Welcome to the Jungle

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Part One: Fifteen

Chapter Fifty-One: Slipped Away

They get the news on Thursday morning. Marlene is gone, having slipped away in the night, and Harry is left bereft. It doesn't seem real, in some respects, because he'd not seen her, he'd not had a chance to say goodbye, and there is an ocean between himself and Sirius, Leo, Ursa, and Cassie.

Harry can't imagine how they're feeling. He'd only seen Marlene sporadically over the years, and although she'd been family, although he had fond memories of the time he'd spent with her, she wasn't his mother.

Nevertheless, his life seems irrevocably altered by her passing, in a way Harry can't quite pinpoint.

Perhaps it's the nature of her death, a result of senseless, inexplicable violence on a day that would have been completely ordinary, otherwise. Perhaps it's because she wasn't elderly, like the only other people he'd had to farewell this way, or perhaps it's something else entirely.

Harry doesn't know, and neither does he spend a lot of time dwelling on it. Instead, he proceeds through Thursday and Friday on autopilot, sorting out his week away with his teachers and the WMHS administration, packing up a small suitcase for the trip to London, trying to figure out what on Earth to say to Sirius, Leo, Ursa, and Cassie when they they get there.

Is there anything he can say?

Somehow, Harry doubts it.

-!- -#-

There's a knock on his door, and Harry turns on his bed with a weary sigh. He turns down his music, calls out that it's open, and then watches wordlessly as his father steps through the doorway.

James Potter's eyes scan Harry's room, pass over the suitcase and backpack propped by the door, and settle on the 15 year old on the bed. "All packed?"

Harry glances pointedly at his bags. "Yes?"

James nods his acknowledgement, absent-minded, and settles carefully on the edge of Harry's bed. The teen shifts to accommodate him, tucks a pillow under his chin, and waits quietly as his father gathers himself.

"I spoke with Sirius today."

Harry's interest is peaked. "How is he?"

"He's…" James hesitates, "Keeping busy. Making arrangements."

'For the funeral' goes without saying.

"And the others?"

"They're as well as can be expected."

Which, given the circumstances, is probably a polite way of saying they're a collective wreck. No surprise, all things considered, but Harry's heart hurts for them. For Sirius, too, who shouldn't have to bury his wife, but no one's ever said life is fair.

"I came down here to check on you though."

"Me?"

"Losing someone in an attack like that… It's hard to make sense of something so senseless. I just want to make sure you know it's all right to be upset, or angry, or confused," he meets Harry's gaze with his own, "It's okay to grieve."

Harry's smile is feeble. "I don't think it's hit me yet."

"That's all right, too," James assures him. Harry hadn't been particularly concerned, but it's good to know, "There isn't a timeline for grief."

Harry exhales through his nose. "Do they know who did it?"

His father's lips thin with his displeasure. "The bomber was a fellow by the name of Bartholomew Crouch. He was part of a local organisation. They call themselves the Death Eaters."

The bomber's identity hasn't been released to the public. Harry assumes - correctly - that his father only knows because of his contacts in England's domestic terrorism task force, and it goes without saying that Harry's expected not to share that information around.

"Why did he do it?"

"To cause fear, to cause suffering, to bring attention to their organisation? I don't know, Harry. I wish I could give you a definite answer, but these things… Most of the time, they'll never have a satisfactory reason."

Harry drops his head onto his pillow, and stares blankly at his bedroom wall. His dad lingers, lost in his own thoughts, and Iron and Wine plays on. Eventually, James gets to his feet, reaches down to squeeze Harry's shoulder, and offers the teen a small, tired smile.

"Better get some sleep, Harry. It's going to be a long trip."

Given the threats made to their family, and and the discomfortingly high amount of criminal and terrorist activity currently present throughout Britain, James and Lily aren't particularly thrilled to allow Harry or Kate to return to England with them. They all need their closure though, need to be able to say goodbye to a woman who'd featured in their lives for as long as her children, and neither parent have it in them to deny Harry or Kate that.

That said, they're scheduled to leave Ohio early the next morning, to take a flight out from Dayton. They'll board a connecting flight out of New York, to arrive in Cardiff, where they are slated to meet Charles and Dorea for the drive to London. There are still no flights in and out of the city, but they are undeterred. Come hell or high water, they'll be there for their family in this difficult time.

"Yeah, okay," Harry acquiesces, "I'll try. Night, Dad."

"Goodnight, Harry. Sleep well."

And honestly, Harry tries.

He mostly fails.

-!- -#-

On a good day, it takes a bit under three hours to travel between Cardiff and London. James has been volunteered for the task, and squashed into the back of a rented SUV, Harry settles in for a long drive. He and Kate's parents and grandparents catch up in the two rows ahead of them, and Harry listens to their conversation absently, thoughts mostly occupied by those awaiting them in London.

Despite his preoccupation, and despite the circumstances, it's good to see his grandparents. It's been a bit over two weeks since their departure from Lima, and although Harry's family has quietly readjusted to their absence once more, it's a comfort to see them safe and unharmed. Harry had worried about them, and it goes without saying: He hadn't been the only one.

Next to him, Kate is silent. She leans against the window, her headphones in her ears and her eyes on the passing scenery. Her grief has been a quiet, subtle affair, far from the loud, confused despair after their Grandpa Evans, or the even louder, despondent hysterics after their Grandmother Evans soon thereafter. Maybe it's because she's older, or because Marlene isn't the first person she's had to say goodbye to, or maybe it's because she's determined to stay strong for Ursa's sake.

Harry doesn't know, and it's not likely he'll ever find out. He's not inclined to asking, anyway, and rather than dwell on the mystery that is his sister, he dons his own headphones, slouches further in his seat, and watches silently as the countryside passes him by.

That is, at least, until they reach London proper.

"I don't get it," Kate breaks the silence that's fallen over the car, "How can they just act like nothing's happened?"

Outside their windows, Londoners seem to proceed through the daily grind without fanfare. There is laughter, there are smiles, there are tears and frowns, and there is everything in between. There's fear too, though, and anger, and in spite of these things, there is a stubborn sort of determination to keep on keeping on, anyway.

Harry can't decide if it's admirable or stupid.

"I guess the locals are determined not to let them win," Dorea says thoughtfully, "Or perhaps it's just in a person's nature to endure. Who can say?"

"I don't think I could do it," Kate says, "I don't think I'd even want to leave the house."

"I think you'd surprise yourself," Charles opines.

Kate leans forward in her seat, props her chin against the back of Charles', and eyes him curiously. "Why do you say that?"

Their grandfather meets her gaze with a small, soft smile. "You're here now, aren't you?"

Kate exhales through her nose, flops back against her seat, and crosses her arms over her chest. No one else contributes to the conversation, and the drive continues.

And before Harry's truly prepared for it, they arrive.

He still has no idea what to say, but it seems he's run out of time to figure it out.