Harry Potter and the Return of the Insanity

* * *

Breakfast the next morning was one of the most trying ordeals Harry had ever gone through.

The Great Hall was now so crowded that moving was nearly impossible, and even getting through the door was a battle. A second extra table had been set up alongside all the house tables, and even the staff had to make room for some visitors. Harry overheard somebody saying Dumbledore had hired out house-elves from nearly every wizarding manor in Britain, to cope with the added cooking and cleaning such a throng was needing.

He found himself wedged between Fred and Ron, his appetite all but vanishing at the sight of so many Lockharts in one place. He had broken the news of his unfortunate wedding-party status to Ron and Hermione the night before, after first foreswearing them not to tell a soul. Ron had laughed hysterically, while Hermione looked too torn between horror and hilarity to offer many words of comfort.

“Lovely,” Harry thought, wincing as he was reminded of tomorrow’s unpleasant prospects. He dreaded the thought of what sort of outfit Marge and Lockhart would have cooked up for him, but one glance at McGonagall assured him he wasn’t the only one this had occurred to.

“Pssst! Hey, Harry! You think Dumbledore did that on purpose?”

George was pointing at the staff table, where the Dursleys sat still and stony-faced, and Harry noticed, for the first time, that all three of them had been wedged between Snape and McGonagall. Snape kept glancing at Uncle Vernon as though he were sprouting some sort of fungus (in between shooting dirty looks at the Marauders, who were enchanting a scrambled egg tower in the middle of the table), while McGonagall looked ready to burst with disgust at Petunia’s subdued whimperings.

“No, that’s a little too mean, even for him,” chuckled Harry. He marveled at how little fuss the Dursleys had put up after their initial arrival, though he suspected the three of them were still a bit too shocked to react properly to their surroundings.

He ate quickly, wanting to make a swift escape back to Gryffindor Tower, but no such luck--he had scarcely stood up before McGonagall had him cornered and was hauling him off to an ‘emergency meeting’.

“But--Professor--I--” he protested, as she dragged him along at an ungodly pace.

“Shut it, Potter, we don’t have much time,” McGonagall almost snapped, and Harry got the impression she was almost nervous. She stopped quite suddenly and pushed open a section of wall, pulling Harry into what was clearly one of the many derelict rooms sported by Hogwarts.

The wall slid shut behind them, and Harry found himself faced with massive draperies of brilliant crimson, hung over the walls and draped across much of the furniture. Seated around it were various students, guests, and teachers, several of whom looked as bewildered as he felt, and if he wasn’t mistaken, four or five house-elves bobbed behind the legs of a great red armchair.

“Go on, Potter, sit,” said McGonagall. He sat next to Doors, who was picking absently at a crimson thread, and watched as McGonagall stood at one end of the room. She seemed to be waiting for someone, and the wall opened a moment later to admit a very unsettled-looking Snape.

“Good,” she said, sitting on an old trunk. “Now, we haven’t got much time, but we’ve got to give this a shot.”

“Give what a shot? Why are we here?” demanded Harry, feeling he deserved some explanation. In the corner, Professor Trelawney sniffed.

Professor McGonagall looked grim. “Belt up a moment, Potter, and I’ll tell you. Now, I know none of us wants anything to do with this--”

Harry opened his mouth, but McGonagall waved him silent again.

“--but I don’t see any way around it, short of suicide, that is.”

“A more than viable option,” muttered Snape.

Someone snorted.

“All right, I’m with Harry,” said Professor Trelawney, putting away her sequined handkerchief. “What is the meaning of all this?”

McGonagall eyed her beadily. “Really, Sybil, I was sure your Inner Eye would have told you that one long ago,” she said, earning several smiles around the room. Trelawney sniffed again.

“We are here,” McGonagall said, ignoring her, “to discuss just what is to be done about this whole wedding party business. Every one of us in this room is directly involved with it in some fashion or another, and we’re going to have to band together if we don’t want that odious bridal pair murdering us all.”

“Oh, no,” Harry moaned. “Is that what all this is about?”

“Of course it is,” McGonagall said briskly. “You don’t honestly think we’re going to let them get the better of us, do you?” Harry didn’t know what to say to this, so she continued.

“All right. First off, those of us unfortunate enough to be included in the wedding party--” Harry saw Professor Trelawney grimace “--must know where to draw the line. We can’t really veto any hideous outfits they might concoct for us, unless they cross the lines of decency. We must, however, stick together against any degrading ceremonial acts.”

“What, like a sort of union?” Harry asked, not liking the sound of ‘degrading ceremonial acts’.

“Well, yes, sort of,” said McGonagall. “We must meet and discuss any decision made by our collective enemy, and stand together in defense if one of us is put on the spot. We’ll vote on it, if needs be.”

“I vote strike,” murmured Snape. “Strike or revolt, I really don’t care. But if that half-brained imbecile thinks I’m going to be his best man--”

Harry hooted. “You’re kidding!” he cried, quite forgetting who he was laughing at. “Lockhart chose you as his best man? He’s even stupider than I thought.”

“Well, given his method of regaining his memory, that’s not surprising,” said Doors, yawning and rubbing her forehead.

Harry looked at her. He’d been wondering about that very thing ever since he first heard about this nightmare, but in all the hubbub nobody had bothered to tell him. “And how was that?” he asked.

McGonagall put her head in her hands, fighting either exasperation or laughter. “Lorna, you tell him,” she said.

Doors grinned. “Well, somehow old Gilderoy got hold of a bunch of his old books, and no sooner had he read them than he decided it was up to him to return as warrior against the Dark Side of the Force.”

“You’re kidding,” Harry said again, snickering.

Doors’s mouth twitched. “Unfortunately not,” she said. “For all he knows, he really did all that stuff, and I’m just waiting for the nasty shock he’ll face when he finds out he didn’t.”

Even McGonagall couldn’t suppress a wry smile at that one. “Well, anyway--”

She was cut off mid-sentence by Professor Flitwick, who stuck his head in the door and squeaked that the Lockharts were coming, and most of them were carrying fabric swatches.

“Dear God,” said McGonagall, paling. “All right, I advise everyone to hide until lunch, unless you want those....those...people after you for party fittings.”

A collective shudder ran around the room, before the throng disbanded and scattered to different points of the castle.

* * * * *

Harry hotfooted it back to Gryffindor Tower, where he spent the remainder of the morning deep in conversation with Ron and Hermione. Both of them agreed he’d fallen on incredibly hard luck, but he’d just have to make the best of it until they found out what Fred and George had planned. Midway through their discussion, Hermione heaved a sigh.

“What is it, Herm?” Harry asked.

Hermione flushed a bit. “Oh--it’s nothing. It’s just that, well, ever since we found out about this wedding, everyone and their mother has been making plans to sabotage it. Fred and George are going to be absolute nightmares, I don’t want to know what Denis Creevey and Natalie McDonald are up to, and half of Ravenclaw’s been devoting the last three months to the cause of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Don’t you all think it’s a little--well--mean?”

Harry and Ron stared at her as though she’d gone starkers. “Hermione, this is GILDEROY LOCKHART and AUNT MARGE, for crying out loud,” Harry said after a moment. “Under any other circumstances, sure, it’d be the meanest thing we could do, but let’s face it, both of them deserve it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Hermione said unconvincingly. “I mean, I’ve heard all your horror stories about Aunt Marge, and Lockhart certainly earned it after what he did second year, but still.......to ruin the happiest day of someone’s life like that; it just doesn’t sit right, somehow.”

Ron leaned back in his chair and threw a pillow at her. “Don’t tell me you’re going like Trelawney,” he laughed. “‘Oh, I’ve got a horrid feeling about this, the spirits are aligned against us’........”

Hermione threw the pillow back at him, scoring at direct hit in his face. “Shut up,” she said, half amused and half indignant. “Lord, I’d rather take Harry’s place as altar server than wind up like that old biddy.”

The trio’s laughter was cut short by Professor McGonagall, who clambered into Gryffindor Tower with a grim expression on her face.

“Come along, Potter,” she said, her voice even grimmer than her countenance. “We’ve got a rehearsal to go to.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. He glanced desperately at Ron and Hermione, who were looking at him as though we were about to be led to the slaughter.

“All right,” he said heavily, getting to his feet.

McGonagall must have seen his plea for help, for she said, “Weasley and Granger can come with you, if they’d like.” The ghost of a wry smirk flitted across her severe face. “For moral support.”

The four of them exited into the hallway, Harry’s heart somewhat lightened by the fact that he wouldn’t be facing that nightmare without reinforcements.

McGonagall swept along ahead of them, fiddling with the clasp on her cloak. “Why are you wearing that thing, Professor?” Harry asked without thinking. “It’s not THAT cold in here.”

McGonagall shot him a withering stare. “You’ll see soon enough,” she said, in a voice so doom-laden it undid most of the good of Ron and Hermione’s presence. He started to ask what she meant by that, but ook one look at her face and thought better of it.

He approached the Great hall as though it were a cave of trolls, regarding the cheerful chatter emanating from it with deepest suspicion. He half considered turning and bolting back to Gryffindor Tower, but McGonagall had shoved the doors open before he could take a step.

It was like a scene from a nightmare. Lockharts were swarming to and fro, posing, annoying, and generally tormenting the members of the wedding party so it was a wonder there hadn’t been murder already.

He spotted Professor Trelawney through the mess, and saw at once why McGonagall was wearing her cloak. The Divination teacher was wearing a long, ruffly dress of ice-pink, with flounces of baby-blue and a mint-green sash tied in a flamboyant bow. She still had on all her usual jewelry, most of which clashed horribly with her outfit, and one of her gown’s enormous puffed sleeves was only half pinned on.

“Oh. Dear. God.”

Hermione was staring at Professor Trelawney with an uplifted expression on her face; she seemed to be etching the image into her memory forever.

“Now that’s what I call entertainment,” Ron muttered, sniggering. “We’d better make sure Colin Creevey gets a picture of that at the wedding.”

Harry would have joined in, but his terror of what his own outfit would look like quenched any humor he might have seen in the situation. His fear was only intensified by Dudley, who waddled into view wearing a powder-blue tuxedo that had very likely been Uncle Vernon’s in the seventies. This image only sent Ron and Hermione into even greater transports of glee.

“Come along, Potter,” McGonagall said, her face set. “You’ve got to get fitted as well.”

Hermione and Ron stopped laughing at once, both staring in almost painful sympathy at him. McGonagall led him off toward a curtained corner, where several blonde women who could only be Lockhart’s cousins were pinning up Aunt Petunia’s hem. Her dress was entirely ice-pink, and so frilly she looked like a china doll.

“Oh, it’s you,” she snapped, as Harry nervously approached the gaggle of seamstresses. McGonagall sniffed disapprovingly--Harry had gotten the impression very early on that the practical professor had very little use for Aunt Petunia.

“Oh! HERE you are, sweetheart!”

Harry wheeled around to find himself faced with yet another member of the Lockhart clan, giggling with delight and clutching a large package to her more than ample chest. “Right over here, darlin’, that’s it, we’ll have this done in a jiffy--”

He found himself standing atop a dressmaker’s stool, while the overweight witch opened her package and shook out its contents.

To Harry’s immense relief, it was a simple white altar server’s robe that was pulled over his head, rather like his school robes and the one’s he’d seen on the Dursleys’ few trips to church. They were made of some thick, rich material he was unused to, and he shot a look of pure gratitude at Ron and Hermione as his seamstress began pinning.

He glanced over at Aunt Petunia, who was gazing sourly at nothing while her gown was worked on. Her fear of the wizarding world seemed to have abated somewhat, though the same could not be said for her disdain of it. Still Harry thought it safe enough to venture at least one question, which had been tormenting him since he first heard about this wedding over the summer.

“Er--Aunt Petunia? Just how did Marge and Lockhart meet, anyway?”

Petunia’s face screwed up as though she’d just swallowed a lemon. “Hmph,” she sniffed.

“Well?” said Harry, feeling he could push it safely.

“It was a dog show,” Petunia almost snarled, flinching as a tape began measuring her collar all by itself--Harry could see that behind her sneering ill-temper lay the look normally reserved for deer caught in oncoming headlights. “You know we’ve never told your about your--abnormality--” (here several nearby witches shot her dirty looks) “--and we took it rather for granted that she knew nothing.”

“And she did?” Harry asked, amused.

“As I said, it was the dog shows,” Petunia grimaced--she had always hated animals. “She took that Ripper of hers to one last spring, and met her fiancee there. She’s known about your kind for years, that Colonel Fubster she always went on about is one. He was the one who told her about the show in the first place, but being an old ninny he forgot to inform her it was for--you people--only. So she went and took that foul bulldog, and she met this Lockwart fellow.”

“Lockhart,” Harry corrected automatically, before losing his powers of speech altogether. Quite apart from hearing Aunt Petunia say ‘ninny’, the implications of her little bombshell were staggering. Aunt MARGE knew about wizards? She must have been furious when she found out Vernon and Petunia had been harboring one under their roof for fourteen years......

But why hadn’t she said anything to him in Dumbledore’s office? Surely finding out Harry was a wizard would do something to change her feelings toward him, right?

“There you are, dear. Now go and find your place before the practicing starts, Heaven knows what a madhouse this will be without a little cooperation.”

His seamstress’s voice cut through his reverie (that seemed to be happening to him a lot this year), as she picked him up like a rag doll and set him neatly on the floor. Harry could tell she was about to pinch his cheeks or do something equally awful, so he darted off toward Ron and Hermione before she got the chance.

“Not bad,” said Ron, giving him the once-over. “At least you don’t look like that cousin of yours.”

Harry snorted and looked over at Dudley, and realized with a start that the rotund boy was staring back at them, an incredibly peculiar expression on his face--Harry couldn’t tell if he was going to be sick or what, but he looked like he’d just taken a bite out of a particularly nasty Every Flavor Bean.

“What on earth is up with him?” he asked, incredulous--the last time he’d seen anyone look like that, they wound up bent over a toilet for half the night.

“He looks like he’s going to lose his lunch,” mused Ron, as Dudley caught them looking back and quickly trained his attention elsewhere. Neither one of them could figure out just where elsewhere, however, until Hermione, who had disappeared somewhere with Professor McGonagall, came skidding back into the hall.

“Phew,” she said, flicking hair from her eyes. Her face was somewhat flushed, and she breathed as though she’d been running. “Who knew weddings were so complicated?”

“Where’d you go?” Ron asked, looking rather askance at her. When Harry didn’t echo his demand Ron glanced over at him, but Harry was far too preoccupied to notice--

“Oh, uh-oh,” he muttered, biting back the wave of sniggers that was fighting its way up his throat. He could feel his face turning red as both Ron and Hermione looked at him quizzically, but he couldn’t help it--on top of all the present madness, this was just too much.

As soon as Hermione had dashed into the hall, Dudley’s piggy eyes had widened, and so uplifted was the expression that crossed his face it was nearly enough to make Harry lose his lunch. His fat cheeks pinked, and his mouth curved into the most idiotic grin imaginable.

“Um, why don’t we go.....over here?” said Harry, forcefully propelling both Ron and Hermione around the other side of the fitting area. The pair shot him a mutual look of confusion, which he quickly averted by muttering, “I don’t want Marge getting ahold of me if I can help it.”

This mollified Hermione (somewhat), but Ron was still looking at him suspiciously. Harry quickly mouthed, “Dudley!”, and ducked as the real Marge came sailing into the Great Hall like some enormous, chiffon-draped battleship. She had on some dripping, pre-wedding dress, so covered in pearls and lace she might as well have been a Muggle parade float, her stiff hair arranged in even more Shirley Temple curls than it had been on her arrival.

Ron and Hermione ducked as well, Hermione to hide her laughter and Ron, his absolute horror at what Harry had just implied. Lockhart came trotting after his bride a moment later, his golden hair flying in a way that made Hermione wince.

“It’s not fair that that man should have nicer hair than I do,” she muttered, flicking a stray piece of taffeta out of her way.

“He’d make a better woman than Marge, that’s for sure,” returned Harry. Looking at the two of them was like watching one of those Nature shows he used to see at the Dursleys, where the wild animals all converged to kill something smaller than they. He then realized with a gulp that he was the shortest person in the wedding party.

“Places, people, places!” cried Lockhart, somehow managing to smile as he did so. “Come along, now, we haven’t got all night--”

He started making goo-goo eyes at Marge, at which point half the Hall averted their gaze. When Harry at last regained the courage to look back, however, what he saw was enough to make him wish he hadn’t.

Lockhart had left off goggling at Marge, but Marge was fairly drooling at something in the far corner. She made an even worse lovesick fool than Dudley, and Harry felt a profound pity for whatever it was that had earned such a look from her.

“Good Lord,” muttered Hermione, watching her with disgust. She probably would have said a good deal more, save that at that moment Ron shoved her forcefully out of sight behind one of the curtains.

“Hey--” she started, but was cut off as Dudley waddled past, still grinning stupidly and picking at his wide lapel.

“Hermione, DON’T ASK,” said Ron, as she emerged, extremely indignant, from the folds of pale blue gauze. “Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”

Hermione snapped something in reply, but Harry wasn’t listening--Marge was looking moonier than ever, and he was just dying to see what she was looking at.

“Darling, who is that?” she asked, tugging on Lockhart’s sleeve so hard he nearly flipped over and pointing.

Harry watched with bated breath, with the kind of sick fascination that draws one to watch a bug drown, and then--

“Who, that, dearie? Why, that’s--”

“--most definitely not your best man.”

Harry choked, and nearly fell over with laughter--Snape had emerged from the busy throng, still dressed in black and looking in need of a shower. Lockhart’s beaming smile faltered a bit, but Harry could practically see hearts growing in Marge’s beady eyes.

“D’you--” he started to Ron and Hermione, but the latter, sounding sickened, cut him off.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, elbowing a chortling Ron.

“Um, Harry, we’d love to stay and help you and all, but this is gonna kill me,” he snickered, his face red. He started sneaking toward the exit, but Harry caught him by the collar and looked on in fascination.

“Why, whatever do you mean, Severus, old friend?” asked Lockhart, seemingly unaware that his bride was drooling down the front of her dress. “Dumbledore said--”

“The Headmaster does not speak for me,” Snape said coldly. “I want no part in this--ceremony--and if you think I’m wearing that creation your cousin has the nerve to call dress robes, think again.” The now-familiar, half-mad glint in his eyes flared, and seemed to penetrate even Lockhart’s thick skull. He took a step backward, his grin fading even more, and glanced nervously from side to side. By now a fairly sizeable group of people had stopped to watch the goings-on, including, Harry noticed, the Marauders and their decoration crew, who were poring over blueprints at the staff table.

“Look, my good man,” said Lockhart, regaining his composure and adjusting his jade-green hat. “Dumbledore told me it was all arranged, that you had agreed to--”

“Yes, agreed to,” broke in Marge. Snape started, as though seeing her for the first time (a thing next to impossible when in the same room with her), and Harry watched a spasm of horror flit across his face as he realized she was sizing him up like a flank steak.

“Of course you’ve agreed, you handsome devil. You wouldn’t want to ruin my wedding, now would you?” Marge attempted a pout.

By now the entire Hall was watching, waiting to see Snape’s response to this extraordinary pronouncement. Snape, however, looked remarkably as though he were about to faint.

He probably would have done precisely that, had not Petunia, her lurid sash fluttering, stormed over.

“Honestly!” she snapped, not seeming to care it was a bunch of wizards she was berating. “Could we get on with it already? It’s already past Duddy’s bedtime, and I still haven’t given him his warm milk.”

The younger members of the assembly snickered and looked at Dudley, who blushed redder than Ron’s hair and looked quickly away from Hermione, at whom he had been staring for the last ten minutes. Harry was willing to bet all the gold in Gringotts he was wishing his mother would drop dead right about now.

Marge sniffed, her drooling reverie clearly shattered. “Really, Petunia, you’ve been horrid ever since Gilderoy and I got engaged. I don’t recall anyone being as snippy as you are when YOU got married.”

That was the last straw for Petunia. All the tension, all the fear and shock and horror that had been building up in her since the Dursleys’ arrival at Hogwarts, seemed to pour forth in a torrent of shrieking. “THAT’S BECAUSE I DIDN’T MARRY A BLOODY WIZARD, YOU IDIOT!” she roared, her blonde hair coming loose from its French braid. “THESE PEOPLE ARE ABNORMAL! Their kind and our kind don’t mix, it’s unnatural, and ever since you met that Lockwart you’ve been acting just like my sister. IT’S OBSCENE!”

She glared at Marge, breathing hard, as though she’d been dying to say all this for ages. The whole Hall stared at her, some aghast and some ready to cheer, as Marge gawked at her infuriated sister-in-law.

“Well, it’s true,” Petunia snapped, realizing she was the center of attention. “And you,” she added, almost as an afterthought, shooting a dirty look at Snape. “For pity’s sake take a shower, you filthy layabout.” And turning on her heel she stormed from the Hall, one of her high heels breaking on the way.

Dead silence reigned for a full minute. Even Lockhart was at a loss for words, as he and all the rest of the stock-still crowd stared after Petunia.

“Well then,” muttered a little man in black, who must have been the vicar. He shakily adjusted his glasses. “If you will......Miss McGonagall and Miss Trelawney, you will start here....”

 

The rest of the rehearsal passed in something of a daze for Harry, who had in the past week and a half been hit by so many shocks and bombshells that his brain finally overloaded and quit registering much of anything. He allowed himself to be led through the motions of the ceremony (which Snape studiously ignored, opting instead to exchange stinging barbs with the Marauders over his state of hygiene), but it was doubtful if he would remember one jot of it when it came time for the real thing.

He escaped to Gryffindor Tower as quick as he could, half-stumbling in his stupor and wanting nothing more than to hide until this whole affair was over.

Scrabbling through the portrait hole, he tripped over his altar server’s robes and landed flat on his face, his hands numb as he picked himself up and collapsed into a chair. It was now so late that the common room was all but deserted, the fire burned to embers. The room’s only other occupants, Harry surmised after a quick glance, were Ron and Hermione, who looked as though they had tried waiting up for him and failed. Ron’s head was rested on some sort of blueprint, while Hermione’s finger still held her place in a book.

“What a nightmare,” he muttered, kicking off his sneakers. “Boy, I hope Snape cracks and poisons both those idiots.....”

He was snoring before he could fully savor the possibility.

* * * * *

His dreams were troubled, filled with images of Marge hitched up in a wedding gown and Dudley drooling all over Hermione’s dress robes. Just as the ceremony was about to start, the vicar exploded, sending all the crowds into a panic, and in the background Fred and George could be heard snickering about the triumphs of the triple-W.

“Come with me, dearie,” said a voice, and Harry found himself confronted with his seamstress, wearing Professor Trelawney’s glasses and jewelry and, for some odd reason, Quirrel’s purple turban. Her voice was different; gurgly, and raspy enough to be a man’s, and Harry felt his feet dragging after her against his will.

“Where--” he heard himself asking, but his oddly-bedecked guide silenced him with a wave of her hand. Literally silenced him; Harry tried to venture another question and found his voice was mysteriously absent. The large woman led him up a number of twisted staircases he had never seen, all dark and chill and feeling as though they’d been deserted for about a century.

“Yes, dearie, here it is,” his guide cackled, stopping near the top of a high, cold tower. “Watch--”

And Harry, still mute, watched on in confusion and horror as the first wave of an army appeared marching in the distance. At first they looked almost ordinary, until the line moved closer and he noticed patches of rotting flesh, dead eyes leering and feet shuffling unsteadily over the ground. He was looking at a horde of--

“Zombies,” Harry croaked, his voice suddenly returning.

“Minions of my master,” the seamstress whispered, her voice grating and full of dirt. “Summoned by one deluded by love, to reclaim their loss and vanquish the traitors.”

The army was drawing ever nearer, and Harry felt a skin-crawling revulsion pass over him--he had to get away from here, had to warn somebody about the nightmare that was bearing down on Hogwarts, but his feet were rooted to the spot and all he could do was--

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!”

He jerked awake with a start, mercifully torn from his troubled dreams. Ron and Hermione had been jolted from slumber as well, and were looking around in bleary-eyed confusion.

“Where’s the murder?” Ron mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!”

That brought them all wide awake. The door to the boys’ dormitory slammed open somewhere above them, and a moment later Dean, Seamus, and Neville came tumbling down the stairs.

“What the--” started Seamus, but he was cut off by a crash from the girls’ dormitory, followed by Lavender and Parvati, looking white and scared in their bathrobes.

“Somebody’s getting killed out there!” squealed Lavender, stumbling over Neville.

“Gee, you think?” Ron muttered acidly, though he looked as worried as any of them.

“That’s it,” said Harry, as a furious scuffling echoed through the pipes. He marched over to the portrait-hole and shoved it open, his white robes flapping.

“Harry!” cried Hermione, aghast. “Have you gone mad? You’re just going to run out there?”

Harry rounded on her, his glasses slipping to the end of his nose. “Well, if it’s not Marge or Lockhart getting murdered out there, at least it’ll give me a chance to get one of them.” And he hopped into the corridor before anyone could protest.

It was pitch black, without a trace of moonlight shining through any of the windows, and from the sound of it he wasn’t the only one who had taken to the hallways. Tripping over his robes (and just about everything else along the way), he raced into one of the main passages, and found it crowded with fearful-looking students in their pajamas.

Well, the ones at the back were fearful--if Harry didn’t know any better, he’d swear the ones around the corner on the entrance hall balcony were laughing rather than whimpering.

“Is it too much to ask that all this is because the Tastee Freeze truck finally arrived?” muttered Sirius, appearing beside him and rubbing his eyes. His hair was stuck in so many different directions it might as well have been Harry’s, and he had thrown on a very decrepit-looking bathrobe over his equally ancient pajamas.

“Probably,” Harry muttered, hurrying down the corridor toward the entrance hall.

“Honestly, Sirius, do you ever think of anything other than food?” Lupin asked, materializing on Harry’s other side in a much more presentable wrap. His wand was lit in his hand, his face tense and looking so distracted that he barely dodged the door that flew open a second later.

Doors stumbled into the passage, tripping over the hem of a long flannel thing that could, with some imagination, have passed for a nightdress. Her hair was absolutely indescribable, and she too held her wand. “Well, for once I’m with Sirius,” she said, as the four moved on. “It’d better be a Tastee Freeze truck, ’cause whatever it is, I’m gonna eat it.”

Sirius snorted, but at that moment the quartet rounded the corner and found themselves faced with the high balcony of the entrance hall, which was so jammed with students and guests they couldn’t have gone father if they’d wanted to. Those nearest them seemed as confused as they were, but the crowd near the front were emitting noises no one could mistake for sputters of terror.

“Move aside, move aside, teachers coming through,” Sirius said lazily, borrowing Lupin’s wand and waving a path through the crowds. Harry made out Mrs. Finnigan in the press, her freckled face broken into a smile and merry blue eyes twinkling, and instant relief flooded over him, followed by a twinge of annoyance--a person couldn’t even get through one peaceful night in this madhouse.

“All right, what seems to be the p--”

Sirius halted. He and Lupin had reached the balcony railing, but whatever they saw was enough to strike them both momentarily dumb.

“Oh, DEAR,” sighed Lupin, his mouth twitching.

Harry and Doors glanced at one another, and started shoving their way toward the front of the press. Doors elbowed Lupin aside and dragged Harry into the railing, and the two saw at once the cause for Lupin’s ‘Oh, dear’.

Snape stood furiously near the statue of Aelfwald the Schlepper by the doors to the Great Hall, deprived of his wand and being forcibly restrained by McGonagall and Professor Sinistra, both wearing wooly dressing gowns. Near the opposite end of the hall hovered Marge, giggling like a drunken schoolgirl, and clinging to the chandelier in the center of the ceiling was a white-faced, extremely horrified-looking Peeves. Marge’s lipstick was smeared all over his face, and Harry realized with awful clarity just what it was that had happened--Marge, (no doubt thinking to catch Snape on his own) had somehow managed to plant a big wet one not on him, but on Peeves.

“Oh, poor Peeves,” Harry muttered, wincing sympathetically.

“No kidding,” snorted Doors, shaking with laughter.

“Get that--woman--out of here!” Snape was snarling, still struggling to escape the death grip of McGonagall and Sinistra. Harry had never seen him so infuriated, but then he had to admit that the unwanted affections of Marjorie Dursley were enough to send anyone round the bend. “She’s insane! Filthy Muggle, wandering about the castle at night like some perverted--”

“Perverted?” McGonagall cut him off. There was wry amusement in her voice, as though even she couldn’t fail to see the humor in the situation. “And just what were you doing up at this hour, Severus?”

Snape was lost for words, but not for long. Marge wiggled her fingers at him and cooed, “Oh, were you looking for little old me? How sweet of you, trying to make certain I was safe--”

“I was doing nothing of the kind, you dolt!” Snape snarled, his face reddening as the throng let out a collective snicker. “If you must know, I was--”

He glanced up at the balcony and stopped, his face purpling before it paled to the hue of old Donegal china. He was fingering something in his pocket, and seemed momentarily oblivious of McGonagall and Sinistra pinning him to the spot.

Harry felt a bucket of ice cascade into his stomach--Snape was looking right at him. He had not forgotten Doors’s words about the Mirror of Erised, though what with one thing and another they certainly weren’t foremost in his mind, but at that moment he recalled with full clarity just what she had said about its effect on Snape’s already fragile sanity. Though he had doubted Snape would dare try anything in the midst of such utter chaos, he had apparently been wrong--the last time the Potions master had done any nighttime wandering, the consequences on Harry (and just about everybody else) had been little short of disastrous.

“I--I was just checking on things,” he went on, after a rather noticeable pause. The crowd murmured, and Sinistra and McGonagall were looking at him as though he’d gone mad.

“Checking on things,” echoed McGonagall, eying him with a nurse-quickly-the-straight-jacket! sort of look. “Severus, why don’t we take you to see Madam Pomfrey. You’ve had quite a shock, and I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if she checked you over--”

“No!” Snape snapped, in a voice much more like his old sneering self. “I assure you, Minerva, I’m quite all right. I simply remembered some--business--I had left unattended, and thought it best to complete it before the madness that is Christmas Eve descended upon us.” His eyes flickered over the balcony once more.

Doors and Lupin exchanged a grave glance, before casting a fleeting, worried look at Harry, who gulped. He had a feeling he knew exactly what Snape’s ‘unfinished business’ might be, and it made him extremely glad he didn’t keep a water glass beside his bed.

From the expression on McGonagall’s face, she wasn’t buying this any more than the rest of the crowd. “No, Severus, I really think you ought to--”

“Oh, he’s fine.”

Petunia, clad in a flowered robe and slippers, came marching in from a lower corridor. She cast a very nasty look in Marge’s direction. “My dear sister-in-law has been rather, shall we say, grabby of late. Why, just the other day I caught her and one of the grooms in an extremely unflattering--”

“Petunia!”

Vernon came storming after her, his slippers on the wrong feet and hair standing on end. His face was puce with anger, his eyes heavy and purple from lack of sleep. “How dare you talk about my sister like that?” he demanded--or, rather, thundered. One of his cheeks was ticking.

Petunia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Vernon,” she snapped. “The woman’s marrying one of them, I hardly think she deserves any respect or discretion on our part. She’s just tried mauling the best man, for God’s sake!”

“I’m not the best man,” Snape interjected angrily, but Vernon ignored him.

“Regardless of who--or what--she is marrying, Marge is still my sister and this family will stand behind her.”

“Speak for yourself, Vernon,” Aunt Petunia retorted, crossing her arms.

Harry stared at them. He had never, EVER seen his aunt and uncle argue before--they were both far too prim and self-righteous. Now, however, it seemed their rotten perniciousness had grown along separate paths--Aunt Petunia staunchly refused to condone anything to do with magic, while Uncle Vernon remained loyal to his sister and her--wishes. It was the scariest thing he’d ever seen, and not for anything would Harry leave now.

Vernon looked ready to spit nails, but the hall was spared his temper tantrum by Dudley, who waddled out, caught sight of the tableau, and stole the opportunity.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me there was a party?” he demanded, shoving his father in the chest. His quivering bulk was clad in fuzzy blue, soft-footed, drop-seat pajamas, and at the moment his face was going puce with the onset of a classic hissy-fit.

Petunia seemed to see this, for she said hastily, “It’s not a party, Dinky Duddidums. Go back to bed.”

Dudley glowered at her, but Marge, who had remained silent throughout this whole ordeal, spoke up.

“Can it, Petunia,” she growled, mercifully abandoning her sickly airy-fairy voice. “The boy’s old enough to make his own decisions.

“Oh, make me, you crazy old cow,” Petunia snarled back, eliciting snickers from the more-than-entertained onlookers. “You’re marrying a wizard, and a damned idiot of a wizard at that--your credibility died a long time ago.” She smiled sickly, that smug, self-righteous smirk Harry had long ago learned to dread. “I wonder what old Lockwart would think, if he found out you’d been chasing his best man?”

She glanced at the chandelier, which Peeves was still clinging to as though it were a life preserver. “Unless, of course, you were going for the school poltergeist, which would be ten time worse.”

Marge seemed at a loss for words. “But--but--Gilderoy--” she said, the look on her face clearly showing she was in the process of hatching a good one.

Petunia glanced around, her sharp eyes picking over the crowds. “He seems to be the only person in this infernal castle who’s not here right now. What’s the matter, did he fall asleep with his curlers over his ears?”

And without waiting for a response, she turned on her slipper, caught Dudley (who had been goggling up at Hermione on the balcony) by the scruff of the neck, and stormed off to wherever it was they had come from.

There was an uncomfortable silence, as everyone who could stared after the two Dursleys, and at Uncle Vernon standing dumb and silent in his pajamas.

“Erm, well,” McGonagall coughed after a minute. “Let’s get to bed, everyone, we’ve got a big day coming up....”

She released Snape, who was still gazing after Petunia, a most peculiar expression on his sallow face. The crowds stirred reluctantly, not wanting the spectacle to end, but the numerous yawns that punctuated the whispered hubbub spoke of just how tired everyone was.

“Well, that was...interesting,” said Ron, rubbing his eyes. “Never thought I’d say this, but I wish Christmas was over.”

“You’re not the only one,” muttered Harry, as Hermione fought her way over to them, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark-circled. The three looked at one another, yawned, and as one started back toward Gryffindor Tower.

“Aw, come on, you three, where’s your sense of fun?”

Fred and George had, as they were so adept at doing, popped up behind them without anyone’s noticing. “I sincerely hope you appreciated our little performance?” said George, his eyes bright and not sleepy in the least.

“You cracked the potion, didn’t you?” Hermione said wearily, stating more than asking.

“Well, somebody had to,” snorted Fred, adjusting the collar on his paisley pajamas. “Really, the quality of the pranksters at this school has simply plummeted since George and I graduated. You get something that juicy dumped in your laps, and not a one of you has the sense to go ferret it out?”

“You’ve wounded us deeply,” said George, clapping a hand over his heart.

“Oh, shut it, you two,” said Ron. “If being a prankster means you’ve got to go running about setting up disasters at two in the morning, count me out.”

“Fine,” sniffed Fred. “See if we get you anything for Christmas.”

“Knowing the kind of gifts you give, I’d be lucky,” Ron muttered.

“I heard that!”

“It’s lights out on Broadway,” Hermione muttered, as they shuffled past Lupin, Doors, and Sirius. “G’night, Professors, and let’s hope it’s for keeps this time.”

“Good night, you three,” said Sirius. Doors and Lupin didn’t say anything, but still looked worried, and Harry felt a tiny curl of ice in his stomach at the reminder of Snape’s earlier words. Well, he wouldn’t dare try anything tonight, and Harry would just have to be careful what he drank out of until the wedding was over.

“Nutjob,” he muttered, scrambling back through the portrait-hole. Minutes later he had collapsed onto his bed in the boys’ dormitory, and was just kicking his shoes off when he suddenly remembered the dream all the commotion had woke him from.

“I am not going to go like Trelawney,” he said firmly, shaking his head. He fell back on the bed, and slept undisturbed for the rest of the night.