Disclaimer: I only own Mrs. Figg's daughters. and Arabella's
teacher. The almighty J. K. Rowling owns Mrs. Figg, Sirius
Black, and the Evans who are based on Lily's parents. Oh,
Martina McBride owns the song "Concrete Angel". The poem is
by Melinda Sue Pacho.
To Late
A story about Mrs. Figg daughter. Arabella Kathryn Figg II.
She walks to school with the lunch she packed
Nobody knows what she's holdin' back
Wearin' the same dress she wore yesterday
She hides the bruises with linen and lace
Arabella Kathryn Figg II walked to school silently, looking toward the ground. Yes, she was in the same dress as yesterday but the no longer mattered to the nine- year-old girl. Yes, she had to fix her dinner, lunch, and breakfast, she had to clean the house, and she had to set her alarm so she wasn't late to school. She had had many detentions because at first she didn't know how to set it at first. But that didn't matter to the young girl. She didn't even care of the fact that her mother, who owned the same name, beat her nearly every day.
The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask
It's hard to see the pain behind the mask
Bearing the burden of a secret storm
Sometimes she wishes she was never born
She just simply pulled logic into her life. Sure, sometimes she wished she was never born, but she pushed the thought away. There was no point in it. She shrugged and continued to school. Your born and then you die. There was no point in life, no matter what you do you die. So she didn't care whether she died of natural causes or if she died from murder. Even from her blood relative.
"Miss Figg." Her teacher began.
"Yes?" Arabella's voice was gentle, and very quiet.
"What." The teacher shook her head and stopped, "What did you choose for your topic?"
"Myths and Legends."
"Thank you. Take you're seat now, please," The teacher watched the girl sit down, wondering why she wore the same clothes over, and where the bruises came from.
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
Daydreams, books, even her own writing. That's how she got away from it all. She was the character in the book she was reading. She had pleasant enough daydreams where she was happy. Her own characters, however, in her stories she had trouble making happy. The teachers noticed this.
Somebody cries in the middle of the night
The neighbors hear, but they turn out the lights
A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate
When morning comes it'll be too late
"Why you ungrateful little." Mrs. Figg slapped the girl across the face. She let out a cry of pain. Arabella was bleeding. A lot.
Mr. And Mrs. Evans sighed, rolling their eyes. "I wonder which poor little girl Black is torturing this time," one of the muttered as they shut off the light.
The nine-year-old-going-on-ten Sirius Black, however, was not up to anything. He was behaving for once. He was peering through his curtains to the room across from his on the next house. He saw something that looked suspiciously like hands go across a young girls face. He frowned. He heard some kind of cry, but he then ignored it, and went to bed like his mother had told him.
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
An ambulance could be heard through out the town as it raced towards the Figg's house. It would be to late in the morning, most likely. Mrs. Figg was delighted. She kept it to herself, and when they asked what happened, she said she hadn't known, but she heard a shriek from her little girl, and when she got to the room, this was how she found her. She acted panicked, and afraid. The young girl, no longer able to speak, looked at her mother, no emotion showing. No hate. No love. Nothing.
A statue stands in a shaded place
An angel girl with an upturned face
A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot
Sirius Black stood looking at the grave in wonder. He wondered if it happened how he thought it had happened. What he saw. But he had thought he had imagined it. He read the grave.
Arabella Katherine Figg II July 4th, 1978 to September 12th, 1987 Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
He didn't understand the poem, and he didn't bother to try. She had a pretty name, he had decided. He wondered what the girl had been like. He had seen her, but had never talked to her. All he knew was that her mother was apparently cat-crazy and had a ton. He hated the one called Tibbles. He had met her before.
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
Yes. Apparently it had been to late for the girl. She never would get to live her life. She would never get her Hogwarts letter. Nor would she ever make any of her friends. She had left with no friends, nor knowing what love was.
A/N: Please review. I wrote this when I was wretchedly tired. You like? You dislike? Oh, the dates are indeed probably wrong. I just picked random years. I decided I'd portray Mrs. Figg differently the every one else seems to. She's older then the marauders, she's got a daughter and she's abusive. ^.^ Again, I ask you to review.
To Late
A story about Mrs. Figg daughter. Arabella Kathryn Figg II.
She walks to school with the lunch she packed
Nobody knows what she's holdin' back
Wearin' the same dress she wore yesterday
She hides the bruises with linen and lace
Arabella Kathryn Figg II walked to school silently, looking toward the ground. Yes, she was in the same dress as yesterday but the no longer mattered to the nine- year-old girl. Yes, she had to fix her dinner, lunch, and breakfast, she had to clean the house, and she had to set her alarm so she wasn't late to school. She had had many detentions because at first she didn't know how to set it at first. But that didn't matter to the young girl. She didn't even care of the fact that her mother, who owned the same name, beat her nearly every day.
The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask
It's hard to see the pain behind the mask
Bearing the burden of a secret storm
Sometimes she wishes she was never born
She just simply pulled logic into her life. Sure, sometimes she wished she was never born, but she pushed the thought away. There was no point in it. She shrugged and continued to school. Your born and then you die. There was no point in life, no matter what you do you die. So she didn't care whether she died of natural causes or if she died from murder. Even from her blood relative.
"Miss Figg." Her teacher began.
"Yes?" Arabella's voice was gentle, and very quiet.
"What." The teacher shook her head and stopped, "What did you choose for your topic?"
"Myths and Legends."
"Thank you. Take you're seat now, please," The teacher watched the girl sit down, wondering why she wore the same clothes over, and where the bruises came from.
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
Daydreams, books, even her own writing. That's how she got away from it all. She was the character in the book she was reading. She had pleasant enough daydreams where she was happy. Her own characters, however, in her stories she had trouble making happy. The teachers noticed this.
Somebody cries in the middle of the night
The neighbors hear, but they turn out the lights
A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate
When morning comes it'll be too late
"Why you ungrateful little." Mrs. Figg slapped the girl across the face. She let out a cry of pain. Arabella was bleeding. A lot.
Mr. And Mrs. Evans sighed, rolling their eyes. "I wonder which poor little girl Black is torturing this time," one of the muttered as they shut off the light.
The nine-year-old-going-on-ten Sirius Black, however, was not up to anything. He was behaving for once. He was peering through his curtains to the room across from his on the next house. He saw something that looked suspiciously like hands go across a young girls face. He frowned. He heard some kind of cry, but he then ignored it, and went to bed like his mother had told him.
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
An ambulance could be heard through out the town as it raced towards the Figg's house. It would be to late in the morning, most likely. Mrs. Figg was delighted. She kept it to herself, and when they asked what happened, she said she hadn't known, but she heard a shriek from her little girl, and when she got to the room, this was how she found her. She acted panicked, and afraid. The young girl, no longer able to speak, looked at her mother, no emotion showing. No hate. No love. Nothing.
A statue stands in a shaded place
An angel girl with an upturned face
A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot
Sirius Black stood looking at the grave in wonder. He wondered if it happened how he thought it had happened. What he saw. But he had thought he had imagined it. He read the grave.
Arabella Katherine Figg II July 4th, 1978 to September 12th, 1987 Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
He didn't understand the poem, and he didn't bother to try. She had a pretty name, he had decided. He wondered what the girl had been like. He had seen her, but had never talked to her. All he knew was that her mother was apparently cat-crazy and had a ton. He hated the one called Tibbles. He had met her before.
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
Yes. Apparently it had been to late for the girl. She never would get to live her life. She would never get her Hogwarts letter. Nor would she ever make any of her friends. She had left with no friends, nor knowing what love was.
A/N: Please review. I wrote this when I was wretchedly tired. You like? You dislike? Oh, the dates are indeed probably wrong. I just picked random years. I decided I'd portray Mrs. Figg differently the every one else seems to. She's older then the marauders, she's got a daughter and she's abusive. ^.^ Again, I ask you to review.