Chapter 6- The Dursleys and Mrs. Figg(part 2)

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 his 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 that 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.

******

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.

***

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.

****