Harry Potter and the Fifth House
Christine Morgan
christine@sabledrake.com / http://www.christine-morgan.org


Author's Note: the characters of the Harry Potter novels are the property of their creator, J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. All other characters property of the author. 53,000 words. January, 2002. Adult situations, mild sexual content and violence.
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Chapter Two – Memory Unbound.

Harry couldn't possibly remain in his room after this surprise. But he couldn't very well just march into the dining room either. He contented himself with sitting on the stairs, silent, his plate balanced on his knees as he listened keenly to the conversation.
Aunt Petunia kept coming back, like a circling fly, to the same thing. She couldn't believe it, how had Marge done it, what was her secret? Marge explained at length, while snubbing the bacon-wrapped roast and the potatoes in cream sauce and most of the other courses that Harry had slaved over for the best part of the afternoon.
"It wasn't long after my last visit," Marge said. Her voice was much the same, Marge-the-Barge's blaring claxon. "Pass me that salad, Dudley, if you're not going to eat it. No, heavens, no, that dressing is loaded with calories. I'm strictly on a health-food diet now, you see. Vegetables. Lean meat. Whole grains. You should consider it, Vernon. Does wonders for the bowels."
A tittering laugh, nearly as devoid of rationality as the last time Harry had heard it, came from the throat of Gilderoy Lockhart. The one-time wizard celebrity, author of many books, and ex-DADA teacher at Hogwarts, was acting as if he'd never been anything but a Muggle, and a daffy one at that. Harry hadn't heard anything of him since he'd been carted off from Hogwarts, victim of his own backfired Memory Charm – a living example of why you should never use another wizard's wand, especially a second-hand old one that had already been broken and ill-mended with Spell-O-Tape. As far as Harry knew, Lockhart had ended up in St. Mungo's Hospital. His presence here was as bewildering as it was amazing.
"You know I'd never had any complaints about my figure before," Marge was saying. "It was simply never a concern of mine, never an issue. But after that last visit, I suddenly realized how much I'd let myself go. I was grotesque. I felt like a dirigible, as if I might just bloat up and float away at any moment. It disgusted me. More, I couldn't even remember what made me let myself get so big. I've been having such problems with my memories these past couple of years, don't you know. That's how I met Gil, here, but that's another story."
Gil? Harry's eyebrows went up.
"At any rate, there I was, feeling big as a house and ashamed of it. So I enrolled myself in the spa, and lived for eight months on sprouts and bean curd and kelp. I took up walking, swimming, and eventually bought myself one of those standing bicycles. Lost ninety pounds so far."
"My word!" marveled Aunt Petunia.
"That's quite incredible, Marge," Uncle Vernon said.
"I still have forty to go," she said.
"Now, now," came the voice of Gilderoy Lockhart, and it was him, unmistakable, Harry would have known him anywhere. Hadn't he sat through a whole term of listening to that man go on about himself and his fabulous exploits? None of which, as they'd found out, had really been his doing at all. "Don't go letting yourself waste away to a stick, my dear."
"Oh, Gil." And Aunt Marge giggled like a schoolgirl.
Harry put aside his macaroni cheese, having lost his appetite. He wished he could go down there and ask what Gilderoy Lockhart thought he was doing here, but didn't dare.
"It's really most impressive," said Aunt Petunia. "I hardly recognized you. This spa … doesn't it sound wonderful, Dudley?"
"Sounds horrid," came Dudley's bored voice. "You'd never catch me in a place like that."
"But, Duddy-wuddy," wheedled Petunia, "look how well it's worked for Aunt Marge. Your teachers say --"
"I don't care what my teachers say," snapped Dudley. They had, as Harry well knew, been sending home notes of concern about his size and his health for a long time, and Aunt Petunia's every attempt to curb his eating or encourage exercise had ultimately met with failure.
For a brief, merry moment, Harry imagined how much better life on Privet Drive would be if Dudley were indeed shipped off to Aunt Marge's miracle-spa for eight months.
"So," said Uncle Vernon gruffly. "What do you do, Mr. Lockhart?"
"I'm in advertising," came Gilderoy Lockhart's reply.
Harry bit back a snicker. That was true, at least, though self-promotion might have been a better choice of words.
"How'd you two meet?"
"That's what I was about to tell you," said Aunt Marge. "I mentioned I'd been having some troubles with my memory. Little lapses, you know. Spots of forgetfulness. So I joined a support group for people with similar troubles. Gil's a recovering amnesiac."
This time, the snicker escaped and Harry had to muffle it by pressing his forearm over his mouth. That was putting it lightly. When they'd brought Lockhart up from the Chamber of Secrets, he hadn't even known his own name.
"Oh, I say!" gasped Aunt Petunia. "Amnesia?"
"Total and utter amnesia," Lockhart said in a carefree manner. "I hadn't a clue who I was or what I did for a living. Luckily, some kindly ladies took me in and cared for me while I pieced my life back together. I may never fully reclaim my past, but I think building a future is more important."
Harry's mirth faded as a strange thought came to him. He'd been going on the assumption that Lockhart was here on some pretense, pretending to be friends with Aunt Marge in order to get close to Harry. Throughout their entire acquaintance, Lockhart had connived to get their photos taken together, and it wouldn't have surprised Harry if Lockhart wanted them to go on tour together or something. But now it occurred to him that if Lockhart's amnesia were that total, he might have forgotten everything about being a wizard.
From the dining room, he could hear the sounds of Aunt Petunia clearing the table. That was one nice thing about his exile – she couldn't very well make him clean up.
"I'm not done yet," Dudley protested.
"You have to save room for pie, Duddkins," Petunia said.
"I'll have room."
"Gracious, Dudley," said Aunt Marge scornfully. "You really should take better care of yourself. Look at the boy, Vernon. Your wife is going to indulge him right into an early grave, which he's digging with a fork and a spoon."
This pronouncement stunned the table. In previous visits, Aunt Marge had always expansively complimented Dudley, saying how much she liked to see a solid and substantial young man with a hearty appetite. She'd often use those occasions, too, to toss an insult Harry's direction and call him skinny, reedy, or scrawny. Dudley made a bleat of shock through a mouthful of food, and Aunt Petunia stammered incoherently.
"Come now, Marge," said Uncle Vernon. "Dudley's a growing boy, that's all."
"He's an overstuffed Christmas goose," Marge proclaimed. Her chair scraped back as she rose from the table. "Let's go in the parlor, Gil, and give Petunia a chance to clear. Then we'll all have tea."
Harry stood as quietly as he could, the stairs giving the faintest of creaks. He crept backward up them with the innate grace he'd honed by lots of practice sneaking about Hogwarts when and where he wasn't supposed to. He'd gotten so that he could pass pretty well unnoticed even without having to resort to his Invisibility Cloak.
Shadows on the wall. Harry reached the landing at the top of the stairs and paused, peering down for a look. He only got a brief one, showing him Aunt Marge's profile – hard and uncompromising as the carved figurehead of a ship – and the impeccable grooming and twinkling eyes of Gilderoy Lockhart. Neither of them so much as glanced up the stairs. They were followed a moment later by Uncle Vernon, who was rather red in the face.
Aunt Marge picked up without missing a beat. "Really, Vernon, you should do something. Take a stand. That boy needs discipline. You're not doing him any favors letting that woman coddle him to death."
"Oh, now, really," began Uncle Vernon.
"After all, you handle that other one well enough. That spindly nephew of hers. He's not about, I hope?"
Spindly. Harry rolled his eyes.
"No, no, not at all," Uncle Vernon said. "He's away."
"It's the saddest thing, Gil," Marge said, with the air of one imparting a great confidence. "My poor brother here, burdened as he is with the responsibilities of his own job, home, and family, got stuck with a shiftless orphan to boot. And not one of your charming orphans out of Dickens, either. This one's an ungrateful, peculiar little brat."
Uncle Vernon cleared his throat. "Marge …"
"I'm only slapping down the cards, Vernon. It's hardly your fault. I know you've provided a good, stable home for the boy. By rights, he should have grown up normal. But you can't overcome genetics. Blood always tells, that's what I say. Petunia knows her sister was a bad egg, and as for that Potter, hmf!"
"Potter?" queried Gilderoy Lockhart.
"It's no wonder that son of theirs ended up in reform school," Marge went on. "There's something not right about him, Vernon, I've always said so."
"We've been over this before." Uncle Vernon sounded nervous and no wonder; Marge might have forgotten the circumstances leading up to her blowing-up, but he hadn't.
"Potter," mused Lockhart.
"That awful scar, too," Marge said. "It makes him look like the very devil. Should be a pitchfork, or three sixes in a cloverleaf like in that movie. Honestly, Vernon, if ever there was a boy to turn to black magic or witchcraft, that's the one."
Harry, had he been down there and allowed to take part in their conversation, would have objected fiercely at that point. From the very day he'd come to Hogwarts, he'd been determined not to be tempted into the Dark Arts. He could have done, it would have been easy enough to get into Slytherin and befriend Draco Malfoy … surely even Snape would have softened toward him if he thought that the son of his old rival was ripe for corruption. But he was of Gryffindor! His pride stung at the accusation.
"Scar?" Lockhart's voice was tremulous. "Magic? Witchcraft?"
Uncle Vernon laughed an anxiety-laden laugh. "Figure of speech, Mr. Lockhart. I'll admit, the boy is an evil-looking creature, but hardly … we'd never permit magic in our household … even if it were real … the very idea!"
"It would be just like him, though," said Aunt Marge, very darkly. "I should hope, Vernon, that if there was even the slightest indication --"
"Marge!" he barked. "We do not speak of such things in this house."
Harry blinked. He shook his head. Funny … that had almost made it sound like Aunt Marge did know something about magic after all. He'd always been under the impression that Aunt Petunia was most eager to keep that unsavory aspect of her family's history a secret from her husband's relations. Hence the story about Harry's parents having died in a car crash, the same one that allegedly gave him his scar. It would hardly do to tell how they'd in fact been murdered by the worst Dark wizard since the Black Court of Count Douglas Tyrrell.
"Do you know, the most extraordinary thing is coming to me?" said Lockhart. "I think I'm beginning to remember …"
"Oh, no," whispered Harry, a sudden churning in his stomach that had nothing to do with his half-eaten dinner.
"What's that, Gil?" asked Aunt Marge.
"Harry Potter, wasn't it?"
"My wife's nephew," Uncle Vernon said. "But think nothing of it. He's --"
"Why, yes!" Lockhart cried. "It's all coming back! My goodness, and look at me … dressed like a Muggle! I say. How unflattering. Whatever did I do with my wand?"
"Wand?" choked Vernon and Marge in unison.
At that moment, Aunt Petunia ushered Dudley in from the dining room with orders to "make conversation with your aunt while I dish up the pie." Dudley waddled past the bottom of the stairs, not noticing Harry on the landing. His round shadow stopped in the doorway to the living room as Aunt Marge spoke.
"Gil, whatever are you saying?"
"Didn't I tell you? No, I couldn't have when I've only just remembered it myself. Marge, dear, isn't it splendid? I'm a wizard!"
In the hush that followed, molecules could be heard to decay. It was broken by the thick sound of Uncle Vernon swallowing, and Dudley's craven whimper.
"You're a what?" Marge asked icily.
"And not just any wizard!" Lockhart announced with all the old familiar vanity and pride. "I am Gilderoy Lockhart, author of Magical Me and numerous other works! Have you got a quill? I'd be happy to autograph a copy for you."
"What?" shrieked Marge, drawing Aunt Petunia in a rush from the kitchen with suds on her hands.
Harry covered his eyes. He was sure that this was somehow against the Ministry's rules. Should he do something? What could he possibly do that wouldn't make things worse?
"So you're the famous Harry Potter's family!" Lockhart crowed. "Capital to meet you! Simply capital. He's quite a marvelous young man, you know. We're very close. I was one of his instructors for a time, and, dare I say, a close confidante and personal friend. Marge, dear, you should have told me!"
"You're a … you're a …" she couldn't finish.
Dudley could. He bleated, "Wizard!" at the top of his lungs and swung about, lumbering for the stairs with a tread that made the foundations shake. He was instinctively covering his backside with one hand – well, trying to; it was like trying to cover a sofa with a handkerchief – and his mouth with the other. He clomped up the stairs without watching where he was going, craning his neck back over his shoulder. Consequently, he nearly ran right into Harry.
"Boo," Harry said softly.
"Augh!" Dudley backpedaled, lost his footing, and bounced down the stairs like a big ball of nutty-putty. He hit the floor, jolting the house again, and lay flat on his back.
Distracted by this, Harry had lost track of what was going on in the living room. Even as Dudley landed, Gilderoy Lockhart was driven backwards into the entryway, shielding himself with both arms as Aunt Marge beat at him with a spray of daisies that Aunt Petunia had picked just that morning. Their stems were broken and nodding crazily every which way. Petals and leaves showered down on Lockhart's hapless head.
"Not the face, not the face!" he cried.
"Out!" thundered Uncle Vernon. "Out of my house!"
"This is hardly any way to treat a guest!" Lockhart protested.
Marge snatched up a furled umbrella from the umbrella-stand by the door and beset him with it. "You filthy, lying, treacherous …" She went on in that vein, emphasizing each word with another whack from the umbrella, and as her anger intensified, she resorted to using words that Harry had never before heard spoken in the Dursley house.
Neither had Aunt Petunia. She had rushed to Dudley to try and help him up, a losing battle if ever there was one, but as Marge unleashed the vilest epithet yet, she uttered a wailing scream and fainted. Lockhart promptly tripped over her and landed on Dudley's considerable padding. But actual physical contact with a wizard did what no amount of tugging by his mother could ever have done – Dudley bounded to his feet so fast he might have been on springs. This propelled Lockhart straight at Aunt Marge. She screeched and thrust the umbrella at him. It popped open and one of the spokes nearly put out Lockhart's eye.
Uncle Vernon was roaring and snorting, like a maddened bull. Only the fact that the entryway was so crowded prevented him from getting to Lockhart and pummeling him. Even with a wand, Lockhart would have been next to defenseless; without one, he didn't stand a chance.
Yelping, he swatted aside the umbrella and fled for the door, leaping nimbly over the unconscious Aunt Petunia as he did so. Marge chased after him and Uncle Vernon went after her. Maybe he was hoping to stop this before it turned into a complete spectacle before the eyes of all the neighbors, or maybe he was hoping to land a few punches of his own. Harry suspected the latter. A wizard without a wand? A wizard who couldn't fight back with his foul magic? That had to be hard to resist. Since he couldn't take it out on Harry without fear of either retaliation or the wrath of Harry's godfather, Lockhart would make an acceptable substitute.
Dudley ran the other way. He reached the door of the cupboard under the stairs, which had been turned into a closet since Harry's relocation to the upstairs spare bedroom. Dudley wedged himself through the door and stuck like a cork in a bottle. Harry could only see, from his angle, the back half of Dudley sticking out.
Harry did not move. He wanted to run after and see what became of Lockhart, but knew that would only be begging for trouble. He stayed where he was, amused by the grunts and struggles as Dudley tried to either force himself the rest of the way into the cupboard or pull himself back out.
It wasn't long before he heard Marge and Vernon returning. Lockhart might have only been as clever as the average flobberworm, but he was fleet of foot when his life or his precious looks were in danger, and even confused, he would have easily outdistanced the Dursley siblings.
Marge was sobbing in between heaving gasps for breath. As they came in and Uncle Vernon closed the door (and threw all the bolts and wedged a chair in front of it for good measure, as if Lockhart were coming back with an army), she kicked at the discarded umbrella furiously.
"How do you like that? I finally meet a decent man and he turns out to be one of them!" With another curse, she stormed into the kitchen and, by the sound, started sloppily devouring the pie that Aunt Petunia had been about to serve.

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page copyright 2002 by Christine Morgan / christine@sabledrake.com