Most people thought fleas were nasty creatures. Aunt Petunia was no exception. Of course, she also categorized Harry in the same place as the jumping black dots that sometimes got into Harry's cupboard, along with spiders, mice, and one terrible time (until Harry had unexpectedly made friends with the small reptile), a snake.
And Harry tried very hard to hold onto the fact that she was wrong, and he was not something dirty to be squished underneath her foot whenever he wasn't doing chores. Somewhere out there were people that cared about him. One was as close as Wisteria Drive. Mrs. Figg might have smelled and had a lot of cats, but Harry had always felt wanted there, and maybe even loved, sometimes.
But now he had fleas and this was going to be a problem if Aunt Petunia found out. Uncle Vernon mostly just ignored him, and he could run faster than his porky cousin, but his aunt's fingers were long and swift and good at pinching and grabbing. So he had to sneak out and make his way to Mrs. Figg's. She could help, he knew.
Her cats often had fleas, and she had to dip them, whatever that meant, in a special bath. Harry felt like he could use a good bath that was warm and smelled nice. It was dark and quiet on Privet Drive when he finally got out of the house through the service porch. His relatives were sleeping off a weekend away, and Harry knew he wouldn't get much better of an opportunity.
The eight-year-old kept to the shadows and out of any neighbor's that might be looking into the alley way that ran between the lots as he made his way five houses down and two over and then inside quietly.
The old woman made her way to the entry, a ginger colored cat leading the way. It twined about his legs but Harry shooed it away. He didn't want the kitties to get fleas too. Mrs. Figg got an understanding look on her face and while he flinched when her fingers came towards his face, he withstood her touch as she pinched a flea off his cheek and shook her head.
"Bath day, Harry?" she said softly, gently, leaning down and running her hand over his hair.
"I gots fleas, Mrs. Figg," he said sadly.
"Tis not your fault, lad. Into the bath with you. I'll get the stuff."
END