CHAPTER TWO ¥

Marge's Visit

~ September first, and the much anticipated return to Hogwarts, was fast approaching. Harry had received his new school supply list a week ago, but he still hadn't worked up the nerve to ask his uncle for a ride to London, to purchase his necessities. Last year he had been staying with the Weasley's and had gone to Diagon Alley with them, unfortunately for the last Potter they were vacationing in Egypt this summer. Mr Weasley had won a fairly large chunk of gold, and so the family had opted to visit their eldest child, Bill, who had the impressive sounding job title of 'Curse Breaker' for Gringotts goblin bank. The raven haired mage-in-training couldn't think of a family more deserving of a chance for an exciting trip abroad, especially one with some extra gold. Harry was a bit ashamed to admit it, but he couldn't entirely repress a pang of jealousy at not being invited along, since it meant he had been stuck at Privet Drive all summer. He was definitely ready to see Ron, the twins, and even Ginny again. The Weasley's weren't scheduled to return until the last week of August, but he was sure things would be much too hectic to impose his presence upon them at that point. Ron and the twins barely manage to get everything packed in time for school normally, and the Emerald eyed youth figured it'd be a miracle if they made it to the Hogwarts express without forgetting anything this year. He couldn't ask to stay with Hermione, because her family was vacationing in France, besides he had never actually been invited to visit her anyway. He got the impression that Hermione's parents wanted to spend as much quality time with her as possible, as they missed her terribly throughout the school year. Because she was muggle born, Hermione's parents couldn't come to the school and sign her out on select weekends, like most of the children of witches and wizards could be. The muggle repelling wards wouldn't allow it, and the pureblood majority board of governors hadn't ever bothered finding a way around this oversight.

Harry's Hogwarts letter brought a second complication as well. Third year students were allowed, during a small number of specially designated weekends, to visit the neighboring, all magical village of Hogsmeade. The problem was, he would need his guardians to sign a permission slip. The bespectacled child seriously considered just forging the signature, but for whatever reason it made him feel a bit queasy. It's not like he hadn't needed to do so occasionally during primary, but that was almost always a matter of survival. If Uncle Vernon had seen a few of those notes, like the time he'd somehow turned his teacher's wig blue, he just knew he'd have woken up, locked in his cupboard, with yet another concussion. Harry really REALLY wanted to go with his friends to visit Hogsmeade, like one of the normal kids for once. Not that he would ever be normal, regardless of how much he wished for it. To his relations he was a freak, to the magical world he was, The-Child-Who'd-Lived, and even in his own mind he knew something was wrong, though he fought to keep "those thoughts" buried deep within his subconscious. He could ask them to sign his permission slip, but he knew his aunt and uncle would likely just laugh in his face if he tried.

The slender youth had pretty much resigned himself to endure however many lonely days, stuck in the castle by himself while his friends explored Hogsmeade, when an opportunity, and a curse, presented itself. Monday morning, three weeks before the summer holidays ended, Uncle Vernon was getting ready to leave for work when he called out, "Boy!"

A rather confused Harry dried his hands on a rose colored hand towel, and made his way to the spotless, yet utterly uninteresting foyer. He hoped whatever his walrus of an uncle wanted would be quick, else his aunt would add extra chores for the dishes still being in the sink, even with a valid reason.

"Now listen up, boy. I'll be picking up Marge on my way home this afternoon, so you best bloody well be sure your room is clean and free of any of your freakish… that is... all that fairy rubbish from that school of yours. It had better all be back safely locked away in your cupboard," growled Uncle Vernon, "and I expect you to mind your manners."

"I will if she does," Harry grumbled, though his uncle just steam rolled on without acknowledgment.

"As Marge obviously doesn't know about your freakishness, we've told her that we send you off to St. Brutus's Secure centre for Incurably Criminal Boys," he scoffed though the mustached man, again, kept talking right over him, "and you'll be keeping to that story if you know what's best for you."

The considerably smaller child eyed the rotund form of his uncle for a moment, bracing himself, hardly believing his daring, he asked, "What's in it for me?"

You could almost see the smoke coming out of his supposed guardian's ears as he seethed, purple faced, and spittle flying, he shouted,

"Don't you talk back to me boy! Not after I work all day to put clothes on your back, and food in your belly, especially when you aren't even ours!"

Considering Harry didn't own a single article of new clothing, and was barely allowed enough food to keep a bird alive, Vernon's rant was so blatantly ridiculous the newly turned

thirteen year old struggled to fight back the urge to roll his eyes.

"You'll be sticking to the story if you don't want to be spending the rest of your miserable time locked away in that room. No more free time, no more visits to the 'library'."

The little noirette started a bit at that last remark.

"Oh yes, freak, I know all about that. 'Reading.' Like some kind of little Nancy boy, not that I'm surprised mind you," he sneered, as if reading was some particularly odious task no 'real man' would bother with.

"Okay okay," the youth quickly agreed, taking a step back and looking away. "Look, I'm just saying, keeping up a convincing story through all her antagonism will be really hard."

At this Vernon took a menacing step forward.

Harry threw his hands up placatingly, "but yeah I'll do it… provided you sign my school form," he improvised after a sudden stroke of genius.

"You'll do it because you're told, boy!"

"Come on uncle, you know how Aunt Marge is with me. It's a bit much normally, but if I have to try and stay clear headed enough to stick to some story about St. Whats'it."

"St. Brutus's Secure Centre," the red faced relation interrupted hotly.

"Exactly," said Harry softly. "It's rather a lot to remember, and if I'm to keep my calm, I'll need something to help me stay focussed."

Vernon was considering it, he could practically see the moment when the great walrus acknowledged the fact that his sister loved to hate on Harry.

Audibly growling, the big man asked, "Well then, what's this ruddy form for then?"

"Permission form to visit the local village."

He knew better than to let his excitement at the prospect show. Better to let his uncle think it wasn't really that big of a deal.

The big brute contemplated it for a time, warring with his innate desire not to allow his nephew anything he might enjoy, "Fine boy, but you'll make it sound good, and if you toe the line, then at the end of Marge's trip I'll… I'll sign your ruddy form."

~By the time Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge made it in that night, Harry was putting serious thought into which would be worse, suffering through the underhanded, nasty things Marge would throw at him, or continuing to do all of the chores Aunt Petunia had foisted upon him that day! So far he'd dusted, swept, vacuumed, mopped, packed away his belongings, changed the bedding in the guest room, sent Hedwig off to Hagrid's for the week, mowed the grass, mulched the flower beds, weeded, washed the windows, washed the drive, showered twice, both times in freezing water as his aunt had him start the laundry at the same time he started his showers, and had only just started cooking supper as Vernon's company car pulled in.

The week went mostly as the resigned youth had expected. Marge would hurl insults at his smallest infraction, while praising Dudley for next to no reason at all. Harry could mostly stand the tirades directed at himself, after all he'd been putting up with the like his whole life. The colorful affronts towards his masculinity were harder to stand, mostly because they seemed to be true, regardless of how hard He tried to make it otherwise. Still, it's not like he could help being small, and yes he could cook, he'd been made to do most of the simple cooking since he was five, and of course he didn't really know anything about sports, Dudley had always made sure there was no one to play with, plus his uncle would always kick him out of the room any time he wanted to watch a game. Regardless, he could have withstood it all if not for the lies aimed at his parentage, those were almost impossible to wrestle his temper down from, to prevent himself from arguing back.

At least Ripper, Aunt Marge's bulldog, had mellowed out enough in his old age that he no longer tried to chase Harry all over the yard. Normally animals loved the slender youth, yet another reason he wasn't manly according to his hippopotamus of an aunt. He always believed it was probably because he had spent so much time trying to be still so as not to be noticed, in order to avoid his own predators. The noirette had been preyed upon often enough, so he knew how to approach small creatures without frightening them himself. Ripper though, he was just too much Marge's dog Harry figured.

Wednesday night after dinner found the smallest inhabitant of number four yet again serving the Dursley's dessert, none for him of course. Marge had been enjoying some of Uncle Vernon's brandy with just a bit too much enthusiasm, and unfortunately she could be downright vicious when intoxicated. Harry had already begun to brace for the inevitable, that was a glass and a half ago.

"Just two more days Harry, and she'll be gone, then Uncle Vernon will sign your form and you'll be able to visit Hogsmeade with everyone else. Yes she's a bitch, but it's not like it'll be anything they haven't said to you before," or at least, that's what he told himself.

Marge simpered to Aunt Petunia as Dudley ate his third slice of pie,

"My but I do enjoy seeing a boy with a healthy appetite. Means you'll be a proper sized man like your father one day, right dudders? Unlike that runty one," she tutted.

"He always was slight, no matter how much we fed him," replied Petunia.

Harry had been distracting himself by internally reviewing the latest goosebumps book he'd read, but that little lie had jarred him right back to the present. It had been one heck of a whopper, even for Aunt Petunia!

"Oh you can't blame yourself dear," continued Marge. "These things just happen sometimes. You see it all over in the dog breeding world."

Looking over to her brother she asked, "What was it you said the boy's father did again, Vernon?"

"Didn't have a real job, bit of a layabout. Lived off Pet's sister's money, not that she made much mind you," he jeered.

Harry had to grit his teeth. He wanted nothing more than to shout that Vernon was a liar, but for the sake of the Hogsmeade form, he held his tongue. The fact that he had no way to know if what his uncle said was true didn't even occur to the very young teen.

"No surprise there, probably a drunk too," the hippo blustered, unfortunately the irony of her calling anyone a drunk was lost on the room as Harry angrily interjected.

"My father was not a drunk or a layabout!"

At his enraged outburst the brandy glass Aunt Marge held shattered.

After a brief pause, during which everyone looked at the ruined snifter, Marge tittered on about not knowing her own strength, and Vernon tried to send Harry out to the back yard. He was definitely ready to go. He needed out of there before he let off any more accidental magic, but of course Marge had different ideas. She insisted "the boy" clean up her mess.

Harry was trying to get a grip on his temper, he was really really trying… and then Marge insulted his mother too.