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Right, so this is a continuation of The ABCs of Harry Potter, already posted on my profile. I made the executive decision to post each of these individually, so that I can be more specific for each story. Anywho...time to be totally honest: this story is one of my favorites. It's in the top three in this challenge, and I just love it. Mrs. Figg is an interesting and lesser known character, yet we know more about her than some of the other people who only pop in occasionally. Plus, I don't normally get to do these adorable, sappy kinds of stories. So enjoy a tiny glimpse of cuteness. ^.^
Everything was going precisely as planned. Mrs. Figg had spent the last five years cozying up to one Mr. and Mrs. Vernon and Petunia Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive, engaging them in friendly conversation, complimenting the woman's flowerbeds, remarking on how fine a boy their son was becoming, inquiring over the gentleman's job. Through it all she did everything in her power to remain completely indifferent to the real reason she moved to the quaint and peaceful suburb: Harry James Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The child whose parents were so abruptly and horrendously taken from him by the greatest Dark Lord of their time. The lad who certainly did not deserve the awful situation of living with the least accepting Muggles the squib ever had the misfortune to meet.
Dumbledore's plan for her was straightforward. She needed to keep an eye on Harry without her actions being noticeable, make sure no harm came to him (well, as much as she could, given his relentlessly antagonistic relatives), and update the headmaster with the child's progress, specifically in magical ability. She took this to mean befriending the Dursleys, despite her almost immediate dislike of the family at large. They represented the most traditional of pureblood mentalities, though they were as Muggle as they came: instant dislike of those they found less worthy, distrust of anything that went against their strict idea of what was right, and a strong, general opinion of personal superiority. It took all of her masterful skills at lying, developed during her work for the Order in the war, to appear pleasant to the insufferable adults and their cruel only son.
But her most pressing goal had been accomplished. While taking tea with Petunia the week before, she mentioned that Dudley's seventh birthday was fast approaching. Lamenting yet another year of dragging Harry along as well, Mrs. Figg cut in, deftly hiding her delight at such a prospect, and suggested she take care of "that Potter boy" for the afternoon. She'd waited anxiously for the reply and, without any suspicion on the younger woman's part, was heartily accepted. She couldn't stop the sigh of relief, thrilled for the chance to interact with the tiny boy and offer him a small glimpse of kindness, regardless of how veiled and insignificant it might be.
Vernon brought him around early on the appointed day, more than ready to be rid of the child. The six year old was short and unreasonably skinny, his small frame accentuated by the already enormous clothing he was forced to inherit from his much larger cousin. He looked shyly up at her, emerald eyes bright and curious, and she attempted to dispassionately take in his scar. Ragged and painfully obvious on his pale face, the lightning bolt stared out defiantly at her, a near constant reminder of the scarifies made to reach this single point in history. Vernon gruffly shoved him forward, thanked Mrs. Figg heartily, and retreated without a second glance. The man infuriated her.
She would give anything to be the one to always care for the child. To love him as he deserved, treat him as her own son, educate him properly on who he was and where he came from, the world she felt both disconnected from yet attached to. She'd begged Dumbledore to do so when he first gave Mrs. Figg the assignment, but he flatly refused. Harry needed the enchantment cast when the Dursleys took him in, and she could not provide similar safeguarding, whether magical or Muggle. Though seemingly dead, there was always that risk – that unthinkably horrible yet completely plausible chance – that the You-Know-Who could return. Harry needed the protection of blood, and the Dursleys were the only ones left who could provide it.
If she was to continue caring for the young savior of wizarding kind while his guardians were away, Mrs. Figg would need to be very cautious. Too much affection could ruin the opportunity; the Dursleys were dedicated in their attempts to make his life miserable, as though his unfortunate presence in their home was entirely his fault. She doubted Harry himself would tell of her good deeds (he was quite astute for one so young and unlikely to reveal too much in the hopes that he could return to her), but his emotions showed on his innocent face as transparently as Severus Snape hid his own. Yet she would not allow him into her home without treating him with some trifling of respect, even if it were simply to give him the chance to avoid the bullying from Dudley or to watch what he pleased on the telly. It was a delicate balance, doing what she ought and following her own desires, but she succeeded. They called on her once more the very next week.
It promised to be a very long and arduous few years.
Mrs. Figg sat in an armchair beside her front window, slowly sipping her tea and scratching the head of one of her various pets absentmindedly. She knew it would be coming soon, and although she could not physically experience it, she still wished to see the crucial moment take place as best she could. Dumbledore reminded her that it would occur soon; others his age had been receiving theirs over the last few months and the time to prepare was quickly shortening. Her breath caught in her throat at the sudden sight of an owl, swooping gracefully downwards to tuck the parchment letter into Number Four's mail slot. Its deed accomplished, it took flight once more, darting into the softly lightening sky. Mrs. Figg continued to watch the Dursleys' front door, wishing she could spell it transparent so that she might witness the happenings fully. If any but Harry found the acceptance letter first, chances were slim that he'd see it, let alone possess it. But in the off chance it were to be Harry…she could only hope for the best. And pray Dumbledore knew what he was doing.
Over the following days, more owls arrived, each bearing the same letter. And each time, Mrs. Figg willed it to make its way to the proper owner. She studied the odd proceedings at the house carefully, noticing Vernon's near constant tension, Petunia's anxiety, and Dudley's confusion. To her surprise and admiration, Harry always appeared stoutly determined, as though all of his plotting and planning were going into gaining the knowledge contained in those mysterious, never-ending notes. Mrs. Figg silently rooted him on, urging the magic to stay vigilant until it was successful.
Not long after that, Vernon packed the family up and abruptly sped them away from the quaint home on Privet Drive. They were gone for days, no sign of life (or even owls) at the residence, making her anxious. Yet, somehow, it happened; they returned, Dudley strangely subdued and constantly fearful, Harry ecstatic with a trunk of goods and an owl of his own. A rush of pride filled Mrs. Figg unexpectedly at the sight.
It was finally time.