This chapter is dedicated to EMMETRULEs247

Chapter 3: Aunt Marge

Hearing the car backing into the gravel driveway, Harry quickly rinsed the remainder of the dishes and dried his hands on the pink flowery tea towel that reminded him all too much of Umbridge. He grit his teeth at the thought of that foul woman and automatically glanced at the 'I must not tell lies' carved into his right hand, courtesy of the blood quill he was forced to write lines with during the many detentions of the previous year. It was the symbol of a bittersweet victory.

He hurriedly and silently went up the stairs to his room, damned if he was going to appear eager to carry Marge's bags. He could hear his aunt rummaging about in her room and the chinking of clothes hangers from Dudley's room indicated that he was probably getting dressed. Harry mussed up his hair, trying to make it appear messier than it already was. He wasn't going to impress Marge whatever he did – not that he wanted to, but if she was going to criticise him, then it might as well be for something that he had actually done as opposed to something he couldn't control. Anyway, the more he annoyed her, and by extension his aunt and uncle, the better.

He stood in his room, listening for the door and waiting to be called. He wasn't disappointed; the booming voice of his uncle reached his ears, calling him down to carry Marge's luggage into the guest room.

He took his time leaving his room and going down the stairs. Hopefully they would be in the dining room by the time he got down and he wouldn't need to expend any further effort dealing with them.

He picked up Marge's monster sized suitcases. Why on earth someone would need so many things for a week-long stay baffled him. He passed the dining room as quietly as he could and carried them into the guest room. Thankfully the guest room was on the ground floor, so he wouldn't have to drag them up the stairs; truthfully, he didn't know if he had he energy or the strength to do that. He deposited them by the foot of the bed and resisted the urge to take a quick look inside just to see what could possibly have made them so heavy. Not wanting to spend any more time than was necessary in the room with Marge's things, lest he be accused of stealing, he turned and left the room.

His plan to go straight up to his room and not come out until Marge was either gone or asleep was thwarted, however, as he was intercepted by his aunt, poised with one foot on the stairwell and his hand on the banister to propel himself forward.

"You will be sitting at the table tonight," she said, pursing her lips with an expression of extreme distaste on her face. "I will not have one of those…those freaks tell us we haven't been feeding you properly."

Harry gaped at her. Surely, it would be better to keep Marge and him as separate as possible.

"But Aunt Petunia –"

"No excuses! Set the table," she snapped and turned back into the kitchen, fully expecting him to follow. And he did.

*~*~*

The meal was a tense affair for Harry. The steak, although beautifully cooked (tender and crispy, just the way he liked it) felt like sawdust in his throat. He tried washing it down with water, but that wasn't much use either. His scar was throbbing dully; he had noticed it was doing a lot of that these days, especially when he was angry or tense. Thankfully, however, Voldemort hadn't tried contacting him again and he hadn't had any visions yet. He was sitting at the corner of the table that seated six, with Dudley on one side and an empty chair at the head nearest to him. He was grateful for Dudley's bulk because he was at least partially shielded from the wobbling chins and semi-masticated food in Marge's open mouth and not directly in her line of sight. He thought of Hermione and her insistence on table manners and constant nagging of Ron not to eat with his mouth full or to speak with food in his mouth, and was transiently amused by the expression of distaste he imagined her wearing if she were sitting here and watching the charming table manners of the Dursley family.

And Dudley, he was another enigma. It seemed as though he'd changed so much since last summer. Harry had entertained vague thoughts of Dudley's behaviour being some kind of strange prank, but quickly dismissed the idea. Dudley wasn't that subtle and there was no way he would be smart enough to pull something like that off. So there remained the question of what exactly his motives were. Did he want something that no one else but Harry could give him? Harry couldn't really think of an instance where this might be the case, unless it was something to do with magic, but he couldn't think of Dudley actually wanting to be near magic; in fact, following his experiences of magic, he had more reason than anyone to detest it, since his introduction to it wasn't what you would call pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. So the question remained: was he being sincere or not?

***

He had just been thinking how relieved he was that the meal was finally over and he could at last slip upstairs, away from the hateful glares of his family, when he rose to clear the table, keeping his head ducked in an abysmal effort to remain unnoticed. He was successful, to a certain degree, anyway. He had cleared away the serving dishes and had just moved on to clearing the individual plates when Marge focused her beady eyes on him, narrowed in what could only be described as hate. Harry stared back, unwilling to be the one who looked away. He really couldn't care less what her opinion of him was.

"Still here, are you?"

Wow, he thought, rolling his eyes, that woman — if you could call her that — really had a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Great observation, do you want a gold star?" he replied, not bothering to hide his contempt or take the sarcastic lilt out of his tone.

"How dare you? Vernon is keeping you here out of the goodness of his heart—"

What goodness? he thought. Vernon didn't have any goodness in his heart, unless you counted starving and locking an orphaned child in a cupboard goodness."— you should have been thrown out ages ago, you no good, lazy, lump of lard, just like your useless parents, couldn't even die with dignity. Drunk! Ha! That must be the worst way to go."

"Did I tell you who the boy's godfather turned out to be? Eh Marge?" Broke in Vernon, throwing a malicious glance at Harry.

Harry's teeth involuntarily clenched and his hand shot to his pocket to form a fist around his concealed wand.

"It's that murderer, the one that was on the news, remember? The one with the filthy hair?"

Marge let out a mirthless chuckle. "Makes sense, doesn't it? With parents like that, you can't possibly expect them to choose a decent folk as godparents; no, they would choose filthy, murdering scum."

"He was innocent, you bitch," he replied coldly. He wasn't going to just stand there and let them degrade Sirius in front of him. Sirius deserved more than that.

"Innocent, was he?" she scoffed. "Just like you are?"

Harry smiled bitterly. "I'm not innocent," he said self-depreciatingly. "But Sirius was."

"You really are deluded boy, aren't you? He was a filthy, escaped convict. Scum, trash, just like you and your parents, the dregs of society polluting it for good, decent, hardworking people. The government should bring back the death sentence for people like your godfather."

Harry was trembling in rage. His scar throbbing painfully and all rationale thrown out the window, he took two steps towards her, pulled out his wand and pointed it straight at her throat. "Shut up," he ground out, teeth clenched tightly.

The reaction was instant; Vernon stood, knocking his chair over, face so red it was bordering on purple; Petunia's face paled to a pasty white; and Dudley stiffened.

Marge, however, not recognizing the significance, sneered, "Or what? You'll shoot me with a stick?"

"PUT IT AWAY, NOW, BOY!" thundered Vernon.

"Make me, uncle."

"You'll...you'll be expelled. You're not allowed to do you-know-what outside your freak school."

"They changed the rules, so I am allowed."

"Vernon, what is going on? That is just a stick, what is wrong with you?"

"SHUT UP, YOU! DON'T SPEAK, I'LL KILL YOU, I SWEAR I WILL!" he screamed.

Marge's eyes widened fearfully, finally cognizant of the fact that he wasn't joking.

"Tell her, Uncle Vernon, tell her what this is. Come on, speak up."

Vernon shook his head mutely.

"How about you, Aunt Petunia?"

Petunia whimpered pitifully in response.

"No? All right, then I'll do it myself. This isn't just a stick," he spat venomously. "This is much more than a stick. Do you want to know what it does? HUH? DO YOU? ANSWER ME! DO YOU?"

Marge didn't get a chance to answer, for at that moment the doorbell rang, diverting everyone's attention.

"Get the door, boy."

"Oh no, uncle, you get the door," he replied, moving the wand to point at him.

Vernon scrambled out the dining room as fast as he could, looking almost relieved to have been told to get the door. Harry trained the wand back onto Marge, breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Sirius was a good man. Say it. SAY IT."

"S-S-Sirius w-was a g-good man."

"That's better. Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

She shook her head silently.

Vernon chose that moment to walk back in again, his guest trailing behind him.

"Harry? Harry? What are you doing, Harry? Put the wand away, Harry."

***

It was his turn for guard duty and he had decided that it would be a good idea to drop in to visit Harry towards the end of his shift and tell him of the arrangements they'd made to pick him up, and also discern for himself, how he was coping with Sirius Black's demise. The reports from other members of the Order who had been on guard duty hadn't been very encouraging. They had reported the boy staying in his room the whole day, with the curtains drawn, leaving only to go to the bathroom and eating very little. Therefore, he had been pleased to find that he was moving around the house today doing what looked like chores, but at least he wasn't spending the day moping in his room. It even looked like he had sat down for dinner with the family. It was hard to see exactly what was going on through the net curtains that covered the windows to prevent nosy passers-by from peering into their home. Right now it looked like they had finished their meal and were clearing the table. He figured that now would be a good time to knock on the door, and invite himself in if the Muggles didn't let him in, and if they did, well, all the better.

He pushed the doorbell and heard a sweet melody coming from beyond the door. It was lucky that he had lived with Muggles for a while, because he now had a basic understanding of Muggle day to day life that most of his magical friends did not. He did remember, though, the first time he'd come across a muggle doorbell. He'd been working at a local jewellers shop and had been asked by the old lady that owned the store if he would be all right locking up at closing time and if he could take the key to her house so that she would be able to open up the next morning. He'd agreed and locked up at closing time. Everything had been fine and going according to plan until he had arrived at her house. He'd stood outside for ten minutes or so, looking for the door knocker, which didn't exist. He'd then proceeded to rap on the door with his knuckles, but obviously this hadn't worked. Either she hadn't heard, or Muggle doors were somehow warded against sound. A little button — which, he later found out, was called a doorbell — had caught his attention and he had pushed it. Hearing a strange buzzing sound coming from inside the house, he took his finger off and it stopped. He tried again, and again the strange buzzing sound was heard. He took his finger off and it stopped. Off, on, off, on, off, on, off. The buzzer had brought out the little boy in him, so he pushed it again, deciding to keep his finger on it until the door was flung open. He hadn't realised that the doorbell was meant to be pushed once and then he was supposed to wait. What followed next was an interesting conversation, which comprised mainly of her yelling at him and him mumbling excuses and apologies. He learnt not do that again, so here he was, waiting outside on the Dursley's neatly trimmed lawn, facing the red door of number four Privet Drive, waiting for the Muggles to open it. He didn't have to wait too long, as he heard loud footsteps echoing and the door was flung open to reveal a very red-faced Vernon Dursley.

"Yes?" he said gruffly.

"Mr Dursley, is Harry in?"

The man's face, if possible, turned even redder. "You're one of them," he said accusingly.

"Er, yes. I think," he replied, hoping that by 'them,' he meant wizard, and not something else.

"I suppose you're not going to take no for an answer."

"No, not really."

Vernon turned and walked back in. Taking that as his invitation, he followed.

"Sirius was a good man. Say it. SAY IT."

That was Harry's voice. What on Earth?he thought, bewildered.

"S-S-Sirius w-was a g-good man."

His eyebrows furrowed. What was going on?

"That's better. Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

He walked in to find Harry holding his family at wand point, the tip aimed at an exceptionally large woman. He was shaking in rage and appeared to be furious. He wondered what could have set him off like this, although he did have a fairly good idea. Albus had told him how Harry had demolished his office in his anger the day of the fiasco at the Ministry of Magic.

"Harry? Harry? What are you doing, Harry? Put the wand away, Harry."

Harry's attention snapped to the newcomer, and slowly the blinding rage dissipated from his eyes, only to be replaced with confusion. "Professor Lupin? What are you doing here?"