A/N: May I just take a moment here to say: OMFG A NEW CHAPTER!

But seriously. I owe a simply tremendous bout of thanks to all of you who kept the reviews coming. It took, quite literally, years for this story to work its way back into my heart, but every little nudge from you helped it along the way. Here's to hoping this difficult little bastard isn't too awful, yeah? That being said: On with the Show!

Neither Dumbledore or McGonagall had fallen asleep that night. They had both lain very still on their backs for hours, staring up in the darkness, listening to the horrid wheezing, groaning dying noise emanating from the Dursleys' rooms. Finally, at 2:24 in the morning, the crick in McGonagall's neck became intolerably uncomfortable, and she turned onto her side with a huff, staring at Dumbledore, who stared back.

"How can they make such horrific noises for so long, Albus?" She whispered to him. "Shouldn't it hurt them?"

Dumbledore looked back up at the ceiling, with a ponderous expression on his face, and McGonagall waited for some wise words of reassurance. "You know, Minerva…" He began after a moment. "I really haven't the foggiest."

McGonagall responded with a quiet, heartfelt noise that sounded vaguely like: "uhhhg."

Dumbledore hummed softly, "Yes, well."

They lay in silence for a moment, McGonagall with a pensive expression on her face. "Albus…" He looked over at her, waiting. "Albus, what…what if…"

"Ah, yes, the 'what if'. Closely related to 'if only' and a distant cousin to 'why didn't'." He smiled at her, kindly. "Cities have been built on 'what ifs' Minerva, but I suspect that all yours are doing are keeping you awake."

She frowned. "You were supposed to tell me he will be alright, Albus."

"I'm trying this new practice, Minerva, where I don't tell people things merely to make them feel better and hide the truth from them." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It's a lesson Harry taught me quite well at the end of this year, I'm afraid."

McGonagall had seen the wreckage in his office to understand him well enough. She sighed, and he sighed, and they were quiet for a short while, listening to the bone-rattling snores and grunts of their hosts. Listening for a single noise from Harry Potter. McGonagall sighed again.

"Minerva?" She looked over at Dumbledore, to find him looking at her earnestly. "Harry will be all-"

"No!"

They both froze at the quiet, terror-filled cry. Seconds ticked by, their hearts pounding in their ears. And then: "NO! NOOO! STOP! YOU CAN'T!" followed by wordless yell, much more like a scream.

"Merlin," McGonagall breathed, and Dumbledore was already rolling out of bed, wrapping his bathrobe around himself, and stalking to the door. She hurried to follow him, reaching him just as he opened the door an inch.

At that moment, another door burst open, and in the darkness, they could see two figures stumble out into the hall, one cursing darkly, and the other making desperate, shrill hushing sounds. Dumbledore and McGonagall watched as the Dursleys made their way across the hall to the door with the locks, Vernon fumbling furiously with a fist full of keys.

They stayed, watching and frozen, as Vernon undid the locks, and slammed open the door, still grunting curses as he stormed inside. McGonagall didn't even take the time to register the fact that she had, indeed, been right.

"NOO! SIRIUS! PLEASE, NOT HIM! NO! PLEASE!" The cry was much louder now without the door. Much more gut-wrenching.

And it was followed almost immediately by a dull, heavy thud, and eerie, total silence.

Harry.

In an instant, Dumbledore surged forward, striding out into the hall, McGonagall on his heels. The air around Dumbledore was frigid as the pair stalked across the floor and into the now-opened room. With a swift motion, Dumbledore flipping the switch so hard it almost broke off, throwing harsh yellow light down on the scene before them.

Petunia shrieked, the curlers in her hair bobbing as she jumped. Vernon whirled around, his blotchy purple face going pale as he saw them. And Harry Potter lay on the bed, propped up on one arm, and clutching at his stomach with the other, making very quiet wheezing noises and wincing.

The group stared at one enough for an endless second, the silence ringing in their ears. Vernon and Petunia were obviously trying to think of what to say that would possibly make this look less horrible than it did, while Dumbledore and McGonagall attempted to find something to say that wouldn't strike the Dursleys dead in an instant.

" 'M sorry if I woke you." The four adults blinked, trying to judge who had spoken. After a moment, they all looked down at Harry, who was squinting up at McGonagall and Dumbledore with a look of contrite apology. He also happened to be very pale and shaking.

"Are you alright?" McGonagall asked him, making to step towards him, but Dumbledore's hand on her arm held her back.

"He's fine," Vernon said brusquely, his mustache twitching. "This is…this is our nephew, Harry. He's a troubled boy-- a bit of a delinquent, and he doesn't do well with strangers. We felt it best…" He trailed off uncertainly in the face of their incredulous stares.

"The boy has fits," Petunia took up, her voice unnaturally high. "Got them from his worthl-- from his father. Sometimes it's nearly impossible to wake him up."

The two continued to stare.

"But he's harmless, really, I assure you!" Vernon took up. He looked around at them all, twisting the end of his mustache between his fingers anxiously as he cleared his throat. "Why don't we all go back to sleep, and we'll explain it all in the morning, eh? It's almost three in the morning, after all! You and the missus must still be knackered, my good man!" He smiled nervously, his chest stuck out in false bravado, sauntering forward to usher them out the door, as if his false confidence would make them believe his words. "So sorry about waking you lot up! It won't happen again, will it?" He added, with a sudden snarl back towards the boy, who shook his head, and muttered a very soft "Sorry." again.

Petunia and Vernon continued to shuffle forward, forcing McGonagall and Dumbledore to back out into the dark hallway. With a final dark glance back into the room, Vernon shut off the light, and closed the door with a soft snick, before turning nervously to face them. "Well!" He declared, bouncing on his heels. "Goodnight, then!"

McGonagall's mouth was hanging agape, and she could think of absolutely nothing to say or do in response. With a very blank expression, Dumbledore took her gentle by the arm, and said, evenly, "Goodnight." Before turning them both around and leading her back to their bedroom. She barely caught the swift shake of his he sent towards the pair of obsidian eyes glittering at them from the barely-open door down the hall before they were back in their room, and Dumbledore shut the door quietly behind them. The jangling of keys started up again, though muffled. They were locking the boy back in.

The next word out of McGonagall's mouth was so utterly foul, Dumbledore felt his ears try to turn themselves inside out. He thought maybe he ought to reprimand her, but the truth was, he happened to agree.

With a great, heavy sigh, he tugged on her elbow again. "Come on, Min, let's go back to bed."

She whirled on him, incredulous. "What?" She hissed. "How the bloody hell can you be thinking of going to sleep after what we just saw, Albus? After--" She stopped, swallowing thickly. "Oh, Merlin."

"I know, Minerva," He answered solemnly, leading her gently back to bed. She stared at him, lost, even as they laid back down.

"He hit him," she whispered. "That horrid man struck the boy! Albus, Albus, we've got to do something! I--I…was that the first time?" she raised her voice, leaning up a little. "Was that the first time, Albus?"

"I've no way of knowing, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, looking suddenly rather ancient even despite his youthened appearance. "I…would imagine not, however. Harry…did not appear terribly surprised."

"How did none of us know about this, Albus? Not even Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger, surely, or they would have told--"

Dumbledore shook his head slightly, and she trailed off. "Harry Potter has spent years surprising us all, Minerva. I…I just don't know." He looked over at her face, obviously pale, even in the darkness. "We can do nothing tonight Minerva. The best thing to do is rest so we might be alert tomorrow."

"But Albus! We can't just…" His expression was quite plain. There really was nothing they could do. "Oh, Harry," she sighed, closing her eyes in a pain they both felt.

They fell into a deep, worried silence, listening to the ticking of the clock on their nightstand, the occasional horn honking far off in the distance. The Dursleys' snores remained absent, even after the witch and wizard dropped off into a troubled doze, waiting for morning.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In a room down the hall, a man and woman paced worriedly back and forth. "My God Vernon!" The woman whispered, her horse-face drawn with panic. "What are we going to do? What are we going to tell them? This is an absolute disaster! They'll report us, they'll--"

"They'll do nothing of the sort!" Vernon harrumphed, crossing his massive arms over his barrel chest. "Not so long as we tell them exactly what we'd planned to. And we have planned for this, Petunia, because we're no idiots-- we knew the worthless boy would cause us problems!" His voice rose alarmingly at the end of his speech, but a frightened glance towards the door from his wife quieted him. "Those Kingstons are a load of duffers, Petunia, mark my words! They'll believe what we tell them."

"They've got to, Vernon," Petunia whispered, ringing her hands as she sat down on the bed. "Those people, they-- they'll never understand what it's really like. They'll never understand what it's like to actually have to live with the boy!"

Her husband came over to pat her comfortingly on the shoulder with a meaty hand. "Quite right, Petunia. They could never understand what we've had to go through. Living day in and day out with that miserable boy's damned unnaturalness! That's why we've got to tell them something they will understand."

"What if they don't believe us? We can't let them report us," Petunia whispered, shutting her eyes. "We can't let that freak do that to us. Or to our Dudley. They must believe us, Vernon! We can't."

"And we won't Petunia. We'll tell them our story, and they'll believe it, because the most important part is the part that's true: that we're only doing this for the good of the family!"

"Yes," She said, finally, as he sat down beside her, and the mattress sagged weakly. "We can't let that boy destroy our lives any more than he already has. They'll believe us. For the good of the family."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Severus Snape hated being wrong. If there was anything he hated more than being wrong, it was being really wrong. And, possibly, Voldemort.

But Voldemort had nothing to do with this. Being really wrong, however, did.

Snape sat on the edge of his bed, tense and wide awake. He'd not seen much from his vantage point in the doorway, but he'd certainly heard enough. That great, ghastly, neck-less excuse for a Muggle had struck Potter. Struck Potter, then tried to convince Dumbledore and McGonagall that everything was fine. Those stupid idiot Muggles!

Snape was a fan of mental lists. It's how he remembered so many potions, and how he managed to remember everything he had to do to not get caught out as a spy in the Dark Lord's ranks. He had endless lists inside his mind, the most familiar of which was one titled "Reasons I Hate Potter."

It was not a terribly long list, but it was altogether convincing as far as Snape was concerned. It went something like this:

1. His name is Potter

2. His father's name was James Potter

3. His Godfather was a miserable mangy Marauder mutt.

4. He is in Gryffindor

5. He is a spoiled, pampered brat who was doted on by his friends, fans, and family for something that he didn't even really do.

6. He isan arrogant, strutting prat.

6.5. Just like his father.

7. He is terrible at Potions.

Yes, it was a very convincing and quite sound list. The only problem being, perhaps, that numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6.5 really had nothing to do with Potter, so much as the people around him. 6 and 7 were, of course, entirely the idiot boy's fault. Entirely.

Irritated, Snape rose and began pacing. So maybe number 5 on his list would have to have the word 'family' taken out of it. But, after all, there was no proof that this wasn't a one-time thing. Yes, it would be just like Potter to provoke his uncle while Snape was their, just to make the older wizard think Potter was nicer than he was, and that not everyone liked Potter, which was, of course, preposterous, because Potter was: '6. an arrogant, strutting prat,' and everyone loved him, and…and Snape suddenly realized he was babbling entirely incoherently right inside his own head.

Damn.

But there were still quite enough reasons to hate Potter to be getting along with. After all, he wasn't the first child to be struck. And really, Snape's father hadn't been the nicest man in the world either, and who cared if Potter got knocked around occasionally, because maybe it would finally knock some sense into the reckless, preposterous, idiotic boy, and oh look my feet seem to be quite tangled in the bedspread, and--

"Bollocks!" With that oath, Snape found himself quite suddenly on the floor, landing hard on his elbows, and staring back accusingly at the bedspread wrapped around his feet. They looked back at him, quite without apology. "Bollocks!" He said again, with feeling. The room was silent, having no response for his sulky outburst. Inside his head, however, he hear a familiar answer.

" 'M sorry if I woke you."

Snape scowled darkly at the floor, because those words were what was really bothering him. He'd have had no problem neatly ignoring the whole thing if only Potter hadn't had to go and be so. bloody. nice. About it!

Because Potter's sleepy, apologetic words completely shredded numbers 5 and 6 on Snape's list, and threatened to go about destroying Snape's personal motto: number 6.5.

Just like his father.

Snape laid his head down on the carpet with a noise of disgust. This was not the way things were supposed to be going at all.

" 'M sorry if I woke you."

"Damn it all," Snapped hissed into the carpet fibers with feeling. Once more, the floor really had no response.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive, Harry Potter sat on his bed, staring out his window at the starless sky, and rubbing gingerly at his stomach. Tonight had been rather eventful for him, to say the least, and not in a very good way, either.

But, Harry thought to himself, at least now he might not be locked up entirely for the next three weeks. And that, after all, was something.

He sighed a little to himself, curling his knees up to his chest, and watching faithfully out the window for the first hints of morning still hours away, missing Hogwarts and his friends dearly. Missing Sirius.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The following morning was bound to be awkward and difficult for a number of reasons. One reason Snape hadn't counted on, was being found asleep on the floor by McGonagall and Dumbledore, his feet still wrapped up in bed-sheets, drooling on the carpet.

McGonagall's very out of character "Wakey, Wakey, ickle Snapey!" Was in terribly poor taste, in Snape's opinion, as was her digging the point of her shoe into his side.

"I rather need my ribs, thank you, Minerva," He sneered, sitting up, though effect was somewhat ruined by the small puddle of drool under his chin.

"Ew," Answered McGonagall, poetically, and he glowered at her, wiping his mouth.

"Simply delighted to see you two looking so terribly alert and enthusiastic this morning," he drawled after a pause, casually untangling himself from the bedclothes and rising to his feet.

This was actually the furthest thing from the truth. Both McGonagall and Dumbledore were pale and washed-out, shadows hanging heavily underneath their eyes with no magic to conceal any of it. Snape himself looked a bit pastier than normal, which McGonagall was quick to let him know, finishing off with: "Old cream-cheese, Severus, that's exactly what you look like!"

"I'm partial to strawberry jam on bagels myself," added Dumbledore nonsensically, looking at the ceiling. The other two stared at him for a brief moment, before Snape gave him up as a bad job, and glanced at the clock. 7:35. Nearly time to go downstairs and face the strawberry jam and bagels, along with the certain ridiculous explanations from those fool Dursleys for last night's fiasco.

The expression on McGonagall's face showed a similar train of thought. "We ought to talk, Severus."

"Coherently, Minerva? That would certainly be a first for you."

But McGonagall didn't rise to the bait. "I'm serious, Severus." And, in equal seriousness, Snape happened to agree.

Dumbledore, however, was the first to speak. "I agree with you, Minerva, however," he sighed. "Now is not the time." Again, McGonagall and Snape stared at him, rather incredulously. "We need now to go down and see what is being done about the situation by the Dursleys, before we can determine what actions we ourselves are taking. We can do nothing more until we have talked to them."

Dumbledore was not accredited with being the smartest wizard of his time for nothing; they both knew he was right.

McGonagall sighed. "Gods I hate eating with those disgusting people."

Snape, who rather agreed with her, feeling that by the end of his stay she might not have needed to charm those extra twenty pounds off, sneered in a mildly pathetic way. "Sod eating, Minerva. I simply hate existing with those putrescent people."

"Eloquent as always, Severus," Dumbledore said with a rather tame smile. "Well," he sighed, "let's be going on then, shall we, Minerva? I trust you'll join us once you've dressed, Severus?"

Snape nodded. "Of course, Albus." With a tip of his head, Dumbledore went out the door, McGonagall a few steps behind him. Snape's mouth was open before he'd really thought. "Minerva."

The witch paused in the doorway, looking back with one brow arched. "Severus?" The 'I told you so' pranced about haughtily in the air between them.

Snape heaved a sigh, worried his tongue might rebel at his words and attempt to beat a violent retreat down his throat. "Minerva…You…you were…"

"Right?" McGonagall asked, her expression flat. "Yes, Severus, but then, I often am."

Snape winced. "I…I am--"

"Sorry?" She asked loftily, "Yes well, hearing it from you may be something of a surprise, but the actually fact should come as no shock to anyone at all, seeing as--"

"For Merlin's Sake woman! Let me finish a bleeding sentence, would you!" Snape drew himself up with a sneer, his apology entirely fleeing his mind. "I was going to say you were 'a brainless, idiotic Gryffindor, and would you please leave my room immediately' followed by: 'because I am rapidly losing what little sanity I have left by merely being in your brain-damaging, coma-inducing presence!"

"Of course you were, Severus," she answer with a small smirk of her own. "And next you'll be winning the Hogwarts' Staff Annual Congeniality Award, won't you?" His sneer widened, and she actually laughed, before shaking her head at him. "Do you think you'll ever attract a woman with that expression, Severus? If that's really what you think," She heaved a mocking sigh. "I'm afraid you'll simply have to hope someone likes you for your brains." She paused, winced, and said, "How rude of me, Severus, I quite forgot you haven't any."

And with that, and another evil laugh, she disappeared from the doorway, leaving Snape to gape after her. "You lecherous old bint!" He finally managed to call, but she was already quite gone. "Bullocks," he muttered sulkily, and set about getting dressed for the miserable day to come.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When McGonagall and Dumbledore arrived in the dining room, they were rather startled to find all three Dursleys sitting at the table, while a surprisingly cheerful Harry Potter dished eggs out onto their plates.

There was a highly awkward silence as McGonagall and Dumbledore stared, and the Dursleys fidgeted in a manner that suggested they were either feeling very guilty or very bloated. Harry merely continued piling eggs onto three more empty plates, before issuing a pleasant, "Good Morning!"

"Good morning yourself," Dumbledore responded cheerfully, much quicker on the uptake than Mcgonagall, who merely blinked.

Vernon cleared his throat suddenly, and Harry jumped the tiniest bit. "W-won't you sit down?" He asked them the smile on his face turning nervous.

He held their chairs out for them as they sat, doing the same for Snape as he came down, which was really quite lucky, because Snape's surprise at the action meant that, instead of his customary and all too familiar sneer, his mouth instead dropped open slightly, leaving him with the air of someone who'd inhaled a bit too much of the smoke in Trelawney's tower.

After they were all seated and served, Harry slipped over to stand silently beside his uncle. The Dursleys immediately began to eat, and Dumbledore made several abortive attempts to speak, always overpowered by the gnashing, ripping, slobbering sound of Dudley's chewing. Snape began looking rather queasy.

Once Vernon was quite positive none of his guests would be eating until there was some introduction, he put down his fork with a noise that suggested a part of his soul had just been ripped from him. "Well then, I suppose I ought to introduce you to the bo-- to Harry." Both uncle and nephew winced at the unfamiliar word as it came from his mouth. Vernon cleared his throat again, a very long, drawn out process in which he sounded like he might choke, and McGonagall dearly hoped he would. "Ahem! Er, well. This--" He made a vague, jerking motion in the Harry's general direction. "--is Harry Potter, our nephew."

All three professors glanced courteously at Harry, who was watching their reactions with heavy intensity, and then opened their mouths to reply to Vernon, but before they could get so much as a "drop dead" out of their throats, Petunia hurried on. "My sister's boy-- they were killed in car wreck some years ago." Again, they opened their mouths to express their condolences, however false, but again, Petunia hurried on, her horse-face pinched and bitter. "Her husband was a worthless drunk. He should never have been driving, but then, responsibility was never either of their strong suits."

Their mouths stayed open this time, and Snape wondered vaguely if maybe it wouldn't just be easier to unhinge his lower jaw and leave it there. Behind Vernon, Harry made a sudden movement, a jerk or twitch of some kind, and when they looked, the wizards and witch could see the dark anger in his face even as he forced his expression to remain calm and even.

"It is very sad, of course. The boy…Harry…apparently inherited his parents lack of moral code," Vernon rushed on, seizing their gaping shock as a prime opportunity. "We've done the best we can for him, of course, giving him the food off our table and the clothes off our backs and the roofs over our heads. We've sent him to the best school for his type, given him all that my family can possibly spare for him."

Apparently, Dumbledore mused, glancing at Harry's face, Snape was not the only who had developed a tic.

"With all our care and patience, we've tried as hard as we can to make the boy respectable, but there's only so much you can do against such abnormality in a character!" Vernon sighed convincingly. "The boy's a bit off, with his fits and nightmares, I'll admit, and he's delinquent, yes. But we've made damn sure he's not a dangerous one!" He finished this with a fist against the table, making the dishware rattle alarmingly. Petunia put a comforting hand on her husband's arm, and he seemed to try to collect himself.

"We can understand," Petunia began briskly, "if the boy's presence makes you too uncomfortable to stay here. That is why we were trying to keep him out of your way as much as possible." She leaned forward as she said this, as did Vernon, their gazes fierce and sickly earnest in a way that begged: believe us, believe us.

Dudley took this opportunity to steal the remaining food from his father's plate.

McGonagall could feel a very strange, hot pressure building behind her eyes, and wondered if it was actually possible for one's head to explode from an intake of too much sheer stupid. Dumbledore was very, very still beside her.

Snape was actually the first to collect himself, turning to his 'parents' smoothly. "He seems harmless enough, Dad," He said, with only the tiniest, miserable hiccough over the last word. "And I really don't fancy going all the way back to South Africa this soon."

Dumbledore suddenly snapped back to life, a sunny smile beaming from his face, as he nodded in agreement. "Yes, I quite agree! No worries at all, Vernon, none at all! He appears polite at any rate, wouldn't you agree, Camille?"

McGonagall, still counting the seconds and waiting for her entire skull to blow up, was slightly startled. "Er…y-yes. Yes, of course, Andrew, I hardly think we need to leave because of him." Both witch and wizard tried desperately not to wince at the cold, callous tone of her words.

"Well then!" Dumbledore said brightly, his eyes drifting merrily back to the Dursleys, "I see no problem with-- Harry, did you say? None at all."

For a moment, disappointment flickered in Vernon's eyes, and Petunia closed her eyes for the briefest instant. When she opened them, her food was already on Dudley's plate, too, being shoveled into his mouth at an alarming rate. "Good, good!" Vernon said, rather belatedly, and without quite enough enthusiasm. "So glad you feel that way! We were so upset at the idea you might take off with your lovely family just because of a mild upset like this!"

There was an awkward pause, before McGonagall managed a wooden smile. "Not at all." She glanced down at her food, then back up at Harry, whose blank, even expression appeared to be made of rather sick-looking granite. "Won't Harry be eating, then?"

"He's not hungry."

"He's on a special diet."

Vernon and Petunia spoke at the same time, before glancing nervously at each other, and letting out squeaky, unsettled laughs.

"He's never hungry at normal times," Petunia said, her voice stilted. "He's on a special diet because of all his…"

"Allergies," Vernon supplied quickly.

"Yes. And the food makes his metabolism rather strange, so he'll likely never be eating with us."

"Ah, of course," Dumbledore replied pleasantly, but his eyes held no twinkle at all, and McGonagall and Snape exchanged startled, dark looks at the blatant lie from the Muggles.

"Well then, let's get down to breakfast, eh?" Vernon asked loudly, with a hearty, horribly fake chuckle. Seeing nothing else that could be said, the three professors nodded agreeably, and looked down to begin their meals. Only to find that all their plates were empty.

At the far end of the table, Dudley, his sizeable breasts dusted with masticated eggs, let his spoon fall to the table with a clatter, and let out a loud belch. "I'm hungry, Mum!"

Vernon let out a sincere bellow of laughter, leaning over to clap his son on his massive, massive back, roaring "That's my boy, Dudley!", while Petunia sighed, and glared back at Harry with a hiss off "Go make more, boy!" before turning back to her son and husband, and wringing her hands at the fact that, for yet another meal, Dudley had entire thwarted his diet.

For their part, Snape, McGonagall, and Dumbledore stared from Dudley to their plates and back again, in nothing short of wonder. "How the hell did he do that?" Snape whispered incredulously out the side of his mouth.

"Magic," McGonagall muttered flatly, and Dumbledore smothered his startled chuckles in his hand as Harry disappeared into the kitchen to begin frying up a new batch of eggs.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Immediately after breakfast, Harry disappeared up to his room, though the door was not locked behind him this time. The Dursleys seemed to have lost interest in their guests with ousting of Harry, and left them to their own devices for the morning, which gave the three plenty of time to fret before lunch.

"A 'Special Diet', eh?" McGonagall asked fiercely, pacing in front of Snape and Dumbledore who both sat on the bed in Dumbledore and McGonagall's room. "Since when are they calling eating nothing a 'Special Diet?' For that fat lump of a son of theirs, it might be a necessary diet, understandably, but for Harry? The boy's never been much more than skin and bones to start with, although now we obviously know why--"

"We have no proof they're starving him, Minerva," Dumbledore reminded her firmly, and even Snape knew to wince at this general faux pas of common sense.

McGonagall, eyes narrowed to the most violent slits, whirled on the older wizard, and told him precisely what he could do with himself. Dumbledore, appearing quite startled by this suggestion, proceeded to launch a discussion on whether or not her suggested feat was even actually anatomically possible, or if it could be done with the aid of magic. Her hand twitched in the general direction of the pillows, and he stopped, mid-theory.

Once he was certain that he was not going to be thrashed by a pillow again, Snape turned to the wizard beside him with an unpleasant sneer. "Albus, at this point in time, hoping for the best is, at best, foolish, and at worst, dangerous beyond all sensibility. We've got to face facts here. Potter is most likely not being fed by those worthless bags of flesh he calls relatives."

"And all this from a man who, not twenty-four hours ago was laughing at the idea that Potter was anything less than worshipped by his family," McGonagall returned, snidely. There was a pause, both of them remembering the fact that Snape had actually tried to apologize to her only hours ago. "Not that I disagree with him, Albus," She said at length.

"Nor do I," Dumbledore answered, sounding abruptly exhausted. "But at times, a little optimism can go a long way, Minerva." He went on, as Snape opened his mouth ominously, "Of course, it's also been known to get men killed. So, for the time being, you are correct. We will stick with the most likely scenario, as unpleasant as it is turning out to be."

McGonagall sat down beside him. "How can we let this go on for three weeks, Albus? I can only imagine what else we'll discover before our stay is up…"

"If you'll remember, Minerva, Potter's been here quite a while longer than three weeks. The brat…Potter's lasted over ten years. I imagine he'll survive," Snape said.

The three fell into a morose silence, thinking of all the reasons Harry had spent so much time in the confines of Privet Drive. The reasons were endless, with each consequence and outcome seemingly worse than the last.

Finally, Dumbledore rose, his knees popping loudly. "The fact is, we could spend countless hours worrying and speculating, but at least for the time being, it will do, if I may be so frank, no bloody good at all." He walked over to the corner of the room. "And so, I think that you two ought to come over here and aid an old man in figuring out how exactly one works this delightful Muggle contraption," he said, fiddling with the knobs and buttons of a peculiar looking box resting on a stand.

McGonagall and Snape exchanged wary glances, before rising and following their wise and supposedly knowledgeable employer into the corner, just in time to hear the old wizard let out a delighted coo of excitement as a noisy moving picture appeared on the screen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As was routine by now, lunch was exceptionally unpleasant, due mainly to the fact that half of what Dudley ate appeared reluctant to actually stay in his mouth. That was much improved after Harry, who waited on then silently again, noticed the disgusting display, and stood beside Dudley for the rest of the meal, blocking the three from most of the visuals and flying debris.

As lunch was being finished, Vernon wiped his mouth, and made an ominous 'hrmph' noise deep in his throat. "Petunia, Dudley and I will be going out this afternoon on family business," he said, mustache quivering.

"Where?" Dudley asked, his tone on the threatening verge of a whine, trying to grab another fistful of crisps from the bowl his mother continued to move farther and farther away from him.

"To your dieticians appointment, Duddikins," Petunia cooed fretfully. "He wants to see how much you've improved!" No one seemed to want to state the obvious about what exactly the doctor would discover.

Dudley managed to get the crisps through some utter defiance of laws of physics. Shoving as many as he could get into his mouth in one go, his expression turned dark and ominous. "I don' wan' do!" He keened, bits of salted crisps flying everywhere. Harry grimaced impressively as dozens of tiny, slimy flecks struck his arm, and Snape may have actually gagged.

"But Duddikins! You--" And Petunia and Dudley were off on another one of their famous, tearful, whining, wailing, miserably revolting rows. The others immediately tuned them out.

"So, we'll be leaving you alone with the boy for the afternoon," Vernon continued. "If you don't want the boy about, I can lock him in his room so he won't cause any trouble, or--"

"I really don't think that will be necessary," McGonagall interjected hastily, Dumbledore nodding beside her in agreement. She glanced over in time to see a look of utter relief pass over Harry's face.

Vernon shrugged. "Suit yourselves. But feel free to send him off anytime he starts to be a nuisance." His gaze cut coldly to his nephew. "It's about all he's really good for." Harry's expression turned cool and empty in response.

"Thank you," Snape said, without any real feeling behind it, though McGonagall shot him a warning nasty look all the same.

"Right then," Vernon said with a nod, and the vaguest hint of his boastful smile. He dropped the napkin to plate, and rose. "Come along Petunia, Dudley."

Petunia was, by this point, in tears as she negotiated pleadingly with the red-faced, yelling Dudley. Neither seeming to realize exactly what they were doing, both followed Vernon out into the front hallway and out the door to the car, pausing only for Vernon to snarl over his shoulder, "Clean up that mess, Boy!" Before the door banged shut behind them, and they disappeared.

And, thus, McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Snape abruptly found themselves quite alone with a thin, pale, nervously smiling Harry Potter for the afternoon.

So, my plans are to update sometime within the next two weeks. Perhaps some of you will protest, but those of you who might have been waiting for this for three years now may be a little lenient with me. I solemnly swear that I wont abandon this ridiculous fic again.

At the beginning of the next chapter, I'll have a brief author's note listing all the reviewers who encouraged me to bring this thing back to life. You guys mean a lot to me, and to this story. Thank You.

And drop me a review if you've the time, would you? Having written chapters one and two at age fourteen, and chapter three at age seventeen, I'm a bit anxious to see how things are received. At any rate: Thanks for Reading!