Harry Potter and the Return of the Insanity

* * *

“Harry.”

“Mmm.”

“Harry.”

“Mmmm.”

“HARRY!”

“AGH!”

Harry tumbled from his cot, landing with a dull thud and a nasty crunch on the floor of Ron’s room, Hermione still yelling in his ear.

“All right, all right, I’m up,” he mumbled blearily, rubbing his eyes. Hermione stood back, apparently satisfied, and left the room shouting something about socks to Ginny.

Once reasonably certain she wasn’t coming back, Harry let his head flop to the floor, groaning. It seemed he’d only just gotten to sleep, but according to the wheezing clock on Ron’s wall, it was already a quarter to six.

“Good morning to you, too,” he muttered, feeling blindly for his glasses. Faint, very grey light was shining through Ron’s window, the sky outside still dotted with stars and not a sound to be heard for miles.

“RON!”

Harry winced; Mrs. Weasley’s bellow carried through the house like a foghorn. A muffled thump from the closet was followed shortly by Ron, covered in dust and looking distinctly disgruntled. He poked his head, still bearing an admirable collection of lint, out the door and yelled, “What?”

“Make sure Harry’s up, you’ve still got to eat breakfast!”

Ron groaned, his shoulders slumping in their maroon pajamas. “Mum, we’ve still got an hour and a half before we even have to leave!”

“Oh, no we don’t! Now hurry it up, both of you!”

Ron sighed and slid down the doorjamb, yawning. “You heard her, Harry,” he said. “She’s gone starkers, but there you are.”

Harry made an indistinct gagging noise, but rose to his feet just the same. After digging about for clothes and socks, he wandered sleepily down the creaking staircase and into the Weasleys’ kitchen.

Ginny and Hermione were already seated at it, nursing down pieces of toast, and so, to Harry’s displeasure, was Percy. He had apparently gotten over his cold, for he was treating both girls to a deadly dull lecture about “the office” that likely would have put Professor Binns to sleep.

“Morning, all,” Harry sad, but way of interruption, before settling down between Hermione and Ron’s empty plate and reaching for the sausages.

Percy set down his tea and coughed. “Good morning, Harry,” he said, in a oddly formal sort of voice. “I trust you slept well?”

“Mmm,” Harry said, closing his eyes as he downed a long draught of hot cider--far from waking him up, as he’d hoped, it made him sleepier than ever, and his head drooped dangerously near the porridge pot before he snapped out of it.

It was swiftly turning into a gray, irritable sort of day. Somber clouds rolled in, obscuring the sunrise and forcing Mrs. Weasley to order a taxi once more. Fred and George popped their heads out the door to see what was causing all the racket, but trooped right back to bed when they caught sight of the clock over the mantelpiece.

Once all their trunks had been stowed (Doors’s nearly exploded when the cabbie tried to wedge it in), Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Doors, and Mrs. Weasley all crammed into the taxi, getting covered in orange hair from Crookshanks and growing thoroughly cheesed off in the process. Ginny, who was jammed in like a sardine between Harry and Hermione, kept jostling them both with the sharp edges of her book (1000 Medical Miracles), and Pigwidgeon was making such a racket that Ron pulled him out of his cage and stuffed a sock in his beak.

All in all, it wasn’t a happy group that wandered into King’s Cross, in the dim morning light well before anyone else had arrived. The guard cast them a curious glance as Mrs. Weasley bustled to get them carts. He stared particularly at Ron, for it wasn’t every day one saw an owl the size of a pigeon with a sock over its head.

Mrs. Weasley pried Ginny’s nose out of her book.

“All right,” she said. “We’re going to take this one at a time at first, so we don’t give that old Muggle a heart attack. Ron, you’ve got Pigwidgeon, you go first.”

Ron pushed his cart forward until it touched the wall, and leaned unconcernedly against it. He disappeared quite suddenly, and Mrs. Weasley made them wait another five minutes before letting Ginny through.

Harry and Doors went through together, chatting easily until Platform Nine and Three-Quarters materialized around them.

Harry had never seen it so deserted. Unlike the Muggle platforms, it wasn’t littered with paper and bits of refuse, but it did have an odd assortment of benches and a Gringotts cash machine. The Hogwarts Express, as big and scarlet as ever, stood beside it, puffing gently into the dawn.

“Everybody on!” called Doors, shoving the door of the last compartment open with a creak. “Ginny, honey, you can read to your heart’s content once we’re all aboard, but we need your help now.” Without waiting for Ginny to respond, she heaved Harry’s trunk off the cart and nearly dropped it on the girl’s toes. Within ten minutes, all their belongings were stashed in their traditional compartment, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were bundled up in all their Hogwarts robes and cloaks, fighting off sleep.

Mrs. Weasley bustled in, checking trunks and other last-minute arrangements. She hugged each of them in turn, and deposited a neatly-wrapped sandwich into each pair of hands.

“You be good, now,” she warned Harry and Ron. “Don’t think you have to go making up for the twins’ absence this year. Hopefully you’ll even manage to learn something now.”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Doors had appeared behind Mrs. Weasley, her arms crossed and a grin on her face. “After all, if things go correctly, half the Hogwarts alumni will be returning, in which case nobody will be learning much of anything.”

Mrs. Weasley jumped, then rolled her eyes; she’d only found out the day before about Doors’s returned existence, and to say it had been a shock would be to state the case as mildly as may be. “Well, I at least hope they behave themselves, for Hogwarts’ sake if nothing else. We wouldn’t want the Daily Prophet digging up unpleasant things to feed that revolting Skeeter woman.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, the cabman’s waiting. Have a good term, all of you.” She planted a kiss on each of the childrens’ foreheads, hugged Doors, and hurried out to brave the Muggle world to get home.

Ron yawned. “Well, g’night,’ he said, collapsing onto an empty seat. He was snoring before he hit the fabric.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Ron wasn’t the only one who needed to sleep--Harry’s eyelids felt like lead, and it wasn’t long before he too lay curled up in a corner, falling into bacon-induced dreams.

It was the movement of the train that woke him. He sat up, squinting at the glaring light that flooded the compartment. A glance out the window showed him the sun was breaking through in places, landing on neat green fields dotted with sheep. He realized with a start that the train must have been going for at least an hour already, and he’d slept right through the noise of boarding and departure.

He wasn’t the only one--Ron was still sprawled over one whole length of seats, Ginny was curled up on the luggage rack, and Doors lay snoozing in the sunlight across the back of Hermione’s seat. Hermione herself was deeply immersed in a spellbook the size of a paving slab, one of the ones that used to decorate the window at Flourish and Blotts, with Crookshanks curled contentedly in her lap.

She glanced up. “About time you woke up, we’ve been on our way for hours. The food cart’s come and gone about three times already. I finally told the witch you’d all died.”

“Food cart?” All Harry’s sleepiness vanished at once, as he realized just how hungry he was. He scrabbled through his trunk for some gold, knocking Pigwidgeon’s cage over in the process. Whatever Doors had done to him hadn’t worn off yet, however, for he stayed as fast asleep as his owner.

“You want anything?” he asked Hermione, as he fought his way to the door. She shook her head.

“All right.” After tripping over Ginny’s forgotten medical book, Harry finally managed to wrench the door open and stumble into the hallway--

--where he ran smack into Malfoy.

“Really, Potter, do watch where you’re going,” he said, surveying Harry with cold grey eyes. He had grown considerably over the summer, and now stood a good half head taller than Harry.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, easing the compartment door shut. Something was different about Malfoy, something besides his height--and then Harry realized he didn’t have Crabbe and Goyle with him.

“Where’re the boulders?” he asked.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and he snorted with disgust. “Crabbe’s got a girlfriend,” he snarled, his lip curling just the way his father’s always did. “He and Goyle have been think up ways to get rid of me all summer.”

Harry choked. “Crabbe?” he said, too stunned to be nasty. “Who on Earth would like him?”

Malfoy’s expression grew even more murderous; having Harry Potter laugh at him definitely wasn’t helping his already short temper. “Millicent Bulstrode,” he snapped, glowering as Harry snickered. “And keep your mouth shut about it, Potter, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Or what, Millicent’ll come after me?” Harry snorted, unable to resist. The other boy glared and made to push past him, but at that moment the compartment door slid open and Hermione stuck her head out. “What’s that about Millicent Bulstrode?”

The effect this simple sentence had on Malfoy was drastic; his expression immediately softened, and he darted back around Harry so fast he fairly flew.

“M-Millicent?” he said, sweeping something of a clumsy bow. “Nothing, nothing. Er, how are you, Hermione? Been well over the summer?”

A steady flush was rising in Malfoy’s pale face, and Hermione’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Fine,” she said warily, clearly expecting to be cursed or the like.

Malfoy swallowed, glanced from Hermione to Harry and back again, and plunged on. “Er--Hermione, would you, er, like to, um....” The redness in his face had reached the intensity of a fire siren, and Harry was willing to bet it would have fried an egg if given the chance.

Hermione was staring at him as though he’d lost his mind, while Harry rolled his eyes. Fred and George had put a lovesickness curse on Malfoy in his fourth year--or at least, everyone thought they had--and apparently it still hadn’t worn off. Hermione, ever oblivious, though he was slowly losing his marbles, and looking at him now, Harry couldn’t blame her.

“Um, yeah, well, what I was trying to say is--”

Malfoy stopped. His eyes widened and all the color drained from his face, which looked as though he’d just been thrown into ice-cold water. Harry watched him in puzzlement for a moment, until he realized--

“AAAAGGGGGHHHHH!”

Malfoy let out a bloodcurdling scream, that was quickly stifled as Harry, Hermione, and a very bleary-looking Ron all dove at him at once, tackling him to the ground and clamping their hands over his mouth.

“Are you insane?” hissed Hermione, who was effectively pinning him to the carpet. This was not lost on Malfoy, who was blushing beet-red under his panic, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from struggling like mad.

“Knock it off!” Hermione snapped, smacking him. She glanced at Ron and Harry, who were holding Malfoy’s feet and struggling to get his wand before he did. She jerked her head at the open compartment, where Doors stood, arms crossed, peering out the doorway at them with a smirk on her face.

“That happens a lot around me, doesn’t it?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. No sooner had she spoken than Malfoy relaxed--or at least ceased struggling--and settled for staring at her, horrorstruck.

“Mthelpftheth?” he said, his eyes round and a lock of silver-blonde hair falling over his forehead, giving him something of a crazed look.

Doors shook her head. “Draco, honey, come on in here and let me explain. Come on, you three, let him up, he’s not gonna bolt.”

Reluctantly, the trio let him stand, though Malfoy didn’t really look as though he’d mind it if Hermione kept him where he was. Ron and Harry, both gagging, led him into the compartment, and Doors locked them all in. It was a very final sort of sound.

“All right, Draco,” she said, in a rather pained voice. “I know I’m not exactly looking my best, but am I really that terrifying?”

Malfoy simply choked, mouthing like a fish out of water and looking as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. He stared at the small professor for a moment, before, to everyone’s great surprise, rolling his eyes back into his head and passing out cold.

Doors sighed. “Yeah, I thought so.” Motioning Harry to help her, she hauled the unconscious Slytherin up onto Ron’s vacated bed, where he let out a strangled whimper but refused to wake. Doors herself collapsed next to him, her head in her hands. “Good Lord, I suppose I’m only going to be in for more of that when I get to Hogwarts,” she moaned, but the corners of her mouth were twitching.

“Well, we were sort of counting on it,” said Ron, sitting as far as possible from Malfoy and picking up Pigwidgeon’s toppled cage. Harry and Hermione joined him, ignoring Ginny, who was still asleep. Hermione picked up her book again, as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened, but her cheeks were faintly pink from exertion.

Doors tried and failed to scowl at Ron, and instead opted for snatching Crookshanks and tickling Ginny’s bare feet with his tail. Harry simply shook his head and stared out the window, at a landscape that was growing ever wilder as the train hurtled onward.

How long he did this, he had no idea, but before he knew it, the daylight was fading and the chill of evening had settled on the train. The conductor’s voice piped through their compartment, announcing that they would shortly be arriving in Hogsmeade station.

Harry looked around with a start; he hadn’t been are time could fly so fast, until he realized he must have fallen asleep again. He glanced around--Malfoy was still unconscious, but from the look of him he’d woken up and struggled at some point. Ginny and Hermione were reading, and Doors and Ron were playing Exploding Snap in the corner.

Ginny and Hermione looked up and stowed their books, and Harry stood and stretched. The chugging clatter of the train was slowing, and the four children made one last check of their trunks.

“What’re we going to do with him?” asked Ron, looking down at Malfoy as though he were some sort of sea slug. The pale boy’s hair was unusually disheveled, and even unconscious he had a look of vague terror on his face.

“Oh, they always check the train for stragglers,” Doors said lightly, brushing back a strand of Malfoy’s hair. “Poor Draco, I think I gave him quite a shock.”

“Yeah, well, good,” said Ron, heading out the door and down the corridor. “Slimy git, he deserves it.”

Hermione, clutching Crookshanks in her arms, sniffed..

“You know, you really are rather hard on him,” she said, slowing to a halt as they reached the press of people clambering to get off. “I mean, it’s fairly obvious he’s losing it, and--”

“Oh, Hermione, he’s not losing it,” Ron snapped. “He’s just--”

Ron’s words were cut off by a loud slam. Apparently Malfoy had regained his senses, for he tore out of the compartment as though the devil were at his heels. He bowled past Harry and Doors, who had remained in the deserted section of the corridor to avoid the curious crowds, his face white and eyes wide. He ran smack into the mess in the next car, where he promptly began making a fearful racket.

The two glanced at one another, eyebrows raised, and around the corner they heard Hermione sniff again. “You were saying?”

Harry stifled a snort of laughter, and Doors rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, really now--” she started, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I hardly see how--”

“Professor Snape!”

Malfoy had evidently made it through the chaos in record time, for he was barreling along the platform outside their windows, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Professor Snape! Help!”

Doors stopped laughing at once. “Uh-oh,” she muttered, going suddenly pale. “That’s no good.” The small Herbology professor turned and started pelting down the corridor, tripping over her long robes.

“Doors!” Harry caught her by the arm, halting her in her tracks. “Are you mad? You can’t just go running down a crowded train, you’ll cause a panic!”

Doors sighed. “Really, this is all more trouble than it’s worth, I swear,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Go on, Harry, I’ll meet you up there.” Despite her gloomy expression, there was laughter in her voice, and Harry could tell she was going to enjoy the anarchy her presence would cause as much as he would.

After a mad scramble through the crowd, he finally managed to find Ron and Hermione, still bickering over Malfoy’s sanity as they clambered into one of the horseless carriages. They were followed in by Neville, who, Harry noticed with displeasure, had also grown taller than he had. Ron and Hermione shut up at once.

The ride to Hogwarts was fairly uneventful, but Harry couldn’t suppress the horde of mad butterflies that tumbled through his stomach every time he thought of the surprise that waited for his classmates. He didn’t know just how Doors was planning to get to the school without being noticed, but he wasn’t worried--she was, after all, Doors. He wondered what sort of welcome Lupin and Sirius had prepared for her, and if they had even bothered to tell Dumbledore.

The night wasn’t exactly a warm one, and it was a thoroughly chilled group of students who disembarked on the shores of the lake. The first years, terrified as ever, shivered their way into the rowboats, and the rest of the crowd collected themselves and continued on foot.

It was with a sigh of utmost relief that Harry and company arrived in the entrance hall--this had to be their coldest arrival yet, with the sky above like frozen black velvet, dotted with chips of ice. Warmth flooded from the open doors, engulfing them all like a lovely blanket and keenly reminding Harry just how hungry he was.

“Mmmm....Heaven,” Ron said, his eyes closed and sniffing the air. “Smell that, Harry? It’s the smell of home, that is.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but before he or Hermione could retort, all three of them were squashed together as the last of the students crammed into the hall. A smattering of black-robed students had trailed up the marble staircase, peering out over the forest of pointed hats in search of their friends. Professor McGonagall, as severe and square-spectacled as always, was directing the throng into the Great Hall, where the familiar four long tables stood laid out with golden plates.

“Food!” cried Ron, nearly bowling Neville over in his rush for the Gryffindor table--the fact that the plates were all empty didn’t dissuade him in the slightest.

Harry shook his head, tugging at his collar and drawing a hand over his sweaty forehead. The heat of so many people packed like sardines was unbearable, and seemed all the more so after their chill walk from the carriages. The torches flickered as the crowd moved reluctantly, seemingly more interested in swapping rumors than sitting down.

“See?” gasped Ernie MacMillan, who was having his ribs crushed by a gaggle of second years. “I told you so. McGonagall doesn’t exactly look like a blushing bride-to-be, now does she?”

“Well, maybe Mandy’s right,” said his friend Hannah, who was being shoved about near him. “Maybe it is Professor Black, but I can’t think that he’d manage a social life without Harry knowing about it....”

Mandy Brocklehurst, who had been avoiding Harry’s eyes since she entered the hall, suddenly burst into snickers.

Harry shook his head and started to wade through the crowds to the Great Hall, but was forced to duck aside as he realized both his shoelaces were untied, and trying to run through a stampede in that condition would be an extremely stupid thing to do. He took shelter behind a large statue of a furtive-looking wizard identified as Aelfwald the Schlepper, tripping over his robes and stumbling through a large quantity of cobwebs.

Quick though he tied them, by the time both his shoes were secure and he was no longer in danger of having they (and his feet) ripped off, the entrance hall had all but emptied. Several panicky and lost-looking second years bolted past him, frantically adjusting their hats.

Harry picked up his wand and started after them, but the sound of two voices made him halt in his tracks, cursing. He darted behind the statue again, extremely anxious that he not be seen--it would lead to some very interesting questions if he was.

Snape and Malfoy were coming down the marble staircase, the latter almost gibbering as he tried to get his story out.

“--S-She’s on the train, her and Potter and all them, and they put a curse on me, I only just got away--”

Snape’s cold voice, soft and somehow more malevolent than ever, cut him off. He sounded dangerously annoyed.

“Malfoy, you foolish boy, they’ve obviously cursed you, but not as you think,” he snapped. “Professor Doors--” Harry heard the bitter sneer in his voice as he spat her name; Doors had always been rather a sore point with Snape “--couldn’t have been on that train, Malfoy, think logically. She’s dead, thank the Lord, and Potter and his friends obviously decided to play a little game with you--”

Malfoy wasn’t listening; he’d gone even paler, and was mouthing like a fish out of water. Snape apparently noticed this, for he sighed and took the boy by the shoulders.

“Draco,” he said, trying and failing to adopt a paternal tone, “I realize you were somewhat--” a sneer “--fond of Professor Doors, but she’s gone now, and I only hope you won’t let any unsettled emotions ruin your studies.”

He gently guided Malfoy across the entrance hall, clearly wanting to get him settled without further incident. Malfoy was looking worse off than ever, however, and Harry had to stifle a snort at the look on his face. Somehow he knew (or hoped) the Fates wouldn’t let Snape off so easily, and sure enough, he and Malfoy had taken no more than three steps before the snort Harry so wanted to give voice to sounded--from across the hall.

Malfoy jumped and whirled around, and cast one terrified look at the entryway beyond before fainting dead away, hitting ground with a dull thud. Harry clapped his hand over his mouth as Snape too started to turn, but at that moment Lupin came skidding out into the entrance hall.

“Severus, there you are,” he said, adjusting his collar. “Dumbledore sent me to find you, the Sorting’s nearly started and you need to--I say, what’s the matter with him?” He had evidently caught sight of the prostrate Malfoy, who was sprawled in a most undignified manner at Snape’s feet.

Snape was looking livid, as though the combination of his fainting pupil and sudden appearance of one of his arch nemeses was more than he wanted to deal with at the moment. He shot Lupin a frigid glare and snapped, “Potter and the Wonder Squad have him convinced Lorna Doors rode here on the Hogwarts Express, and he’s worked himself into a fit over it. The little brats probably cursed him.”

From behind his statue, Harry could see that Lupin was wearing a very interesting expression indeed--it looked as though he’d only just fought back a snicker. Snape didn’t see it; he had glanced down at Malfoy, and by the time his eyes returned to Lupin, the other professor had composed himself.

“Really?” he said, still looking highly amused. “Seems a bit out of character for them, wouldn’t you say? Certainly the boy’s afraid of something, but do you really think Harry would so desecrate his aunt’s memory, just to scare a Slytherin?”

Lupin was too evil--Snape had no response to this, though not for lack of trying; Harry could see his mind working furiously behind the cold black eyes. Someone else, however, evidently did have a retort.

“Well, I should hope not,” snorted a voice--an unmistakable, all-too-familiar voice that issued from roughly the same area as the earlier snort that had fixed Malfoy’s wagon.

Snape froze. All the color drained from his face, leaving it as pasty and pale as leftover oatmeal. His eyes went rounder than fifty-pence pieces, and slowly--as though he knew just what was behind him, but dreaded it all the same--slowly he turned, wearing a look of such horror that it was all Harry could do to keep from doubling over with laughter. He stood still, waiting for the inevitable--

“AAAAAAAEEEEEEERRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

Snape let out an even more bloodcurdling scream than Malfoy’s, spun around, and bolted back up the staircase, so shaken that Harry doubted he could have looked more horrified if he’d caught Voldemort in the shower. He ran smack through the Bloody Baron at the top of the stairs, cast one last glance down at the entrance hall, and pelted for dear life.

Lupin sighed. “Lovely,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Lorna, I suggest you hide until this whole mess is cleared up and Dumbledore’s made the announcements. According to Minerva, he’s got a real doozy lined up, and it’s best if the children don’t have you hanging over their heads when he breaks the news.”

Doors grinned impishly, apparently much pleased with herself, and hopped up the staircase, disappearing into the shadows while whistling snatches of ‘It’s a Hard Knock Life’.

Lupin turned to Harry, who was still behind the statue, his face looking worn in the dim torchlight. “And Harry, I don’t think it would be very wise for you to be found near an unconscious Draco Malfoy. It might lead to some unpleasant assumptions.”

Harry laughed, but before he could think of a way to sneak unnoticed into the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall came storming out.

“Really, what IS going on out here?” she demanded, straightening her hat. “The children are--”

She stopped. “Oh, dear,” she muttered, gazing at Malfoy. “What’s happened to him?” She shook her head, apparently not wanting to know. “Never mind. Get Poppy down here to attend to him; Albus still has to make his announcements.”

Lupin set off down the corridors, while McGonagall swept back into the Great Hall. Harry darted in after her, keeping low behind the Gryffindor table until he spotted Ron and Hermione.

“Where’ve you been?” demanded Ron, as McGonagall resettled herself at the staff table. “And what was all that racket about?”

Harry fiddled with the clasps of his cloak. “Snape ran into dear Doorsie in the entrance hall,” he muttered, watching as Lupin hurried back in.

Both Ron and Hermione choked, Hermione looking scandalized and Ron, delighted.

“Oh, NO,” said the latter, but before he could continue Dumbledore rose, and smiled at the crowd.

“Good evening,” he said, his half-moon glasses flashing over the crowd. “I have a few announcements, before we set to.”

“Where’s Snape?” someone called from the Slytherin table.

It might have just been Harry, but he would swear Dumbledore was fighting laughter.

“He’ll be down shortly,” he said. “In the meantime, it is my duty and great pleasure--” Here Harry was sure of it, their Headmaster was definitely at odds with encroaching glee “--to inform you all that one of your former professors will shortly be celebrating his nuptials at Hogwarts.”

“His what?” demanded--or, rather, grunted--Crabbe, somewhat loudly.

“His wedding, stupid,” Millicent hissed back, just as loudly.

Professor Sinistra coughed into her handkerchief.

Dumbledore continued beaming at them. “Yes, that’s right, Miss Bulstrode, his wedding. Our former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart, has been recently engaged and requested that the wedding be held at Hogwarts. The staff and I were more than happy to comply, and hope it brings no inconvenience to any of our pupils.”

Though Harry had known that was coming, the rest of the Hall had not, and at the words ‘Gilderoy Lockhart’ a series of furious whispers broke out across the room. Hannah Abbott, who seemed so talented at doing so, passed out cold. Tension spread like stinging ropes across the tables, as students either gawked with disbelief or fought impending illness.

“You’ve GOT to be kidding,” Seamus Finnigan said, looking pallid under his freckles.

“I assure you, Mr. Finnigan, I am not,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling.

“Who’s the unlucky broad?” somebody, who sounded as though he were going to be sick, called.

Professor Sinistra coughed harder.

“Ah, well, most of you will not know the bride, as she is of Muggle descent,” said Dumbledore, who was so obviously enjoying himself Harry thought his expression ought to be outlawed. “In fact, she is a Muggle. Her name--”

“Oh, this oughta be good,” muttered Dean. Harry coughed as he took a last swig off Ron’s bottle of pumpkin juice.

“--is Miss Marjorie Dursley.”

“PTHELTHELLTHTTTHH!!!!”

Harry’s pumpkin juice was violently expelled across the table, splattering all over Lavender Brown and leaving great orange drips on the white tablecloth. In the silence ensuing Dumbledore’s pronunciation the noise was especially loud, and nearly all the Hall craned around to look at Harry, wondering what on earth was up with him now.

“W-What?” he demanded, as stunned as though someone had delivered an unexpected and very hard punch to his stomach. “You’re JOKING.”

“As I just assured Mr. Finnigan, I most certainly am not,” Dumbledore smiled. “And I trust you will make them both feel welcome, on this joyous occasion.”

He went on to something else, but Harry wasn’t listening--he felt rather as though someone had just doused him with a large bucket of ice water. He stared off into space for a long moment, his mind whirling horribly, until he became aware of Ron tugging at his sleeve.

“Harry?” he said, looking worried. “You all right?”

Harry shook his head, his voice mysteriously absent.

Gilderoy Lockhart and Aunt MARGE? Of all the things that could have happened to him.....Aunt Marge at Hogwarts, what a nightmare that would be, with her barking at him across the Great Hall and making goo-goo eyes at Lockhart....

Harry gagged, his appetite suddenly vanishing. Picturing the school full of Lockhart’s relations was enough to put anyone off their dinner, and it left him feeling so horrified he thought he might just pull a Malfoy and drop dead--until a thought struck him, a thought that was at once very nasty and very hilarious: The Dursleys.

Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley.....knowing Aunt Marge, she’d drag them all to Hogwarts by their ears if she had to, to celebrate her long-overdue marriage to one of her family’s worst horrors. His aunt and uncle’s opinion of wizardkind wasn’t likely to be improved by Lockhart, who had to be the most annoying person on the face of the planet. Harry could feel his eyes glazing over at the possibilities.....Dudley meeting Malfoy....Aunt Petunia, faced with the freezing scorn of Professor McGonagall....and as for Uncle Vernon, if Snape didn’t poison him, Harry would eat his hat....

His thoughts must have read on his face, for Hermione nudged him sharply in the ribs. “Harry,” she warned, sounding so disturbingly like McGonagall that Ron winced. “Don’t you even think about it....”

Harry started to protest, but Ron cut him off. “Hermione, honestly. Even if Harry behaves himself, you really think Fred and George are going to? You heard what Professor Doors and my mum were talking about on the train--this wedding’s going to be huge, they always make a big deal out of it when a professor gets married. All the old students show up--”

Hermione paled. “You mean to tell me,” she said, looking torn between horror and a mad desire to laugh, “You mean to tell me that all the old Hogwarts alumni will be showing up for this? ALL of them?”

Ron nodded, looking more wicked than ever Fred and George could.

“Oh...Oh, God,” she whispered, as the full implications of this dawned on her. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, she burst into a fit of giggles so strong she had to stuff her fist in mouth to muffle them.

“Oh, we’re in for it now,” she choked.

Harry shook his head, a strange, wonderfully mischievous joy bubbling inside him as wild, half-formed plots and plans chased themselves through his head, each more crazy and asinine than the last.....He would be here, with the Messrs., the Weasleys, a school full of wedding guests, and Dudley. It was going to be heaven.

He gradually realized that the noise of the Hall had died down, and Dumbledore was speaking once more.

“Now, that’s not the only news I have for you,” he said, his glasses flashing as he peered around at all of them. His tone grew somewhat serious. “I trust all of you remember Professor Doors, our late Herbology teacher who passed away near the end of last term.”

It was as if he’d doused them all with a spray of ice; the high spirits vanished quicker than the flick of a switch. A hall full of sad, still very wounded faces turned to him, wondering what he was thinking, bringing up something like that at a time like this.

“Her death left a hole in many of our hearts, a hole that even now has yet to heal. Many of you have been wondering why no new Herbology teacher sits at this staff table. I will now tell you.

“Professor Doors is not dead.”

Silence.

“That’s not funny,” someone shouted from the Slytherin end. He sounded angry. “That’s really not funny, you sick old--”

“Oh, shut your cake-hole, Baddock, it is so.”

Harry hadn’t thought it possible for a thousand people to turn in unison, but the students in the Hall certainly came close. All but he, Ron, and Hermione whirled round, gasping, to find themselves faced with the wispy-haired, weatherworn visage of their small Herbology teacher, who was at that moment grinning from ear to pointy ear.

“Now where’s a camera when you need one?” she said, surveying the students’ shocked faces. “Really, if ever there was a Kodak moment.....”

Silence.

“Ga...ga.....” choked Colin Creevey, trembling.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Doors warned, uncrossing her arms. “Don’t you even think about it. I’ve had so many people screaming in my face the last few days, it makes last year look like a bloody tea party.”

It was her voice more than her words that did it, but as soon as she had said this the tension in the Hall dissolved, and Harry found himself snickering along with everyone else. Up at the staff table he saw McGonagall with her head in her hands, indulging in a rare smile, while Professor Flitwick chortled squeakily. Lupin and Sirius, who had been fighting laughter long before anyone else, were both chuckling.

“Well, as much as I know many of you are about to explode with questions,” Dumbledore said, gathering the students’ attention once more. “I must remind you that the feast is growing cold in the kitchens, and the house-elves will be most put out if we don’t do it the justice I’m certain it deserves. Lorna, if you’d kindly join us, we can get on with it.”

Doors wandered up to the staff table amid a torrent of whispers, all of which ceased as the food suddenly appeared on their plates.

“Now that’s what I call a feast,” said Ron, drooling. “Dunno why we take so long to get to it every year.”

Nobody was very keen to tell him, as they were all too busy shoveling down all the delicious foods they could reach, still trying to talk and consequently spraying crumbs over everything. Harry noted with some amusement that the quality of table manners among the new students seemed to drop with every passing year--if Aunt Petunia could see them all, she’d probably die....

Harry snorted into his mashed potatoes. Oh, it was going to be a long, long wait until December, that was for certain. Mind reeling once more with possibilities, he ate mechanically as glorious visions danced before his eyes--exploding wedding cakes, Aunt Marge on fire, Peeves in a tux; it was wonderful, and how on earth he was going to last the months until Christmas, he didn’t know.

Snape didn’t turn up all evening, to Harry’s disappointment; he’d rather been wanting to see what the frightened Potions master would do in a hall full of students and his now-resurrected arch nemesis. What with the understandable distraction of an excellent feast and an overload of bizarre information to process, nobody else seemed to miss him.

At long last the gluttony ended, leaving a Hall full of contentedly overstuffed humans and several extremely envious ghosts. Nearly Headless Nick, who had grown so indignant at Ron’s unabashed shoveling that his head fell off in a rage, glided smack through a line of first years in his hurry to evacuate the Hall. Harry himself managed to rise to his feet only with great difficulty, and the movement caused his stomach to send up several disgruntled growls of protest.

“Whatever they’re putting in that food, it ought to be outlawed,” muttered Dean Thomas, rubbing his stomach and wincing in a placid sort of way. “We all keep on eating like that, we’ll be as fat as Harry’s cousin by Halloween.”

“Aunt Marge would like that,” Harry murmured to Ron as they left the Hall. He put on a high, sickeningly screechy voice. “‘I do like to see a healthy-sized child’.”

Ron, too full to snicker, merely shook his head. “If that’s healthy, I’m happy to be emaciated,” he said, stretching lazily. “I’m beat. I hope Dobby didn’t take it into his head to give us all bedwarmers, though, or we’ll have our feet burned off by morning.”

Harry yawned; at that moment he was too tired to care whether or not his feet were there when he woke up. He had no idea what time it was, but the castle was filled with that cold stillness that only comes very late at night or very early in the morning, and he knew his eyes were going to feel like lead tomorrow.

Seamus stretched and shook his head. “Wonder how we’re going to live till December,” he said sleepily, running his hands through his sandy hair.

“More like how we’re going to live through December,” Hermione muttered, shivering. She alone looked halfway awake (though only halfway), but it was enough for her to spot Peeves, lurking at the head of the staircase with his arms full of onions. One of the Gryffindor prefects, who bore such an astounding resemblance to Percy it was almost frightening, darted up the steps and shooed him off, and got the full benefit of the disgruntled poltergeist’s stinky shower.

“Yep, it’s official, everyone,” Ron mumbled, as they scrabbled through the portrait hole (the password was ‘Mimblewimble’). He and Harry bade Hermione a weary good-night, somehow made it up the stairs to their dormitory, and both collapsed onto their beds without even bothering to take their shoes off.