A/N: I just want to say thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last time around. It pleases me that people have shown interest. I hope to write a story worthy of it. For me, this felt like an ambitious chapter, and I'm not sure it's quite what I intended upon, but I'm happy(ish) with it.
Chapter Nine - Disorientation
She regrets meeting him on his own turf as soon as she steps foot through the door. The magical world is not somewhere she ventures often these days; she long since learned that it is not her place, so to step foot over the threshold of The Leaky Cauldron feels foreign and daunting to her. Still, she feels this is a necessary evil.
Her shawl tightens around her shoulders, warming her with old magic, which she has never been able to cast herself. A well-worn gift from a talented mother, who has long since departed. A swift glance around the room, but he is not there. Dumbledore wants privacy for this meeting, and Arabella is not surprised. She would want privacy too, if she knew what was coming. Dumbledore knows what is coming, and what she will say, she realises from the meeting place and the fact that he has clearly rented a room. She wonders if it is worthwhile going. He already knows and has done nothing.
Tom catches her eye and smiles. They are the same age, but magic has sustained him in the way that it has not for her. You would never believe they had been young friends once. "Upstairs, third room on your right," he calls over to her, and she nods her head in thanks.
The stairs take less time to climb than they ought, considering their height, she thinks, as she ascends. As she often does when in this world, she wonders if it is a trick of the magic, or whether it is her own mind, expecting this kind of thing to happen. It feels oppressive, or perhaps it is the slight touch of fear upon her that makes her feel this way. When she reaches the third room on the right, the door is closed, and she feels something unnatural wrapping around the doorhandle when she reaches out for it, she is sure.
"Arabella, so lovely to see you." The voice comes from within, even as she turns the handle. She is sure Dumbledore performs such party tricks to unnerve her.
It has been a long time since she has thought of him by his given name.
She wonders if he thinks of her using hers.
He has risen to greet her, she notes, and somehow, she manages to force a warm smile to her face. Arabella thinks that if he had ever attended Hogwarts, there is a chance she would have been a Slytherin, for her ability to play whoever was necessary.
"And you, Albus. It pleases me to see you so obviously high in health." She sits calmly in the armchair opposite his, glancing down at the small table between them, whereupon a teaset perched. She tries not to give away any signs of discomfort when the tea begins to pour itself.
She leans back in her chair, glancing around at her surroundings, and feeling vaguely dismayed by the way the back of the chair curves around to the sides, acting like blinkers to the rest of the room. Not that it matters, she thinks with a touch of despondency, she is facing the most powerful wizard in the world. He does not require anything to sneak up behind her, or conceal itself. She tries not to wonder if he has altered the colour of his robes to match that of the chair in which she sits.
"So then, to business," he says, letting go of his cup in midair, and allowing it to float gently down to its saucer on the table. She does not let her eyes follow its path. "Tell me, please, of young Harry's progression."
Arabella takes a deep breath, wondering where to begin, and how best to order her thoughts. "You must remove him immediately."
"Remove him? From the care of blood relatives?" She notes that Dumbledore has the good grace to look shocked. She wonders how long he will go along with this game. "Why would you suggest such a thing?"
"They mistreat him, Albus," she begins, her face entreating, "He is treated as a slave – I have seen him forced to garden for hours on end in the summer, and do other chores unsuitable for a seven year old, like washing the car and cleaning the windows. He cleans inside, and I am sure he is made to cook breakfast. On an evening, his cries have come through my living room wall, and he hides bruises beneath the baggy hand-me-downs he is made to wear."
She takes a moment to breathe, but Dumbledore takes his chance.
"Now, I think you may be being a little hasty. I am sure that you are seeing what you want to see. You think that he would be better served by being raised in the magical world, as you were not," he says, holding out a hand to forestall her objections, "and many others think so too. Though this kind of defence is touching, it is unnecessary. I am sure that Harry will get the start in life that he deserves with his Muggle family, and that you are seeing only what you expect to see from your dealings with Muggles. Why would they treat him in such a way?"
"Because they disdain magic and all those connected with it!" Arabella cries out, stopping herself from leaping to her feet at the very last moment. "You know yourself that Lily never spoke to Petunia after she moved out of the family home, because Petunia could not stand the power, which she perceived as being held over her. She is clearly doing whatever she can to hold herself and her family over the child, and prove their superiority. Lily would never have wanted her son to be raised there. She would have wanted him raised by Remus or Minerva, and you denied their claims! She would have had him in Malfoy Manor before he stepped foot in Petunia's household and you know it!"
This last ends in a screech, followed suddenly by a stifled sob. Perhaps Slytherin was not for her, but perhaps Hufflepuff for the compassionate and loyal. Yes, that would have been the house for her. And yet her loyalty had shifted away from Albus sharply when she saw the way he had left a young boy so carelessly with those unsuited to care for him.
Dumbledore sighs then and gets to his feet to pace. Though a magic-free acion, it makes her nervous.
"I have told you time and time again that he must stay where he is no matter what. Unless his life is threatened, he will stay there." He rubs his forehead in a wearied manner. She does not believe his poor old man façade for one moment. "His destiny, when he is older, may depend upon his being strong and independent—"
"And so you think that some crackpot theory about the future is enough reason to leave a boy in abusive and neglectful conditions? That wouldn't hold up in any court in the world!" she says, laughing harshly afterwards. "Not even one which you control."
He turns to her then, the façade down. He is not old, she sees, though he must be older than her by far, perhaps twice as old. Instead she is facing a powerful wizard, and she is but a Muggle, powerless in his grasp. She feels like she has seen him in this strange unmasked state before, but she cannot place it in her memory.
"It is not a matter of persuasion. It never is. He will stay there," Dumbledore says, and the room fills with something strange. Some kind of oppressive power, and she does not know what kind of influence it has over her, but she assumes it has at least some. "There is nothing you can do to make me change my mind. I will not sacrifice what could be the future of the world for the sake of one happier childhood! You will return to him, to watch over him and to guard him from real danger. You will not meddle with things which cannot be altered. You will cease futilely harassing Muggle Social Services. You will do as you are ordered, Arabella Figg."
His wand is pointed at her, but she does not remember his getting it out. She blinks a few times, and shakes her head, as if to lift the disorientation from her. She feels old then, and cannot for the life of her understand why she is in this room, or in this place.
"It has been a pleasure, but I must take your leave, Arabella," Dumbledore says, pressing her hand fondly between his own. "I hope I shall see you sooner next time."
And with that, he is gone. Behind him, he leaves a disorientated old woman, who feels at once so alone and desolate, that she sets her head into her arms and begins to weep. She does not know why she was here, but she suspects something to do with the boy who was put into her care. The thought of him alone with his wretched family only makes the tears pour faster, and her shawl tightens comfortingly around her.
When she is composed enough to leave, she checks her reflection in the mirror, and retorts bitterly when it is less than complimentary to her.
Downstairs, Tom smiles at her again. He has always been warm, and sometimes, his kind friendship has been all she feels she has had in this world that was worth anything at all.
"You know, it's nice to see you so often, after all these years, Belle," he says with an easy smile. She feels her own smile freezing. She has not seen Dumbledore or been to this place in months. "Same time next week?"
She feels her expression slide off her face. It is a strange sensation and she wonders momentarily if she is having a stroke. She is not, and she finds the strength to run from the room, resolving to explain to Tom later on.
Outside, she gasps for air. It is a long time until she will venture into this world again.
