Harry Potter and the Last Chance for Sanity

Chapter One

A Series of Unfortunate Ideas

Harry Potter was bored.

This was never a Good Thing.

It was especially not a Good Thing for the Dursleys, with whom Harry was spending yet another interminable summer.

He wasn't sure why. Voldemort was dead, which meant that Dumbledore didn't have even the lame excuse of Aunt Petunia's blood granting him some obscure sort of protection for keeping him with them. Of course Dumbledore spent a lot of his time these days hanging from a peg on the wall and asking if his frame was straight - a side effect of his having spent a couple weeks dead last term. It wasn't clear how much the codger really understood of the world outside his office these days.

Harry had even come up with a scheme earlier this year: if it were truly Aunt Petunia's blood that kept him safe, why, he'd simply drain a quart or two from her and be on his merry way. Unfortunately, he hadn't had the chance to so much as sharpen the hypodermic before his father caught wind of the plan and forbade him to go through with it. Harry had obeyed - reluctantly -- but let it be said the idea had not entirely been uprooted. Harry's brain didn't provide particularly rich soil for thoughts, which meant that the ones that managed to survive in there tended to be tenacious.

Harry's father, incidentally, was Remus J. Lupin, not James Potter, as had been previously supposed. Lupin, possessing the amorous inclinations a rhinoceros in heat could only envy, had carried on a liaison with Harry's mother Lily among others (Lily's husband James, James's friend Sirius, Sirius's cousin Andromeda, Andromeda's daughter Nymphadora, Nymphadora's friend Cerise, Cerise's brother-in-law's uncle's ex-wife Lydia. . . .) for several years. It had been in revenge for Lupin's affair with Bill Weasley that Fleur Delacour had revealed Harry's true parentage last spring.

Not that the average wizard in the street knew any of these things. Embarrassed by his relationship to Harry - as indeed any decent person would be -- Lupin had been bribing or memory-charming everyone who knew the truth. So to the world at large, Harry was still known by the last name of Potter. It sounded better than 'Harry Lupin' in any case, and Lupin consoled himself with the thought that he was doing a good deed, actually. All those history books would have to be rewritten if the information became public.

Anyway, when pressed about the Dursley issue, Lupin had muttered some excuse about a residue of evil lingering after Voldemort's demise that might possibly harm Harry in some way, and how it was really better for the Boy Who Lived to spend one last summer with his aunt.

It was all utter rot, of course. Harry was more than evil enough himself, and what Lupin really wanted was an excuse to head off for the south of France with Sirius and Tonks without having to drag his spawn along as well.

Which left Harry back at square one. Stuck with the Dursleys and practically bored to tears. He couldn't even impress his Muggle relations with tales of his great triumph over the Dark Lord, because they were too stupid to appreciate it -- well, that and the fact that there had been no great triumph. Not unless you were willing to accept feeding Voldemort one lump of pig flesh too many as an act of merit. Harry was. But then Harry's view of reality often jibed with the rest of the worlds'.

He sighed and rolled over in the flowerbed. It seemed an odd location for him to have chosen, as he no longer had the excuse of wanting to eavesdrop for information about Voldemort's activities, but he'd discovered that he quite liked lying in the dirt. There were always plenty of fascinating crawly things to watch - and torture, if he were feeling particularly spiteful. Plus he didn't have to move too far if he needed to use the loo. Aunt Petunia was wondering why her begonias were flourishing so verdantly when the rest of the yard was dry and dusty from yet another drought.

Tormenting the earwigs was just not doing it for Harry today, however. He'd already pulled the legs off a half a dozen and it did nothing to ease the pangs of ennui he felt building up in the innermost recesses of his soul (and if Harry had a soul at all, it was pretty deeply buried). The summer was dragging like an entire afternoon spent waiting in the dentist's office to get a root canal, and Harry was desperate for more substantial entertainment.

Well, he could always annoy his relations. That would be good for a bit of amusement until he thought of something better. Getting briskly to his feet, Harry checked to make sure his manky old red-and-white striped polo shirt and faded jeans had plenty of mud and bug bits on them. Satisfied with his appearance, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and slouched towards the house, taking care to bang the front door against the wall. He entered, scraping his filthy trainers against the clean carpet at every step. Harry was quite proud of the slouch he'd worked up. It was not quite worthy of Viktor Krum in his heyday, but it would take at least a yellow ribbon in most competitions.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia glared at him in mutual loathing from the sofa. It being Saturday and a hot day at that, both of them were indoors innocently trying to watch football on the telly and forget the existence of their nephew. They were not at all happy to be reminded of his presence.

After their initial glower, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon made a heroic attempt to keep up the pretense that Harry wasn't there as he stumped across the room -- chin stuck out seven inches, positively dripping with resentment -- and proceeded to raid the refrigerator for leftover ham. Unfortunately, Uncle Vernon was incapable of ignoring Harry for long. Really incapable - it would have been diagnosed as a medical condition if there'd been a doctor in the world daft enough to study such things. "Shut that door and stop wasting electricity!" he barked, when Harry left the fridge door standing open a couple of inches and showed no inclination to close it.

Harry studied Uncle Vernon over the rims of his glasses as he munched on his ham, thinking that if you dumped a suet pudding into a breadbox and froze it and then dressed it up in a really boring suit, you'd get something that looked uncannily like his uncle. Vernon Dursley was an ungainly beef-colored brick of a man, as was his son Dudley. Both came as close to having actual corners as was humanly possible. "I'm afraid I don't understand electricity, Uncle Vernon," Harry said at last in a blatant and contemptuous lie as he took a second bite of his snack.

Uncle Vernon swelled. The bristly mustache on his upper lip twitched like an agitated insect. "Don't you sauce me, boy!" he roared.

"I'm not," replied Harry snottily. "I'm a wizard. We don't have uses for such things." He ran a tongue over his ham as if daring his uncle to contradict him.

But as expected, Vernon turned purple and speechless upon hearing the dreaded 'w' word. Aunt Petunia rose from the sofa, her lips pressed into a tight, constipated line, crossed the room, and shut the refrigerator door. No sooner had she returned to her seat than Harry opened the fridge for a second slice of ham.

Again he left the door open.

Both Dursleys glared. This was a declaration of war and they knew it - even if they hadn't the faintest idea what had roused the little sod's rancor this particular afternoon. They were, however, somewhat at a loss for what to do about it. Harry was getting a little too big to stuff in his room - he always used such occasions for a hearty bout of farting anyway - and whenever they assigned him chores, he found a way to muck them up. They weren't sure what he'd done to the garden hose the last time they sent him to wash the car, but it kept burping and dribbling something greenish out one end. Come to think of it, the car had been running rather slow and gassy recently too. Vernon cherished a brief but vivid fantasy of chopping Harry up with a fire axe and burying him in the yard and telling the neighbors that a passing Alsatian had eaten him.

Harry, for his part, kept a covert eye on his aunt and uncle. They still had a small smidgen of power over him and it was dangerous to sass them so openly. After all, he wouldn't be allowed to use magic freely until he graduated. It was funny really, he mused, munching his ham. He got away with all sorts of shenanigans during the school year, even Unforgivables, but let him do so much as a harmless cleaning spell over the summer and the Ministry of Magic would fall upon him like a sack of lead potatoes.

Not that any spells were exactly harmless where Harry Potter was concerned.

"Shut that door, boy," sputtered Uncle Vernon, at a loss for anything more profound to say. Harry smiled inwardly; his uncle was attempting what passed in him for diplomacy rather than resorting to violence. Good. That meant he could torment them a bit longer.

"What door?" inquired Harry, peering around and blinking in a confused sort of way.

Uncle Vernon pointed, his beefy finger shaking only slightly. "That door!"

Harry regarded the refrigerator with astonishment. "Ooooooh, just think of that!" he said, taking another bite of ham. "They're called doors on faridgimenators as well."

"Yes," answered Aunt Petunia through clenched teeth. "And they have been, even before you learned how to open refrigerator doors in search of pork at the age of two and a half."

Her subtlety, if that was what it was, eluded Harry entirely. "Funny how you forget these sorts of things when you're a wizard," he reflected, picking a bit of gristle out of his teeth and dropping it on the sparkling clean kitchen floor.

"Don't slop up the house!" Uncle Vernon roared, close to reaching the end of his not-very-long tether.

Harry's brow puckered and he shot his uncle a look of lofty disdain. "I don't have to listen to you. We're not related."

"You and I are not blood relations -- " Uncle Vernon paused to gloat while Petunia sulked enviously. " - but you live under my roof and you're related to members of my family," Vernon concluded. "More's the pity," he added under his breath.

"My father was Remus Lupin, not James Potter," Harry informed them haughtily.

Both Dursleys stared at him in utter contempt.

"And this means what to us?" asked Petunia.

"Means that your sister was a bit of a slag," muttered Vernon. Petunia glowered at him. Matter of fact, she remembered Lupin from years ago when he'd come to visit Lily. He'd made a pass at her, of course, and she'd indignantly turned him down. But there were times when she regretted it, especially those long nights when she couldn't sleep and took a good look at her husband lying in their connubial bed like a hunk of dead mutton and slobbering into the pillow.

But now was not the time to bring up marital discontent in front of her nephew. There never would be a time to bring up such a subject in front of Harry. "Your mother was my sister," she said, just set the record straight. "Your father, whoever he was, was no relation of mine, and therefore means absolutely nothing when we're discussing your rights in this house. And thank goodness for it," she added after a moment's consideration. "If anything in the world could have made you more wormy and repulsive than you already are, it would have been having two near relations for parents."

Harry scowled. "But Mum -- "

"Your mother was most definitely your mother. I remember when she was carrying you. Craved Vegemite - used to sit at home devouring jar after jar and then come over to me and beg for more."

"Vegemite?!" gasped Harry, horrified. That was entirely out of order as far as he was concerned. Why, Vegemite didn't even qualify as food in Harry's book. If it didn't oink, it wasn't edible, was Harry's motto.

"Vegemite," repeated Petunia spitefully. "What, do you think I could forget the sight of dozens of empty jars of that nasty black muck laying about? No, I'm your aunt, boy. Like it or not."

"I don't!" Harry flared.

"Don't insult your aunt, boy!" Vernon roared, attempting to take his rightful place as man of the house.

Tragically for him, there was a rattling at the front door and Dudley entered wearing a pink tutu.

Dudley's interests had changed over the past couple of years. Boxing had been well and good in its way, but all it really boiled down to was bobbing about and attempting to hit another person with your fists. While it could be argued that this was quite enough to occupy Dudley's limited mental abilities, he had, in fact, grown bored with it. So he'd gone in for karate, which to his mind meant hitting people in new and interesting ways with entirely different parts of your body.

However Dudley, human ox that he was, lacked certain characteristics that were required to excel at karate. Such as speed, flexibility, grace, and the restraint not to hit people when not hitting people was required. One instructor had finally told the increasingly frustrated Dudley that he might benefit from partaking in activities that would hone these abilities. Like dancing, for instance.

Well, all right, Dudley was game. Problem was, his knowledge of dance was severely limited. He'd seen ballroom dancing, but that required a partner and Piers Polkiss categorically refused. The only other sort Dudley knew anything about was ballet.

So he signed up for a few classes.

He adored it.

No one had yet had the heart to tell him that male dancers generally do not wear tutus.

"Hello Mum, Hello Dad," he greeted, setting his keys down on the table. His pink tights gleamed in the overhead lights. He eyed Harry with repugnance. "That's still here, is it?"

"Yes, Popkins," replied Petunia, standing up to give her budding Baryshnikov a kiss on the cheek. Dudley's attire didn't bother her. On the contrary, she felt quite proud of him for making such a determined attempt and was quite certain that one day she'd see him dance for the Royal Ballet.

"We were just having a conversation with it - er, him," said Vernon, who was more discomfited by the fact that his only son was standing there looking like a brick in a pink frock. "Why don't you go up and change? Those, uh, leg thingys look rather tight."

"All right," said Dudley agreeably, doing a few twirls on tiptoes. He caught sight of the refrigerator and paused. "Why's the door standing open? It's a waste of electricity."

"I don't understand electricity," Harry informed him.

"That's what we were discussing," growled Uncle Vernon through his mustache.

"Gotten stupider, has it?" inquired Dudley, attempting a deep knee bend. Harry, for his part, did a slow burn.

"I don't understand electricity because I'm a wizard."

Dudley shrugged. "Far as I can tell, wizards are pretty darn stupid. If you're so magical and powerful and all, how come you're not ruling the world?"

Harry's mouth fell open. This was a question he'd never thought of, despite having supposedly been the mortal enemy of Voldemort, who was attempting to do just that. To temporize, he replied: "We're not ruling the world because we feel sorry for you Muggles."

"If you're sorry for us, why do you call us Muggles?" Dudley made a face. "What a horrid word."

"Oh, it is not," protested Harry, who privately agreed. "It's endearing."

"Doesn't sound endearing to me. How would you like it if we called you wizards Twatzies or something?"

"I'd prefer Pig Eaters," said Harry bristling. Then he paused. Hmm, that was a catchy name, wasn't it? Kind of reminded him of something he'd heard before. . .

"Anyway. . . " Dudley struck a pose, oblivious to Harry's thought process, "we don't need you to feel sorry for us. We've invented computers and airplanes and telephones and stuff while you lot are stuck with parchment and quills and riding on broomsticks."

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, mate," retorted Harry, who adored the feeling of a narrow stick of wood jammed between his buttocks. He'd rather lost interest in the argument, however. The name 'Pig Eaters' was twirling around the vast emptiness inside his head, along with the phrase 'rule the world.'

"No thanks. I don't need the hemorrhoids." Dudley took a bottle of juice out of the fridge, chugged it, and set what was left on the table while Harry gnawed his lip thoughtfully. "I'll go take a shower now," yawned Dudley. He minced delicately up the steps on his toes, an exit any fairy princess would have been proud to call her own.

"Well, there you have it, boy," said Vernon, who was rather pleased with the way that conversation had turned out. "So you can do funny things with your wand. Big deal. It's nothing compared to the power of a good strong engine, like that of a drill -- "

Once Uncle Vernon got started on drills, he became a sort of perpetual motion machine. The only way to shut him up was to give him a sock monkey to play with. Harry tuned his ears out and munched his ham contemplatively. Pig Eaters. Rule the world. Hmm.

The two concepts were destined to intertwine.

Petunia, searching through a drawer for a sock monkey, watched her nephew out of the corner of her eyes. She was a bit more perceptive than her husband or son, and what she saw in Harry's face made her shudder inside.

* * * * *

Somewhere. . . Not Heaven, but certainly not Hell either. Some unspecified but slightly twee and fairly dull afterlife. . .

"Pass the biscuits, would you, dear?"

Lily Potter eyed her husband's midsection. "You're going to get fat."

"Nonsense! I've been dead sixteen years and haven't put on so much as the twenty-one grams I lost when I died."

"That's a myth," snorted Sirius Black.

"Whatever." As if to emphasize his point, James helped himself to two buttery morsels of shortbread, poured more milk into his tea, and slathered clotted cream onto a scone.

"My arteries are clogging just from watching you," muttered Lily over the rim of her cup.

"So don't watch me then."

"Even if I don't watch I can hear you crunching away. That's your fifth scone. Oh, don't use jam as well --!"

Sirius set down his cup of tea (which he had surreptitiously laced with brandy) and cleared his throat. "Excuse me. I didn't come to the afterlife just so I could hear the two of you quarrel over James's waistline."

"Do forgive us -- " began Lily, but James interrupted snidely.

"No, you came here because Remus is shagging your cousin and you felt left out."

"Did not!" protested the ex-convict. "I'm Sirius Black, man! I have oodles of people just falling over me every time I turn around."

"That must get tiresome," commented Lily, taking a genteel sip of tea. James sniggered and Sirius tossed his head.

"You're just jealous because Oscar Wilde never made a pass at you."

"Was that a pass?" James asked after a pause. "I just thought he said something about how two old jailbirds should get together sometime."

"And what do you think that means coming from Oscar Wilde?"

"You may have a point."

They sipped tea and watched the pinkish clouds roll through the faintly violet sky. Something that was probably meant to be a heavenly chorus but sounded a great deal more like exceptionally insipid Muzak played in the background. A person wearing a flowing white robe with golden wings on his back collided with a migrating mallard and the two went spinning out of sight in a tangle of feathers.

"God, this is boring," complained James as the duck's indignant quacking faded.

"So come back to earth with me and annoy Remus."

James looked at Lily. Lily looked at James. They both looked away. Silence.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Sirius irritably, "you're not still quarreling over that are you? It was over sixteen years ago and anyway, you both slept with him!"

"No, that's not it," said James shaking his head. "Although it is still kind of a kick in the gut to discover that your son and heir has in fact been fathered by one of your best friends," he added, shooting his wife a reproachful look.

"Believe me, Prongs, you do not want Harry for a son and heir." Sirius started to lift his cup to his lips again then decided that he really could not stand another sip of tea and dumped it out. The cloudy ground sizzled indignantly as the liquor touched it then spat the stuff back in Sirius's face.

"Humph," sniffed Lily, as Sirius wiped tea and brandy off his cheeks, "I still say the trauma Harry experienced as a baby affected his brain."

"I'm not sure Harry has a brain," muttered Sirius - but so quietly there was no chance of Lily overhearing him. Ginny Weasley's bat-bogey hexes were a treat compared to some of the zingers Lily could come up with. Anyway, she'd watched enough of Harry's antics to know he spoke the truth, even if she didn't want to admit it.

"You never did answer my question," he said aloud. "Why not come back to earth for a while? We still have one more week left in the south of France before school starts up again. C'mon; it'll be fun!"

Lily raised an eyebrow and tucked a strand of red hair behind one ear. "You mean Remus hasn't visited every winery in the area yet?"

"Well. . . err. . . There are a lot of vintners in the south of France, you know."

"Meaning that he has one more week for sampling before he has to sober up. And you know he'll take advantage of it." Lily shook her head. "Watching Remus play wine connoisseur in the hopes of suckering a few extra glasses out of some unfortunate vintner is not my idea of a marvelous time."

"But you could sample too!" exclaimed Sirius, batting his eyelashes seductively "Just think about it - real wine! And we could visit the nude beaches. How would lying on a beach for a while suit you?"

"I actually prefer wearing a cozzy on the beach," Lily replied tartly. "You're less likely to get sand in unfortunate places."

"You have no sense of adventure."

"I simply prefer hygienic adventures."

"Stop being difficult!" Sirius exploded. "I mean, could the south of France - sandy butt-crack and all - really be worse than this place?" He waved a hand at their surroundings. The sky's color was being changed for the night to a deep and celestial blue while the clouds took on a peachy golden glow. Sirius snorted with contempt. "This is their idea of a stimulating life. Playing with the palette every once in a while."

"We're not alive."

"I know that!" Sirius took a breath to calm himself and went on more quietly. "I know that, okay? I'm just saying that I can think of better ways to spend eternity than watching cotton puffs change from pink to green and back again."

"Is this eternity?" James muttered, sotto voce. "Pity. I was hoping it would end soon."

Lily set down her cup and sighed. "Sirius. . . Ah, I don't know how to tell you this. We can't come with you."

"Eh? What's this about?" Sirius blinked.

James sighed too. He exchanged another glance with his wife. At last, feeling he'd built up a properly sober atmosphere, he spoke quietly. "Padfoot, we can't come back to earth."

"Huh? What?" asked Sirius, flabbergasted. "But why the hell not? I came back."

"No, Sirius," said Lily. ""You caused so much trouble that the Powers That Be couldn't take it any more and threw you out for a while. There's a difference."

Sirius stiffened. "'For a while'?"

Again husband and wife exchanged a meaningful look. "Stop doing that and tell me straight!" snapped Sirius.

James spread his hands. "They're going to bring you back here, Sirius. After they've finished putting up a few little precautions to your antics."

Silence. The mallard reappeared from the mists of the fluffy golden cloud with a satisfied expression on its beak. One sensed it had come out the better in the struggle. At last Sirius spoke.

"You mean. . . I was only allowed back to Earth to give them time to. . . 'Sirius-proof' this place?"

"That's right," nodded James.

"You really should feel honored," Lily told him. "They've had to completely redesign the Celestial Cycles after what you did to them -- "

"YOU MEAN THEY'RE GOING TO DRAG ME BACK TO THIS DUMP AND EXPECT ME TO STAY?!" roared Sirius.

"Got it in one," James replied, wincing. "And don't channel Harry, please."

"I can't stay here!" Sirius leapt to his feet and tore out two handfuls of his own hair. "It's too bloody boring!"

"I'll grant you that," sighed James. He eyed the table dourly. "Rotten celestial food. Can hardly taste it and it does absolutely nothing to fill you up." The table, as if sensing it had been snubbed, vanished without so much as a poof.

"Sometime I think they keep things boring here so you'll give up and apply for reincarnation," said Lily.

"Reincarnation?" Sirius demanded indignantly. "Reincarnation?! Peeing in your nappies again? Adolescence, pimples, and teenage angst? No thank you!" He shuddered and began to pace. "No thank you indeed! Anyway, how could I be certain I'd come back as marvelous as I was in my last life? No, no, and no." His expression became canny. "The trick, as I see it, is to stay as we are now and just move on to someplace better."

"Can't."

"Eh?"

"Can't. We've asked. We won't be allowed to move on until Pettigrew, Snape, and Remus are dead."

"What?" Sirius exploded.

"They're the people who, you know, like, mean the most to us. They're holding us back."

"Snivellus does not mean a damn thing to me," said Sirius positively. "Nor does that effin' rat."

"Now that's a lie of sorts, Padfoot."

"Well, all right, I hate them. If that means anything -- "

"Apparently it does. Look -- " James spread his hands. "I don't make the rules here and they don't make much sense to me either. But remember that oath we swore back in our fourth year of school?"

"That the Marauders never would part?" Sirius snorted. "Whizzed that one right down our legs, didn't we?"

"Someone up here took it seriously. So -- "

"Where does Snivellus fit into this?"

"I suppose being Victim Number One kind of made him into an honorary Marauder or something. I don't know!"

Sirius rubbed his chin. A bit of a grin began to form. "So all we have to do is kill Snivellus, Peter, and Remus."

"Sirius!" exclaimed Lily, shocked.

"Exactly," agreed James.

"James!"

"Prongs!"

"Lily!"

"Sirius!"

"James!"

"Padfoot!"

"Prongs!

"Lily!"

"Art Snorkembaum!"

Both Sirius and James blinked. "Umm. . . God bless you?" asked Sirius.

"Thanks. Although I just said that to shut you up." Lily folded her arms across her chest. "I can't believe you're considering murdering one of your best friends."

"Why not? Remus would understand. He's always been willing to go out on a limb for his friends."

"Asking him to die is going rather above and beyond the call of duty, however," she replied sternly.

"But he'd be with us," argued James. "It's be fun. Like old times."

"You're not going to do this."

"If we don't. . . Hell, Remus isn't even forty yet! He could live another sixty or seventy or -- God forbid! -- eighty years! And what if someone develops a youth potion in that time? We could be stuck here indefinitely!"

"A youth potion, ugh!" James grimaced. "You have to admit he has a point, Lily."

"He does not have a point. What he has is a vast well of selfishness."

"Lily dear." Sirius knelt so he could look her in the eyes. "Think about it. Remus has had a hard life. He'll be happier dead. All his friends are gone. Dying will be. . . " Sirius hunted for words. "A reward for him."

Now Lily raised both eyebrows. "A reward?"

"Yes."

"You're mental."

"I will be if I have to stay here for another eighty years."

Lily stood and brushed off her skirt. There was an air of finality about her. "Not mentioning the fact that I'm utterly disgusted with both of you, you're forgetting something."

"What is that?"

"You're dead. You can't kill anyone. It's not allowed."

"CRAP!"

Lily smirked. Sirius stamped around taking swings at cloudy outcroppings. James merely sat and rubbed his chin.

"CRAP! CRAP! (bleep). . . What the (bleep) was that?"

"They activated the profanity filter," Lily told him.

"Urghh! So I'm not even going to be allowed to swear?" Sirius fell to his knees. Reincarnation was beginning to look more and more attractive. "Man, this place (bleeps)!"

"Oh, come on." Lily was unimpressed. "You survived twelve years in Azkaban. Here may be boring, but it can't be as bad as that. So what if Remus does live another eighty years? At least we'll get to spy on him. That's always amusing. And there aren't any dementors -you have to admit that's a plus."

Sirius grunted. He stared at the ground as if he were contemplating stuffing handfuls of it into his mouth and seeing if he could choke on it. Lily sighed. "Fair enough. James, you want to try to cheer Padfoot up? I promised Dorcas Meadowes that I'd play bridge tonight."

"Leave him to me, dear," said James agreeably. Lily frowned. Usually when her husband was so easy to sway it meant he was up to something.

As indeed he was. James waited until his wife was out of sight before kneeling down next to his best friend. He put a comradely hand on Sirius shoulder. "Don't fret, Padfoot, my old mate," whispered James. Sirius looked up, surprised. James's mouth was twitching in that crooked grin which had always meant that trouble was around the corner. Sirius brightened hopefully as James continued. "It's true that we can't kill Remus and the lot directly. But. . . " And here the smirk grew wider. ". . . well, we're Marauders, right? If we can't get around the rules, no one can."

And he drew Sirius close and outlined a plan.

* * * * *

Augustus Gloop was about to go shooting up the pipe. Lucius Malfoy grinned in anticipation and leaned forward to turn up the volume on the telly. Soon the Oompa-Loompas would sing their self-righteous ditty against gluttony - which was pretty rich, considering how chunky some of them were. But midgets were like that. Lucius knew. Chuckling, he handed his pet Munchkin Phrempie another dog biscuit. Phremphie grunted and dipped it in his beer.

There was the sound of footsteps approaching. Lucius ignored it with the ease of practice. Hopefully whoever-it-was would just pass through or by or would quietly disappear before they could disturb him. He didn't particularly care which.

But the gods were not being kind to him this day. The owner of the footsteps not only came into his sanctuary, but also stood there, apparently waiting. One of the feet began to tap. It was wearing a designer shoe with little emerald snakes on the toe.

Lucius turned up the volume a bit more.

"Lucius!" snapped a voice.

It was his wife Narcissa, of course. He'd already figured that. Still, he looked up blinking as if he really hadn't noticed her presence earlier. Phremphie sidled around to the other side of the sofa, out of her vindictive reach. "Good morning dear," Lucius greeted.

Narcissa's mouth was set in a hard, straight line. "Afternoon. Although I suppose it's morning to you as you can't be bothered to get up before twelve anymore." She regarded her husband with disgust, clothed as he was in a grimy green bathrobe and an old pair of slippers. At least three days' worth of stubble decorated his chin. Lucius realized he probably stank and he didn't care. He turned his gaze longingly towards the telly screen, where the Oompa-Loompas were beginning to go into their dance.

"Will you turn that thing off and day attention to me?" Narcissa snapped, looking dangerously on the verge of smashing something.

Lucius scowled, but decided it would be wiser to obey her for now. "What is it?" he asked, pausing the movie. He managed to freeze the scene on an Oompa-Loompa with his mouth hanging open and nearly got a case of the giggles that might have been fatal to him or at least to the telly. Fortunately he managed to master the urge and give Narcissa the attention she was waiting for. "What is it, my darling?" he repeated in his silkiest voice. Sometimes that managed to soothe things over. Or at least it had once upon a time.

She just stared levelly at him. "The Death Eaters are coming over tonight for a meeting."

"Oh." He stifled a rather juicy burp. "Do I have to attend?"

"You are my husband." Narcissa was controlling her temper with an effort. "And your anti-Muggle stance has always been evident."

"Has it?" Lucius corrected himself quickly. "It has, hasn't it?" He frowned quietly to himself. Anti-Muggle-ness, yes, of course. Almost the family motto, really. Malfoys ate the children whose first word was not 'Mudblood.' Why, Malfoy blood was so pure you could practically bless the Pope with it.

But then again. . . He glanced furtively at the telly. It had been made by Muggles. The movie had been shot by Muggles too, as had 'The Wizard of Oz,' and all the actors were Muggles. Wizards just weren't clever when it came to such things. Entertainment to a wizard was placing a stick of wood between your buttocks and whizzing around on it. Or going somewhere to watch other people put sticks between their buttocks and whiz around on them. Wizards were rather daft that way.

"I must say you don't sound very keen," said Narcissa, staring hard at him. "You're the one who joined the Death Eaters in the first place."

"Well. . . " Lucius longed to say he'd gotten bored with the whole Death Eater rigmarole. It just wasn't the same as it had been in the old days. Or perhaps the whole thing had been some childish phase he'd gone through that was now over. Yes, that was probably it. But he couldn't say any of this to his wife. Narcissa was in charge of the Death Eaters now, and any such excuse she'd take as a personal insult. "It's just that nothing gets done at these meetings, dear," he temporized. "I mean, last time we ended up squabbling for almost an hour over whether Macnair's ax should be granted full membership or not."

Narcissa sniffed; she'd taken that one very personally. "If it doesn't bake cookies, it isn't part of the gang, I say."

"And that's another thing, darling. While I wouldn't want to criticize your managerial approach, I have to say that raising money through bake sales is not going to install fear in the heart of the populace."

"Good cookies, though." Draco had appeared upon the scene. He leaned casually in the doorway, munching on a chocolate-chip-with-pecans offering. The light reflected dazzlingly off his well-greased hair.

"Draco's been helping," Narcissa announced fondly.

Lucius rolled his eyes. God. His son. "A seventeen year-old baking cookies with his mummy?" Lucius demanded disgustedly. "Aren't you ever going to grow up? Or at least discover masturbation?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yeah, got it all covered, Pop. Anyway, when Mum said 'helping,' she meant I was keeping the house elves in line, not baking myself."

"Oh." Well, that was a little less shameful, Lucius decided, itching himself under an arm. The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees. He glanced up into the cold expressions of his wife and son. "What?"

"You look like an ape," snarled Narcissa.

"You stink!" said Draco at the same time.

"Really?" Lucius took a whiff of his pit. They were right; there was a twinge of the old manky B.O. about it. But it was a manly sort of smell, and when you talked like a gay art critic and wore your hair in a butt-length fall of blonde locks, you needed all the masculinity you could muster. "It isn't that bad."

Draco turned to Narcissa. "Please tell me he isn't my father."

"That would make me happy too," drawled Lucius.

"Sorry to disappoint both of you." Narcissa tapped her foot again. "So. Darling. Are you coming to the meeting - washed and respectable - or not?"

"I have to wash?" he whined.

"And shave." She stared meaningfully at him. "I've been letting you get away with too much for too long. You're turning into some kind of human roach. Tomorrow you're going to start earning your keep around here. Instead of lolling about watching this. . . this. . . " She waved towards the telly, unable to think of a word vile enough to describe it. ". . .you're going to help me with the cupcakes."

"Cupcakes?!" Lucius gasped. 'Cupcakes' was a word no man his age wished to be associated with. "I refuse!"

The foot-tapping became slower but louder. "You refuse."

"Madam, I do," replied Lucius with dignity.

"Very well." Narcissa whipped out her wand. "Accio Munchkin!"

Phremphie yipped as he was lifted off his feet and sailed the short distance from the sofa to Narcissa. In his panic, he dropped his lollipop. His little arms and legs waved frantically, as if he were trying to swim through air. Under other circumstances, Lucius would have found it all side-splittingly hilarious, but as it was he cried out and tried to pull Phremphie back. Unfortunately, the lollipop landed on his head and he saw stars for an instant. It was a very big lollipop.

Narcissa collared Phremphie and bound him up with another quick spell. "There!" She favored her husband with a smile of triumph. "Do you still refuse?"

"Don't. . . hurt my Munchkin!" Lucius choked. "I paid three hundred Galleons for him!"

"Oh, I won't. Not as long as you behave." At a gesture, the bonds around Phremphie's throat tightened. "And you will behave, won't you, darling?"

"Yes, yes," Lucius nodded frantically.

"Very good. I'll have the house elves draw you a bath and then you can come to the kitchen." Smiling, she exited the room like a queen, dragging the bound Munchkin behind her. All that could be seen of Phremphie was his spike of orange-yellow hair. Lucius's lips quivered. Draco gazed at his father and sneered.

"You're pathetic, Pop." He shoved the last bit of cookie into his mouth and left.

"Up yours, Kreckor," said Lucius to empty air. Shaking slightly, he sat on the sofa and wrapped his arms around Phremphie's fallen lollipop. His personal jester - his only friend in the world - gone! Held hostage by that vile wench Narcissa! Could life get any worse?

Oh, yeah. He was condemned to bake cupcakes tomorrow. She'd probably make him frost them and put bunny-shaped pink sprinkles on top. That was worse.

Slowly Lucius's shaking subsided. Fresh resolve hardened his features. He reached for his remote control and flicked the telly off. Now was not the time for such light-hearted amusements.

She invaded his territory. She denigrated him and sneered at him and trained their son to do the same. All that, he could tolerate. But kidnapping his Munchkin went beyond the pale.

Whatever the cost, Lucius would have his revenge.

* * * * *

Dinner was a rare steaming hunk of roast beef with mashed potatoes, gravy, and sprouts. Petunia had also reheated a few pork chops to keep Harry quiet. He came to the table, grunted in a way that suggested he wasn't quite satisfied, and stuck his finger in the potatoes. Vernon glowered, but Petunia quickly smoothed the situation over by bringing out the second bowl she'd been keeping back in case Harry pulled exactly such a trick.

It was a quiet meal, apart from the grunts and slurps and poorly stifled belches. Dudley ate hugely, filling his plate with scoop after scoop of potatoes and sucking down pints of gravy in urgent, hungry gulps. Harry took all the pork chops and three sprouts, which he made a perfunctory attempt to juggle so he had an excuse to drop them on the freshly washed floor. Vernon concentrated on the beef, hunched over his plate, gnawing away like a trained carnivore.

That left Petunia mostly with the sprouts, but she didn't have much of an appetite anyway. She pushed them around moodily on her plate, noticing that one of them had a funny little knob on it that reminded her of Harry's nose. Or maybe it was just that her thoughts were centered on her nephew tonight.

She'd always figured that this summer would be the last one she spent playing hostess to the rotten child. She'd bought the calendar for this year six years ago and circled August with a bright red pen and embellished it with little golden stars. She'd been so sure that after he graduated, the little beast would vanish from her life forever. But now, now that the blessed day had nearly arrived, she was beginning to have doubts.

After Harry graduated from Hogwarts, he'd be allowed to use magic whenever he liked. No more restrictions, no more Ministry of Magic breathing down his neck. And that was a chill-worthy thought. Suppose he didn't leave after all? Suppose he kept coming back, year after year, eating at their table, sleeping in his old room - and using magic whenever the mood struck him.

What on earth could they do to stop him?

Not a damn thing.

Petunia stared at the sprouts on her plate. In her mind's eye, they all took on the shape of miniature Harry heads grinning mockingly up at her. She mashed them before one said 'bah' at her and then composed herself. Perhaps she was overreacting. Harry didn't like them any better than they liked him. Surely he didn't intend to stick around.

"Harry . . . " Petunia had to stop and clear her throat. She was astounded by her own behavior; she hadn't addressed her nephew at a meal for three years.

Harry, Vernon, and Dudley's heads all shot up. They were amazed too. Vernon's mouth fell open, displaying a large chunk of pink meat as lovingly as if it had been framed for auction. Dudley's cheeks bulged with potatoes. Harry gripped a half-gnawed chop bone in greasy fingers.

"Bah?" he asked after a moment.

Petunia winced. 'Bah.' She had no idea where that particular quirk had come from. One might almost think that little stuffed lamb toy Lily had loved and lost when she was six had been reincarnated as her son.

Come to think of it, that would answer a few questions. . .

"Harry," she repeated, determined to go on now that she'd already made a spectacle of herself, "Well. . . I was just wondering what you planned to do after you graduated from your, uh, school."

"If I graduate," said Harry in tragic tones.

Petunia's heart plummeted. That was true; she'd never bothered checking her nephew's grades and they were probably lousy, as he certainly never wasted time studying or anything. But still she felt quite certain that his teachers would pass him just to be rid of him. "Of course you'll graduate," she said firmly, to reassure herself. "And what will you do then? Do you have a job lined up?"

"No!" answered Harry, as if the very idea of working for a living was insulting.

"Well. . . so. . . what will you do then?"

Vernon had finally swallowed his piece of trophy beef. He was clearly itching to ask her why she was suddenly interested in Harry's future, but he held his peace for now. Harry, for his part, nibbled a bit of meat off his chop bone and considered. "Guess I'll just mooch around for a while and have fun," he decided at last. "Maybe shake a few hands, sign some autographs for a lot of money - that sort of thing."

"Who'd want to shake hands with you?" muttered Dudley. It was a good question. Harry's hands were limp and fishy and smelled of pig fat and were to be avoided at all costs. But it made Petunia tremble to see her nephew turn a wrathful gaze upon her beloved son.

"You wouldn't know because you're just a stupid, stinky Muggle, but I happened to save the entire world last spring," Harry informed his cousin. Both Vernon and Dudley scoffed openly. Instead of flying into a rage, Harry's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Where are you going to live after you graduate, Harry?" Petunia asked desperately. She'd rather have Harry's malice aimed at her than Dudley.

Again Harry paused. He'd never actually considered the issue, always taking for granted that there would be someone to look after him and cook his pork and clean his filthy socks for him. He had no intention of doing such menial household chores himself, but on consideration, he supposed he had enough cash to buy himself a house and a fleet of elves to do the dirty work for him -- cannily, he'd never mentioned his vault of gold to his aunt and uncle. Then again -

"I suppose I could stay with my daddy," he said uncertainly. Another idea was taking shape in his head, however. Being Harry, the process was slow and laborious. And, of course, utterly spiteful.

Petunia brightened. She'd not paid much attention to Harry's little diatribe earlier, but now that she thought about it, it was indeed a possibility. "I'm sure he'd enjoy that," she said, cheerful with relief. She found in her heart a small drop of pity for Mr. R. J. Lupin - but not so much that she was tempted to dissuade Harry.

Vernon snorted and Harry glowered. After an awkward pause, the meal continued silently. Petunia hoped that would be the end of it.

But if she'd been born lucky, Harry would never have been left on her doorstep.

"Of course I'll come back to visit you all regularly," Harry announced abruptly. He seemed to have suddenly grasped exactly what Petunia feared the most.

Vernon choked on a piece of gristle. Dudley snorted gravy out his nose. Petunia put down her fork and closed her eyes. "You most certainly will not!" roared Vernon the instant he got his wind back. "Once you board that train this fall, you're out of this house forever! Forever, do you understand, boy?!"

Harry summoned up all his acting skills. Tears began to pour down his cheeks while his lower lip trembled. "But I want to come see you!" he whined. "We're family!" Before anyone could draw breath to point out how little that mattered as to how they felt about one another, Harry added: "And my godfather the escaped convict won't be happy if you don't allow me. Nor Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive. Nor my father - he's a werewolf, you know."

"A werewolf?" said Vernon, turning gray. He'd not been privy to that bit of information.

"Yes," said Harry blithely. "I'm afraid he turns into a vicious, murderous, man-eating beast when the moon is full, but other than that he's very nice, really." He tossed a chop bone over his shoulder and beamed greasily at them.

Vernon was the color of rice pudding. Petunia, who'd met Lupin, wasn't so impressed. "I should think your loving father and godfather would want you all to themselves after all these years apart," she said, lying through her teeth.

"Yes, but they know how important you are to me." Harry's grin was becoming more malicious by the second as he realized exactly how much power he'd have over the Dursleys after he graduated. "They'd want me to be here for special occasions. You know, birthdays, holidays - we haven't spent a real Christmas together in ages. And -- " His eyes suddenly glowed as he was struck with a particularly fine inspiration. "--what if my dear cousin Dudley should meet the right girl? I'd just have to introduce myself to her! And of course I'd want to attend the wedding."

A ghastly silence sunk in as even Vernon and Dudley absorbed the full import of Harry's words. Both turned so white as to be nearly transparent. Vernon was imagining all the creative and awful things Harry might do to their front lawn in full view of the neighbors. Dudley was thinking about an entire life spent waiting for Harry to show up and ruin it. The vision of a beautifully boring future free of Harry withered and died.

But Petunia, in contrast, became very calm. "I understand," she told her nephew, picking up her fork again and spearing a sprout. She began to eat her dinner with every evidence of a tranquil mind. Vernon and Dudley were sunk too deep in their misery to notice, but Harry stared at her, baffled.

"I'll come to neighborhood picnics too," he offered tentatively.

"Of course you will, Harry," she replied, and continued eating. Confused, Harry gnawed on his last chop and wondered what had gotten into his aunt. After a moment he shrugged and forgot about it. He had more important things to think about. He still hadn't quite worked out his 'Pig Eater' idea from earlier.

He didn't realize he'd made a mistake. Petunia was very unlike her sister Lily, but in one respect they were identical: their fierce, protective love for their undeserving sons.

Harry had threatened Dudley's future. That was all Petunia needed to know to recognize Harry as a mortal enemy. To save Dudley, Petunia was willing to sacrifice anything, even her life.

That, however, would not be necessary this time. Oh, no. Petunia just happened had an ace up her sleeve that no one, not even Vernon, knew about. . .

* * * * *

The pieces came together with an almost audible click.

Harry Potter woke in the middle of the night and jumped out of bed. "PIG EATERS RULE THE WORLD!!!!!!" he screeched, delirious with joy. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog began to bark. A second one soon took up the cry. Lights were flicked on all up and down the street to the accompaniment of much grumbling. Uncle Vernon's enraged bellow shook number four, Privet Drive.

Harry didn't notice. He began a little jig of delight, so relieved to have finally figured it all out.

Tomorrow, he vowed, he was going to eat some exceptionally fine bacon. Then he'd torture some earwigs just to get in the mood. And by lunchtime. . .

By lunchtime he'd be ready to set about his scheme for world domination.