Realizations

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Chapter 3 - The Dursleys and Mrs. Figg

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Saturday, July 1, 1995

Harry stared wide-eyed at the scene before him, his brain unable to accept what he was seeing. Knowing it was childish, but unable to help himself, he squeezed his eyes shut, waited a couple of seconds, then cautiously opened one eye.

Nope. Still dark. Still empty.

Numb with shock, Harry stumbled back to the door, and sat heavily on his trunk. He was picking up details now that he had overlooked before...like the realtor's lock box on the doorknob. Oh, well done, Captain Obvious. How had he missed that?

The wind was blowing harder, rustling the leaves in the trees, and carrying with it the smell of impending rain. Dark storm clouds completely obscured the moon, and thunder rumbled ominously.

Glassy-eyed, Harry stared straight ahead, not really seeing. Dimly, he realized he must be doing a remarkable imitation of a Petrified person, and it would probably be wise to stir himself and figure out what to do before he got drenched.

Unfortunately, his heart was pounding, his mind was reeling, and he felt about ready to faint or throw up.

Get a hold of yourself! This is no time to panic! the small corner of his brain still capable of rational thought snapped. Unfortunately, the rational part was not currently in complete control.

Are you mental?! the horrified and irrationally overwrought part screeched. This is the perfect time to panic! Your family is gone! You have no place to stay, nowhere to go, you just blew most of your muggle money on a useless train ticket and you hiked all this way to get to an empty house!

Harry clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of adrenaline flooded his body. What was he going to do? He tried to rein in his skittering thoughts, but couldn't seem to manage it. At the moment, running screaming down the street seemed perfectly reasonable...if his legs would support him, this is.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before a sudden, sharp pain in his hand cut through his body's autonomic response. "Ow!" Harry yelped. He looked around for the source of his discomfort, and discovered he was no longer alone. Hedwig had arrived.

She had also nipped him on the thumb.

Hard.

The snowy owl had her feathers ruffled. She was also clicking her beak and looking at him with a mixture of concern and annoyance. Evidently she had been trying to get his attention for several seconds.

"Hedwig!" Harry swallowed, and took a couple of shaky breaths. Now that he had something else to focus on, he was beginning to shake off the unreasoning fear and re-engage his brain. "Hullo, girl. Sorry about that. Just...just had a bit of a shock."

Hedwig regarded Harry with her large amber eyes, and tilted her head questioningly. Where have you been? What took you so long? she seemed to say.

Harry's eyes grew distant again. "They're gone, Hedwig," he said softly. "We can't get in. We have no place to stay." Harry got a lot of good-natured teasing for talking to his owl like she was human, but he didn't care. They understood each other, and that was all that mattered.

Absently stroking her feathers, Harry paused to observe as the first raindrops began to fall, then continued in a dull monotone. "Uncle Vernon never came to King's Cross. I caught a commuter train. Walked here. Found the house empty. Found them gone..."

Harry stuttered to a stop as the truth hit him like a punch in the gut. His family had abandoned him. He was alone. Somehow saying it out loud made it real. He felt betrayed and deeply hurt, though why he couldn't say.

The Dursley's had never claimed to love him. Heck, they barely claimed to know him. All his life, he'd been an inconvenience--an unwanted and resented burden. Oh, he'd tried to win at least their acceptance when he was younger, but no matter how hard he tried nothing pleased them.

Harry sighed, shaking his head in irritation. He had resigned himself to this fact years ago. He was used to it. He didn't care. It didn't matter. They didn't matter. It shouldn't hurt like this, but it did, dammit, it did!

Stop that.

The dryly logical part of his mind was asserting itself again. The same part that allowed him to fight, and eventually throw off the Imperious Curse this past year. Calm down! That's not getting you anywhere.

Yes,

Harry agreed. Quite right. Stay calm. Keep your wits. Wasn’t that was the cornerstone of every Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson?

Harry hadn’t had a Defense professor two years in a row since he started at Hogwarts. The people who had held the position over the last four years had vastly different skill sets, personalities, and teaching styles, but all his Defense professors, the capable and the incompetent alike, had agreed on one fundamental truth: Don’t panic.

With effort, Harry managed to refocus, and shove the hurt away. He'd sort that out later. Right now he needed a plan.

He needed a plan, but he'd settle for an idea.

Or a hint.

Even a place to start would be better than nothing. Agitated, the green-eyed boy raked his fingers through his hair. Where were those patented flashes of insight when he needed one?

Known affectionately as the “Gryffindor Trio,” Harry and his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were a nearly unbeatable team. Each brought a different skill set to the mix, and they complimented each other perfectly. Hermione was a veritable walking library, and exceptional with logic and deduction. Ron, though he didn’t always show it, was a brilliant strategist, and quite good at spotting strengths and weaknesses. Harry, like Hermione, was good at figuring things out, but his gift was more erratic. He had a knack for noticing details others missed, and figuring out the big picture from apparently unrelated bits of information.

There was no obvious method, which irritated Hermione to no end. She sometimes had trouble taking things on faith. 'It just happens, Hermione,' was far too imprecise an explanation for her tastes, although it was about as close as Harry could come to describing the phenomenon. His “inspirations” were usually triggered by an offhand remark or event. The last puzzle piece would fall into place and he would just know. The inscrutable would suddenly become obvious.

Not that it was doing him any good at the moment. Currently his mind was helplessly and distressingly blank.

"I can't believe this. It can't be happening," Harry muttered, shaking his head in denial. Sensing his agitation, Hedwig made gentle, soothing noises, and rubbed her head against his hand. What in the world am I going to do? I certainly couldn't stay on the porch all summer. The boy growled in frustration. Drat Dumbledore and his stupid promise, anyway. This wasn't good. Not good at all. Harry felt his hysteria threatening to rise again, and brutally squelched it. Stop that! he commanded himself, more firmly this time. Focus! You can gibber later.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned against the door. The door! He regarded it thoughtfully. He could easily use the unlocking charm on it, but was it worth the risk? Underage magic was governed by a set of strict laws, and taken very seriously by the Ministry of Magic. Harry had gotten an official warning the summer before his second year, for magic that wasn't even his doing. If he was caught again, he'd probably be expelled, no questions asked.

Okay, no magic. Harry really didn't want to enter the house, anyway, but if he didn't where could he go? Was anyplace safe?

Hagrid's voice came floating up from memory. The half-giant had once told Harry that there was no place safer than Gringott's, the wizarding bank. Except perhaps Hogwarts. Harry scowled. Fat lot of good that was. Concentrating fiercely, he tried to solve his predicament. After a few minutes, Hedwig hooted, drawing his eyes back to her. When she saw she had his attention, she held out a leg expectantly.

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. She was right, of course. He could send a message to someone and be away from Privet Drive in a few hours. The only problem with that plan was the weather. The wind was whipping through the trees now, and the rain was falling fast and hard. Harry knew Hedwig had probably flown through rough weather before, and she would probably be all right, but he felt bad about tossing her out in the rain. He told the owl as much, but filed the idea away for later use if needed.

Unfortunately, staying put until the storm passed wasn’t a good option either. The porch was not providing adequate protection. He was already wet from blowing rain, and the wind felt uncomfortably cold. The last thing he needed was for Hedwig or himself to get sick. First priority had to be finding shelter. The question was where? If he couldn't ask Ron or Hermione for help, who was left? Sirius? Professor Lupin?

No, they were helping Professor Dumbledore. Something about rounding up the "old crowd."

Professor Dumbledore was probably insanely busy as well, but he would surely know what to do.

Harry fought a mad urge to laugh as he imagined himself on his headmaster's doorstep. Sorry to bother you, sir, but my relatives have disappeared. Since I'm not allowed to go to my friends, do you mind if I kip here? Or even better: Yes, Mr. Goblin, I need to be locked in my Gringott's vault for the summer...

The easiest solution, of course, would be to ask one of the neighbors for help, but because of his aunt and uncle, Harry didn't know anyone very well. The first ten years he had lived with the Dursleys, they had kept him in the cupboard under the stairs, and tried to keep his contact with "normal" people to a minimum. Since he had been attending Hogwarts, Vernon had taken to telling everyone that Harry went to St. Brutus' Secure Facility for Incurably Criminal Boys.

Harry pulled a face. Help from that quarter wasn't likely. If he even tried to approach one of them, they'd probably panic and call the police, although...

Weren't you supposed to go to the police when you were in trouble? Harry turned the idea over in his mind. It was an intriguing notion, but no. If he went to the police, and admitted he had been abandoned, and that he was a minor, he would probably wind up in a runaway shelter, or foster care, or an orphanage. Harry shuddered. He had no intention of going to an orphanage. Oh, no. Nonono.

His aunt and uncle had been filling his head with horror stories about muggle orphanages since the beginning of forever. When Harry was much younger, if he dared complain about his cupboard, his measly portions at mealtime, or his ridiculously oversized clothes he would be subjected to a blistering lecture.

Vernon and Petunia would paint themselves as long-suffering saints who took him in, and clothed and fed and sheltered him. They would tell him anyone else would have turned him out on the street or turned him over to an orphanage because of his freakish abnormality. He would be cast as a grasping, greedy little beggar who thought himself too good for what he was so generously given, and was incapable of the smallest bit of gratitude. They would berate him, call him worthless, evil, ungrateful...

Then the threats would begin.

He would be beaten at the orphanage, they said. Starved, abused, and locked in the cellar with the rats. To make sure he got the point, they even began "showing" him small samples of what he would be facing. They withheld food and locked him in his cupboard (with the spiders) as punishment, so that he could better appreciate how good he had it. Over the years it had become habit. Deep down, Harry knew it wasn’t right, but he had been effectively trapped. They were his guardians until he was an adult in the eyes of the law. His only option had been to simply keep his head down and wait it out.

The boy sighed and batted the memory away. This wasn't the time to dwell on the past. Harry was realistic enough to realize that his aunt and uncle probably exaggerated the orphanage living conditions, but he'd rather not risk it...just in case. Hadn't Tom Riddle, the boy who'd grown up to become Voldemort lived in a muggle orphanage? Hadn't his experiences there twisted him into the cruel, psychotic killer he had become? And perhaps most importantly, didn't Harry have enough in common with Voldemort without having to live in a bloody orphanage, too? Besides, how would he ever explain Hedwig? And Hogwarts! With his luck, they'd put Hedwig in the zoo aviary, and try to make him go to state school.

So, no police then. And after the scene just after the Third Task, Harry wasn't about to contact the Ministry of Magic either. The Minister, Cornelius Fudge, had been rather friendly to Harry the summer before third year. In fact, Harry had stayed at the Leaky Cauldron at the minister's suggestion. Of course, at the time, Fudge had thought that Sirius Black, an escaped convict from the dreaded wizarding prison Azkaban, was after Harry.

Sirius, as it turned out, had been wrongfully imprisoned, and was innocent of all charges. He was also Harry's godfather. Everything had been sorted out near the end of his third year. The young wizard had been delighted when Sirius offered him a home. Unfortunately, they had not been able to prove Sirius' innocence. His godfather was still a fugitive from the law, and Harry was stuck with the Dursleys. Well, had been stuck, anyway.

Harry frowned moodily. Minister Fudge's behavior the previous week had put him on his guard. The man was in deep denial about Voldemort's return. Even Albus Dumbledore hadn't been able to convince him the evil wizard was back. Fudge preferred, instead, to believe that Harry was lying or delusional, and that made the boy very, very nervous.

The Leaky Cauldron was an option, Harry supposed, but he was a little afraid of seeking shelter with witches and wizards he didn't know well. Rita Skeeter, a reporter for the Daily Prophet, had written a series of disastrous articles about Harry last year. She tended to wordsmith, and embellish her stories to make them more "complete" and "interesting" when the simple truth was just too bland. She was also fond of inserting leading questions, nasty innuendos, and pieces of absolute fiction into her work, designed to mislead, and sway the reader's opinion.

Despite her reputation as a known troublemaker, or maybe because of it, Rita had many fans. Harry had to admit her work could be compelling. People he loved and respected had fallen into her trap. Mrs. Weasley, for example, had believed one of the articles Rita wrote about Hermione and himself that was published in Witch Weekly. That had taken a bit to get sorted out, but Hermione had gotten revenge.

Harry smiled smugly to himself. Ms. Skeeter was the last of his worries. Hermione had made certain of that. She had discovered that Rita Skeeter was an illegal animagus--a beetle. The hapless reporter was currently residing in an unbreakable jar which was in the hands of one Hermione Granger. Harry almost felt sorry for her.

Hedwig shook the rain from her feathers in annoyance, and Harry let loose an enormous sneeze. "Hang it all!" he grumbled irritably. Okay. Time to stop fooling around and make a decision. He lifted his chin a little defiantly. He would catch the Knight Bus and go to the Leaky Cauldron, at least for tonight. He had tried his best. He wasn't going to be spending this summer at Privet Drive. The headmaster would just have to understand. He didn't need to stay with anyone, really. He was almost fifteen for heaven's sake! He could take care of himself. He didn't need a bloody babysitter!

Babysitter. I wonder... Harry raised a speculative eyebrow. Mrs. Figg was a mad old lady who lived nearby. Until he'd started attending Hogwarts, she had been his primary caretaker when the Dursleys wanted to go on an outing without him. Her house always smelled like cabbage, and she had many, many cats. Harry had never particularly enjoyed going to her house, especially as a young child. She didn't have many distractions to ease his boredom, and he always got a creepy feeling like he was being watched. He usually found himself looking at pictures of her cats, both living and dead, and listening to her rambling commentary as she told him about each and every one.

Still, she had always been kind to him, and they got on well. Perhaps he could ask her for help. It would be presumptuous of him to ask if he could stay for the summer of course, but maybe an arrangement could be made. Thanks to the Dursleys, Harry knew how to cook, clean, garden, and tend the yard. He was also becoming fairly competent at small repairs. Maybe he could earn his keep. Even if it was just a day or two, he'd have time to write Professor Dumbledore, and get contingency instructions. Harry shrugged. It was worth a try. He rose to his feet, only then noticing how tired he was. The rain was still coming down in sheets. Oh, this is going to be cold, Harry thought, as he gathered his things, then pelted toward Mrs. Figg's house.

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It was a very wet and cold Harry Potter that came to a panting halt at Mrs. Figg's a few minutes later. He was certain he must have set a land speed record getting there, and he was equally certain that he had never been this wet in his life!

He didn't even think he'd been this wet when he and the other TriWizard champions had been required to retrieve 'what they would sorely miss' from the bottom of Hogwarts Lake. Well, okay, maybe then. But this time Madam Pomphrey isn't standing by with heated blankets and Pepper-Up Potion, Harry thought regretfully.

Hedwig was in a little better condition. She had allowed Harry to bundle her in his overshirt, and had ridden on his trunk during the trip over. Once they’d arrived she’d wasted no time in freeing herself, and was now sitting on Harry's shoulder.

Harry tried to wring out his sodden t-shirt and make himself at least marginally presentable, but quickly gave it up as a lost cause. Firming his resolve, he went over to the door, and rang the bell. He waited a few minutes and tried again. Nothing. Mrs. Figg's rocker was still on the porch, but there was an air of emptiness about the place, similar to his former home on Privet Drive. The boy's shoulders slumped in defeat. She wasn't home. Well this is the perfect ending to a really awful evening, Harry thought grumpily.

In a fit of irritation, he slapped one palm against the door, then jumped back in surprise when it clicked open. What the heck was that? He had felt something, just for a second--a tingling in his hand he had recognized as magic. It was like the door had tensed up, then relaxed. Almost like it recognized him. Very peculiar.

The door was swinging slightly on its hinges. It seemed to be waiting for something. Harry regarded it warily, then asked, "Uh, may I come in?" The door seemed to consider the request, then swung open. Harry and Hedwig looked at each other, then cautiously entered the house. The door allowed them entrance, but slammed shut as soon as they were across the threshold. Again, Harry felt the slight tingle of magic. Locking charm, he realized. A fancy one capable of recognition.

Harry stood dripping in the entryway, stunned speechless for what seemed like the millionth time that day. Is Mrs. Figg a witch? It seemed like an odd notion, but it must be true. The door was proof of that.

Curious, he looked around his familiar surroundings. The feeling of being watched that he found so unnerving as a child was still there. Harry now knew, after spending so much time at the Burrow, that the house was watching him, after a fashion. According to Mrs. Weasley, magical structures and places where witches and wizards lived developed a certain awareness over time. Harry was suddenly very glad that he had always minded his manners when he stayed with Mrs. Figg.

He eagerly looked around for other hints that this was a witch's home, but everything else was disappointingly normal. Very muggle. The house looked just like it always had, from the cats and crocheted Afghans on the couch to the faint odor of cabbage in the air. He had just had time to absently wonder who was taking care of the cats, when all of them went running into the kitchen. Harry followed, and watched as the feeding dishes lined neatly against the wall suddenly filled with food. Rather like the beginning of a Hogwarts feast. "Cool," he remarked aloud, and got the feeling the house was flattered.

Leaving the cats to their dinner, Harry wandered back into the living room. "I wonder where Mrs. Figg is," he said thoughtfully. She wasn’t gone for good like the Dursleys, but the condition of the house hinted that she expected to be away for a while. The boy looked up, startled, when the wall clock chimed. He frowned, puzzled. It was only a few minutes after the hour. Curious, Harry moved closer to the clock. It shimmered, and a Concealing Charm fell away. There, under the "normal" facade, was a locator clock, similar to the one at the Weasleys. The hand that read "Arabella Figg" was currently pointing to "Hogwarts."

Arabella Figg? Harry was dumbstruck. Wasn't she one of the "old crowd" Professor Dumbledore had sent Sirius to fetch? Well, obviously, you daft git. She's at Hogwarts, isn't she? Harry impatiently answered himself. He mumbled a polite "thank you" to the clock, and watched, fascinated, as it reverted back to its former state. Well, that was it. If Mrs. Figg was involved with whatever Professor Dumbledore was planning, heaven only knew when she’d be back, and she probably wouldn't have time for the likes of him. The Leaky Cauldron it is, then.

Harry sneezed again, and shivered slightly. On balance, he supposed he could stay long enough to change into some dry clothes. Maybe I could have a little rest as well, he thought with a jaw-popping yawn as his gaze fell longingly on the sofa, and catch the Knight Bus first thing tomorrow morning. Wait. Did the Knight Bus run in the daytime? Harry shook his head as he took a change of clothes from his trunk, and headed for the bathroom. He had no clue. Better go ahead and leave tonight, he decided. He didn’t fancy being trapped in Mrs. Figg’s house until nightfall tomorrow, and really, there was no point in dawdling.

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When Harry emerged a few minutes later, he felt a little more human. His body was still chilled, and his hair was still wet, but he was considerably less bedraggled than he'd been before.

Mrs. Figg was always complaining about the number of plastic shopping bags that seemed to accumulate in her home, so Harry reckoned she wouldn’t mind if he took one or two to hold his wet things. He paused long enough to mop up the water he'd tracked in, then prepared to go. He pulled out his warm cloak, his wand, and his wizard money, then re-packed and shut his trunk.

"I guess we should be going," Harry said to Hedwig, who hooted her agreement, and flew over to perch on his shoulder again. He started to walk, but stopped when he felt something bumping against his calf. Ah. The cats had surely finished eating by now. Someone must want to be petted. Without looking, Harry bent down, and reached behind him to stroke... cardboard? What in the world?

It wasn't a cat trying to get his attention, but rather a medium sized moving box. Harry decided this was just too weird for words. Even weirder, when the thing had his attention, it settled down and started acting perfectly normal. The box was taped shut, and tied with string. There wasn't really anything remarkable about it. Besides the label that is. Harry's eyebrows almost touched his hairline when he read: PROPERTY OF HARRY JAMES POTTER.

Before he had time to consider how strange it might sound, he addressed the box. "Erm...Y-you want to come with me?" He got his reply when the box slid over to his trunk, then stacked itself neatly on top of it. Harry waffled for a minute. On one hand, it seemed a lot like stealing, but on the other hand, it did have his name on it. Harry blinked a couple of times then sighed in resignation. This was just too bizarre, and he was too exhausted to argue.

Especially with a box.

In the end, he settled for scribbling a short note to Mrs. Figg, explaining what had happened, and apologizing if he'd made a mistake.

When he'd finished, Harry bundled Hedwig up again, though it wasn't raining quite so hard now. “Bye now, and thanks,” he said to the listening air in Mrs. Figg’s house. He picked up his belongings, and strode back into the storm. “One more trip, and we should be finished,” he told Hedwig. "This has been a really weird night," he mused as he lifted his wand and signaled the Knight Bus.

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