*Revised 2/16/18

Uncle Vernon instantly locked his narrowing eyes on the scrawny boy. "What have I told you about interrupting me, boy?" He growled menacingly.

Harry was confused. He knew that his 'family' never liked it when he spoke, especially asking questions, but his uncle hadn't responded so forcefully before. Or had he? Harry couldn't remember.

Dudley tore his eyes away from the telly, smirking. Putting the freak in his place was the fat boy's favorite form of entertainment.

"Well, boy?" his uncle spat through clenched teeth, his ruddy face rapidly deepening in color.

"Uhm... Not to?" Harry questioned hopefully.

Fortunately that seemed to satisfy his uncle for the moment, as he grunted before adding, "You better remember it, boy. Won't be so easy on you next time." He paused for a moment before continuing, "Marge'll be staying a week. You best behave while she's here, boy, or you'll. Wish. You. Had." His uncle's fat, purple finger punctuated the last three words with jabs at Harry's chest.

Harry fought back the urge to defy his uncle. He meant it this time. If Harry wasn't careful he might end up stuck in his cupboard for the rest of the summer, and assuredly without a signed permission form. This was by far the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, which included the rancid, mustard-yellow pair of Uncle Vernon's socks he had gotten one year.

It seemed his uncle had more to say, as he narrowed his eyes once more, spitting out his next words like they were pieces of rotting meat, "Marge knows nothing of your... abnormality, boy, and you'll keep it that way. Any funny business, any at all, and you'll get no food for a week."

Harry opened his mouth, frustrated words of complaint on the tip of his tongue, before something caused him to snap it shut again.

"Yes, uncle," he replied dutifully, resentful undertone unnoticed.

His uncle continued his list of rules in the same menacing tone, "We've told Marge you attend St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys-"

"WHAT?" Harry blurted, incensed.

"BOY, I'm warning you-" his uncle bellowed.

"No- You can't tell her- I'm not a criminal!"

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, as his uncle leapt from the table (more agilely than he expected, really), advancing on Harry with fists raised and teeth bared. A meaty hand shot out-

Harry blinked, opening his eyes to find himself in his pitiful excuse for a room, sitting on the edge of the ramshackle bed that his relatives found abandoned and deemed good enough for him. Harry shut his eyes with a groan, rubbing his face. His skin felt swollen but didn't hurt, surprisingly. His fingers trailed down to his neck, which seemed intact, but swollen as well. He peered over at his bedside table to see the time, straightening up as he saw his birthday cards were missing. He leapt from the bed, eyes searching the room for his missing treasures. All he saw were Dudley's broken-down toys lining the shelves on the walls. Hedwig and Errol were missing from the owl cage as well. Fear gripped his heart as he crawled under the bed, lifting the loose floorboard to peer underneath. He let out a small sigh of relief as he found his presents still hidden. Hedwig and Errol had probably gone flying –the window was still open –but where were his cards?

A single angry tear rolled down Harry's face as he came to the only logical conclusion. His uncle had thrown them away. He knew from experience that there was no way to get things back from his relatives once they decided to take them.

He jerked up, hitting his head on the underside of the bed as his aunt's voice suddenly screeched from downstairs, "Get down here, now, Potter!"

Harry hurriedly scrubbed all evidence of tears from his face, glancing back at his clock as he left the room. It was two in the afternoon. He worriedly wondered what day it was, and if Aunt Marge would be waiting for him downstairs. His fears were confirmed as he rounded the corner of the kitchen, coming face-to-face with his least-favorite aunt, and that was saying something.

Her blubbery, claw-like hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Ah, there you are, boy. Your Aunt Petunia's been waiting," she said, judging eyes roving his body.

"Erm, yeah," Harry replied bitterly, shrugging off the hand and trying to squeeze around her to the kitchen. A difficult task, given her bulk.

Marge took another look at him, narrowing her eyes in an uncanny imitation of Uncle Vernon. "Don't you use that tone with me, boy. Petunia and Vernon may overlook your insolence, but I won't." She huffed, which Harry thought took more effort than it was worth. "I knew you were hiding that criminal spark this week… I'll be watching you, boy," she intoned suspiciously, mustache twitching. She abruptly released him, giving him a shove in the direction of his waiting Aunt- Petunia, that is. He felt her eyes boring holes in his back as he moved away.

Harry snuck a look at Petunia's prized English Garden Calendar as he walked by, not surprised at it being fifth of August. He only wished he might have disappeared, as he dubbed the strange memory holes, until Marge was gone. At least he only had the rest of today and tomorrow to endure.

"Hurry up, boy," Aunt Petunia snapped. "Start making dinner." She shoved a list at him, taking care to avoid touching him in any way.

Aunt Marge found this a good time to interject, "I'm glad to see the boy earning his keep, Petunia. He's enough of a burden on your dear family as it is. Good to keep the boy's hands busy. Who knows what he might be doing, otherwise." She nodded for emphasis, setting her rolls of fat quivering, before marching out of the room, calling for her 'neffy-poo.'

Harry's shoulders stiffened as a wave of anger came over him. He only just pushed it back by thinking about the good times he would have with Hermione and Ron in Hogsmeade if he could only keep his mouth shut. Huh? For a moment he could've sworn someone else was talking. He shook off the strange feeling, immediately dismissing it as nonsense. He couldn't help but feel on edge, though, after hearing a giant snake slithering around inside the walls of Hogwarts last year, whispering its bloodthirsty thoughts.

Aunt Petunia levelled a glare at him. "Burn anything and you'll have your Uncle to answer to," she spat, then turned away, starting out of the room.

A flash of inspiration came to Harry, and he quickly spoke, "Wait, Aunt Petunia."

She spun back around, giving him a nasty look. "What is it, boy?" she snapped, irritated.

"Well, third-years at Hog-" he cut off as his aunt's lips pursed warningly and she shot a glance at the hall, now void of Marge, "ah, my school, can visit the village on weekends..."

"Why should I care, boy?" his aunt bluntly stated, starting to turn again.

"Wait! I have a permission form I need signed in order to go, and I was hoping..."

Aunt Petunia sniffed disdainfully, curling her thin upper lip as if a foul smell swept beneath her nose. "Hoping that I'd sign it for you?" She gave a haughty smirk. "As if I'd touch anything from that freak house they call a school," she huffed, walking away.

Great, Harry thought sarcastically, now his only option was Uncle Vernon.

The rest of the day was torture. He disappeared while making dinner, a longstanding routine, coming back to find it ready. But then he had to sit through dinner with the Dursleys as Marge's vicious bulldog, Ripper, growled at him. He was forced to listen to Aunt Marge's infuriating comments about his bad parentage and lack of manners, always comparing him to her horrid dogs and praising Dudley in comparison. The glassware had started to rattle and shake at one point, after a particularly horrible comment comparing his mother to a deformed dog. Only a very pointed look from his uncle, promising punishment, had been able to snap him back to reality. They managed to pass it off as a mild earthquake to Marge. Harry could feel his Hogsmeade dreams slipping away with the excuses. And to top it all off, he could hardly eat a morsel of the food, his usually ravenous stomach rebelling after only a few bites. By the time he had cleaned up to his aunt's specifications, ensuring every surface was a blinding white or gleaming silver, and went to bed, he could feel his muscles cramping and spasming painfully. He had been stiff as a board the entire evening, trying to hold his anger in. He could only hope that tomorrow would be a better day, however slim a chance that might be. With that vain hope in mind he drifted off to sleep.

He was running. Being chased. Something big was right behind him. He pumped his legs as fast as he could, heart pounding in his chest, but the creature was just getting closer and closer. Suddenly the walls began to close around him. He ran faster and faster, trying to reach the light at the end of the tunnel, but it was no use. Everything went black. He could hear it moving, in the dark. Hunting him. He took a cautious step away from the area the sounds were coming from, freezing as his foot splashed into a pool of water. No, it knew where he was now; it was coming for him. A sharp pain flooded his arm as a giant fang sank into him. He screamed, but he had no voice. A high, cold laugh and demonic red eyes mocked him from the darkness. Poison flooded into his system, burning his veins. He was dying, dying...

Harry gasped, bolting upright in bed, shaking and sweating buckets. Another nightmare. He had been having them since returning to the Dursley's for the summer. He guessed it was normal, after being in a life-or-death situation multiple times. All that fear had to catch up with him sometime, right? It's not like he'd ever had that many good dreams, even before going to Hogwarts. He glanced at the clock, noting that it was precisely 4:05 in the morning. He groaned softly, rubbing his face and controlling his breathing: in and out, in and out. He hoped he hadn't screamed this time. His relatives didn't take kindly to having their sleep disturbed.

Harry got out one of Dudley's old books (the only things that still looked new in the room), knowing he would never get back to sleep. He turned on the flickering desk lamp and lost himself in the pages for a while. The gray pre-dawn sky slowly brightened outside his window and he put down the book to watch the sun rise. It was beautiful: a melody of golds, oranges, and pinks. His life with the Dursleys stood in stark contrast to the lovely sight.

He glanced at the clock again, surprised when it showed 6:05. He needed to hurry to make breakfast on time. His stomach growled, for some reason demanding food now even though it had rebelled against it last night. Shaking his head, he got dressed quickly and made his way to the loo, using it and washing his face. He resisted the urge to look in the mirror; he knew he must look terrible. He smelled better than he had before Marge arrived though, so Aunt Petunia probably let him have a shower.

He stealthily made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, falling into the familiar routine of starting breakfast, then finding himself serving it. Everything was going fine until Aunt Marge came clunking down the steps. He paused, a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand, as the tweed-covered blob came to a rest in the chair across from him. Uncle Vernon immediately sent him a warning glare, as did Aunt Petunia. Dudley would've, but was glued to the TV, as usual.

"What are you waiting for, then, boy? Get my tea!" Aunt Marge demanded boisterously.

Harry sullenly put down his toast and poured her some tea from the kettle on the stovetop. He brought it back to the table, setting it before his largest aunt with a dull clink of china on wood. Aunt Petunia hissed, hating to see her dishes 'abused' in such a way.

Aunt Marge was clearly not amused by his antics. "You see here, Vernon, this is just the thing that needs to be beaten out of the boy at that school, St. Brute or whatnot. They obviously haven't been whipping him hard enough if he's still causing trouble. You really should phone them, Petunia dear, and tell them you permit the use of extreme force in the boy's case." She then proceeded to fill her saucer with tea, placing it on the floor for Ripper to drink. Aunt Petunia cringed as flecks of drool and tea marred her spotless tile floor.

Harry clenched his fists under the table. It was becoming harder and harder to keep his anger in check, and he had only been around the woman for a day! (Well, a day that he could remember.) Her very presence annoyed him! She always followed him wherever he went when she visited, booming out suggestions to improve "the boy's" behavior. She continued to do just that throughout the day: following him around, watching him as he completed the chores assigned to him by Aunt Petunia. He had gotten more chores since starting at Hogwarts, which was to be expected. Being a wizard-in-training made him twice as much of a burden as before on the Dursleys' normalcy. Fortunately, a few of the chores for the day were outdoors, freeing him from Marge's venomous tongue for a few hours. Unfortunately, it was sweltering outside which, besides being the reason Marge left him be, caused him to be miserable anyway.

The sun, so beautiful that morning, now beat down on his back like a merciless slavedriver. He could feel his exposed skin crisping up, doubtlessly leaving a major sunburn in its wake. He swiped at the sweat dripping from his brow with his forearm before turning back to the flowerbed. The flowers were also suffering in the heat so he gave them a good dousing of water, gulping a bit from the hose himself and dousing his head.

His aunt directed him to the shower once he had finished with the garden, telling him he had ten minutes before he needed to start making dinner. That meant five minutes to take a shower and another five to dry off completely and dress (Aunt Petunia would kill him if he went dripping water around the house.) He disappeared again while he was showering but managed to have gotten clean and made dinner, this time a fancy soup and salmon with vegetables, lemon merengue pie for desert. Uncle Vernon even broke out the wine to celebrate (though not in the way Harry celebrated it) Aunt Marge's final day in the Dursley household.

By some miracle they finished the main course without a single mention of Harry. Some optimism was beginning to return to him; perhaps he could convince his uncle to sign his permission form and maybe, maybe even return his birthday cards (if they hadn't already been burned) if the rest of the night continued so well. But of course such fortune couldn't last. After Uncle Vernon's tremendously boring speech on Grunnings drills during desert, Harry was called on to make coffee while his uncle brought out a large bottle of brandy.

"Can I offer you some brandy, Marge?" Uncle Vernon asked courteously.

Aunt Marge had already had quite a bit of wine during dinner, her normally red-tinged face now a deep, swollen burgundy.

"Oh, yes, Vernon. Just a small one, though," she chuckled, speech slurred.

Uncle Vernon filled her glass half-way.

"Just a bit more, there... bit more... thaat's the ticket," she pronounced, holding an almost overflowing glass.

Even Uncle Vernon seemed surprised at her version of a "small" drink, and he took everything in generous portions.

Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie, eyes still glued to the ever-playing television. Aunt Petunia sipped coffee delicately from a teacup, pinky sticking out as if the gesture would magically improve her social status. Uncle Vernon was glaring at Harry for reasons known only to himself, but likely revolving around his nephew's 'abnormality.' Aunt Marge tucked into her large brandy, beady eyes glittering with contentment. Harry shifted restlessly, really wanting to escape back to his room before his luck streak ran out, but one glance at his uncle's face told him he had better stay put.

"Ah," Aunt Marge sighed, thumping her now-empty glass back onto the table. "Excellent nosh, Vernon. It's normally just a glass in the evening: must be on your toes when dealing with twelve dogs, you know." She burped loudly, dabbing her bulbous lips with a napkin. "Pardon."

Uncle Vernon chuckled appreciatively, nodding as he took a large sip of brandy.

Marge patted her swollen stomach. "I do love to see such a well-fed, healthy boy," she slurred, winking conspiratorially at Dudley. "You'll grow up to be a wonderful, proper-sized man, just like your father, my Dudders. -Vernon, more brandy, if you would."

Her glass refilled, she locked her gaze on Harry, expression souring. "Now, this one. Bad breeding, it is. That's why the boy's so runty and pale," she nodded. "See it all the time with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown a pup last year. Pathetic little thing, it was. Weak and underbred," she finished, gaze like a cat that had cornered a mouse, toying with it for some vindictive pleasure.

Harry felt a heat rapidly growing in the pit of his stomach, a red tinge starting to invade his vision. If he didn't get out of there soon he was going to lose it, and no promise of Hogsmeade visits would hold him back this time.

"It all comes down to bad blood- Now, I'm not saying anything against your family, Petunia dear, but your sister was a bad egg," she patted Aunt Petunia's bony hand with her flabby, plate-sized one, "Even the best of families have at least one. Then she ran off with that no-good laggard of a husband and this is what she birthed."

Harry was now hearing a shrill ringing in his ears, staring determinedly at his plate. Aunt Marge's voice seemed to be boring into his skull with each word: one of his uncle's pointless, aggravating drills. If only he could get through the rest of this dinner… he just needed to…

"That Potter," Marge started, seizing the brandy bottle and attempting to pour herself yet another, more splashing onto the tablecloth than in the glass, "You never told me what he did?"

Harry glanced up momentarily, seeing his aunt look markedly nervous, his uncle still glaring daggers at him. Even Dudley had stopped watching the TV. He looked back down at his plate, breathing deeply, distinctly lightheaded.

"Ah- He didn't work," Aunt Petunia quickly stated.

"As I suspected!" Aunt Marge boomed, "Probably a drunkard too. A good-for-nothing, lazy scoundrel, feeding off the goodwill of others, just like his-"

Harry had finally had it. He suddenly jumped to his feet, chair clattering to the floor as he yelled, "He was not!" He had never felt so angry in his life; his entire body was shaking.

The table went quiet for a shocked moment before Uncle Vernon burst, "Boy, to bed, NOW!"

Aunt Marge, however, only grew a sly look in her bloodshot eyes. "No, Vernon," she held up a meaty, ringed hand. "Go on, boy. Proud of your parents, are you? Proud that they went and got themselves killed in a car crash, probably drunk, I might add-"

"They weren't killed in a car crash," he spoke forcefully, rage flooding his every pore.

"Why you nasty little liar! They died in a car crash, insolent boy, and left you as an unwanted burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!" Her body seemed to swell with fury as she spat the barbed words, "You're nothing but an ungrateful, impertinent-"

Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment it seemed words had failed her, leaving her swelling with inexpressible rage, but she didn't stop swelling. Her huge face expanded, eyelids pulling back from bulging eyes and mouth stretching too wide for speech. Buttons shot off of her tweed jacket like rockets, one narrowly missing hitting Dudley in the head, pinging off the walls. Seams ripped and her elastic waistband snapped with a deafening pop. Her fingers stretched horribly around her gaudy rings as they grew to the size of jumbo salami. She was inflating like some horrible parade balloon, her body filling like a gigantic beach ball while her arms and legs swelled grotesquely from her sides. She sputtered, awkward scraps of sound escaping her as she tried and failed to speak.

"MARGE!" Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia both yelled simultaneously as her body began to rise from her chair, floating to the ceiling. Dudley just stared openmouthed at the horrible sight. Aunt Marge drifted up into the air, entirely round now, emitting sharp popping noises. Her arms and legs twitched uselessly as they stuck out at awkward angles. Ripper dashed into the room and scurried back and forth, barking madly. Harry had the oddest urge to laugh, his fantasy about Dudley from earlier coming true in a grotesque, horrifying, morbidly hilarious fashion.

"NOOO!" Uncle Vernon yelled, grasping one of Aunt Marge's feet and trying to pull her down, nearly being lifted into the air himself. Ripper, sensing his mistress was in danger, leapt forward and bit into Vernon's leg. Uncle Vernon immediately let go, howling in pain and trying to shake the dog off.

Harry suddenly realized the seriousness of the situation, racing from the room towards the stairs before anyone could think to catch him. The cupboard door burst open as he neared it and he grabbed out his trunk and broom in a matter of seconds, hauling them to the front door. He sprinted upstairs, throwing himself under his bed and wrenching the floorboard free. He collected his things, grabbed Hedwig's still-empty cage and dashed back downstairs, depositing the smaller items in his trunk as he grabbed out his wand.

Not a moment too soon, as his uncle had managed to dislodge Ripper and burst through the doorway, angrily limping towards him.

"You set her right, boy! You put her right this instant!" his uncle roared.

"No," Harry whispered, still shaking with rage as a bitter laugh escaped him, "No, she deserved what she got."

He levelled his wand at his uncle, pleased to see his face turn a pasty white.

"Boy..." his uncle growled warningly, vein pulsing in his forehead.

"I'm leaving. I'm done with this. You stay away from me!" Harry gasped, backing towards the door and reaching for the lock, fear kicking in.

He managed to get the door open and had started hauling his things out when Uncle Vernon made his move. Unfortunately for Harry, distracted by his luggage as he was, he didn't even manage to start a spell before his uncle's meaty fist smashed into him. His vision went dark as head and hand collided. Little did he know that he wouldn't be seeing the light of day for a long, long time.