Chapter 3

The Cat's Meow

Harry stumbled into the house as Mrs. Figg shooed him in anxiously, slamming the door shut behind him. He could barely hear the clatter of numerous chains sealing his safety over the horrid wale of cat meows. Apparently, the growing commotion from the street had them in a state of distress. Harry glanced out the window to see heads now poking out of warm houses into the damp night, shouts of wonder being thrown from porch to porch between nosy neighbors wondering what on earth that fantastic firework could be. A siren droned steadily in the background—apparently the local fire department was coming to investigate.

Harry attempted to make his way through the maze of cats, dodging tails fluffed like raccoons and trying to ignore the feline wail that was increasing his headache. Mrs. Figg was now scuttling from window to window, casting fervent looks outside for any sign of the enemy, and snapping each drape closed as she passed. Harry, finally spotting the couch, took a few steps toward it, his tired shoes squelching over the hard wood floor. He was almost there when he nearly tripped over a cat he knew to be Snowball, who had come screeching over from a dark corner where another cat meow seemed to rise in distress above the others.

"Mrs. Figg," Harry began, "Your cats—"

"Shh!" Mrs. Figg admonished, suddenly flicking off the lights. The were plunged into near-darkness, the only light coming from the feeble fire flickering in the hearth and the distant green of the Dark Mark. Harry found the couch and sunk into its depths, putting his head in his hands and trying to think clearly. Voldemort knows I'm in Little Whinging, I've knocked Moody out cold, I've lost my wand, and I'm probably surrounded by Death Eaters, he thought miserably. THINK, he tried to press his over-stimulated head, but all that came through was the hollow in his stomach and the chill that had taken over him.

Suddenly, a strong hand gripped his shoulder from behind. He tensed for an instant, but whirled around to see only a distraught Mrs. Figg staring into his eyes.

"Did they see you?" she demanded.

"Who?" Harry replied.

"Anyone!" she said frantically, dropping his gaze and retreating into the kitchen. He could hear her fumbling around cabinets in the dark, the clink of glass against medal. "Did anyone see you leave the Dursleys? Did you see anything odd or suspicious?"

"Erm..." he began. His head was still fuzzy, and he felt oddly disconnected as he watched Snowball the cat clawing and gnawing at the hem of his soaked jeans. He began retracing his steps from the time he left the Dursley's front steps out loud. She gave a small grunt when he mentioned the owl, but sharply turned around when he mentioned the fiasco with Moody.

"Moody?" she practically shouted, "Mad Eye Moody? You knocked out Mad Eye?"

Harry hung his head. In addition to contemplating his mistake, the constant shriek of the mystery cat-in-the-corner was starting to severely irritate him.

"I didn't mean to! I thought he was a Death Eater!" he blurted out, "And then I lost my wand, I lost my damn wand, and I ran here and I heard pops and I didn't know what to do, what in the world are we going to do?" He paused for a moment, taking in the gravity of the current situation.

"We're still here," he continued, "We've got to get out of here. Now."

"Drink."

"What?" Harry asked, confused, as a cup of steaming liquid was shoved into his face.

"It's a calming potion." She thrust the small mug toward him again, but instead of accepting the drink, he stood up in anger and frustration.

"It's not exactly the time to calm down!" he yelped. At sixteen, he now towered over Mrs. Figg's squat stature. "We've got to get the hell out of here! We don't have any time!"

"We can't just run, silly boy", she retorted. "Exactly how far do you think you'll get, mm?"

"We can at least try to make a run for it," Harry pouted. He didn't understand how she could be so complacent. She had been so worried about finding him and now she just wants to sit here?

"Besides, where is someone from the Order?" Harry continued with a hint of accusation in his voice, "Everyone was so intent on having me followed for the past year, don't you have a back-up plan?"

"We did," she answered coolly, "But you knocked him unconscious. You're lucky that I'm here boy. I'm the one the one who always looks after you, I'm the one who always pulls you out of tight spots and it seems I've done a damn good job of it so far."

Harry backed down for a moment. He wasn't used to seeing Mrs. Figg this narcissistic, but, then again, she had been there to find him after the dementor attack last year and she must have tired of the long years of being Harry Potter's unsung eyes and ears. The depression eating at him all summer seemed to take another small bite inside: again, to another person, he was nothing more than a burden.

"It will take a while for another Order member to arrive," she added, more quietly, "We're going to sit tight until someone arrives."

Harry's gloom turned to indignity in an instant: he couldn't just sit and wait to be discovered, "We can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"Oh yes you can, Harry Potter," she wagged her finger at him, "You are still a child and have behaved as a child all night. I will not allow your rash actions to get us both killed. Now be a good boy and drink...your...potion."

Her voice was now laced with authority and sarcasm: somehow her short stature didn't manage to undermine her presence. Face burning, he took the steaming mug from her and flounced back on the chair.

"This smells like sewage," he sniffed in a half-hearted attempt to regain his dignity.

"I told you boy, it's a calming potion," she sighed, "Now shut up and drink up so I can think."

Harry wrinkled his nose and took a sip. It didn't taste half bad—almost like licorice, but with sickly sweet aftertaste. Mrs. Figg finally rewarded him with a slight smile of approval and he took another sip. His racing heart seemed to have slowed to a trot, and his brain slowly returned to a semi-normal state. The room was silent as Mrs. Figg paced back and forth in front of the weak fire and Harry continued to quietly nurse the potion.

"I thought you couldn't, you know, do magic," Harry mused quietly.

Mrs. Figg paused in front of the fireplace.

"And why is that, dear," she asked quietly.

Harry was momentarily confused. "Well, because, you're a...a...well, you know..."

"Ah," said Mrs. Figg, "So you think that I'm unable to concoct a simple potion with common ingredients simply because I'm unable to perform a spell?"

Now is the time for you to shut up, he berated himself. He occupied himself with gulping down the scalding liquid as Mrs. Figg turned her back to him and began drawing the remaining curtains, shielding the glow of the green skull from view. She continued to scuttle around the room noiselessly, making sure every crack was sealed.

Harry, his brain now running at seemingly its normal rate, was beginning to turn again. He set the mug down on the floor next to him and began to ponder the near future as Snowball the cat took to lapping up the remains of his potion. An order member is going to come bring us to safety—probably leave by brooms...no, floo powder...Harry stopped.

"Mrs. Figg," he turned to call to her, but she remained hunched over a window, squirting something in a crack in the corner. Upon closer look, she was filling the crack with a can of Squeeze-Cheese.

"Mrs. Figg," he called again, but as he twisted toward her a hot pain tore through the back of his shoulder. Oh yeah, Harry groaned to himself, I forgot about that.

He turned back to the fire and groaned again as the cat-in-the-corner gave another particularly screeching 'meow'. Harry's headache, which he seemed to have forgotten about, came around two-fold to accompany the ache in his shoulder.

What the hell is wrong with that cat? he wondered listlessly. Hmm...maybe I should feed it some of the potion too, Harry mused, suddenly amused by the site in front of him. Snowball wasn't wailing anymore...he had curled up into a little snowball at his feet.

As Harry watched Snowball's sleeping form, he sank deeper into the couch—it suddenly dawned on him how tired he was. The events of the night seemed to have spun so quickly around him and now he was just flowing down the drain, being washed away with everything that had happened...

His head had almost hit the back of the couch when a loud CRASH sprung him back to consciousness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large object fall to a heavy thud in the shadows of her living room and a flash of dark fur fly straight at him. In an instant, the cat had pounced on his feet, knocking over the remains of his potion, and jumped into his lap, meowing forcefully.

This cat is more mental than...than, Harry started, but suddenly couldn't remember the name of Hermione's cat. She has a cat, right? Her-mi-o...

Impatiently, the cat pushed its way up Harry, resting it's front paws on his chest and still it's little pink nose in his face. Somewhere far, far away, he could hear Mrs. Figg yelling at the cat and the cry of the fire trucks zooming past the house.

"Meow," said the cat, looking his straight in his eyes.

Harry giggled slightly to himself. He looked at the tabby in front of him and thought, I don't speak Cat, you silly cat. I speak Parsel...

Harry stopped dead. Inches from the cat' face, he saw it. On either side of the cat's eyes were markings. Markings in the fur that he was extremely familiar with—this wasn't any ordinary cat—it was Professor McGonnagal. Harry stared, dumbfounded for a moment, before he felt another wave of lightheadedness hit him and he smiled.

"Meow, Professor," he whispered, "What are you doing here?"

He reached up to pat his transfiguration teacher on the head, but found that his hand didn't move. Professor McGonnagal's cat-head began to furiously knead at Harry's dropping head, when a great swipe came out of nowhere and threw her from Harry's lap. Surprisingly, the cat didn't run away—she leapt back onto Harry's lap and hissed at her captor, who was brandishing a frying pan and a can of Squeeze-Cheese. Mrs. Figg stood over them, her usually kind face distorted with anger.

Harry desperately tried to move, tried to think, but it was no use. He struggled to attack, but realized he hadn't even managed to move his shoulders a centimeter from the couch. The blow came strong, and Professor McGonnagal's cat body flew across the room, where it remained still. Harry dared not breath as Mrs. Figg stood over him. Oddly calm, she took his arms together and pointed the can of cheese at them. She sprayed the contents over his wrists, and in the next moment, it bound his wrists together like concrete.

"It's about time you settled down, boy," Mrs. Figg simpered at him, "I have someone who has been waiting for you."