Chapter 1: A Good Spy
Arabella Figg knew she was a bloody good spy.
She did not need to be told this. It wasn't a compliment but a statement of the obvious; one was short, one was plain, one had straight brown hair, and one was a bloody good spy.
On rainy days, when Arabella sat on the sofa with a part-kneazle or two purring away on her lap, and the memories had opportunity to come back to her, she would sometimes think of Alastor Moody—how in May of 1945, they had sauntered through the streets of London that were littered with paper and streamers, how they had joined the revelers and danced, how he had walked her to her flat that evening, leaned against her doorframe with a lock of blonde hair falling over his eye, and said, "you're bloody good, you know."
Perhaps at the time, he thought it was a sexy thing to say, and maybe he was overconfident in his raffish charm, but the compliment had been as unwelcome to Arabella as telling her she was ugly. Even then, when she was young and fresh, and Alastor still had two blue eyes, she knew that to be a good spy was the opposite of what it was to be the kind of girl a girl would want to be.
To be a good spy was to be artificial. It was to be no one else at that moment but a representation of the woman Alastor wanted. It was to be conscious of how she looked up at him from under her eyelashes and how she posed her skinny body—pushing her bust forward and leaning into her hip to create the illusion of curves. It was to never be able to relax around him, and to never be able to enjoy his presence—to be constantly noticing and contriving. Arabella grieved at the knowledge that she would never be desired for being herself (someone she wasn't sure existed) but she had still taken Alastor to bed that night and made him tell her nice things.
Arabella preferred kneazles to people. They were wary animals, naturally distrustful, and it re-assured her of her own personhood that they trusted her for the most part—they could be unpredictable, which Arabella liked as well. They were clever little things, too, and good listeners. They would look right at Arabella with their big orange eyes when she spoke as if they understood.
Arabella also liked that there was an element of danger in breeding kneazles. The part-kneazles and cats were allowed to roam the house but Arabella kept the full-kneazles in back for when she had company. When dealing with full-kneazles, Arabella found that one had to rely purely on instinct. If she noticed the swishing of a tail and the flicking of ears, she could predict if a kneazle would try to swipe at her. If she spent too much time considering the meaning of what the kneazle was doing, however, it would have already sprung from muscular hind quarters and have its claws at her throat.
After the first wizarding war, when Arabella was stationed in London, and then in Little Whinging, the kneazles had become not only a hobby and additional means of income, but another way for her to gather information. An old woman in Knockturn Alley stood out like a sore thumb. An old woman in Knockturn Alley selling XXX classified animals was surprisingly inconspicuous. Arabella would often stop and chat with Tamora Burke, who loved kneazles but couldn't have one because her husband was allergic. Sometimes, they would have tea. With a kneazle kitten on her lap and perhaps a tipple of sherry, Tamora had almost no filter.
Other targets required more window dressing. Rudolph Parkinson, for example, was unaffected by kittens and little old ladies. For him, she would sell grey-market kneazle whiskers at a reduced price and high risk to herself in collecting them. "I'm too daft to figure-out the paperwork," she would tell him. He liked her to be stupid, especially since she was a squib. These encounters scared Arabella most of all because stupid was one thing she certainly was not. She doubted there was an intelligent sparkle in her eyes but what if she said the wrong thing? What if she was too inquisitive? Before making her way to Knockturn Alley for these deals, Arabella would look in the mirror and repeat over and over again, "I am stupid. I am ignorant. I am stupid..." A feeling of emptiness would come over her and would last until she was back in the safety of her own home and Mr. Paws, her favorite part-kneazle, would butt his head against her shins. Arabella would stroke his white fur and slowly, she would return to herself.
Surveillance, while not the most exciting, was the most interesting to Arabella. She liked to be able to watch without needing to wear a persona. The so-called David Maskell, who lived one street over, was one person she kept tabs on. It was the patent leather dress shoe and sport sock combination that first tipped her off. Odd fashion choice for a young man who was otherwise conventionally dressed in jeans and a jumper. Every fortnight or so, in the early afternoon, Maskell would walk an ugly little mutt past Arabella's house, and then the Dursley's. The dog pulled on the lead but Maskell maintained a suspiciously slow pace.
Though she wouldn't call it surveillance, Arabella liked to watch other people as well. She liked dark cafes and busy shopping centers. Arabella thought at those times, as she observed people's lives unfold before her, that she would have enjoyed being a novelist. She was interested in people and their stories, even if she was not as comfortable interacting with them. The best place to people-watch, for Arabella, was at meetings of the Order of the Phoenix. It was a rare occasion to have Hogwarts professors, barkeepers, Unspeakables, healers, homemakers, politicians, and shopkeepers all in the same location for the same purpose. One could learn a whole hell of a lot.
