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 Forty-Four: We Won't Run

It's yet another family night, and they're gathered around the dining table, embroiled in a game of Monopoly. It's a competitive, albeit good-natured affair that Harry is losing at spectacularly. Even as he accepts the teasing with an affable smile though, he privately hopes business acumen is a learned skill, because if it's hereditary, Harrys going to go down in the annals of his family's history as the one to bankrupt Peverell Industries, in which case, he might just die of shame. He'd certainly never again be able to look his father in the eye.

Fortunately, responsibility of Peverell Industries is a long way from Harry's grasp, and hopefully, it's not something he'll have to worry about for many years to come.

"Seriously, you suck at this," Kate informs him.

"Like I don't already know that," harry rolls his eyes, pulls a face, and yawns into his hand.

"In all fairness, he was the last to roll," Lily opines, "He's at a bit of a disadvantage in that regard."

"that makes me feel better," Harry deadpans. "I mean, screw the property market."

"Crude," Dorea says mildly, "But apt. It's so very changeable."

"You just need to change with the market, Mum," James contributes.

Kate and Harry share a long-suffering glance as around them, the adults descend into discussion regarding the property market, and the value of investments therein.

Resigned, Harry gets up to clean the kitchen, and Kate follows to feed the pets. As they do so, the adults pay them no heed, rapt up in the debate that's started up between Charles and James. It drifts between languages, Welsh and French and English, and thus, despite his fluency in each of them, there are technical terms Harry hasn't even heard of. The topic, therefore, goes way over his head, and Harry doesn't even try to understand.

"Do you think they'd notice if we ditched them?" Kate asks, overly optimistic.

"Um, yes? Have you met our father?"

"Who wants to listen to that though?" Kate pouts, gesturing vaguely towards the dining room, "I don't even understand half of what they're saying."

"Why do you think I'm voluntarily cleaning the kitchen?"

Harry starts to stack dishes in the empty dishwasher, and without prompting, Kate begins to empty the drying rack beside the sink. They proceed in an amicable silence, broken only as Kate hums to herself, and it's easy, mindless work that Harry completes on autopilot. He washes the pots and pans his mother had used that night, wipes down the stove and countertops, and packs away the cooling leftovers in the refrigerator. Kate lets Frodo and Sam back in through the balcony door, Loki takes off to do whatever cats do at night, and eventually, neither of them have any more reason to linger. As such, they (reluctantly) return to the dining room, and settle into the seats they'd vacated earlier.

"I'm glad you two are back," Charles greets them, "Dorea and I have something of an announcement to make."

Across the table from his father, Harry's own dad, James, looks an odd blend of dubious, curious, and concerned. Harry can't tell if he already knows what's going on, but Harry doesn't particularly appreciate the way both of his grandparents avoid he and Kate's respective gazes, and he's pretty sure he won't like what they have to say.

"Is everything okay?" Kate asks, fretful. They're all aware of the fact Charles and Dorea aren't getting any younger, but Kate's the one who worries about them most, and Harry hopes - for all of their sakes - that neither of them are going to announce a diagnosis of cancer, or dementia, or something like it.

"Dorea and I have decided to return to Wales," Charles succinctly informs them.

In response, the rest of them are stunned speechless.

"In particular, we intend to reside in Cardigan for as long as the threat to our wellbeing remains. As is, we've responsibilities back home that we can no longer delegate, and as much as we enjoy the time spent with you all, quite frankly, both of us would simply rather return home."

"Have you lost your minds?" Perhaps predictably,the question comes from James, who looks simultaneously outraged, incredulous, and terrified, "There are people in Britain actively trying to kill you, and you want to go back there?"

"We've spent six months here, James," Charles' tone is calm and level, but James doesn't appreciate it in the slightest, "If they were going to find the perpetrator, then they would have by now. As is, they have not, and Dorea and I have no intention of putting our lives on hold indefinitely. We've still plenty to do, and a few death threats are not going to stop us."

"Go to bed," Lily instructs Harry and Kate. Her gaze is on her husband though, whose face is turning an alarming shade of red. He looks fit to bursting. "Now."

Kate, who has already started crying despite the fact they haven't actually left yet, and Harry, who still has no idea what to say, do not protest. They've seen their father in a temper enough to know they don't want to see it again, and so they disperse before they have to, and retreat to their respective bedrooms just as the yelling starts on the floor between them.

Harry closes all of the doors as he goes, and drowns out the rest of the noise with one of his Easy Listening playlists, still a little too dazed to truly comprehend all of the consequences of his grandparents' decision. Instead, he's rapt up in the thought of their departure, and the epiphany that, actually, he really doesn't want them to go.

Unable to distract himself with the homework he'd completed during what had turned out to be an exceedingly productive afternoon, Harry busies himself with his PSP instead, and works hard not to think about what's going on upstairs.

He mostly fails.

-!- -#-

After a restless night, the house is eerily silent. None of them speak much as they prepare for their respective days, and even the trip to school is quiet. Harry doesn't know what to say, Kate doesn't either, and their dad's still stewing in the previous night's revelations. As such, Harry's somewhat relieved to get out of the car, and even more relieved to find Hermione and Mike in the WMHS library.

Normally, he'd have no interest in being a third wheel to his friends' study dates, but he always gets a lot of work done with them, and quite frankly, Harry could use the distraction.

"Hey you," Hermione greets him cheerfully, "How goes it?"

Harry drops into a seat beside Mike, grimacing. "Could be better."

"What's wrong?" Mike prods.

"Just, you know, shit at home."

Hermione and Mike grimace their sympathy, but they don't pry. Instead, they turn back to their respective projects as Harry, meanwhile, produces his laptop from his bag. He's determined to churn out the last of his History report (due that Friday) before he has to make his way to homeroom, and if he has time to type out his reference list, too, then Harry won't complain.

"What happened with you and Katie?" Hermione queries. With half an hour before they have to disperse for homeroom, They've fallen into a brief, impromptu study break, and Hermione looks as though she's been waiting to ask all morning.

"Nothing, really," Harry admits, nonchalant, "We kind of just decided we were better off as friends. I don't know, maybe it's just bad timing or something, but it was just weird, you know? NO chemistry, or whatever."

"But you two are good?" Mike clarifies.

"We're good," Harry confirms.

"And did you want to talk about what's going on at home?" Hermione asks.

Harry's face scrunches up at the thought. "Not really. Still a bit too fresh, you know?"

After a night to absorb his grandparents' announcement, Harry's upset. He's sad, angry, and terrified for their wellbeing, but he's also a little hurt, because don't they want to spend time with their family?

Admittedly, six months is a long time, but when will they ever get the chance to do it again? Neither of them have any intentions of retiring any time soon, and they're getting quite old, besides. Moreover, Harry can't imagine his parents are enthused by the prospect of sending their children to the UK while dangerous - in fact treasonous - criminals are on the loose. That doesn't take into consideration whoever is threatening Charles and Dorea, either, but Harry doesn't like to think about that because it's not something he can fix and therefore, it only makes him angry.

"All right," Mike doesn't press the issue, "If you change your mind…"

Hermione nods her agreement.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

They return to their respective tasks without much more conversation, and it's a triumphant Harry who leaves the library half an hour later. Barring a final edit, he's completed his History report, and given everything else he has to hand in within the next two weeks, he looks forward to the moment wherein he no longer has to worry about it.

"You missed an awesome party on Saturday," Puck greets him at his locker, and Harry idly wonders what he's doing there. Normally, Puck's busy in the morning, tossing people in dumpsters, or locking them in portaloos, or pouring slushies on people. "Where were you?"

"Higgs'," Harry answers, yawns, and absently deposits his English, Maths, and Science books in his backpack, "Called it an early night, actually. Got home at, like, half eleven? Something like that."

"Lame."

Harry shrugs, unruffled. "I had work in the morning. Besides, all the parties are just the same old shit, different day, you know?"

"Uh, no?" Puck looks nonplused.

"Whatever. What did you do yesterday?"

Puck shrugs, nonchalant. "Hung out at home. Played some COD. Finished my speech for the Euro Challenge."

"You send it to Mr Sinclair yet?" Harry asks. He'd finished his yesterday, as well, but it's not due in until Tuesday afternoon, and Harry wants to do another edit before he submits it for Mr Sinclair's assessment. He's their Euro Challenge coach, and he's probably as invested in their efforts as the team members themselves.

That aside, Harry can't remember when he became such a perfectionist. He blames Hermione.

"Last night," Puck confirms, "I don't even want to think about it anymore."

"Pain in the ass, right?"

"Too fucking right," Puck emphatically agrees. As he does so, the first bell blares to life, and they both grimace, chagrined. "Catch you in Maths, dude."

"Yeah," Harry confirms. They bump fists before they part ways, but afterwards, Harry heads to English, and braces himself for another day at McKinley High. It can't end soon enough.

Author's Note: I'd hoped to finish Part 1 before March 1st, but that's obviously not happening. Thanks, writer's block.

In other news, I got my first flame for this story. I don't know, maybe it's just criticism (the non-constructive kind) but eh, either way, I don't know why people bother with them. As far as I'm concerned, they're just another way of boosting my review count. So, yeah, suck on that, haters.

So, hope you enjoyed. Leave a review? I'd love to hear your thoughts. Otherwise, until next time, -t.