but eventually, it grows late, and Seamus shepherds them all into his yard.

There, he produces a lighter, a jar of ground weed, and a bong.

Harry's not the only one surprised.

"Whoa, dude, where the hell did you get that shit?" Dean asks, wide-eyed.

Ron's eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. "You didn't tell me it was going to be one of those nights."

Frankie is speechless.

Come to think of it, Harry is, too.

"Never mind that," Seamus shrugs off Dean's question, "Are you guys in?"

The rest of them glance between themselves, but eventually, they slowly, hesitantly acquiesce.

In the light of day, when the high is faded and the distinctive smell is soaked into his clothes, Harry can't bring himself to regret it.