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 Two: Sixteen

Chapter Eight: Last Night

Harry didn't really plan it, but he wound up spending Friday night with Cho. They hadn't spent much time together, of late, busy with their own things, but they'd run into each other at Ethan's party, and by that point, they'd each been abandoned by their respective friends. She'd been a little down, because she'd seen Cedric and one of his Cheerio classmates getting up close and personal in the living room turned dance floor, and Harry had still been moping about the revelation of Daphne and the boyfriend that wasn't - isn't - him. As such, because misery loved company, drowning their sorrows together seemed only logical.

In the harsh light of day, as the alarm he'd set before the afterparty blares shrill from his phone, as Cho stirs naked beside him, sleep-mussed, disgruntled, and probably as hungover as Harry feels, his decisions the night prior certainly don't seem as logical. He's got the morning shift - he always has the morning shift - and slogging through it with a hangover is not high on his priority list. Moreover, having sex with Cho is all well and good, but the issue of alcohol complicates things.

Would she remember what happened? Would she regret it, would she claim he'd taken advantage of her, and what about contraception? He remembered using a condom, but had he rolled it on properly, and they weren't foolproof, anyway. Was Cho on birth control, would he have to worry about anything a few weeks or months down the road (please, God, let there not be), would she expect more from him, would she hate his guts?

Head spinning with his thoughts, his stomach churning, and unable to shake the question of how Puck and Santana manage one-night-stands so effortlessly, Harry stumbles out of bed, gets dressed, and pockets his phone, wallet, and car keys. He dons his watch, thinks better of leaving without a word, and types out a text to Cho's phone. It reads:

Hey, Cho. Sorry to bail, but I've got work at seven. Give me a call if you've got questions about last night, or if you just want to talk. Hope you're not too hungover.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, but Cho's already fallen back to sleep, and she doesn't stir.

Harry hesitates, but his mum won't be impressed if he's late for work, and Harry leaves his friend to her dreams. He drives home, races through a shower and breakfast, and then takes off again.

He clocks in at the Steam House with only minutes to spare, and his mother - watching from her office door - wears a disapproving frown on her face. She can probably see the hangover all over him, but Harry avoids her gaze, and prays she forgets about it by the time he makes it home.

Would that he was so lucky.

-!- -#-

"You've been drinking," James says. It's not a question, and he doesn't even sound angry about it. It's just a statement, accompanied by a carefully impassive expression, "Do you want to explain to me why? Better yet, while you're at it, you can tell me why you thought to get behind a wheel with alcohol still in your system, and in doing so, chose to endanger not only your life, but everyone else's on the road, too."

That his father sounds angry about, and Harry can't bring himself to look up from his sketchbook. He rolls his pencil between his fingers instead, stares blankly at the jungle scene he's spent the last hour drawing, and comes up with no reasonable excuse.

He could have called either of his parents, asked for a lift. They wouldn't have been pissed about the alcohol - disappointed, maybe - but they wouldn't have kicked up a fuss. At least, not a huge one.

He could have walked home, or caught a bus, or a taxi. Ethan's isn't overly far. He could have asked Kate to swap shifts with him.

He could have done any number of things, really.

"No?" James nods briefly, "Your car keys, Henry. You're clearly not ready for the responsibility that comes with a license."

"But-"

"You got by just fine without one," James interrupts his protest, "You'll do just fine without it for a month. No driving, no parties, no going out at all. You go to school, you go to training and games and work, and then you come home, where your mother and I will have a weekly list of chores for you to complete. And also, no drinking, Henry. Is that understood?"

Harry grinds his teeth. "Fine. Whatever."

Harry grabs his keys from the jeans he'd discarded on his bedroom floor, pulls his house key from the key ring, and then begrudgingly hands over the rest of them. "Here. Can you go now?"

"Curb the attitude, son. You brought this on yourself."

'Don't I fucking know it?' he irately thinks to himself, but he stays silent, and James wordlessly leaves the room. He shuts the door behind him, and Harry slumps back in his seat, drained.

Although Santana will be pissed if he doesn't have his car back by homecoming, Harry finds that losing his car privileges is only a mild inconvenience. At present, he's got a lot more important things to worry about. He's treading water with his school work - he's even managed to get a little ahead of schedule with his IGCSE's - but football training's gotten more intensive as the play-offs approach, and Harry has begun to seriously question whether the Glee Club is a complication he really needs in his life.

To stress him out even more, Harry hasn't heard from Cho, and he's not sure whether or not he should call her, if they should let sleeping dogs lie, if she's expecting him to call, or what. Also, the WMHS rumour mill is notoriously and inconveniently efficient, and Harry's not sure if he should expect a confrontation with Cedric; or from anyone else, for that matter.

Essentially, it's all a mess, and Harry's not sure where to start with sorting everything. Homework seems the least complicated, but it feels as though he's been wading in worksheets, readings, and short essays up to his armpits of late, and as such, homework is somehow even more unappealing than it usually is.

He exhales with a tired sigh, picks up his pencil, turns to a blank page in his sketchbook, and starts to draw again. This, at least, is something that is easy, mindless, cathartic, and Harry loses himself in the lines, the shading, the picture of Cardigan Castle unfolding beneath his hands.

And then his phone rings.

The Caller ID reads Cho Chang. There is a moment, as the sight of her name registers, wherein Harry almost wishes that along with his car, his father had confiscated his phone, too.

Almost, being the operative word.

Author's Note: One of my reviewers said high school drama really does write itself. I had to laugh, because it's so accurate, like I can't even explain. That aside, I also forgot to mention the song lyrics in the last chapter are Ed Sheeran's, from a song called 'Bibia Be Ye Ye''. I don't own, of course.

Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing. 61 chapters and counting, 200 reviews, and almost a hundred thousand words. I can't believe we've only just reached Season 1 canon! Thanks for all your support. Until next time, -t.