Harry Potter and the Return of the Insanity

by SpamWarrior

I now present you with the third installment of my already bloated Insanity trilogy, in which I've taken every cliche and horror I could possibly imagine and crammed them into one gigantic mishmash that might, with some imagination, resemble a fanfic. XD

2. Part Two (subtitled: I LOST ALL MY DAMN ...

All right, this is Part Dos of the monster. I made this one smaller than the first, so it would be a little easier to handle, but people, I'VE GOT FIVE MORE PARTS AS BIG AS THIS ONE!!! ::wails:: I'm not half done with the story, and already it's 91 pages long!! WHY can't I ever write a *short* story?

::sigh:: Well, anyhoozle, not too much happens in here--the Dursleys show up, they hold a ::cough:: rehearsal, and all sorts of patented SpamWarrior mayhem ensues. Please don't flame me; I promise, this is going somewhere! Trust me! I just have to finish writing it all out....which will probably kill me.....

Erised Returns

Classes resumed as usual on Monday, but nobody bothered to do much more than sit around and talk. Professor Flitwick let them play at first-year Hovering Charms while they hashed over the upcoming festivities, but Snape would no sooner let them slack off than take over as Head of Gryffindor. Which is why, halfway through Potions, he flew into a rage at our three favorite Hogwartians.

"POTTER!" he thundered, as Harry and Ron, who were dueling with sticks of wormwood, each dealt an especially hard blow and cracked both of them in half. "That's it. You, Granger, and Weasley, follow me. NOW."

Harry glanced at Ron, his good spirits fading in an instant. This was most unfair, seeing as Hermione hadn't even done anything wrong, but knowing Snape he wanted to get the three of them while the getting was good.

"I said move," snapped Snape, glaring at them, and Harry got to his feet with a resigned sigh. More than likely they were going to see Dumbledore, unless Snape decided to be really horrible and hand them over to Filch (Harry didn't want to think about that one.) He, Ron, and Hermione followed wordlessly after the Potions master, who pointed them into a small room.

"Wait there," he said, a soft, deadly poison in his voice. "I'll deal with you at the end of class." He slammed the door behind him.

Ron stared after him. "Wonder what that was all about?" he said, shivering and drawing his cloak tighter about him.

"Beats me," said Harry, his breath clouding in the air; it was freezing in here, and if Snape was aiming to give them all hypothermia, he'd probably succeed.

"He's losing it," muttered Hermione, blowing on her fingers. "I didn't even DO anything, why am I in here, anyway?"

Harry didn't answer; he was too busy looking around at the contents of their little prison. A high slit of a window let a strip of cold sunshine in, that fell across all sorts of oddly mismatched junk. A battered armchair stood beside a rusted cauldron full of broken wands, which was tipped against a cracked set of scales. And beyond that, half shrouded in cobwebs and buried under layers of dust, stood--

"The mirror?" muttered Harry. He wiped the dust from the glass, and nearly yelled out in shock.

It was the Mirror of Erised.

"You guys," he said, beckoning fervently to Ron and Hermione. "You guys, get over here."

The two, who had been bickering over God knew what, left off and joined him.

"What is it, Harry?" asked Hermione, coming up behind him. She peered at the mirror over his shoulder, and stopped short. Staring for a moment, her eyes round, she suddenly burst into giggles.

Ron stared at her as though she'd gone mad. "Hermione?" he said, peering over her shoulder. "Oh...." Comprehension dawned on his face.

"Is this the Mirror of Erised?" asked Hermione, reaching up and wiping the dust from the mirror's frame.

Harry didn't answer; he was too busy staring at his family. But this image was different from the one he had seen in his first year; there were far more people standing behind him, including Aunt Marge with a punch bowl on her head. Harry nearly laughed aloud at the sight of Lupin and Sirius, both wearing long frilly wedding gowns and linking arms with Doors, who was wearing a tux and a top hat.

He heard Ron snort behind him, and asked, "What's so funny?"

"Malfoy," Ron said. "He's wearing a kilt and a poncho and dancing with Millicent Bulstrode."

"Really?" said Harry, still staring at his own image.

"Well, that and I'm Head Boy and Minister of Magic, and Percy's cleaning toilets." He glanced back at Hermione, who was still transfixed.

"Do I want to know?" he asked.

"No," Hermione said dreamily. "Well, yes, I suppose. I've just won the Nobel Peace Prize for uniting wizards and Muggles, and for turning Voldemort into a dung beetle."

Harry and Ron burst out laughing--this last was so un-Hermione-like that it had to be the truth.

"As pleased as I am that you're enjoying your punishment," came a cold voice, "the party is over. Mr. Filch, if you will."

All three of them winced, and Harry turned to find himself confronted with the grotesque, grinning visage of the caretaker, his old tartan scarf wrapped around his head. Snape stood in the doorway like an overgrown, very malevolent bat.

"Think we're funny, do you, Potter?" the latter asked softly, leaving his post at the door and advancing on Harry. "You think this whole horrid situation is quite amusing, don't you?"

"No," said Harry, wondering uneasily if Snape and Filch just might be planning to hack them into tiny pieces or something. "It was.....the mirror."

"Mirror?" said Snape, that slightly unstable glint in his eye brightening. "What mirror?"

Harry pointed behind him. "That one," he said, more nervous than ever.

Snape's eyes darted past him to the mirror, and he froze. He whirled around and turned back, the comprehension that dawned on his face swiftly turning to horror. He went whiter than Harry would have thought possible, and shoving Filch in front of him he turned and fairly fled.

Ron blinked. "Ooooookkkaaaaayyyy......" he said. "Well, Hermione, you were half right; he's not losing it, he lost it long ago."

"No kidding," said Harry, who was too relieved to have escaped death to care about much else. "Remind me not to run into him down a dark hallway."

"Harry, don't run into Snape down a dark hallway," Ron said promptly. Harry smacked him.

"I wonder what he saw?" Hermione said thoughtfully, as they started down the corridor to the Great Hall.

"Probably told him he should have been a Gryffindor," Ron snickered to Harry.

The four extra tables in the Great Hall were laid with Hogwarts' second-best china, and most of the adult guests were already seated at them. Harry had no idea where they'd been or what they'd been doing all day, but this was the first time he'd seen any of them since breakfast.

"So," said Fred, materializing beside Harry as the three settled down at their table. "How was school?"

"Yah, we want to see if you're upholding our legacy," added George, popping up on Harry's other side. He hopped onto the bench next to Ron and tucked his napkin into his collar.

"So tell us," said Fred, grabbing Hermione's napkin and doing the same. "What have you done to further the cause of magical mischief today?"

Harry and Ron looked at one another and burst out laughing. "Well, we scared hell out of Snape about five minutes ago," said Ron, reaching for a jug of pumpkin juice. The food appeared as he did so, and there was a sudden silence as fifteen hundred people dove for drumsticks and mashed potatoes.

"Oh, do tell," said George, taking a bite out of his chicken leg and, ignoring his napkin, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his robe. Hermione made a slight noise of disgust.

"Er, well, we didn't exactly do it," admitted Ron, pouring gravy over his Cornish game hen. "Snape kicked us all out of class and locked us in this little room, and we found the Mirror of Erised in there."

"The what?" asked Fred, stealing a piece of Ron's chicken.

"It's a mirror that shows you what you want most in the world," Harry said quickly, not wanting to launch into the whole explanation. The twins nodded sagely.

"Anyhow, we were all looking in it and laughing at what we saw, and then Snape and Filch came in, and I swear they were going to kill us or something." Ron paused to take a bite. "But the moment Snape gets a look in that mirror, he goes whiter than a sheet and fairly runs for his life. Dunno where he went, but I sure don't see him in here."

"Excellent!" said Fred and George together. "I'd say that's good enough to keep the legacy alive," added Fred.

"You say this mirror shows you whatever you want most, huh?" asked George, spraying bits of stuffing all over his plate. Hermione turned away, looking faintly green.

"Yuh-huh," said Harry, through a mouthful of sprouts.

"Wonder what old Slimeball saw?" George snorted. He sent even more food particles hurling across the table, making Ginny edge away from him.

"Probably himself as a Boggart," sniggered Fred. "Ever since Lupin's class he's discovered he likes wearing women's clothes."

Even Hermione had to laugh at that one, though Harry could tell she was taking it a bit more seriously than the rest of them. He sighed. Trust her to make a big deal out of something that had just saved them from a lot of trouble.

He soon discovered he was quite right about Hermione's ferreting instincts, as he and Ron sat pouring over their Transfiguration homework in the common room that night. It was about ten thirty, and neither one of them was anywhere near finished with their assignment. Hermione, who never left her homework till the last minute and therefore had no business sitting up late, was curled up in an armchair with yet another enormous book, reading by the light of a wand held in her teeth.

"You know, it's strange," she said, spitting out her wand.

"What is?" asked Fred. He and George were sitting deep in conversation with Denis Creevey and Natalie McDonald, showing them the various ropes of the life of a proper prankster.

"Oh, why did you have to ask her that?" Ron moaned hopelessly.

Hermione glared at him. "I was wondering if there were any way to make the Mirror of Erised show someone else's vision," she said.

Ron rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Oh, Hermione, drop it," he snapped. "Who cares what Snape saw in that mirror? As if we don't have enough to keep us busy already."

"Amen," said Harry, copying down a likely-looking line about turning shoes into flank steak.

Hermione slammed her book shut. "Open your eyes, you idiot," she said. "Snape used to work for Voldemort, right? Everyone knows that."

"So?" said Ron, crossing his arms.

"So what if he saw himself as, you know, a Voldemort lackey again? He's already unbalanced enough, Lord knows what a sight like that might make him do."

"You know, Hermione's got a point," said George, his expression so serious Harry knew it couldn't mean anything good. "It might make him wish he was still Voldie's boyfriend."

Harry laughed, but only a little; there was far too much running through his head to worry about anything else. Christmas was only a week and a half away....He had maybe eight days before Marge and Gilderoy and the rest of the guests showed up, ready to put all of them through hell. He had no idea if the Dursleys would turn up or not, but if the nasty, sinking feeling in his stomach was any indication, they would.

Hermione and the Weasleys were still bickering over the Mirror, so Harry closed his book and snuck off while they weren't looking. Too much excitement and nerves were churning inside him, and sitting around listening to his friends carp at one another wasn't going to help him.

He closed the portrait-hole quietly behind him, creeping off through the dim corridors. It was just late enough that he'd get in trouble for roaming the hallways, but he didn't care--Doors would have a way to help him, and if she didn't, she'd think of one right quick.

As he drew near her door some minutes later, he wasn't surprised to find the whole of her classroom lit up, as well as her more-than-bizarre enough rooms. Harry grinned as the sound of her glee-infused voice floated out to him, evidently talking to herself as she sorted her odd charges.

He paused as another voice answered her--he could see through the crack in the open door to her room that she wasn't alone after all; Lupin was sitting at her desk, scribbling something on a roll of parchment.

"I still say we tell them about the real thing," he was saying, dipping his quill in the ink. "It'll only make things more interesting, and it's obviously what Dumbledore wanted when he assigned it to them."

Doors, who was pruning some weird, spiky purple thing, shook her frizzy head. "No way," she said, smacking the plant as it started edging away from her.

"Why not?" demanded Lupin, corking his ink bottle and wiping his quill.

"Because," said Doors, sticking her head around the plant and shooting him her most evil grin. "Then we couldn't use it."

"Oh, you're evil," said Lupin, now smiling as well.

Harry stared at them. Quite apart from the fact that the two of them were planning on using the 'real' potion (that was something of a given), there was something almost odd about them. It took him a minute to figure out what it was, but he soon realized that Doors and Lupin had exactly the sort of simpatico Ron had with his brothers. What made it even weirder was that neither one seemed aware of it, as though they had evolved into siblinghood over time.

He shook his head and pushed the door open, grinning himself. "I heard that," he said, looking from one to the other. "It's not going to do any good keeping it from us, you know; Hermione'll crack it in plenty of time to wreak havoc."

Doors and Lupin laughed. "Oh, I know," said Doors. "But at least we won't get blamed for what she does with it."

"No?" said Lupin, sounding skeptical. "Somehow everything that goes wrong in this school seems to get blamed on us."

Doors's eyes twinkled. "Well, WE didn't teach anyone that recipe, now did we? That was all Snape's doing."

Harry made a face. "Oh, don't bring him up," he moaned. "Hermione's gone half ballistic over what he did after Potions today."

"Really?" said Lupin, waving his parchment about to dry it. "And what was that?"

Harry sighed; he thought everyone had heard by now. "He kicked Ron and Hermione and me out of class today and shut us in a room with the Mirror of Erised. He and Filch came in to do something horrid to us, but Snape got one look in that mirror and ran for his life, and now Hermione thinks he's going to murder us all in our beds...."

He trailed off--both Doors and Lupin were looking at him like someone had just died. "What?" he asked.

The two professors cast grave glances at one another. "Harry, that's bad," Doors said. "Hermione's right to worry, if everything's as you say it is. I don't care how much you think you know about Snape's...past, you haven't heard the half of it."

"What do you mean?" Harry demanded, more than exasperated with the whole affair.

Yet another glance between the professors. "Sit down, Harry," Doors said. Harry sat, not wanting to know where this was going.

"Listen to me, Harry," she said, gazing with unusual seriousness into his eyes. "I know Severus Snape, I've known him since he was a slimy-haired little pipsqueak first year, and if he's not rotten through then he's goddamn close. Have you ever heard what happened to his family?"

Harry shook his head.

"The whole lot of them got vivisected alive one night, when he was four years old. The Snape family always was notorious for their involvement in the Dark Arts, and nobody ever knew just where they got all their power from until their deaths." She looked at him in silence for a moment, as though willing him to make a response. When he did not, she simply continued. "They'd owed far too great a debt to the Phantoms, and when they couldn't pay it....Well..."

Harry shuddered. "So, why'd Snape live?" he asked.

To his surprise, a very odd, closed expression came over Doors's face. "Somebody got to him who believed in second chances," she said after a moment, giving Harry the suggestion that the subject was rather barred. "Anyhow, he didn't deserve his second chance, as all of us who met him at school soon found out. He almost cursed Remus at the start-of-term feast, just because Remus got a little--er--overzealous with his fondue."

"Huh?" Harry asked blankly.

"It flew off my fork and hit him in the forehead," Lupin said dryly, smirking a little.

"Right," Doors said. "Harry, my point is that Snape is one of those rare and very unfortunate people who are evil not by choice, but by nature. Whether he wants to be or not, he's a completely self-serving git, and even if he thinks he doesn't want an evil power boost, in his basest nature he does. And that probably scares the snot out of him."

She sighed. "Well, at least he's less likely to try something in the middle of this fiasco," she said.

There was a moment's silence. Finally, Lupin stood and said, "Well, it's getting late, so I'll get going. Lorna, remember we've got double lessons with the second years tomorrow." He tucked his roll of parchment into his pocket and left Harry and Doors alone.

"Harry, I'm assuming you had a reason for coming to visit," Doors said at last.

"Well, I did, but I've got more than enough to think about now," he said.

He must have looked as disturbed as he felt, for Doors clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Great, now look what I've done," she muttered. "Harry, here, have some cocoa and I'll explain a few things." She zapped the two of them steaming mugs of hot chocolate, and sitting beside him she put an almost motherly arm around his shoulders.

"Harry, honey, how far back can you remember?" she asked him after a moment.

Harry looked at her, startled. "I-I dunno," he said slowly. "I remember the night my parents died, a little. But not much after that, until I was maybe three or so and Aunt Marge came to visit."

He expected Doors to laugh, but she remained serious. "Do you remember me?" she asked.

Now Harry was really floored. "Remember you?" he said, staring at her. "I never met you before fourth year. Did I?"

Doors sighed and closed her eyes. "Harry, what I'm going to tell you is something I've never told anyone, not even Remus. You and I have met before now, when you were only four years old. I saved you from the hands of Snape, and basically destroyed his entire existence at the same time."

Harry gawked at her.

Doors seemed to notice this. "Dammit, I'm not crazy," she said, a hint of her normal cheer returning. "Snape always thought he should have married Lily, everybody but your parents knew it, and back before he'd learned to hate you he thought you should have been his. Combine that with his inherent hatred of James and I, and you've got one massive problem."

She gave a short laugh. "And so, of course, that's exactly what he did. The Snape family had been one of the most powerful clan of purebloods ever known, more feared even than the Malfoys, and some traces of that lingered even after most of them died out. He had this huge manor house, the most horrid thing you could possibly imagine, and one night he stole you away from the Dursleys and took you there."

Harry continued to goggle. This was too much, FAR too much for him to process, and the only response he could manage to this extraordinary announcement was a croaked, "Why?"

Doors sighed again. "I don't really know," she said. "Maybe he just cracked, maybe he decided you were going to be his after all, and hang Dumbledore and Voldemort and anyone else who might wish otherwise. All I know is, he kidnapped you and I was the one who had the grave misfortune of having to go in and get you back."

She drained her mug and set it on the bedside table. "Look, Harry, I don't want you running around repeating this to anyone, not even Ron and Hermione. What I found in that house was enough to give me nightmares to this day. The Phantoms had entered to kill the Snape family, but what nobody knew, what Snape himself didn't know, was that They'd never left. That entire manor was riddled with Them, watching, waiting...."

She trailed off, and Harry suppressed a shudder; how anyone could live amid such a horror and not go completely starkers was beyond him. But then, he thought, as an image of Snape's latest antics popped up in his mind, maybe you couldn't.

"So...what are you saying?" he asked, suddenly very aware of the many shadows in the room.

"I'm saying that maybe what Snape saw in that mirror was....you," said Doors, fixing her piercing eyes on him. "A continuation of the night cut short, and one which would have ended very differently. Seeing as he now despises you, such a thought would naturally unhinge him, and in his current state of....mental fragility, who knows what he might do to get rid of that problem."

"Meaning me," Harry said grimly. "Why is it I can't get through one year without somebody trying to kill me? I mean, is it so much to ask?" He swirled the remains of his cocoa around in the mug, staring absently at the whirling patterns.

"Well......here, give me that," said Doors, taking the cup from him. She peered intently into it, her expression so frighteningly like Professor Trelawney's that Harry nearly choked.

"Oh dear," she said, in a voice so baleful Harry was sure she would say he was going to kick off.

"What?" he asked, almost tremulously.

"You're going to have one disgusting pimple by the end of the week."

And in spite of it all, both burst out laughing.

But now Harry had a new worry: Just what, if anything, Snape was planning to do to him during this wedding. Adding this on top of everything else, he probably couldn't have borne it, but he was most mercifully spared from thinking about it (or much else) by an unfortunate but nevertheless timely event.

Marge and Gilderoy arrived at the castle.

The Arrival

Harry awoke one morning, about five days after his discussion with Doors, to find the entire castle in such a state of chaos it was almost frightening. It took him about ten minutes to corner someone in the Great Hall and get a straight explanation out of them, but once he did, all his fears, woes, and general worries vanished at once, to be replaced by a wonderful and mischievous joy.

Lockhart's caravan was on its way.

He found Fred and George at the Gryffindor table, some of the only people who had bothered to sit down for breakfast. Each was wearing a grin of such terrible impiousness it almost made Harry shudder, until he remembered just who it was to be directed at.

"Morning, Harry old bean," said Fred, around a mouthful of eggs. "Ready for the games to begin?"

Harry nodded apprehensively; he wasn't sure if encouraging them would be a good thing or not. "Am I safer not knowing?" he said, grimacing.

Fred and George glanced at one another. "Can he be trusted?" George asked, turning and eying Harry critically.

"I don't know," said Fred, squinting and bringing his face very close to Harry's. He looked back at his brother, and the two chorused, "Nope."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief; given all the potential pranksters roaming the castle, it was probably better if they worked separately. Besides, he reflected, it would make things far more interesting.

A short while later, he, Ron, and Hermione were perched in the snow on the roof Gryffindor Tower with several dozen fellow Gryffindors, all clutching binoculars and scanning the miraculously-clear sky expectantly.

"There it is!" cried Seamus Finnigan, pointing.

If Harry had thought the first arrival was bizarre, it was nothing compared to what he was now confronted with. At least two hundred hideous, baby-pink and powder-blue winged chariots were flying full pelt for the castle, crashing into one another and jarring several of their green-faced occupants into losing their breakfasts. And at the very front, in a particularly pompous and over-decorated monstrosity, there stood Marjorie Dursley and Gilderoy Lockhart.

Harry's immediate reaction was so torn between an urge to laugh and an urge to gag that he wound up doing both, and making Hermione think he was having some sort of seizure. Harry was choking so hard that all he could do was point, and Hermione, following his finger, erupted into a very un-Hermione-like fit of sniggering. Colin Creevey raised his camera and began snapping pictures like mad.

Marge and Lockhart were wearing matching his-and-hers traveling robes, both pale lavender, and emblazoned across both their chests were flashing gold letters spelling 'bride' and 'groom'. Lockhart's hair was done in shining golden ringlets (Hermione opined that he looked like a very ditzy Michael Bolton), while Aunt Marge's robes billowed out in the wind like a circus tent. Both were wearing the most idiotic expressions imaginable, and seemed so absorbed with one another that they failed to notice the gales of laughter coming from the roof of Gryffindor Tower.

The caravan passed directly east of them, while Hermione patiently explained 80's Muggle music to Ron. Harry stared, fascinated, at the hordes of people who could only be related to Lockhart--scads of witches and wizards, all as blonde and effeminate as he, chattering in saccharine voices and wearing pale, frosty robes to match the chariots. Harry looked around eagerly for the Dursleys, wanting to see how they would be handling the ride--

"Oh, brother," he muttered, grinning.

Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley had a chariot all to themselves, with about four extra horses to haul Dudley's weight. Petunia was crying into Uncle Vernon's shoulder, the latter of whom was staring with stony-faced hate after Lockhart. Dudley was not immediately recognizable, as fear had him cowering in a large, Armani-suited blob in the corner of the chariot. All three looked distinctly ill, and as Harry watched Aunt Petunia raised her head, caught sight of Hogwarts, and nearly flew into hysterics.

Vernon tried (without much success) to calm her down, but his situation was made much harder when Dudley pointed and let out a yell. Vernon and Petunia whirled around to find themselves confronted with scores of young, fur-bundled witches and wizards, waving cheerfully from the roof.

"D-D-Dad, it's Harry!" Dudley cried, his eyes bulging out of his fat head.

Harry grinned and waved his wand, with the effect that all three Dursleys passed out cold as their chariot hurtled onward. The Weasleys (and nearly all the rest of Gryffindor House) roared with laughter, tears streaming down their faces and steaming in the bitter cold.

"Come on, you guys, this is too good to miss," said Fred, and the Gryffindors leaped to their feet and scrambled back through the windows.

The scene in the main castle was like something from a nightmare. Everywhere, carbon copies of Lockhart swarmed like a hive of extremely conceited bees, all gushing like fire hydrants and sending every Slytherin within four floors running for their lives. Looking at the vast press of Lockhart's relatives, Harry couldn't blame them. Through the massive front doors he could see a number of sleds landing alongside the chariots, bearing the other half of the Hogwarts alumni who hadn't shown up at the beginning of the week.

"Harry, I can't stay down here, I'll die," muttered Ron, looking pale and ill as the various members of the Lockhart clan chirped to one another over all the rest of the noise.

Harry wholeheartedly agreed, but he just had to find the Dursleys before making his escape.

"You stupid fiend, get off me! Let go of my wife!"

"Oh, there they are," he sighed, scrambling up onto the railing of the marble staircase and peering into the fray. Uncle Vernon was swinging Aunt Petunia's handbag at an extremely indignant Madam Pomfrey, who was attempting to put an unconscious Aunt Petunia onto a floating stretcher.

"Really!" the nurse shrieked, zapping the purse out of Uncle Vernon's hand. His face went suddenly pale, as though he had just remembered what it was he was surrounded by.

"Er," he squeaked, edging away from his wife. "Um, er....sorry?" he offered.

"That's quite all right."

Dumbledore had exited the Great Hall, and was staring down with amused pity at the two unconscious Dursleys. "I understand you're not exactly...accustomed...to magical medicine, but I assure you, we know what we're doing."

Uncle Vernon's mouth worked soundlessly, his huge purple face mottled with pale splotches as he stared at the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Apparently the sight of Albus Dumbledore was just too much for him, for his consciousness fled far out into the hoolie boolies and he dropped like a stone.

"Good God," sneered a voice, directly behind Harry. "Are those your relatives, Potter?"

Harry turned and grinned at Malfoy. "Unfortunately," he said. "I deny it every chance I get."

Malfoy's face was contorted with disgust--Harry had noticed he had been far less clumsy and moony since his parents had shown up, though he still stared at Hermione every time she was within view.

"Really, Potter, I extend my sympathies," he said, his nose wrinkling. "I'd heard Muggles were disgusting, but this..."

Harry had snorted before he could help himself, but the sight of a whole new wave of Lockharts sent both he and Malfoy scurrying for cover. Harry hadn't made it very far, however, before Gilderoy himself entered, a blushing Marge on his arm.

"Oh, here comes the money shot," he muttered. "Hey Malfoy!" he called, as the Slytherin boy fought his impending vomit. "You thought they were bad, take a look at THAT."

Malfoy peered over the railing, and found himself confronted with what looked like a hulking, lavender-covered boulder. His face took on a look so torn between horror and revulsion that it sent Harry into fits of hysterical laughter.

"THAT is your aunt?" Malfoy demanded, sneering so much his lip had all but disappeared into his nose.

Harry chortled even harder. He had to admit that Marge had hit an all-time low as far as appearance was concerned--where she had once been square and mannish, she had now tried with a spectacular lack of success to make herself more feminine. Her mustache had been plucked or waxed or something, and her massive, florid face was surrounded by a number of kinky, unnatural curls that made her look like some grotesque Shirley Temple wannabe.

"God, no," he said, still sniggering helplessly. "She's Vernon's sister, no relation to me."

"Well, I see where that lump of lard you call a cousin gets it from," drawled Malfoy, before making a quick exit to the Slytherin dungeons.

Harry thought it would be best if he skipped out as well, so he darted quick as he could for Gryffindor Tower. He ran smack into Sirius along the way, who was still slapping his knees over the spectacle the Dursleys had treated him to.

"Nice one, Sirius," he muttered, before disappearing to the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where relative peace reigned.

****

His tranquility ended at about six o'clock that evening. He and Ron and Hermione, unwilling to deal with the madness that had pervaded the rest of the castle, had holed themselves up and started plotting. Well, he and Ron did, anyway; Hermione had betaken herself to the corner with yet another fat book and, oddly enough, the Marauder's Map.

Harry and Ron had just completed blueprints for a trick wedding arbor when Doors stuck her head in the portrait-hole and said Harry was wanted in Dumbledore's office.

Harry grimaced. "Lemme guess," he said, laying down his quill. "The Dursleys, right?"

Doors shrugged. "Dunno," she said, in a voice that stated all too clearly that she did. "I'm supposed to go with you."

Harry sighed and followed her into the corridor, which was miraculously empty. Just how Dumbledore had managed to hide all the guests, he didn't know; nor, as he padded through the chill after Doors, did he particularly care. Much as he wished he could be spared the embarrassment of the scene Uncle Vernon would surely make, part of him was wildly curious to see just what the Dursleys would make of his aunt.

After many twists and turns, they stopped in front of the now-familiar stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's rooms.

"Acid pop," said Doors, and the statue sprang aside to let them up the staircase.

"Wonder what they want with me?" Harry said aloud, feeling it was no use pretending he didn't know why he was going. He was growing rather irritated--these people had given him a hard enough time at home, and it certainly wasn't his idea to bring them here.

"Harry, honey, if I knew I'd probably skive off," Doors replied, tugging on the collar of her robes--it was much warmer in here, and Harry was beginning to regret wearing his long underwear. He chortled in spite of himself.

After a few minutes' climbing they reached a small stone door, and Harry realized with a gulp that total and complete hell awaited him beyond that door.

"Come in," called the Headmaster. He sounded amused.

Harry entered with some trepidation. Dumbledore was sitting at his large mahogany desk near a cheery fire, all his little silver decorations humming pleasantly. A frosted window looked out onto the grounds below, the ice etched with little fairy patterns. And sitting across from Dumbledore, in large armchairs, were--

"Hello, boy," snarled Uncle Vernon. He was looking rather nervous, with Petunia pale and resigned beside him and Dudley trying unsuccessfully to cower in a corner.

"Evening," said Harry, fighting an unaccountable urge to laugh. The sight of his very Muggle relatives sitting in the middle of Albus Dumbledore's office was, to say the least, a very strange one.

"Still runty, are we?"

Harry leaped about a foot in the air; Aunt Marge's voice had boomed from the shadows to his right, and he now caught sight of her hulking, Dudley-like form (now clad in pink) behind Uncle Vernon's armchair. He had no idea how to respond to this, but fortunately, Marge didn't seem to need one.

"Well, I suppose you'll do, anyhow." She glanced at Dumbledore, whose eyes were so full of mischief he could have passed for a Marauder. Harry looked at him too, bewildered.

"What Miss Dursley is trying to say, Harry, is that you and your cousin Dudley are to be altar servers in her wedding ceremony," Dumbledore said quietly. Marge beamed at Dudley, who whimpered and cowered even further into his corner.

Harry stared at him.

"Wha--at?" he croaked, his jaw dropping.

Doors hastily turned her laugh into a hacking cough, and squeezed his hand sympathetically.

"Exactly what I said, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "Your aunt and Professor Lockhart have been planning their wedding party since before they arrived. Your Aunt Petunia is the maid of honor--" Petunia gave a dry sniff "--your cousin is to be the ring bearer and your fellow altar server, and Professors McGonagall and Trelawney will be bridesmaids. All of you will be meeting in two days' time for the rehearsal, so I thought it best to warn you in advance."

Harry was floored. It was bad enough having the Dursleys here, and even worse that they had brought Lockhart, but forcing him to be a part of it? That was just cruel.

And what about the rest of them? The thought of McGonagall in some frilly bridesmaid's dress was enough to make him nearly choke, and as for her and Trelawney.....Well, that was just asking for trouble.

Gradually Harry became aware that the whole room was staring at him.

"Earth to Harry," whispered Doors, nudging him in the ribs.

"Er," he said eloquently.

"Which brings me to Lorna here," Dumbledore continued. "I've had a request that you design the floral decorations, but that's not entirely why I've called you here. I don't believe you've met Harry's--er--longtime guardians."

Doors's disturbingly green eyes darted over to the Dursleys, all of whom stiffened.

"So you're the famous Dursleys," she said, her odd voice suddenly ominous. "I've heard so much about you." She offered Uncle Vernon a spiderlike hand, which he inadvertently shrank away from. "Lorna Doors. Harry's other aunt."

The Dursleys stared at her. Aunt Petunia made a small squeaking noise.

"Well, anyhow," said Doors, dropping her hand. "I believe--er--congratulations are in order. Congratulations." She cocked her frizzy head to one side, her eyes boring into Aunt Petunia's frightened blue ones. "It's always nice to meet the in-laws."

At the word 'in-laws', Uncle Vernon's face went splotchier than Harry had ever seen it, and Petunia looked as though she were going to faint. Doors hustled him from the room before either of them could burst out laughing, leaving Dumbledore to undo the mess he had knowingly created.

"Oh, Harry, you lived with them?" Doors chuckled as they descended the staircase. "My God, I'm sorry."

Harry, who was still pulling out of his shock at Dumbledore's announcement, muttered absently, "Not half as sorry as I am." He was silent for a moment, pondering, and then,

"How did you get chosen to fix the flowers? Marge and Lockhart've never met you."

Doors snorted. "I knew old Dumbledore wouldn't let me off that easy," she said, as they passed into the hallway. "I got left out of the wedding party, but he's going to make sure I've still got access to the goings-on."

"Is he trying to sabotage this thing?" Harry wondered aloud.

"Naw. He's just out for a good time."

The Rehearsal

Breakfast the next morning was one of the most trying ordeals Harry had ever gone through.

The Great Hall was now so crowded that moving was nearly impossible, and even getting through the door was a battle. A second extra table had been set up alongside all the house tables, and even the staff had to make room for some visitors. Harry overheard somebody saying Dumbledore had hired out house-elves from nearly every wizarding manor in Britain, to cope with the added cooking and cleaning such a throng was needing.

He found himself wedged between Fred and Ron, his appetite all but vanishing at the sight of so many Lockharts in one place. He had broken the news of his unfortunate wedding-party status to Ron and Hermione the night before, after first foreswearing them not to tell a soul. Ron had laughed hysterically, while Hermione looked too torn between horror and hilarity to offer many words of comfort.

"Lovely," Harry thought, wincing as he was reminded of tomorrow's unpleasant prospects. He dreaded the thought of what sort of outfit Marge and Lockhart would have cooked up for him, but one glance at McGonagall assured him he wasn't the only one this had occurred to.

"Pssst! Hey, Harry! You think Dumbledore did that on purpose?"

George was pointing at the staff table, where the Dursleys sat still and stony-faced, and Harry noticed, for the first time, that all three of them had been wedged between Snape and McGonagall. Snape kept glancing at Uncle Vernon as though he were sprouting some sort of fungus (in between shooting dirty looks at the Marauders, who were enchanting a scrambled egg tower in the middle of the table), while McGonagall looked ready to burst with disgust at Petunia's subdued whimperings.

"No, that's a little too mean, even for him," chuckled Harry. He marveled at how little fuss the Dursleys had put up after their initial arrival, though he suspected the three of them were still a bit too shocked to react properly to their surroundings.

He ate quickly, wanting to make a swift escape back to Gryffindor Tower, but no such luck--he had scarcely stood up before McGonagall had him cornered and was hauling him off to an 'emergency meeting'.

"But--Professor--I--" he protested, as she dragged him along at an ungodly pace.

"Shut it, Potter, we don't have much time," McGonagall almost snapped, and Harry got the impression she was almost nervous. She stopped quite suddenly and pushed open a section of wall, pulling Harry into what was clearly one of the many derelict rooms sported by Hogwarts.

The wall slid shut behind them, and Harry found himself faced with massive draperies of brilliant crimson, hung over the walls and draped across much of the furniture. Seated around it were various students, guests, and teachers, several of whom looked as bewildered as he felt, and if he wasn't mistaken, four or five house-elves bobbed behind the legs of a great red armchair.

"Go on, Potter, sit," said McGonagall. He sat next to Doors, who was picking absently at a crimson thread, and watched as McGonagall stood at one end of the room. She seemed to be waiting for someone, and the wall opened a moment later to admit a very unsettled-looking Snape.

"Good," she said, sitting on an old trunk. "Now, we haven't got much time, but we've got to give this a shot."

"Give what a shot? Why are we here?" demanded Harry, feeling he deserved some explanation. In the corner, Professor Trelawney sniffed.

Professor McGonagall looked grim. "Belt up a moment, Potter, and I'll tell you. Now, I know none of us wants anything to do with this--"

Harry opened his mouth, but McGonagall waved him silent again.

"--but I don't see any way around it, short of suicide, that is."

"A more than viable option," muttered Snape.

Someone snorted.

"All right, I'm with Harry," said Professor Trelawney, putting away her sequined handkerchief. "What is the meaning of all this?"

McGonagall eyed her beadily. "Really, Sybil, I was sure your Inner Eye would have told you that one long ago," she said, earning several smiles around the room. Trelawney sniffed again.

"We are here," McGonagall said, ignoring her, "to discuss just what is to be done about this whole wedding party business. Every one of us in this room is directly involved with it in some fashion or another, and we're going to have to band together if we don't want that odious bridal pair murdering us all."

"Oh, no," Harry moaned. "Is that what all this is about?"

"Of course it is," McGonagall said briskly. "You don't honestly think we're going to let them get the better of us, do you?" Harry didn't know what to say to this, so she continued.

"All right. First off, those of us unfortunate enough to be included in the wedding party--" Harry saw Professor Trelawney grimace "--must know where to draw the line. We can't really veto any hideous outfits they might concoct for us, unless they cross the lines of decency. We must, however, stick together against any degrading ceremonial acts."

"What, like a sort of union?" Harry asked, not liking the sound of 'degrading ceremonial acts'.

"Well, yes, sort of," said McGonagall. "We must meet and discuss any decision made by our collective enemy, and stand together in defense if one of us is put on the spot. We'll vote on it, if needs be."

"I vote strike," murmured Snape. "Strike or revolt, I really don't care. But if that half-brained imbecile thinks I'm going to be his best man--"

Harry hooted. "You're kidding!" he cried, quite forgetting who he was laughing at. "Lockhart chose you as his best man? He's even stupider than I thought."

"Well, given his method of regaining his memory, that's not surprising," said Doors, yawning and rubbing her forehead.

Harry looked at her. He'd been wondering about that very thing ever since he first heard about this nightmare, but in all the hubbub nobody had bothered to tell him. "And how was that?" he asked.

McGonagall put her head in her hands, fighting either exasperation or laughter. "Lorna, you tell him," she said.

Doors grinned. "Well, somehow old Gilderoy got hold of a bunch of his old books, and no sooner had he read them than he decided it was up to him to return as warrior against the Dark Side of the Force."

"You're kidding," Harry said again, snickering.

Doors's mouth twitched. "Unfortunately not," she said. "For all he knows, he really did all that stuff, and I'm just waiting for the nasty shock he'll face when he finds out he didn't."

Even McGonagall couldn't suppress a wry smile at that one. "Well, anyway--"

She was cut off mid-sentence by Professor Flitwick, who stuck his head in the door and squeaked that the Lockharts were coming, and most of them were carrying fabric swatches.

"Dear God," said McGonagall, paling. "All right, I advise everyone to hide until lunch, unless you want those....those...people after you for party fittings."

A collective shudder ran around the room, before the throng disbanded and scattered to different points of the castle.

****

Harry hotfooted it back to Gryffindor Tower, where he spent the remainder of the morning deep in conversation with Ron and Hermione. Both of them agreed he'd fallen on incredibly hard luck, but he'd just have to make the best of it until they found out what Fred and George had planned. Midway through their discussion, Hermione heaved a sigh.

"What is it, Herm?" Harry asked.

Hermione flushed a bit. "Oh--it's nothing. It's just that, well, ever since we found out about this wedding, everyone and their mother has been making plans to sabotage it. Fred and George are going to be absolute nightmares, I don't want to know what Denis Creevey and Natalie McDonald are up to, and half of Ravenclaw's been devoting the last three months to the cause of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Don't you all think it's a little--well--mean?"

Harry and Ron stared at her as though she'd gone starkers. "Hermione, this is GILDEROY LOCKHART and AUNT MARGE, for crying out loud," Harry said after a moment. "Under any other circumstances, sure, it'd be the meanest thing we could do, but let's face it, both of them deserve it."

"I suppose you're right," Hermione said unconvincingly. "I mean, I've heard all your horror stories about Aunt Marge, and Lockhart certainly earned it after what he did second year, but still.......to ruin the happiest day of someone's life like that; it just doesn't sit right, somehow."

Ron leaned back in his chair and threw a pillow at her. "Don't tell me you're going like Trelawney," he laughed. "'Oh, I've got a horrid feeling about this, the spirits are aligned against us'........"

Hermione threw the pillow back at him, scoring at direct hit in his face. "Shut up," she said, half amused and half indignant. "Lord, I'd rather take Harry's place as altar server than wind up like that old biddy."

The trio's laughter was cut short by Professor McGonagall, who clambered into Gryffindor Tower with a grim expression on her face.

"Come along, Potter," she said, her voice even grimmer than her countenance. "We've got a rehearsal to go to."

Harry felt his stomach drop. He glanced desperately at Ron and Hermione, who were looking at him as though we were about to be led to the slaughter.

"All right," he said heavily, getting to his feet.

McGonagall must have seen his plea for help, for she said, "Weasley and Granger can come with you, if they'd like." The ghost of a wry smirk flitted across her severe face. "For moral support."

The four of them exited into the hallway, Harry's heart somewhat lightened by the fact that he wouldn't be facing that nightmare without reinforcements.

McGonagall swept along ahead of them, fiddling with the clasp on her cloak. "Why are you wearing that thing, Professor?" Harry asked without thinking. "It's not THAT cold in here."

McGonagall shot him a withering stare. "You'll see soon enough," she said, in a voice so doom-laden it undid most of the good of Ron and Hermione's presence. He started to ask what she meant by that, but ook one look at her face and thought better of it.

He approached the Great hall as though it were a cave of trolls, regarding the cheerful chatter emanating from it with deepest suspicion. He half considered turning and bolting back to Gryffindor Tower, but McGonagall had shoved the doors open before he could take a step.

It was like a scene from a nightmare. Lockharts were swarming to and fro, posing, annoying, and generally tormenting the members of the wedding party so it was a wonder there hadn't been murder already.

He spotted Professor Trelawney through the mess, and saw at once why McGonagall was wearing her cloak. The Divination teacher was wearing a long, ruffly dress of ice-pink, with flounces of baby-blue and a mint-green sash tied in a flamboyant bow. She still had on all her usual jewelry, most of which clashed horribly with her outfit, and one of her gown's enormous puffed sleeves was only half pinned on.

"Oh. Dear. God."

Hermione was staring at Professor Trelawney with an uplifted expression on her face; she seemed to be etching the image into her memory forever.

"Now that's what I call entertainment," Ron muttered, sniggering. "We'd better make sure Colin Creevey gets a picture of that at the wedding."

Harry would have joined in, but his terror of what his own outfit would look like quenched any humor he might have seen in the situation. His fear was only intensified by Dudley, who waddled into view wearing a powder-blue tuxedo that had very likely been Uncle Vernon's in the seventies. This image only sent Ron and Hermione into even greater transports of glee.

"Come along, Potter," McGonagall said, her face set. "You've got to get fitted as well."

Hermione and Ron stopped laughing at once, both staring in almost painful sympathy at him. McGonagall led him off toward a curtained corner, where several blonde women who could only be Lockhart's cousins were pinning up Aunt Petunia's hem. Her dress was entirely ice-pink, and so frilly she looked like a china doll.

"Oh, it's you," she snapped, as Harry nervously approached the gaggle of seamstresses. McGonagall sniffed disapprovingly--Harry had gotten the impression very early on that the practical professor had very little use for Aunt Petunia.

"Oh! HERE you are, sweetheart!"

Harry wheeled around to find himself faced with yet another member of the Lockhart clan, giggling with delight and clutching a large package to her more than ample chest. "Right over here, darlin', that's it, we'll have this done in a jiffy--"

He found himself standing atop a dressmaker's stool, while the overweight witch opened her package and shook out its contents.

To Harry's immense relief, it was a simple white altar server's robe that was pulled over his head, rather like his school robes and the one's he'd seen on the Dursleys' few trips to church. They were made of some thick, rich material he was unused to, and he shot a look of pure gratitude at Ron and Hermione as his seamstress began pinning.

He glanced over at Aunt Petunia, who was gazing sourly at nothing while her gown was worked on. Her fear of the wizarding world seemed to have abated somewhat, though the same could not be said for her disdain of it. Still Harry thought it safe enough to venture at least one question, which had been tormenting him since he first heard about this wedding over the summer.

"Er--Aunt Petunia? Just how did Marge and Lockhart meet, anyway?"

Petunia's face screwed up as though she'd just swallowed a lemon. "Hmph," she sniffed.

"Well?" said Harry, feeling he could push it safely.

"It was a dog show," Petunia almost snarled, flinching as a tape began measuring her collar all by itself--Harry could see that behind her sneering ill-temper lay the look normally reserved for deer caught in oncoming headlights. "You know we've never told your about your--abnormality--" (here several nearby witches shot her dirty looks) "--and we took it rather for granted that she knew nothing."

"And she did?" Harry asked, amused.

"As I said, it was the dog shows," Petunia grimaced--she had always hated animals. "She took that Ripper of hers to one last spring, and met her fiancee there. She's known about your kind for years, that Colonel Fubster she always went on about is one. He was the one who told her about the show in the first place, but being an old ninny he forgot to inform her it was for--you people--only. So she went and took that foul bulldog, and she met this Lockwart fellow."

"Lockhart," Harry corrected automatically, before losing his powers of speech altogether. Quite apart from hearing Aunt Petunia say 'ninny', the implications of her little bombshell were staggering. Aunt MARGE knew about wizards? She must have been furious when she found out Vernon and Petunia had been harboring one under their roof for fourteen years......

But why hadn't she said anything to him in Dumbledore's office? Surely finding out Harry was a wizard would do something to change her feelings toward him, right?

"There you are, dear. Now go and find your place before the practicing starts, Heaven knows what a madhouse this will be without a little cooperation."

His seamstress's voice cut through his reverie (that seemed to be happening to him a lot this year), as she picked him up like a rag doll and set him neatly on the floor. Harry could tell she was about to pinch his cheeks or do something equally awful, so he darted off toward Ron and Hermione before she got the chance.

"Not bad," said Ron, giving him the once-over. "At least you don't look like that cousin of yours."

Harry snorted and looked over at Dudley, and realized with a start that the rotund boy was staring back at them, an incredibly peculiar expression on his face--Harry couldn't tell if he was going to be sick or what, but he looked like he'd just taken a bite out of a particularly nasty Every Flavor Bean.

"What on earth is up with him?" he asked, incredulous--the last time he'd seen anyone look like that, they wound up bent over a toilet for half the night.

"He looks like he's going to lose his lunch," mused Ron, as Dudley caught them looking back and quickly trained his attention elsewhere. Neither one of them could figure out just where elsewhere, however, until Hermione, who had disappeared somewhere with Professor McGonagall, came skidding back into the hall.

"Phew," she said, flicking hair from her eyes. Her face was somewhat flushed, and she breathed as though she'd been running. "Who knew weddings were so complicated?"

"Where'd you go?" Ron asked, looking rather askance at her. When Harry didn't echo his demand Ron glanced over at him, but Harry was far too preoccupied to notice--

"Oh, uh-oh," he muttered, biting back the wave of sniggers that was fighting its way up his throat. He could feel his face turning red as both Ron and Hermione looked at him quizzically, but he couldn't help it--on top of all the present madness, this was just too much.

As soon as Hermione had dashed into the hall, Dudley's piggy eyes had widened, and so uplifted was the expression that crossed his face it was nearly enough to make Harry lose his lunch. His fat cheeks pinked, and his mouth curved into the most idiotic grin imaginable.

"Um, why don't we go.....over here?" said Harry, forcefully propelling both Ron and Hermione around the other side of the fitting area. The pair shot him a mutual look of confusion, which he quickly averted by muttering, "I don't want Marge getting ahold of me if I can help it."

This mollified Hermione (somewhat), but Ron was still looking at him suspiciously. Harry quickly mouthed, "Dudley!", and ducked as the real Marge came sailing into the Great Hall like some enormous, chiffon-draped battleship. She had on some dripping, pre-wedding dress, so covered in pearls and lace she might as well have been a Muggle parade float, her stiff hair arranged in even more Shirley Temple curls than it had been on her arrival.

Ron and Hermione ducked as well, Hermione to hide her laughter and Ron, his absolute horror at what Harry had just implied. Lockhart came trotting after his bride a moment later, his golden hair flying in a way that made Hermione wince.

"It's not fair that that man should have nicer hair than I do," she muttered, flicking a stray piece of taffeta out of her way.

"He'd make a better woman than Marge, that's for sure," returned Harry. Looking at the two of them was like watching one of those Nature shows he used to see at the Dursleys, where the wild animals all converged to kill something smaller than they. He then realized with a gulp that he was the shortest person in the wedding party.

"Places, people, places!" cried Lockhart, somehow managing to smile as he did so. "Come along, now, we haven't got all night--"

He started making goo-goo eyes at Marge, at which point half the Hall averted their gaze. When Harry at last regained the courage to look back, however, what he saw was enough to make him wish he hadn't.

Lockhart had left off goggling at Marge, but Marge was fairly drooling at something in the far corner. She made an even worse lovesick fool than Dudley, and Harry felt a profound pity for whatever it was that had earned such a look from her.

"Good Lord," muttered Hermione, watching her with disgust. She probably would have said a good deal more, save that at that moment Ron shoved her forcefully out of sight behind one of the curtains.

"Hey--" she started, but was cut off as Dudley waddled past, still grinning stupidly and picking at his wide lapel.

"Hermione, DON'T ASK," said Ron, as she emerged, extremely indignant, from the folds of pale blue gauze. "Trust me, you really don't want to know."

Hermione snapped something in reply, but Harry wasn't listening--Marge was looking moonier than ever, and he was just dying to see what she was looking at.

"Darling, who is that?" she asked, tugging on Lockhart's sleeve so hard he nearly flipped over and pointing.

Harry watched with bated breath, with the kind of sick fascination that draws one to watch a bug drown, and then--

"Who, that, dearie? Why, that's--"

"--most definitely not your best man."

Harry choked, and nearly fell over with laughter--Snape had emerged from the busy throng, still dressed in black and looking in need of a shower. Lockhart's beaming smile faltered a bit, but Harry could practically see hearts growing in Marge's beady eyes.

"D'you--" he started to Ron and Hermione, but the latter, sounding sickened, cut him off.

"Oh, yeah," she said, elbowing a chortling Ron.

"Um, Harry, we'd love to stay and help you and all, but this is gonna kill me," he snickered, his face red. He started sneaking toward the exit, but Harry caught him by the collar and looked on in fascination.

"Why, whatever do you mean, Severus, old friend?" asked Lockhart, seemingly unaware that his bride was drooling down the front of her dress. "Dumbledore said--"

"The Headmaster does not speak for me," Snape said coldly. "I want no part in this--ceremony--and if you think I'm wearing that creation your cousin has the nerve to call dress robes, think again." The now-familiar, half-mad glint in his eyes flared, and seemed to penetrate even Lockhart's thick skull. He took a step backward, his grin fading even more, and glanced nervously from side to side. By now a fairly sizeable group of people had stopped to watch the goings-on, including, Harry noticed, the Marauders and their decoration crew, who were poring over blueprints at the staff table.

"Look, my good man," said Lockhart, regaining his composure and adjusting his jade-green hat. "Dumbledore told me it was all arranged, that you had agreed to--"

"Yes, agreed to," broke in Marge. Snape started, as though seeing her for the first time (a thing next to impossible when in the same room with her), and Harry watched a spasm of horror flit across his face as he realized she was sizing him up like a flank steak.

"Of course you've agreed, you handsome devil. You wouldn't want to ruin my wedding, now would you?" Marge attempted a pout.

By now the entire Hall was watching, waiting to see Snape's response to this extraordinary pronouncement. Snape, however, looked remarkably as though he were about to faint.

He probably would have done precisely that, had not Petunia, her lurid sash fluttering, stormed over.

"Honestly!" she snapped, not seeming to care it was a bunch of wizards she was berating. "Could we get on with it already? It's already past Duddy's bedtime, and I still haven't given him his warm milk."

The younger members of the assembly snickered and looked at Dudley, who blushed redder than Ron's hair and looked quickly away from Hermione, at whom he had been staring for the last ten minutes. Harry was willing to bet all the gold in Gringotts he was wishing his mother would drop dead right about now.

Marge sniffed, her drooling reverie clearly shattered. "Really, Petunia, you've been horrid ever since Gilderoy and I got engaged. I don't recall anyone being as snippy as you are when YOU got married."

That was the last straw for Petunia. All the tension, all the fear and shock and horror that had been building up in her since the Dursleys' arrival at Hogwarts, seemed to pour forth in a torrent of shrieking. "THAT'S BECAUSE I DIDN'T MARRY A BLOODY WIZARD, YOU IDIOT!" she roared, her blonde hair coming loose from its French braid. "THESE PEOPLE ARE ABNORMAL! Their kind and our kind don't mix, it's unnatural, and ever since you met that Lockwart you've been acting just like my sister. IT'S OBSCENE!"

She glared at Marge, breathing hard, as though she'd been dying to say all this for ages. The whole Hall stared at her, some aghast and some ready to cheer, as Marge gawked at her infuriated sister-in-law.

"Well, it's true," Petunia snapped, realizing she was the center of attention. "And you," she added, almost as an afterthought, shooting a dirty look at Snape. "For pity's sake take a shower, you filthy layabout." And turning on her heel she stormed from the Hall, one of her high heels breaking on the way.

Dead silence reigned for a full minute. Even Lockhart was at a loss for words, as he and all the rest of the stock-still crowd stared after Petunia.

"Well then," muttered a little man in black, who must have been the vicar. He shakily adjusted his glasses. "If you will......Miss McGonagall and Miss Trelawney, you will start here...."

The rest of the rehearsal passed in something of a daze for Harry, who had in the past week and a half been hit by so many shocks and bombshells that his brain finally overloaded and quit registering much of anything. He allowed himself to be led through the motions of the ceremony (which Snape studiously ignored, opting instead to exchange stinging barbs with the Marauders over his state of hygiene), but it was doubtful if he would remember one jot of it when it came time for the real thing.

He escaped to Gryffindor Tower as quick as he could, half-stumbling in his stupor and wanting nothing more than to hide until this whole affair was over.

Scrabbling through the portrait hole, he tripped over his altar server's robes and landed flat on his face, his hands numb as he picked himself up and collapsed into a chair. It was now so late that the common room was all but deserted, the fire burned to embers. The room's only other occupants, Harry surmised after a quick glance, were Ron and Hermione, who looked as though they had tried waiting up for him and failed. Ron's head was rested on some sort of blueprint, while Hermione's finger still held her place in a book.

"What a nightmare," he muttered, kicking off his sneakers. "Boy, I hope Snape cracks and poisons both those idiots....."

He was snoring before he could fully savor the possibility.

****

His dreams were troubled, filled with images of Marge hitched up in a wedding gown and Dudley drooling all over Hermione's dress robes. Just as the ceremony was about to start, the vicar exploded, sending all the crowds into a panic, and in the background Fred and George could be heard snickering about the triumphs of the triple-W.

"Come with me, dearie," said a voice, and Harry found himself confronted with his seamstress, wearing Professor Trelawney's glasses and jewelry and, for some odd reason, Quirrel's purple turban. Her voice was different; gurgly, and raspy enough to be a man's, and Harry felt his feet dragging after her against his will.

"Where--" he heard himself asking, but his oddly-bedecked guide silenced him with a wave of her hand. Literally silenced him; Harry tried to venture another question and found his voice was mysteriously absent. The large woman led him up a number of twisted staircases he had never seen, all dark and chill and feeling as though they'd been deserted for about a century.

"Yes, dearie, here it is," his guide cackled, stopping near the top of a high, cold tower. "Watch--"

And Harry, still mute, watched on in confusion and horror as the first wave of an army appeared marching in the distance. At first they looked almost ordinary, until the line moved closer and he noticed patches of rotting flesh, dead eyes leering and feet shuffling unsteadily over the ground. He was looking at a horde of--

"Zombies," Harry croaked, his voice suddenly returning.

"Minions of my master," the seamstress whispered, her voice grating and full of dirt. "Summoned by one deluded by love, to reclaim their loss and vanquish the traitors."

The army was drawing ever nearer, and Harry felt a skin-crawling revulsion pass over him--he had to get away from here, had to warn somebody about the nightmare that was bearing down on Hogwarts, but his feet were rooted to the spot and all he could do was--

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!"

He jerked awake with a start, mercifully torn from his troubled dreams. Ron and Hermione had been jolted from slumber as well, and were looking around in bleary-eyed confusion.

"Where's the murder?" Ron mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!"

That brought them all wide awake. The door to the boys' dormitory slammed open somewhere above them, and a moment later Dean, Seamus, and Neville came tumbling down the stairs.

"What the--" started Seamus, but he was cut off by a crash from the girls' dormitory, followed by Lavender and Parvati, looking white and scared in their bathrobes.

"Somebody's getting killed out there!" squealed Lavender, stumbling over Neville.

"Gee, you think?" Ron muttered acidly, though he looked as worried as any of them.

"That's it," said Harry, as a furious scuffling echoed through the pipes. He marched over to the portrait-hole and shoved it open, his white robes flapping.

"Harry!" cried Hermione, aghast. "Have you gone mad? You're just going to run out there?"

Harry rounded on her, his glasses slipping to the end of his nose. "Well, if it's not Marge or Lockhart getting murdered out there, at least it'll give me a chance to get one of them." And he hopped into the corridor before anyone could protest.

It was pitch black, without a trace of moonlight shining through any of the windows, and from the sound of it he wasn't the only one who had taken to the hallways. Tripping over his robes (and just about everything else along the way), he raced into one of the main passages, and found it crowded with fearful-looking students in their pajamas.

Well, the ones at the back were fearful--if Harry didn't know any better, he'd swear the ones around the corner on the entrance hall balcony were laughing rather than whimpering.

"Is it too much to ask that all this is because the Tastee Freeze truck finally arrived?" muttered Sirius, appearing beside him and rubbing his eyes. His hair was stuck in so many different directions it might as well have been Harry's, and he had thrown on a very decrepit-looking bathrobe over his equally ancient pajamas.

"Probably," Harry muttered, hurrying down the corridor toward the entrance hall.

"Honestly, Sirius, do you ever think of anything other than food?" Lupin asked, materializing on Harry's other side in a much more presentable wrap. His wand was lit in his hand, his face tense and looking so distracted that he barely dodged the door that flew open a second later.

Doors stumbled into the passage, tripping over the hem of a long flannel thing that could, with some imagination, have passed for a nightdress. Her hair was absolutely indescribable, and she too held her wand. "Well, for once I'm with Sirius," she said, as the four moved on. "It'd better be a Tastee Freeze truck, 'cause whatever it is, I'm gonna eat it."

Sirius snorted, but at that moment the quartet rounded the corner and found themselves faced with the high balcony of the entrance hall, which was so jammed with students and guests they couldn't have gone father if they'd wanted to. Those nearest them seemed as confused as they were, but the crowd near the front were emitting noises no one could mistake for sputters of terror.

"Move aside, move aside, teachers coming through," Sirius said lazily, borrowing Lupin's wand and waving a path through the crowds. Harry made out Mrs. Finnigan in the press, her freckled face broken into a smile and merry blue eyes twinkling, and instant relief flooded over him, followed by a twinge of annoyance--a person couldn't even get through one peaceful night in this madhouse.

"All right, what seems to be the p--"

Sirius halted. He and Lupin had reached the balcony railing, but whatever they saw was enough to strike them both momentarily dumb.

"Oh, DEAR," sighed Lupin, his mouth twitching.

Harry and Doors glanced at one another, and started shoving their way toward the front of the press. Doors elbowed Lupin aside and dragged Harry into the railing, and the two saw at once the cause for Lupin's 'Oh, dear'.

Snape stood furiously near the statue of Aelfwald the Schlepper by the doors to the Great Hall, deprived of his wand and being forcibly restrained by McGonagall and Professor Sinistra, both wearing wooly dressing gowns. Near the opposite end of the hall hovered Marge, giggling like a drunken schoolgirl, and clinging to the chandelier in the center of the ceiling was a white-faced, extremely horrified-looking Peeves. Marge's lipstick was smeared all over his face, and Harry realized with awful clarity just what it was that had happened--Marge, (no doubt thinking to catch Snape on his own) had somehow managed to plant a big wet one not on him, but on Peeves.

"Oh, poor Peeves," Harry muttered, wincing sympathetically.

"No kidding," snorted Doors, shaking with laughter.

"Get that--woman--out of here!" Snape was snarling, still struggling to escape the death grip of McGonagall and Sinistra. Harry had never seen him so infuriated, but then he had to admit that the unwanted affections of Marjorie Dursley were enough to send anyone round the bend. "She's insane! Filthy Muggle, wandering about the castle at night like some perverted--"

"Perverted?" McGonagall cut him off. There was wry amusement in her voice, as though even she couldn't fail to see the humor in the situation. "And just what were you doing up at this hour, Severus?"

Snape was lost for words, but not for long. Marge wiggled her fingers at him and cooed, "Oh, were you looking for little old me? How sweet of you, trying to make certain I was safe--"

"I was doing nothing of the kind, you dolt!" Snape snarled, his face reddening as the throng let out a collective snicker. "If you must know, I was--"

He glanced up at the balcony and stopped, his face purpling before it paled to the hue of old Donegal china. He was fingering something in his pocket, and seemed momentarily oblivious of McGonagall and Sinistra pinning him to the spot.

Harry felt a bucket of ice cascade into his stomach--Snape was looking right at him. He had not forgotten Doors's words about the Mirror of Erised, though what with one thing and another they certainly weren't foremost in his mind, but at that moment he recalled with full clarity just what she had said about its effect on Snape's already fragile sanity. Though he had doubted Snape would dare try anything in the midst of such utter chaos, he had apparently been wrong--the last time the Potions master had done any nighttime wandering, the consequences on Harry (and just about everybody else) had been little short of disastrous.

"I--I was just checking on things," he went on, after a rather noticeable pause. The crowd murmured, and Sinistra and McGonagall were looking at him as though he'd gone mad.

"Checking on things," echoed McGonagall, eying him with a nurse-quickly-the-straight-jacket! sort of look. "Severus, why don't we take you to see Madam Pomfrey. You've had quite a shock, and I think it would be in everyone's best interest if she checked you over--"

"No!" Snape snapped, in a voice much more like his old sneering self. "I assure you, Minerva, I'm quite all right. I simply remembered some--business--I had left unattended, and thought it best to complete it before the madness that is Christmas Eve descended upon us." His eyes flickered over the balcony once more.

Doors and Lupin exchanged a grave glance, before casting a fleeting, worried look at Harry, who gulped. He had a feeling he knew exactly what Snape's 'unfinished business' might be, and it made him extremely glad he didn't keep a water glass beside his bed.

From the expression on McGonagall's face, she wasn't buying this any more than the rest of the crowd. "No, Severus, I really think you ought to--"

"Oh, he's fine."

Petunia, clad in a flowered robe and slippers, came marching in from a lower corridor. She cast a very nasty look in Marge's direction. "My dear sister-in-law has been rather, shall we say, grabby of late. Why, just the other day I caught her and one of the grooms in an extremely unflattering--"

"Petunia!"

Vernon came storming after her, his slippers on the wrong feet and hair standing on end. His face was puce with anger, his eyes heavy and purple from lack of sleep. "How dare you talk about my sister like that?" he demanded--or, rather, thundered. One of his cheeks was ticking.

Petunia rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, Vernon," she snapped. "The woman's marrying one of them, I hardly think she deserves any respect or discretion on our part. She's just tried mauling the best man, for God's sake!"

"I'm not the best man," Snape interjected angrily, but Vernon ignored him.

"Regardless of who--or what--she is marrying, Marge is still my sister and this family will stand behind her."

"Speak for yourself, Vernon," Aunt Petunia retorted, crossing her arms.

Harry stared at them. He had never, EVER seen his aunt and uncle argue before--they were both far too prim and self-righteous. Now, however, it seemed their rotten perniciousness had grown along separate paths--Aunt Petunia staunchly refused to condone anything to do with magic, while Uncle Vernon remained loyal to his sister and her--wishes. It was the scariest thing he'd ever seen, and not for anything would Harry leave now.

Vernon looked ready to spit nails, but the hall was spared his temper tantrum by Dudley, who waddled out, caught sight of the tableau, and stole the opportunity.

"Why didn't anyone tell me there was a party?" he demanded, shoving his father in the chest. His quivering bulk was clad in fuzzy blue, soft-footed, drop-seat pajamas, and at the moment his face was going puce with the onset of a classic hissy-fit.

Petunia seemed to see this, for she said hastily, "It's not a party, Dinky Duddidums. Go back to bed."

Dudley glowered at her, but Marge, who had remained silent throughout this whole ordeal, spoke up.

"Can it, Petunia," she growled, mercifully abandoning her sickly airy-fairy voice. "The boy's old enough to make his own decisions.

"Oh, make me, you crazy old cow," Petunia snarled back, eliciting snickers from the more-than-entertained onlookers. "You're marrying a wizard, and a damned idiot of a wizard at that--your credibility died a long time ago." She smiled sickly, that smug, self-righteous smirk Harry had long ago learned to dread. "I wonder what old Lockwart would think, if he found out you'd been chasing his best man?"

She glanced at the chandelier, which Peeves was still clinging to as though it were a life preserver. "Unless, of course, you were going for the school poltergeist, which would be ten time worse."

Marge seemed at a loss for words. "But--but--Gilderoy--" she said, the look on her face clearly showing she was in the process of hatching a good one.

Petunia glanced around, her sharp eyes picking over the crowds. "He seems to be the only person in this infernal castle who's not here right now. What's the matter, did he fall asleep with his curlers over his ears?"

And without waiting for a response, she turned on her slipper, caught Dudley (who had been goggling up at Hermione on the balcony) by the scruff of the neck, and stormed off to wherever it was they had come from.

There was an uncomfortable silence, as everyone who could stared after the two Dursleys, and at Uncle Vernon standing dumb and silent in his pajamas.

"Erm, well," McGonagall coughed after a minute. "Let's get to bed, everyone, we've got a big day coming up...."

She released Snape, who was still gazing after Petunia, a most peculiar expression on his sallow face. The crowds stirred reluctantly, not wanting the spectacle to end, but the numerous yawns that punctuated the whispered hubbub spoke of just how tired everyone was.

"Well, that was...interesting," said Ron, rubbing his eyes. "Never thought I'd say this, but I wish Christmas was over."

"You're not the only one," muttered Harry, as Hermione fought her way over to them, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark-circled. The three looked at one another, yawned, and as one started back toward Gryffindor Tower.

"Aw, come on, you three, where's your sense of fun?"

Fred and George had, as they were so adept at doing, popped up behind them without anyone's noticing. "I sincerely hope you appreciated our little performance?" said George, his eyes bright and not sleepy in the least.

"You cracked the potion, didn't you?" Hermione said wearily, stating more than asking.

"Well, somebody had to," snorted Fred, adjusting the collar on his paisley pajamas. "Really, the quality of the pranksters at this school has simply plummeted since George and I graduated. You get something that juicy dumped in your laps, and not a one of you has the sense to go ferret it out?"

"You've wounded us deeply," said George, clapping a hand over his heart.

"Oh, shut it, you two," said Ron. "If being a prankster means you've got to go running about setting up disasters at two in the morning, count me out."

"Fine," sniffed Fred. "See if we get you anything for Christmas."

"Knowing the kind of gifts you give, I'd be lucky," Ron muttered.

"I heard that!"

"It's lights out on Broadway," Hermione muttered, as they shuffled past Lupin, Doors, and Sirius. "G'night, Professors, and let's hope it's for keeps this time."

"Good night, you three," said Sirius. Doors and Lupin didn't say anything, but still looked worried, and Harry felt a tiny curl of ice in his stomach at the reminder of Snape's earlier words. Well, he wouldn't dare try anything tonight, and Harry would just have to be careful what he drank out of until the wedding was over.

"Nutjob," he muttered, scrambling back through the portrait-hole. Minutes later he had collapsed onto his bed in the boys' dormitory, and was just kicking his shoes off when he suddenly remembered the dream all the commotion had woke him from.

"I am not going to go like Trelawney," he said firmly, shaking his head. He fell back on the bed, and slept undisturbed for the rest of the night.

Phew! Done with that part, and Chunk Number Three should be due soon enough. That will, BTW, include the wedding, which I know is probably the only reason half of you are bothering to wade through this tome. And since I didn't put a disclaimer in the first part, I'll put one now: I'm not JK (much though I wish I were), and therefore none of her characters or locations belong to me. Some of the later brouhaha in this monster does, but I'm not overly anxious to claim it. Please don't sue me, I'm out of work and my pitiful penny fund wouldn't buy a sock.

P.S. A very heartfelt thank you to all of you for not pressuring me--it's made my life a lot easier. ^_^

P.P.S. Go check out my website, people! It may be found at www.angelfire.com/geek/mynaevaerland (just copy and paste, I'm too lazy to link), and if you have any suggestions/contributions/flames, by all means, let me know. ^_^

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