Mrs. Figg was a strict woman. She had few rules, but Harry didn't want to
know what would happen if he broke any of them. She outlined the household
laws for him the same day he arrived. They involved not taunting her five
cats, not touching the valuable antiques displayed in the cabbage-smelling
living room-and one new rule.
"You may not go in the cellar," said Mrs. Figg, pointing to a door leading out of the kitchen. "You may visit the rest of the house-save the master bedroom of course-but stay out of the cellar."
"Why?" asked Harry curiously, before he could check himself.
Mrs. Figg suddenly became very stiff and would not say much more.
Harry had only been in Mrs. Figg's cellar once before, to get her a jar of her strawberry preserves. It was dark and quiet down there, and contained only a few cabinets, a water heater, and a washing machine. Harry had not been very interested, but now, he found himself drawn to the door every time he entered the kitchen without Mrs. Figg.
Two years ago, when he'd been allowed to watch Dudley's television for ten minutes (and this was a rare privilege), Harry had seen a programme about a serial killer who had been murdering derelicts and stashing their bodies in his basement. He wondered if Mrs. Figg could also be a serial killer, but decided that she was too old and frail to murder people. She didn't appear to be capable of doing much at all, in Harry's opinion.
The day after he arrived, when he was alone making tea in the kitchen, Harry quickly went to the door and, after a furtive glance around, pulled on the knob. Locked, he thought in disappointment. He should have expected this, he told himself. If Mrs. Figg didn't want him in her cellar, she would obviously lock the only door in. As he carried her back a plate of cookies, Harry thought of the windows of the cellar. If she was hiding something, he might have a peek through the window. Harry went outside into the backyard and found the small cellar windows. But when he peeked through, he saw nothing but the hydro fixtures and the same cupboards of preserves and jellies as before. There was no pile of plundered gold bullion, no pet endangered mountain lion, no puddles of blood from murder victims, not a single thing out of the ordinary. But then why would Mrs. Figg not let me down there? wondered Harry. The whistle of the teakettle called him back to the kitchen.
At least the mystery kept him from going completely mad. Harry had never spent such a long period of time with Mrs. Figg before, and while she was tolerable under daytime circumstances, she did snore quite loudly at night.
One pleasant thing was Tibbles II, named for Tibbles I, who had gotten hit by a car a few years before. Tibbles II was the newest cat, and by far the most interesting looking. He had light grey fur, with dark grey speckles. His ears were a bit bigger than the rest of the cats', and his tail looked a bit like a lion's. When Harry asked Mrs. Figg where she had gotten him, she had smiled smugly. "I bought him at a market in Bangladesh. He's a rare animal," she had said, and then had sat him down to look at both the old Tibbles' and the new Tibbles' picture albums.
Tibbles seemed to take to Harry immediately. On his first day, the cat stayed close by him, purring happily, and Harry felt quite calm around him. At least one thing in this house likes me, he thought.
The other five cats were called Tigris, Loyola, Snowball, and Leon, and occasionally the five regulars were joined by a aged stray called Minnie. This cat had odd square markings around her intelligent eyes and Harry thought she looked rather familiar, but dismissed it as an impossible notion of his overactive imagination.
The cats for the most part approved of Harry, though Snowball alone appeared to loathe Harry's presence; but then, Snowball, a black tabby, was of a contemptuous disposition, inclined to despise all humans, even disobeying Mrs. Figg. Mrs. Figg inexplicably devoted two entire albums to this rebellious feline, euphemistically labelling the cat "feisty".
One day, flipping absently through one of these albums, Harry came across a series of ancient photographs featuring Snowball with five people sporting outdated fashions. In various candid pictures, the five people appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely together. There was a distinguished- looking man, a beautiful woman who could only be a young Mrs. Figg, and three striking children. Then on one page all by itself was a photograph of Snowball in the arms of the youngest girl, a fair-haired youth who at approximately age five was already endowed with exquisite looks.
"Is this your family?" Harry asked Mrs. Figg.
The elderly woman admitted it was true. "Myself with my husband and my three children about thirty years ago."
Harry thought that this was a very peculiar piece of news. He had always assumed that having twelve million cats was some kind of emotional replacement for a family. "I never saw your husband before. And I've never seen your children in the neighbourhood."
"I'm a widow, Potter, my husband died shortly after you were born. And my children moved away long ago. This old photograph shows my eldest daughter at age fifteen, she's now over forty-five. Now come on, put that away and come change this burnt-out lightbulb for me. Do you want me to break my hipbone falling off this rickety stepladder?"
"You may not go in the cellar," said Mrs. Figg, pointing to a door leading out of the kitchen. "You may visit the rest of the house-save the master bedroom of course-but stay out of the cellar."
"Why?" asked Harry curiously, before he could check himself.
Mrs. Figg suddenly became very stiff and would not say much more.
Harry had only been in Mrs. Figg's cellar once before, to get her a jar of her strawberry preserves. It was dark and quiet down there, and contained only a few cabinets, a water heater, and a washing machine. Harry had not been very interested, but now, he found himself drawn to the door every time he entered the kitchen without Mrs. Figg.
Two years ago, when he'd been allowed to watch Dudley's television for ten minutes (and this was a rare privilege), Harry had seen a programme about a serial killer who had been murdering derelicts and stashing their bodies in his basement. He wondered if Mrs. Figg could also be a serial killer, but decided that she was too old and frail to murder people. She didn't appear to be capable of doing much at all, in Harry's opinion.
The day after he arrived, when he was alone making tea in the kitchen, Harry quickly went to the door and, after a furtive glance around, pulled on the knob. Locked, he thought in disappointment. He should have expected this, he told himself. If Mrs. Figg didn't want him in her cellar, she would obviously lock the only door in. As he carried her back a plate of cookies, Harry thought of the windows of the cellar. If she was hiding something, he might have a peek through the window. Harry went outside into the backyard and found the small cellar windows. But when he peeked through, he saw nothing but the hydro fixtures and the same cupboards of preserves and jellies as before. There was no pile of plundered gold bullion, no pet endangered mountain lion, no puddles of blood from murder victims, not a single thing out of the ordinary. But then why would Mrs. Figg not let me down there? wondered Harry. The whistle of the teakettle called him back to the kitchen.
At least the mystery kept him from going completely mad. Harry had never spent such a long period of time with Mrs. Figg before, and while she was tolerable under daytime circumstances, she did snore quite loudly at night.
One pleasant thing was Tibbles II, named for Tibbles I, who had gotten hit by a car a few years before. Tibbles II was the newest cat, and by far the most interesting looking. He had light grey fur, with dark grey speckles. His ears were a bit bigger than the rest of the cats', and his tail looked a bit like a lion's. When Harry asked Mrs. Figg where she had gotten him, she had smiled smugly. "I bought him at a market in Bangladesh. He's a rare animal," she had said, and then had sat him down to look at both the old Tibbles' and the new Tibbles' picture albums.
Tibbles seemed to take to Harry immediately. On his first day, the cat stayed close by him, purring happily, and Harry felt quite calm around him. At least one thing in this house likes me, he thought.
The other five cats were called Tigris, Loyola, Snowball, and Leon, and occasionally the five regulars were joined by a aged stray called Minnie. This cat had odd square markings around her intelligent eyes and Harry thought she looked rather familiar, but dismissed it as an impossible notion of his overactive imagination.
The cats for the most part approved of Harry, though Snowball alone appeared to loathe Harry's presence; but then, Snowball, a black tabby, was of a contemptuous disposition, inclined to despise all humans, even disobeying Mrs. Figg. Mrs. Figg inexplicably devoted two entire albums to this rebellious feline, euphemistically labelling the cat "feisty".
One day, flipping absently through one of these albums, Harry came across a series of ancient photographs featuring Snowball with five people sporting outdated fashions. In various candid pictures, the five people appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely together. There was a distinguished- looking man, a beautiful woman who could only be a young Mrs. Figg, and three striking children. Then on one page all by itself was a photograph of Snowball in the arms of the youngest girl, a fair-haired youth who at approximately age five was already endowed with exquisite looks.
"Is this your family?" Harry asked Mrs. Figg.
The elderly woman admitted it was true. "Myself with my husband and my three children about thirty years ago."
Harry thought that this was a very peculiar piece of news. He had always assumed that having twelve million cats was some kind of emotional replacement for a family. "I never saw your husband before. And I've never seen your children in the neighbourhood."
"I'm a widow, Potter, my husband died shortly after you were born. And my children moved away long ago. This old photograph shows my eldest daughter at age fifteen, she's now over forty-five. Now come on, put that away and come change this burnt-out lightbulb for me. Do you want me to break my hipbone falling off this rickety stepladder?"
