“He’s almost as skinny as you are.”

“At least his moustache is bigger than hers.”

Dudley’s mouthful of ice cream went down the wrong way, giving Harry the perfect excuse to thump his cousin HARD several times, his fist sinking into Dudley’s soft back as vanilla ice cream, fudge sauce, and chopped walnuts spewed grossly from the choking boy’s mouth.

“Did you – did you have to say THAT?” gasped Dudley, his small eyes streaming. He smeared the back of his hand across his mouth and chin, trying to rid himself of the sticky remnants of his third dessert of the evening.

Harry Potter grinned.

It wasn’t often that he and Dudley were on the same page about anything, but Aunt Marge’s unexpected appearance – arriving two days early for her annual visit at Privet Drive – had united them, temporarily at least, in a common cause: debating the pros and cons of the tall, thin man whom Marge had introduced rather dramatically as her “boyfriend”.

The main debate, of course, had had to wait until after supper, which Harry had been pressed into preparing while Aunt Petunia entertained her guests. Dudley, sent upstairs to dress in his best, had then sat – first in the lounge, then at the dining room table – staring at the thin, sandy-haired man whose piercing blue eyes missed no detail of his surroundings. From the kitchen, Harry couldn’t make out too much of the man, except that his waving hair curled slightly over his starched collar, a bit long for current fashion, but neatly styled, nonetheless. The blue eyes framed a straight, narrow nose, while a long, thin moustache drooped down past his chin, reminding Harry of a photo he’d once seen of a blond Lhasa Apso.

“So, what’s he like?” Harry muttered sideways at Dudley when the other boy came to the kitchen to refill the ice bucket.

“Dunno. Awfully quiet.”

Harry snorted. “Well, Aunt Marge is doing all the talking, isn’t she? He can’t get a word in edgewise, it looks like.”

A couple of ice cubes clattered onto the kitchen floor and Dudley kicked them toward the sink. “Yeah. Every time Mum or Dad asks him a question, she butts in and answers for him.”

“How’d they meet?”

Dudley’s laugh sounded darkly gleeful. “He was sitting on a park bench when she passed by, walking her dogs, and Ripper peed on his leg.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “And he still asked her out?”

“Go figure.” Shrugging, Dudley carried the ice bucket back to the lounge.

Utterly bemused, Harry picked up the melting cubes and tossed them into the sink. After checking the thermometer protruding from the roast – another ten minutes or so to go, he could tell from long experience – he turned on the heat beneath the pared, chopped potatoes to begin boiling them. A fresh vegetable medley went into the steamer basket, but he would wait until the potatoes were done before starting the other vegetables. He quickly minced fresh herbs for the accompanying butter sauce, thankful that his aunt had already prepared a cream pie earlier that day. At least he wouldn’t have to make a dessert tonight. He sniffed appreciatively at the scent of roasted garlic seeping from the oven; the foil packet containing the garlic to mash with the potatoes sat neatly on the wire shelf alongside the roasting beef.

A boyfriend! For Aunt Marge? Never in a million years…

“Boy! Boy!”

Automatically, Harry turned the stove heat down to medium under the potatoes before hurrying to answer the shouted summons from the lounge. “Yes, Uncle Vernon?”

“How long until we eat?”

“The salad is ready right now, sir.”

“Well, then.” Vernon stood up, stretching a bit.

Petunia stood as well. “Mr. Lawson, would you come through to the dining room?”

Her well-manicured hand gestured gracefully, but Harry had to compress his lips to hide a grin as Marge grabbed Mr. Lawson’s arm in a death grip, practically dragging him from the lounge. Petunia fluttered helplessly behind them for a moment as her sister-in-law took the wind out of her sails, then turned her head to hiss at Harry, “Change shirts before you serve.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

He took the stairs two at a time, stripping off the stained, oversized button-down shirt the moment he was out of sight of the dining room. Dashing into the smallest bedroom, he rifled through his wardrobe for the cleanest, best-fitting shirt he owned – a bright yellow T-shirt with an unmistakable Weasley “W” stenciled in crimson upon the single pocket. One of Fred’s – or George’s – passed down to Ron, who had already outgrown it, the shirt had landed in his open trunk sometime during Fifth Year, and he’d been pleased to discover it once he’d returned to Privet Drive for the summer. It was the one non-uniform item he owned that he could wear in public without people staring at him with either revulsion or pity.

Tugging the yellow shirt over his head, he ran down the stairs just as the Dursleys and their guests finished seating themselves at the dining table. Aunt Marge kept up a non-stop monologue – fortunately not directed at Harry, for once – as he served the salad plates which Petunia had generously filled from the large wooden bowl beside her place. After Harry set the lightly-woven basket of warm, whole-grain dinner rolls between Aunt Marge and her gentleman friend, Petunia nodded her dismissal, and Harry returned to the kitchen to drain and mash the potatoes and start the other vegetables cooking.

The roast beef had a chance to rest while the family was eating their salads, and Harry took advantage of a few free moments to observe the boyfriend through the crack of the kitchen door behind which he was standing. Thin, composed, taciturn, the man ate quietly, smiling at Marge’s one-sided banter, nodding or shaking his head in response to questions posed by Petunia or Vernon. Every time the man glanced at Dudley, the nervous teen managed to drop bits of salad or silverware on the tablecloth and thick rug. Marge continued to dominate the conversation until Harry took up the empty salad plates and returned with the platter of thick beef slices. He followed with the serving bowls full of roast-garlic mashed potatoes and the colorful array of steamed vegetables, fragrant with herbed butter sauce.

Each time Harry entered the dining room, Mr. Lawson’s blue eyes gave him an appraising look, which Harry returned as discreetly as possible. The man looked ordinary enough, not visibly deranged, as far as Harry could tell. But there MUST be something wrong with him, mustn’t there? For him to be interested in Aunt Marge in the first place, especially after Ripper had peed on him in the second place.

Harry’s only experience with romance had been with Cho Chang, and he simply couldn’t reconcile the fresh wonder of that relationship – while it had lasted – with the image of Aunt Marge fawning over Mr. Lawson… He was beginning to feel the urge to gag every time Marge simpered – too reminiscent of Umbridge – and he shuddered inwardly whenever Marge’s rough hand caressed her complacent suitor’s arm through his tailored dove-gray blazer. If the poor fool only had any sense, he’d be shuddering, too!

Oddly, although he’d filled his plate to overflowing as usual, Dudley didn’t immediately plunge into his main course. His eyes locked with Harry’s just before the younger boy exited the dining room, and Harry saw the same confusion in his cousin that he himself was feeling. Who WAS this man? And WHY was he involved with Aunt Marge?

Back in the kitchen, Harry began cleaning up the pots and pans as quietly as possible. Aunt Petunia did not like to hear metallic clattering during mealtimes. During the washing up, Harry kept an eye on the dinner progress, and a few minutes before Uncle Vernon and Dudley finished their second helpings, Harry started the coffee maker. By the time the family and guests had settled into the lounge for dessert, the coffee had brewed, and Petunia beckoned Harry to serve the coffee and cream pie. Mr. Lawson actually opened his mouth to respond to Harry’s query about how he took his coffee, but Marge inserted, “Black as Hades,” before laughing loudly and handing the quiet man his cup and saucer. Harry and Dudley exchanged a wry glance before Harry left the lounge to begin clearing the dining room table.

Is this what Aunt Marge wanted? A man she could walk all over? And Mr. Lawson – didn’t he MIND being trodden upon? Why, Harry hadn’t heard him utter a single word since they’d arrived almost three hours ago. Marge had veritably muzzled the poor man! How could anyone possibly put up with that sort of oppression in a long-term relationship? Similar thoughts kept spinning through Harry’s mind as he removed the dinner plates and cleaned up the mess at Dudley’s place. The man just HAD to be mental. It seemed the only explanation!

Quickly, he scraped the plates and loaded the dishwasher. That left only the dessert plates and coffee cups. Laughter sounded from the lounge, with Marge’s endless monologue rising and falling.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Harry quickly served his own supper, chewing a well-done slice of beef from one end of the roast. He didn’t see how Uncle Vernon could eat rare meat – even medium was stretching it, as far as Harry was concerned. The potatoes had turned out great, thanks to Mrs. Weasley’s tip about incorporating roasted garlic. And he’d finally been able to try Hermione’s suggestion for livening up vegetables with fresh herbs in butter sauce. Harry had been cooking for years, but tonight’s meal definitely ranked among his best successes, he decided.

More laughter from the lounge. Harry put his own plate into the dishwasher before meandering along the hall to retrieve the dessert plates and coffee cups.

“He’s a food critic!” Marge was exclaiming with obvious pride as Harry entered the lounge and silently went about gathering up the china. Dudley was just finishing off the final slice of cream pie. No dessert for himself, Harry realized. Par for the course.

“What kinds of food do you criticize, Mr. Lawson?” Dudley asked, swallowing a huge forkful of pie.

Years of practice kept Harry’s expression relatively impassive. That, and the fact that, for Dudley, the question was actually intelligent. He had three main topics in his conversational repertoire: boxing, computer games, and food. If Aunt Marge had to date someone, at least he appeared to be above the level of boxing and computer games!

“Oh, he does write-ups for restaurants here in the U.K., as well as on the Continent, in Canada, and even in the States,” Marge replied, as Mr. Lawson’s mouth opened briefly, then closed again in resignation. The sandy-haired man merely nodded in agreement toward Dudley.

“Huh.” Dudley looked Mr. Lawson up and down, seeming to pause on the drooping blond moustache. After scraping the tines of his fork over the china plate to scoop up the last remaining traces of cream filling, Dudley handed his plate to Harry, but the fork slid off and clattered loudly onto the cherry cocktail table.

“Boy!”

“Sorry, Uncle Vernon,” Harry apologized for Dudley’s shortcomings.

“Clear up and get out!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And put the good mattress on the bed for Marge. Put your mattress in the … you know.” Vernon suddenly seemed to remember he had company.

Harry stared at his uncle. “She’s sleeping here?”

“Where else would she sleep, boy?”

“But…” Involuntarily, Harry’s eyes darted to meet those piercing blue ones sitting next to his aunt-by-marriage.

“Well? Speak up!”

Harry’s trainers shuffled on the carpeting. “Um … well, she’s with Mr. Lawson…”

“So?” Vernon pressed.

“I … er … I thought they’d be staying in a hotel.”

“What!” Marge struggled to her feet, her face reddening. “Whatever gave you that idea!”

Harry shrugged wildly. “Well – no one said anything to me! I just assumed…”

“Well, you assumed WRONGLY!”

The red-to-purple face must be a family trait, Harry thought randomly as Marge advanced furiously upon him. And heaven help him, he could never explain what he blurted out next: “So, you’re both staying here? I really think the bed is too small for two – OW!”

“BOY!” thundered Vernon, grabbing Harry by the hair of his head. “SHUT IT!”

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Dudley had thrown back his own head, laughing harder than Harry had ever seen him do.

“DUDLEY!” shrieked Petunia, and her son rolled over on his end of the sofa, burying his face in a throw pillow, but he couldn’t stop laughing.

Vernon dragged Harry from the lounge and threw him against the hallway wall.

“My SISTER,” he enunciated with fierce deliberateness, “is a RESPECTABLE (with spittle spattering Harry’s face) woman who does NOT stop at HOTELS with MEN!” A pause for breath, which did nothing to ease the purple hue of his features. “My SISTER,” he emphasized further, “STAYS with FAMILY.” Another pause. “Her GENTLEMAN friend will be spending HIS nights at a hotel.” Pause. “ALONE.”

From the lounge came a confusion of “… our nephew … quite disturbed … strangers upset him …” and “… juvenile delinquent … St. Brutus’ … bad blood …“, punctuated with Dudley’s muffled snorts and guffaws.

Vernon was glaring daggers at Harry.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon. I’m sorry. It was quite thoughtless, I’m sure.”

“To … say … the … LEAST.”

Vernon yanked Harry off the wall and frog-marched him to the doorway of the lounge. “Now, BOY – APOLOGIZE to your aunt.”

Obediently, Harry faced Marge and began, “Aunt Marge, I’m really sorry for my thoughtless comment. I really didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that nobody had explained to me beforehand – “

SLAP!

Harry’s head jerked nearly halfway around under the weight and force of Marge’s hand cracking against his cheek and jaw.

“You – FILTHY – little DEGENERATE!”

Marge’s voice sounded at close range, although Harry could not see her for all the stars still flashing before his eyes from her slap.

“An orphanage would be too good for you, boy, and look how you’ve dragged down decent folks for years! My brother should never even have you home for the summer – just leave you in that detention center all year – let them give you beatings every day! That’s what you deserve, boy! Just like your filthy mother! A drunken bitch who whelped and then left you to burden my brother’s family! Bad blood will out – “

CRACK!

Petunia gasped, staring at the large mirror over the fireplace. A maze of fractures split the reflected lounge into uneven portions. They all stared, even Mr. Lawson, and the mirror’s cracking had finally put an end to Dudley’s laughing.

Harry stared, too, in utter confusion. Accidental magic – it had to be. But it couldn’t have been him! Not this time! He could always feel it building up inside him, like an intense pressure, before the power burst forth. But not this time! He’d still been trying to clear his vision, to quiet the ringing in his ears. Yes, he’d heard Marge’s diatribe, but his already having heard it several years ago had lessened its immediate impact this go round. He hadn’t done magic this time. He HADN’T!

But his relatives were all glaring at him as if he had, Harry realized, swallowing hard. And done it, furthermore, in front of Mr. Lawson. Aunt Marge’s boyfriend.

If the poor man had any sense at all, he should make a run for it. Now!

But Mr. Lawson continued to stand as if rooted to the Oriental rug, staring at the ruined mirror.

Petunia, forever determined to be the perfect hostess, finally attempted to force a return to normalcy for the sake of their guest. “Clear this up,” she said to Harry, pointing at the dessert dishes. “Then do as your uncle instructed you,” she continued, deliberately refraining from mentioning the mattresses and the small bed. “Be quiet as you work.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

The moment that Vernon let go his arm, Harry loaded the tray with the used china and dessert serviettes. As he headed down the hall toward the kitchen, he heard Petunia suggest, “Mr. Lawson, would you care to sit in the garden? It’s delightfully cool in the evenings, and I think we could all do with a breath of fresh air.”

“Of course he would,” Marge stated firmly, and clutching the hapless man’s arm, she dragged him through the French doors to the garden. Vernon and Petunia exchanged rather telling glances before following suit.

Dudley, however, followed Harry to the kitchen, and as the black-haired boy applied ice to his bruising cheek, pulled out a carton of ice cream to concoct another serving of dessert. After a minute, Harry recommenced his after-dinner routine. Neither boy spoke while they worked at their respective tasks, but once the dishwasher was running, the counters had been wiped, and Dudley had downed half of his fudge-nut sundae, Harry asked, “What do you think?”

“You mean, will they get married?”

Harry shrugged. “I hadn’t thought that far. I just wondered what your opinion of Mr. Lawson was. You’ve spent more time with him. Good guy or bad?”

Dudley chewed thoughtfully on some walnuts. “Hard to say. He really DOESN’T talk. But Aunt Marge seems to like him well enough.”

Harry frowned. “Maybe the question should be, what does he see in her?”

The other boy shrugged in turn, spooning up warm fudge sauce. “I head mum say that opposites attract. Maybe a bloke who doesn’t talk much likes a woman who does?”

“Maybe.” Harry stared out the kitchen window to where the adults sat in the gathering dusk at the garden table. Aunt Petunia had lit a glass-encased candle, and the soft flame flickered like a teasing snitch. “A food critic. How weird is that?”

“What do you mean?” Dudley frowned at him, confused.

“Well, don’t they have to eat a lot of food?”

Dudley snickered. “Oh, now I get it.” He scooped up a huge spoonful of his sundae. “I probably look more like a food critic than he does.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to.” He shoved the ice cream into his mouth, talking around it before he swallowed, “He’s almost as skinny as you are.”

“At least his moustache is bigger than hers.”

Dudley choked, Harry thumped, and Dudley gasped, “Did you – did you have to say THAT?”

Harry grinned.

Dudley grinned back.

For a moment, Harry felt like he had a real cousin. Almost. But he was wise enough to know that this lull in mutual animosity could never last.

“I guess I’d better get to work on the mattresses before they come back in. Just leave your bowl in the sink. I’ll wash it later.”

Dudley nodded, and Harry turned to leave the kitchen.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

Dudley grinned widely. “Good one! About the bed!”

“Don’t let your parents hear you say that, Dud. Or Aunt Marge!” Harry shook his head ruefully.

“It was still good, though!” Dudley began scraping his spoon around the bottom of his bowl.

Chuckling, Harry headed off to deal with the mattresses. Odd, what Dudley found amusing. Harry wondered, since Dudley seemed to be in a receptive sort of mood, whether he should tell his cousin that he hadn’t done magic, but the broken mirror on the wall of the lounge seemed to stand as evidence against him. Maybe … maybe accidental magic changed with age? Maybe he couldn’t feel it as strongly when he got older? He was almost sixteen, after all. But really, who knew? Maybe he could owl Hermione about it…

Sighing, he climbed the stairs and stripped his bed. Rather than taking his lumpy thin mattress all the way down to the cupboard right away, he dragged it just into the upstairs hall and leaned it against the wall, where it sagged sadly. He then opened the door to the large, walk-in closet at the end of the hallway. The thick, pillowtop mattress that they kept for Marge stood vertically against one wall. Lifting the mattress a couple of inches off the floor, Harry moved it several feet, then set it down. Lift, move, set down. Lift, move, set down. He wasn’t permitted to drag this mattress.

Eventually, he got the mattress through his bedroom door and toppled it onto the springs. He heard the bathroom door close as he flung the bottom sheet over the thick mattress. By the time he was positioning the blanket over the top sheet, he sensed Dudley watching him from the hall, but he kept his back to the door, disinclined to engage in conversation while he was working. Dudley quietly withdrew before Harry had topped off the bed with the guest duvet and Marge’s special pillows.

Quickly, he straightened his own meager belongings before the obdurate woman could see the room and find something to complain about. Then, Harry tied his own worn sheets, blanket, and pillow into a bundle and threw it down the stairs. Next, he dragged the wobbly mattress to the stairs and pulled it down, rounding the newel post as he kicked his bundle aside. He propped the mattress against the post until he could open the door to the cupboard under the stairs.

Squatting at the opening, he considered. His trunk took up a lot of the horizontal space, lying down, and he’d barely have room to get into the cupboard himself if he stood it on end against the inner wall opposite the door. The trunk was too long to fit sideways under the low part of the stairs.

Heaving a sigh of disappointment, Harry realized he’d have to remove the trunk, shove in the mattress, then lay the trunk along the far edge of the mattress, while he slept on the half nearer the doorway wall. At least he was skinny enough to fit. And, thankfully, he wasn’t claustrophobic. Forget making up his “bed” – he’d just lay down a sheet and roll up in the blanket. If he had enough room to roll. Too bad he couldn’t shrink himself; then he could sleep on top of his trunk!

Growling in irritation, he dragged out the trunk, pushed in the lumpy mattress, and then maneuvered the trunk back into the cupboard atop the mattress. He was just shaking out his sheets and blanket from the bundle when a voice behind him spoke in a dreadfully-familiar, silky baritone: “What, in Merlin’s name, do you think you are doing, Potter?”

Snape!

For an endless moment Harry couldn’t even breathe. What was SNAPE doing in his uncle’s house?

With his heart pounding from the burst of adrenaline, kneeling by his pillow inside the cupboard under the stairs, Harry slowly turned his head to peer over his shoulder into the piercing blue eyes of Aunt Marge’s boyfriend.