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-Two: No Surprise
When Hermione and Viktor break up, it's not a public spectacle. It's not obvious, it's not a big deal among the rest of their peers, and to Harry, it's not much of a surprise, either. Hermione's mature for their age, undeniably, but Viktor, who is planning for his future after high school, is at a completely different point in his life, and Harry's more surprised that the breakup had not come sooner.
He doesn't admit that, of course, and Hermione doesn't ask for his opinion. Instead, her plan seems to be to endure the last few days of school until the Thanksgiving weekend, to pretend that nothing is wrong until then, and to avoid any conversation regarding relationships, soccer, and Viktor Krum as humanly possible.
It's a little awkward, in all honesty. Ron and Harry genuinely consider the older guy a friend, completely separate from his relationship with Hermione, and it's something of a wrench to be caught between them. There's relief in the knowledge that neither Viktor nor Hermione expect them to take sides in the breakup, relatively amicable as it is, but all the same…
"Why do you think they broke up?" Quinn wonders.
Harry shrugs. "Don't know. It's not my business, so I didn't ask."
Quinn sighs, fondly exasperated. "You're such a guy."
Harry grins. "I try."
Mock unimpressed by that, Quinn drags him into a playful wrestling match that ends with grass stains, rumpled clothes, and a long, entirely pleasant make-out session. He's not too sure how, but Quinn's hands wind up beneath his shirt, and although Harry's not opposed to it, he's also very much aware of the fact that they're in Quinn's backyard, and Mr and Mrs Fabray are due home any minute now.
With that in mind, Harry finds the will in himself to slow things down, though it's a struggle. His heart still pounds, and he's still sporting a hard-on Quinn is no doubt aware of, but at the very least, they're not about to be caught in a compromising position by Quinn's very strict, very traditional, very religious parents.
"You know," Quinn muses, stretched out on top of him. She's propped herself up on her elbows, has spent the last few moments studying his face, and he's a little self-conscious under her scrutiny. "You've got the prettiest eyes. It's really not fair."
"Um, thanks?" Marie had said something similar, but he's sure mentioning that wouldn't be appreciated. "I happen to think your eyes are very pretty, myself."
Her eyes are green, too, though not the same shade. They're lighter, flecked with splashes of gold and brown, and he's spent an embarrassing amount of time attempting to capture the image of them on paper. Thus far, he's not been successful.
"You're sweet." Quinn kisses the tip of his nose, and then laughs, oddly giddy. He likes her best like this, carefree and playful, and he doesn't want this moment to end. He doesn't want to return to the reality that awaits them beyond the confines of Quinn's yard, where school, and peer pressure, and family expectations govern everything. He isn't sure if he loves Quinn - surely, it's too soon for that? - but either way, he's sure that if he could, he would freely, happily stay in this moment forever.
"If you tell anyone, I'll deny it."
"Don't worry, you're secret's safe with me." She pats his cheek and offers him a condescending smile. In retaliation, he tickles her sides, merciless. Quinn laughs and squirms, and then concedes with a breathless, "Uncle!"
Still smiling, she sprawls out beside him, exactly where she'd started, and they pass the time watching the clouds go by. Although the chill of winter has set in, and they're due for snow any day now, it's restful there, Quinn's fingers entwined in his, and that's how Mr and Mrs Fabray find them, lightheartedly squabbling over whether or not one cloud in particular is a vase, or perhaps a fish.
As he always does, Harry gets up to greet them.
He's met Quinn's parents a few times now, Mr Fabray more than his wife, but both of them often enough to greet them less formally than he would otherwise. All the same, he's still as nervous as he was the first time he'd met them as Quinn's boyfriend, and he struggles to imagine a day when he won't be.
"Will you be staying for dinner?" Mrs Fabray asks him. They've moved inside, and while Mr Fabray retreats into his study, the rest of them cluster in the kitchen with mugs of hot chocolate, freshly baked biscuits (re: cookies), and the soft strains of Sarah McLachlan filtering from a small, portable stereo.
"Thank you for the offer, Mrs Fabray, but I can't tonight."
With his grandparents in town, and staying indefinitely, his parents have implemented the rule of Sunday night family dinners. Even if Harry was inclined to protest (which he isn't), his presence is nonnegotiable, and the combined might of James and Lily Potter is a force to be reckoned with.
"Next time, then."
"I wouldn't miss it, Mrs Fabray."
-!- -#-
In truth, Harry doesn't mind the Sunday night dinners. He'd never admit it to his friends, but he loves spending time with both of his grandparents. Their experiences throughout the decades offer them an insight about life Harry will likely never obtain, but it's always simultaneously humbling and amazing to hear the stories they have to share. From Dorea Black's early years spent in German-occupied France, to Charles Potter's adolescence in Eton College, from his time in the Korean War to all the notable people - Coco Chanel, Eleanor Roosevelt, Helena Rubinstein, and then some - they've both encountered over the years. It's intimidating and awe-inspiring in one fell swoop, and Harry doesn't think he'll ever grow tired of it.
On this particular Sunday, however, Kate's their entertainment for the evening, and she soaks up the attention like a sponge. Her voice is strong and clear, the piano an extension of her being as she plays. SHe's good - very much so, in fact - and she's only guaranteed to get better as time goes on. She wants to be famous, wants to see her name up in lights, and perhaps Harry's biased, but he's sure his sister has the talent to reach her dreams.
He'll never tell her that, naturally. It's his job as Kate's older brother to keep her humble, and she's already got enough people telling her as is, besides.
"Won't you play for us, Henry?" Dorea asks. It's not much of a request, and Harry knows better than to protest.
He sighs internally, lifts himself from his place slouched in the recliner, and approaches the piano. Kate makes way for him, claims his seat as her own, and then laughs at the face he pulls in response.
"What would you like to hear, Nain?"
Harry runs through a few scales, and it feels as though he's returned to an old friend. He's never been quite as fond of music as his sister, but that's only because he's never cared much for making a career out of it. He'll admit, freely, that there's a special place in his heart for performing, for playing his piano or guitar, right alongside his fondness for art, for painting and drawing, and even sculpting. In fact, he's actually missed it, and although he hasn't got anything new prepared for his grandparents, it's suddenly not so much of a chore to play for them.
He plays for an hour, and by the time he's done, it's almost 10 o'clock. Kate's shepherded off to get ready for bed, Harry's strongly encouraged to do the same, and both of his grandparents make their way towards the garage. There's a door there that's the internal access point for their temporary apartment, tucked away in a corner, and hidden by the extra fridge. There's a narrow balcony and staircase that provides the secondary (and external) access, but as far as Harry can tell, neither of his grandparents care to use it.
His dad's just returned from locking up the house, ensuring the alarm is set, and taking out the trash when his phone starts to ring. His mother, who is clearing up the used wine glasses, stops to watch him carefully, and Harry, who has just begun to make his way downstairs, stills, too.
"Hey, Sirius, have you got any news for me?"
The rest goes unheard, since James retreats into his study, Lily in tow. The door clicks shut behind them, and Harry reluctantly descends downstairs. As he does so, he wonders about what on Earth Sirius has to say at three o'clock in the morning (GMT), and he wonders, also, if he'll ever find out.
Although Harry is, undeniably, curious, he's also afraid. In that vein, he hopes he'll never have to.