Harry Potter and the Return of the Insanity

* * *

Harry awoke one morning, about five days after his discussion with Doors, to find the entire castle in such a state of chaos it was almost frightening. It took him about ten minutes to corner someone in the Great Hall and get a straight explanation out of them, but once he did, all his fears, woes, and general worries vanished at once, to be replaced by a wonderful and mischievous joy.

Lockhart’s caravan was on its way.

He found Fred and George at the Gryffindor table, some of the only people who had bothered to sit down for breakfast. Each was wearing a grin of such terrible impiousness it almost made Harry shudder, until he remembered just who it was to be directed at.

“Morning, Harry old bean,” said Fred, around a mouthful of eggs. “Ready for the games to begin?”

Harry nodded apprehensively; he wasn’t sure if encouraging them would be a good thing or not. “Am I safer not knowing?” he said, grimacing.

Fred and George glanced at one another. “Can he be trusted?” George asked, turning and eying Harry critically.

“I don’t know,” said Fred, squinting and bringing his face very close to Harry’s. He looked back at his brother, and the two chorused, “Nope.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief; given all the potential pranksters roaming the castle, it was probably better if they worked separately. Besides, he reflected, it would make things far more interesting.

A short while later, he, Ron, and Hermione were perched in the snow on the roof Gryffindor Tower with several dozen fellow Gryffindors, all clutching binoculars and scanning the miraculously-clear sky expectantly.

“There it is!” cried Seamus Finnigan, pointing.

If Harry had thought the first arrival was bizarre, it was nothing compared to what he was now confronted with. At least two hundred hideous, baby-pink and powder-blue winged chariots were flying full pelt for the castle, crashing into one another and jarring several of their green-faced occupants into losing their breakfasts. And at the very front, in a particularly pompous and over-decorated monstrosity, there stood Marjorie Dursley and Gilderoy Lockhart.

Harry’s immediate reaction was so torn between an urge to laugh and an urge to gag that he wound up doing both, and making Hermione think he was having some sort of seizure. Harry was choking so hard that all he could do was point, and Hermione, following his finger, erupted into a very un-Hermione-like fit of sniggering. Colin Creevey raised his camera and began snapping pictures like mad.

Marge and Lockhart were wearing matching his-and-hers traveling robes, both pale lavender, and emblazoned across both their chests were flashing gold letters spelling ‘bride’ and ‘groom’. Lockhart’s hair was done in shining golden ringlets (Hermione opined that he looked like a very ditzy Michael Bolton), while Aunt Marge’s robes billowed out in the wind like a circus tent. Both were wearing the most idiotic expressions imaginable, and seemed so absorbed with one another that they failed to notice the gales of laughter coming from the roof of Gryffindor Tower.

The caravan passed directly east of them, while Hermione patiently explained 80’s Muggle music to Ron. Harry stared, fascinated, at the hordes of people who could only be related to Lockhart--scads of witches and wizards, all as blonde and effeminate as he, chattering in saccharine voices and wearing pale, frosty robes to match the chariots. Harry looked around eagerly for the Dursleys, wanting to see how they would be handling the ride--

“Oh, brother,” he muttered, grinning.

Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley had a chariot all to themselves, with about four extra horses to haul Dudley’s weight. Petunia was crying into Uncle Vernon’s shoulder, the latter of whom was staring with stony-faced hate after Lockhart. Dudley was not immediately recognizable, as fear had him cowering in a large, Armani-suited blob in the corner of the chariot. All three looked distinctly ill, and as Harry watched Aunt Petunia raised her head, caught sight of Hogwarts, and nearly flew into hysterics.

Vernon tried (without much success) to calm her down, but his situation was made much harder when Dudley pointed and let out a yell. Vernon and Petunia whirled around to find themselves confronted with scores of young, fur-bundled witches and wizards, waving cheerfully from the roof.

“D-D-Dad, it’s Harry!” Dudley cried, his eyes bulging out of his fat head.

Harry grinned and waved his wand, with the effect that all three Dursleys passed out cold as their chariot hurtled onward. The Weasleys (and nearly all the rest of Gryffindor House) roared with laughter, tears streaming down their faces and steaming in the bitter cold.

“Come on, you guys, this is too good to miss,” said Fred, and the Gryffindors leaped to their feet and scrambled back through the windows.

The scene in the main castle was like something from a nightmare. Everywhere, carbon copies of Lockhart swarmed like a hive of extremely conceited bees, all gushing like fire hydrants and sending every Slytherin within four floors running for their lives. Looking at the vast press of Lockhart’s relatives, Harry couldn’t blame them. Through the massive front doors he could see a number of sleds landing alongside the chariots, bearing the other half of the Hogwarts alumni who hadn’t shown up at the beginning of the week.

“Harry, I can’t stay down here, I’ll die,” muttered Ron, looking pale and ill as the various members of the Lockhart clan chirped to one another over all the rest of the noise.

Harry wholeheartedly agreed, but he just had to find the Dursleys before making his escape.

“You stupid fiend, get off me! Let go of my wife!”

“Oh, there they are,” he sighed, scrambling up onto the railing of the marble staircase and peering into the fray. Uncle Vernon was swinging Aunt Petunia’s handbag at an extremely indignant Madam Pomfrey, who was attempting to put an unconscious Aunt Petunia onto a floating stretcher.

“Really!” the nurse shrieked, zapping the purse out of Uncle Vernon’s hand. His face went suddenly pale, as though he had just remembered what it was he was surrounded by.

“Er,” he squeaked, edging away from his wife. “Um, er....sorry?” he offered.

“That’s quite all right.”

Dumbledore had exited the Great Hall, and was staring down with amused pity at the two unconscious Dursleys. “I understand you’re not exactly...accustomed...to magical medicine, but I assure you, we know what we’re doing.”

Uncle Vernon’s mouth worked soundlessly, his huge purple face mottled with pale splotches as he stared at the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Apparently the sight of Albus Dumbledore was just too much for him, for his consciousness fled far out into the hoolie boolies and he dropped like a stone.

“Good God,” sneered a voice, directly behind Harry. “Are those your relatives, Potter?”

Harry turned and grinned at Malfoy. “Unfortunately,” he said. “I deny it every chance I get.”

Malfoy’s face was contorted with disgust--Harry had noticed he had been far less clumsy and moony since his parents had shown up, though he still stared at Hermione every time she was within view.

“Really, Potter, I extend my sympathies,” he said, his nose wrinkling. “I’d heard Muggles were disgusting, but this...”

Harry had snorted before he could help himself, but the sight of a whole new wave of Lockharts sent both he and Malfoy scurrying for cover. Harry hadn’t made it very far, however, before Gilderoy himself entered, a blushing Marge on his arm.

“Oh, here comes the money shot,” he muttered. “Hey Malfoy!” he called, as the Slytherin boy fought his impending vomit. “You thought they were bad, take a look at THAT.”

Malfoy peered over the railing, and found himself confronted with what looked like a hulking, lavender-covered boulder. His face took on a look so torn between horror and revulsion that it sent Harry into fits of hysterical laughter.

“THAT is your aunt?” Malfoy demanded, sneering so much his lip had all but disappeared into his nose.

Harry chortled even harder. He had to admit that Marge had hit an all-time low as far as appearance was concerned--where she had once been square and mannish, she had now tried with a spectacular lack of success to make herself more feminine. Her mustache had been plucked or waxed or something, and her massive, florid face was surrounded by a number of kinky, unnatural curls that made her look like some grotesque Shirley Temple wannabe.

“God, no,” he said, still sniggering helplessly. “She’s Vernon’s sister, no relation to me.”

“Well, I see where that lump of lard you call a cousin gets it from,” drawled Malfoy, before making a quick exit to the Slytherin dungeons.

Harry thought it would be best if he skipped out as well, so he darted quick as he could for Gryffindor Tower. He ran smack into Sirius along the way, who was still slapping his knees over the spectacle the Dursleys had treated him to.

“Nice one, Sirius,” he muttered, before disappearing to the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where relative peace reigned.

* * * * *

His tranquility ended at about six o’clock that evening. He and Ron and Hermione, unwilling to deal with the madness that had pervaded the rest of the castle, had holed themselves up and started plotting. Well, he and Ron did, anyway; Hermione had betaken herself to the corner with yet another fat book and, oddly enough, the Marauder’s Map.

Harry and Ron had just completed blueprints for a trick wedding arbor when Doors stuck her head in the portrait-hole and said Harry was wanted in Dumbledore’s office.

Harry grimaced. “Lemme guess,” he said, laying down his quill. “The Dursleys, right?”

Doors shrugged. “Dunno,” she said, in a voice that stated all too clearly that she did. “I’m supposed to go with you.”

Harry sighed and followed her into the corridor, which was miraculously empty. Just how Dumbledore had managed to hide all the guests, he didn’t know; nor, as he padded through the chill after Doors, did he particularly care. Much as he wished he could be spared the embarrassment of the scene Uncle Vernon would surely make, part of him was wildly curious to see just what the Dursleys would make of his aunt.

After many twists and turns, they stopped in front of the now-familiar stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore’s rooms.

“Acid pop,” said Doors, and the statue sprang aside to let them up the staircase.

“Wonder what they want with me?” Harry said aloud, feeling it was no use pretending he didn’t know why he was going. He was growing rather irritated--these people had given him a hard enough time at home, and it certainly wasn’t his idea to bring them here.

“Harry, honey, if I knew I’d probably skive off,” Doors replied, tugging on the collar of her robes--it was much warmer in here, and Harry was beginning to regret wearing his long underwear. He chortled in spite of himself.

After a few minutes’ climbing they reached a small stone door, and Harry realized with a gulp that total and complete hell awaited him beyond that door.

“Come in,” called the Headmaster. He sounded amused.

Harry entered with some trepidation. Dumbledore was sitting at his large mahogany desk near a cheery fire, all his little silver decorations humming pleasantly. A frosted window looked out onto the grounds below, the ice etched with little fairy patterns. And sitting across from Dumbledore, in large armchairs, were--

“Hello, boy,” snarled Uncle Vernon. He was looking rather nervous, with Petunia pale and resigned beside him and Dudley trying unsuccessfully to cower in a corner.

“Evening,” said Harry, fighting an unaccountable urge to laugh. The sight of his very Muggle relatives sitting in the middle of Albus Dumbledore’s office was, to say the least, a very strange one.

“Still runty, are we?”

Harry leaped about a foot in the air; Aunt Marge’s voice had boomed from the shadows to his right, and he now caught sight of her hulking, Dudley-like form (now clad in pink) behind Uncle Vernon’s armchair. He had no idea how to respond to this, but fortunately, Marge didn’t seem to need one.

“Well, I suppose you’ll do, anyhow.” She glanced at Dumbledore, whose eyes were so full of mischief he could have passed for a Marauder. Harry looked at him too, bewildered.

“What Miss Dursley is trying to say, Harry, is that you and your cousin Dudley are to be altar servers in her wedding ceremony,” Dumbledore said quietly. Marge beamed at Dudley, who whimpered and cowered even further into his corner.

Harry stared at him.

“Wha--at?” he croaked, his jaw dropping.

Doors hastily turned her laugh into a hacking cough, and squeezed his hand sympathetically.

“Exactly what I said, Harry,” Dumbledore replied. “Your aunt and Professor Lockhart have been planning their wedding party since before they arrived. Your Aunt Petunia is the maid of honor--” Petunia gave a dry sniff “--your cousin is to be the ring bearer and your fellow altar server, and Professors McGonagall and Trelawney will be bridesmaids. All of you will be meeting in two days’ time for the rehearsal, so I thought it best to warn you in advance.”

Harry was floored. It was bad enough having the Dursleys here, and even worse that they had brought Lockhart, but forcing him to be a part of it? That was just cruel.

And what about the rest of them? The thought of McGonagall in some frilly bridesmaid’s dress was enough to make him nearly choke, and as for her and Trelawney.....Well, that was just asking for trouble.

Gradually Harry became aware that the whole room was staring at him.

“Earth to Harry,” whispered Doors, nudging him in the ribs.

“Er,” he said eloquently.

“Which brings me to Lorna here,” Dumbledore continued. “I’ve had a request that you design the floral decorations, but that’s not entirely why I’ve called you here. I don’t believe you’ve met Harry’s--er--longtime guardians.”

Doors’s disturbingly green eyes darted over to the Dursleys, all of whom stiffened.

“So you’re the famous Dursleys,” she said, her odd voice suddenly ominous. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She offered Uncle Vernon a spiderlike hand, which he inadvertently shrank away from. “Lorna Doors. Harry’s other aunt.”

The Dursleys stared at her. Aunt Petunia made a small squeaking noise.

“Well, anyhow,” said Doors, dropping her hand. “I believe--er--congratulations are in order. Congratulations.” She cocked her frizzy head to one side, her eyes boring into Aunt Petunia’s frightened blue ones. “It’s always nice to meet the in-laws.”

At the word ‘in-laws’, Uncle Vernon’s face went splotchier than Harry had ever seen it, and Petunia looked as though she were going to faint. Doors hustled him from the room before either of them could burst out laughing, leaving Dumbledore to undo the mess he had knowingly created.

“Oh, Harry, you lived with them?” Doors chuckled as they descended the staircase. “My God, I’m sorry.”

Harry, who was still pulling out of his shock at Dumbledore’s announcement, muttered absently, “Not half as sorry as I am.” He was silent for a moment, pondering, and then,

“How did you get chosen to fix the flowers? Marge and Lockhart’ve never met you.”

Doors snorted. “I knew old Dumbledore wouldn’t let me off that easy,” she said, as they passed into the hallway. “I got left out of the wedding party, but he’s going to make sure I’ve still got access to the goings-on.”

“Is he trying to sabotage this thing?” Harry wondered aloud.

“Naw. He’s just out for a good time.”