Chapter 3 – Tabby's Here to Stay
Harry's POV
As he lay on his cot listening to the muffled sound of the rain outside, Harry was glad he'd had the sense to leave Tabby in the shed, where he – or she – would at least find some shelter. The cat had only been in the house twice, and one of those times had been a mistake, but he was pretty sure that what he felt towards it was a lot like love. It was a big word, 'love': short, but huge at the same time. He was afraid to use it so early. Love, it seemed, was something that had to be earned, and boy, was it hard! He tried with all his might to be good, but if the definition of love was what Dudley had, then he hadn't done enough yet. No one ever smiled at him, no one ever gave him silly nicknames―actually, they hardly used his name at all. He'd much rather be embarrassed by Aunt Petunia's weird terms of endearment than be called 'boy' all the time. In fact, he didn't need any of those nicknames: 'Harry' was enough. He would have liked to be called by his given name a bit more often. Perhaps earning people's love was easier for animals because they were prettier or something, because Tabby had gotten his right away just by existing. Of course, his aunt and uncle were a different story, but then again, it hadn't been so nice to them as it had been to him. There had been no rubbing against their legs that he knew of. It hadn't sat there watching them as if they were very interesting to look at. It didn't seem to understand what they were saying at all. Perhaps that was why he loved Tabby already: it had a way of making him feel different, but in a good way, perhaps even – dare he think that? – special. He didn't speak cat, but somehow he knew that the adorable ball of fur actually liked him. That was a first. No one really liked Harry for some reason: at school, it was mostly because of Dudley, who had scared everyone out of making friends with him. It wasn't that he didn't try to do that thing teachers called 'socializing': the problem was that no one ever had the guts to talk to him first, and if he approached them himself, they would call him a freak and run away. His relatives liked the word 'freak' too, it seemed. At first, he didn't really understand why they used it, but they'd taken to calling him that almost every day lately, and maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see what it was all about. Strange things happened around Harry; not big things, but enough to make them angrier than he'd ever seen them, and that was saying something. He honestly had no idea how or why they happened; in fact, he hadn't immediately realised he was causing them. It was only after a while that he'd understood it was his fault: why else would all those weird events be connected to him?
Perhaps it was because of his freakishness that his aunt and uncle got mad at him so often. The first few times, he'd tried to tell them that it hadn't been him, but Uncle Vernon had just hurt him even worse for lying. When he finally caved and admitted that maybe it was him doing those things, he'd defended himself by saying that he couldn't help it. Even though that was the truth, they'd called him a liar anyway. They'd only very recently started to understand that he couldn't just switch his freakishness off like a light, but all they did was tell him to try harder. And Harry did; he really did try not to make anything strange happen, but he couldn't, no matter how much effort he put into it. It looked like he wasn't trying at all, and that made them furious. He'd been thinking about it a lot lately, and he had his own little theory, though the idea of sharing it with anyone was too scary: maybe trying hard enough wasn't the point. He'd just tried in an entirely wrong way so far: it was no use trying to stop it if he didn't know how. He'd never met any other freaks like him who could tell him exactly what to do to avoid things going the way they shouldn't. But lessons about freakishness? Please. There was no book called How Not to Be a Freak, though he would have wanted a copy if it existed. Such a book would have made his life easier.
Tabby was a part of it all: it just knew what he said every single time. He'd been to Mrs. Figg's a lot, though, and he'd never been able to talk to any of her cats like that. They just stared and did nothing if he tried. Maybe cats had their own freaks too, and freaks understood each other. That was a possibility. It was probably also why they didn't want Tabby to stay, unless they were showing it off to guests: they knew it was a freaky cat, and one was more than enough to deal with, let alone two.
In fact, his aunt and uncle didn't want to have to deal with him either. They'd made it very clear from the start. They'd found him after his parents had died in a car crash, and Harry should be grateful for having any place to stay at all. They complained daily about how expensive an extra kid was, so chores were the least he could do to repay them. He'd learnt not to cry much when they hurt him, either, because Uncle Vernon didn't like weak crybabies, so becoming strong could be a way to make him like him more. Maybe. Someday. It hadn't really worked yet. And then there was the cupboard. He still found it a bit odd that Dudley had two bedrooms and he'd had to make the cupboard look as close as he could to one, but the one time he'd dared to ask about it had been one of the worst days of his life, so he'd decided to just shut up and try to believe them when they stressed that his cousin really needed both rooms and that they couldn't be expected to have a proper one for him when he'd been dumped on their doorstep with no warning. 'Shut up' was a good rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys. Not answering was rude and deserved punishment, but most of the time being silent didn't lead to any bruises. In fact, 'shut up' was a perfectly good summary of Rule Number One, 'don't ask questions', and Rule Number Two, 'don't be cheeky'. The first one was the hardest of all to follow, as Harry had thousands of questions about everyone and everything. They'd called him stupid more times than he could count, but he wouldn't stop deserving that word unless he learnt some new things, and how could he do that if he wasn't allowed to ask questions? Not that they'd ever outright ordered him not to: it was more of an unspoken rule. He'd learnt the hard way that too many questions made them angry, and since there was no telling just how many of them were too many, it was wiser not to ask any at all. More than everything else, he wanted to know about his real parents, but all his relatives had ever told him was that they were unemployed drunks who'd gone and gotten themselves killed in that crash, and they had never sounded the least bit sorry when saying that. He didn't think they were lying, exactly – he had no one else to ask, so he couldn't compare what they said to anything – but Aunt Petunia had literally known his mother forever, and she couldn't very well have been a drunk from the age of zero, could she? Why did she never tell him anything about their childhood together? His aunt had been a kid too, though he found it hard to imagine her like that (and he did have imagination. Lots of it. Maybe even too much), but it was as if that period of her life had never existed.
But Harry couldn't ask questions about anything else either; he was used to trying to understand all of his lessons on his own in the little time he had to do his homework, because no one in the house could be expected to sit patiently beside him and explain what wasn't clear. Not that it was a problem, anyway: he understood most of it, but was almost relieved when he didn't, because his cousin's gang would chase him and hit him every time he did anything that made him look smarter than Dudley―which happened pretty often, to be honest, but while Harry knew deep down that it was a good thing, it also meant that he had to run away from Piers and the others a lot. He supposed it was a form of training, at least: he was faster than most of the boys in his class, and would probably be the fastest if only he had longer legs.
All things considered, it had been a nice day: he'd done nothing to deserve punishment, though he had been very afraid of the consequences when he'd asked to let Tabby stay for the night; apparently, his uncle had been happy enough to let him off the hook for once. And it was all thanks to the cat! Tabby had been every bit as smart as he knew it to be and had stayed with the Carters all the time while he waited in his cupboard, and pleased guests meant a good result for Uncle Vernon. And it had helped him before, too: there was no other way to describe the freaky but all in all useful things it had done in Dudley's room. Finding his cousin's belongings more easily than he could was perfectly normal for a cat: it was small, agile and probably used to catching mice or something. But the fact that Tabby knew exactly what to look for... well, that wasn't normal at all. It had been fun, though, and since no one had seen it happen, all he had to do was keep his mouth shut, and a very freaky event would go without punishment. He could hardly remember the last time he'd had fun. Life would have been a lot better with a pet like Tabby in the house: some of his chores would have been quicker, and most of all, he would have someone that resembled a friend. Harry drifted off to sleep with that thought in mind, and probably dreamt of all the nice things he would do with Tabby if he managed to convince them, but remembered none of them in the morning.
Over the course of the next few days, Harry began to think that if they didn't want it to stay, his relatives had been very wrong in letting Tabby in at all: its new mission in life was to annoy them until they surrendered. It would meow in front of the door as though it had every right in the world to come in, it would slink inside the moment anyone left the door open for too long, it would go through any window that was low enough for it to jump. That wasn't good at all for Harry at first, because of course it had to be his idea, and he had bruises to match their anger; after a while, though, it was as if they'd gotten tired of always hurting him for the same reason. Or maybe they'd just realised that it couldn't be his fault every single time. All they did was make him interrupt whatever chore he was doing, pick Tabby up and leave it outside, but it was all in vain. The cat kept coming back, just like the one in that children's song, except that it wasn't yellow. Harry didn't know exactly why it was doing that, but he had a couple of ideas: one, that made a lot more sense, was that Tabby now considered it its house; the other, that it was doing it for him. Surely it couldn't be so, but Harry simply loved that thought. He also wished they would give up already and take Tabby in for good, if it wanted to be their pet so badly, but they seemed to have no intention of doing that―probably because they knew it would make him happy, and he didn't deserve any more happiness than the little bits he already had, however small. He'd learnt to make the most of even the tiniest scrap of happiness he could get, and Tabby had already given him much more than usual. If he could get them to let it stay, he would have so much he'd probably burst. Harry knew it would never happen, but at the same time he couldn't stop himself from acting as though the decision to make Tabby theirs were imminent. Any piece of information on how to take care of a cat was welcome.
That was why he had to use an acting talent he didn't even know he had in order not to look too happy when Aunt Petunia announced out of the blue: "Make yourself presentable, boy, you're going to Mrs. Figg's." Then she explained that she was going to visit her friend Yvonne while Dudley spent the day with his gang, but Harry wasn't really paying much attention. Mrs. Figg knew literally everything about cats, and she would be very happy to find him so interested in them, too. He'd always found her pictures boring, but this time it would be different.
"I'm sorry for dropping him off on such short notice, but you know... kids... I trust he'll be in good hands with you."
"It's no problem at all, Mrs. Dursley. Come inside, Harry, I'm sure we have a lot to talk about." Huh, weird. How did she know he was itching to ask her for a full lesson about living with a cat? Maybe she didn't really have anything to say to him, and that had been just one of those polite lies grown-ups always told.
"So, Harry... how are you?" She would always begin the conversation like that. It was a nice thing to say―she sounded like she cared. No one ever did, though, so Harry preferred a short, standard answer, even if most of the time it wasn't the truth.
"I'm fine, Mrs. Figg, thank you. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something."
"I'm all ears, sweetie." Harry very nearly gasped. Had she seriously just called him 'sweetie'? His head was reeling. This was his lucky day!
"There's a cat that keeps trying to get into the house. I don't think my aunt and uncle want it as a pet, but if they ever change their minds, may I come to you for advice? I-I mean, with all the cats you have, surely you'll know how to keep one, right?" That was one of the longest speeches he'd ever had in front of an adult that hadn't been interrupted, punished or both. Mrs. Figg was very nice when she wanted to, if you ignored the endless photo albums and the smell of cabbage. Not that he would ever really need to ask for help, since they weren't going to get a pet anytime soon, let alone that particular cat. Maybe if it was Dudley who asked, they would say yes to avoid one of his unforgettable tantrums, but when would they ever listen to him? Hey, wait just one second... The plan was already mostly formed. He would just have to take care of a few details later.
"Is it a tabby cat?" she asked with a half-smile that seemed to mean 'I know something that you don't.'
"How did you know?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.
"Oh, I've seen one around the neighbourhood a couple of times lately, so I took a wild guess. It looks like I was right."
"Yes, well, first things first. How can you tell if it's a boy or a girl?" Wow, asking questions was really fun when you weren't scared.
"I could explain it to you, or I could just tell you that if we're talking about the same cat, I'm pretty sure it's a girl."
"Really?" To be honest, Harry thought there was no way she could know that without looking at Tabby very closely, but maybe there were little tricks to tell at first sight that only cat ladies and maybe vets knew about. "Thanks a lot, that's nice to know."
"Don't mention it."
The pile of photo albums lay forgotten for once, and the rest of the afternoon flew by too fast. Before he knew it, Aunt Petunia was back to get him and they were exchanging goodbyes.
"What are you smiling at, boy?"
"Nothing, really."
"I'll pretend I believe you for now..."
Tabby obviously showed up the next day. It would have been strange for it – no, wait, her, if Mrs. Figg was right – not to. Harry was working in the garden again; he'd sort of taken a liking to that, because it was the only time when he could talk to Tabby safely instead of shooing her away.
"Hey, nice to see you again. I talked to Mrs. Figg about you, you know? She's seen you around, and she thinks you're a girl. I'm just going to take her word for it, okay? After all, she's the expert." Tabby meowed, and Harry really wished he could translate. He thought she'd sounded happy, as if she liked what he'd just said, but he wasn't sure. Since it was pretty clear by now that she understood, if not everything, at least more than the average cat did, maybe making her meows 'sound happy', if there even was such a thing, was her way to say yes. Okay, then. Tabby was officially a girl. That was progress, right?
Harry kept working, occasionally checking if she was still there. He liked having her around, even when she did nothing much. Just feeling her stare on the back of his neck was already a relief. Somehow, for some reason, it was as though she was supporting him. He could almost hear a little voice saying: 'Come on, Harry, you can do it!' He supposed imagining Tabby talking to him was easier now that he knew for sure he had to picture a female voice. The Dursleys didn't approve of imagination, but they couldn't read his mind either, so daydreaming was the only infraction that always went unnoticed, unless it distracted him too much.
"I have a plan, you know?" he boasted. "Maybe there's a way to make you stay forever. I'm not sure it's going to work, though." For a second, he thought Tabby actually smiled at him, but it must have been a trick of the light. Cats didn't smile the same way humans did, did they?
Harry was almost sorry when he finished. He would have liked to stay outside for a little while. Of course, he could always leave the door open just a few moments too long on purpose...
He winked at Tabby when he opened it and she took the hint. Wow, she really was the smartest cat he'd ever seen.
"Hey, freak!" Harry met Dudley's gaze. It would have been nice not to respond at all, as if he refused to admit he was a freak, but he decided that this time he'd rather be humiliated than punched. Both things hurt a lot, in different ways, but he could take emotional pain with Tabby there to keep him in a good mood. Physical pain, instead, couldn't go away just because there was a cat beside him, so it was an easy choice.
"What?"
"You let the cat in again. I'm going to tell Mum!"
"I'll do your Maths homework as well as mine if you don't tell her. In fact, I'll make you a deal: I'll do all of your summer assignments if you ask Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to let Tabby stay, and I mean forever. As our pet." There, he'd said it. He hoped with every fibre of his being it would be enough.
"You do know that I'd convince someone else anyway, right?" If 'convincing' people meant 'punching them until they agreed', then he had a good point. Dudley hardly ever did his homework, mostly because everyone was more than ready to put their knowledge at his service.
"Yeah, well, this year you won't have to. I know what the teachers say about you." Harry took a deep breath. He'd never had the nerve to face Dudley like that before. "They say that what you're doing is called 'bullying'. You've gotten away with it so far, but I think that someday, somehow, you're going to get in trouble. If you ask them to keep Tabby, I'll actually want to do your homework for once. You won't have to hit anyone for it. Come on, one little request in exchange for a whole summer with nothing to think about? Please?"
"I wouldn't have to take care of it, would I?"
"If they ever ask you to, I'll do it for you and they'll never know. I promise." Yeah, right. When was the last time they've asked him to do anything?
"That's good, 'cause Gordon got a pet a while ago and his parents would never stop talking about how he had to be responsible and all..." For about half a second, Harry thought that 'responsible' was a pretty difficult word for his cousin's standards, but to be honest, he didn't care if his vocabulary had improved at the moment.
"Oh, no, no, no. You won't even notice her unless she's exactly where you want to sit. By the way, if that happens, it would be nice not to squash her, okay?"
"Will you sneak food for me when I ask you to?"
That last condition was a bit much. If Harry were caught stealing from the fridge, the consequences would be very, very bad. But on the other hand, he really wanted Tabby there. If he said no, he would have fewer chances to be punished, but Dudley wouldn't ask them; if he said yes, he would put himself in danger, but at least he would have someone by his side who wouldn't laugh or yell at him if they ended up hurting him so much he cried himself to sleep in his cupboard. Biting his lip in thought, he put his fears aside and finally said: "Okay. But you're going to ask them tonight."
"Why?"
"How else would I know you're going to hold up your end of the deal?"
"Tonight it is, then. But I won't have to open a single book all summer, right?"
"And you'll be able to eat as much as you like, whenever you like. All this in exchange for Tabby."
"What if they say no? Will you still do all that stuff for me?"
"Trust me, they'll never say no." Harry had never heard them deny Dudley anything his whole life. Why would this time be any different?
Time had the odd habit of running whenever you wanted it to go slower, and deciding to have a nice, long, relaxing stroll whenever you needed it to be faster. In fact, as Harry watched the minutes that separated him from dinner tick by, each of them felt like an hour, especially since he'd had to take Tabby outside again. He'd been particularly sorry to do it: he would have loved for her to wait with him. But eventually, the call that gathered the whole family around the table came – he wasn't allowed to sit with them, but then again, he didn't really count as family – and all he had to do was wait a little longer until Dudley decided to keep his promise. Oh, dear. The words 'Dudley' and 'promise' in the same sentence didn't sound good at all. He'd been stupid in thinking he would keep his word, hadn't he? While serving dinner – and wishing he could keep the grumbling of his stomach in check at the sight of the content of their plates – Harry was so busy cursing himself for his mistake and listening for even the smallest mention of Tabby in the conversation that he nearly earned himself the worst night he could imagine. But he didn't, unless his uncle was playing with him, saying he would have mercy just to make him relax a little and then hurting him anyway just when he believed he wouldn't. Harry wouldn't have put it past him.
Either Dudley enjoyed making him wait, or he thought his parents would be in a better mood on a full stomach, because it wasn't until the very end of the meal that he finally interrupted the flow of chitchat: "Mum, Dad, I wanted to ask you something."
Two half-worried, half-curious answers came at the same time: "What is it, son?", and "Sure, sweetums, ask away!"
"Well, I was thinking..." Harry was surprised Dudley could think at all, but hastily bit his lip to stop himself from laughing at the witty remark he couldn't dream to make and listened eagerly, "that cat really looks like it wants to stay, doesn't it? Why don't we just keep it and get it over with?"
The way they gaped at him with their mouths open as if he'd just grown a second head was almost comical.
"W-well, honey, if it's a cat you want, then we'll get you one as soon as you can. Won't we, Vernon? Have you already thought about what breed you want? A Siamese? A Persian, maybe?"
He let out a booming laugh. "Never in a million years I would have pegged my son as a cat person, but it's your choice. We'll buy you one the first chance we get, but... why the change of heart? You didn't seem to like that fleabag we took in to make the Carters happy."
"Have you listened to a word I said?" he screamed, now in full tantrum mode. "I don't want just any cat." He scrunched up his face, getting ready to wail loud enough to shake the entire house. "I want that cat!"
They sighed in unison, looked at each other and nodded in defeat. "Okay, Diddy, we'll do what we can, but maybe it's gone away. What will you do, then? Shall we get you another cat if we can't find just the one you want?"
"It's not gone. And, Dad? It doesn't have fleas either."
"If you're sure, then..." She turned to Harry, changing her tone entirely. "Boy, get outside and find it. It should still be around here."
Harry ran to the garden, trying with all his might not to look like he was literally jumping around in joy. True to Dudley's word, he didn't have to look very far to find Tabby. "I did it! It worked! They've actually asked me to bring you in!" He scooped her up and was back in the house in no time.
As Dudley attempted to look happy – he really wasn't much of an actor, but to his parents' eyes, his performances were always Oscar-worthy – Uncle Vernon stared straight at Harry in a way that he didn't like one bit.
"Very well. It looks like we now own a cat. Do you have any idea how much that's going to cost?"
Harry gulped. "No, sir."
"Hmph. Too stupid to do the math. Typical. Well, boy, know this: the cat can stay, but every penny you make us spend on it will be subtracted from your food! Then maybe you'll realise just how expensive it is."
"But―" How was that possible? How did they know it hadn't been Dudley's idea? They hadn't been there when they'd made the deal!
"No buts! It was Dudley who asked for it, but it was you who let it in in the first place and it's you it always follows around! It's obvious that it has a mind to be your cat. It will be your responsibility, and yours only!"
As if on cue, Harry's stomach growled. It would be hard, but with a new friend around, it would also be worth it.
Life with Tabby turned out to be exactly as Harry had imagined it: while he always had a lot of work ahead of him, he was also thrilled at the prospect of not being completely alone as he did it. He didn't need much, really: just the fact that she was there put a whole new spring in his step. Not that there weren't any worries, though: adding cat food to the shopping list also meant that he was hungrier than ever. Once, he even whispered to Tabby: "You look like you're in good shape for now, but you'd better stay healthy, okay? I don't even want to think about what they'll do if they have to pay for a vet."
And then there was the small matter of Dudley's homework and extra snacks. Oddly enough, he hadn't asked for any of those yet, which made Harry hope he'd forgotten about that part of the deal; but how on earth was he supposed to do all of his assignments when cleaning, cooking and everything else already consumed so much of his time?
A partial solution to that huge problem came on its own, though. It was after the second sleepless night he'd spent doing his cousin's exercises with the aid of a torch that freaky things started happening again, and they were greater than they'd ever been before. The to-do list for the day seemed miles and miles long to his tired eyes, but soon after he'd started working he realised to his amazement that apparently he'd already done some of the chores without even remembering it. It was unbelievable: clothes he had no idea he'd touched were neatly folded and stored away, surfaces that he was sure needed dusting were shiny, and what mattered most, no one but him noticed anything wrong. The Dursleys just believed that he was working really fast, but the truth was that – he allowed himself to think that with a thrill of excitement – he appeared to be in two places at once. He managed to check every item of that endless list so quickly that he even had the luxury to do some of the homework he'd promised sitting at the table and taking his time not only to think about the correct solutions, but also to wonder how exactly it had happened. If only the answer to that were as definite as 'two plus two makes four'...
This new freaky routine continued, and Harry began to form his own idea as to what was going on. It was insane and he would no doubt be as good as dead if they ever found out, but he didn't know what else to think. He'd done strange things before, but none of them had been so big, and they hadn't happened so often either. There was only one possibility: it was Tabby. She didn't have hands to do chores in his place, but who else could it be? Surely there weren't two Harrys around the house! He'd come to that realisation slowly, but as time passed, the thought began to make more and more sense. Tabby had taken to disappearing every once in a while: she still spent a lot of time with him and always made him smile by meowing at him first thing in the morning or chasing a little toy he'd made her with a spare piece of string and an old bottle cork, but she seemed to have better things to do than just sit there and watch him work; and surely enough, every single time Harry looked behind him and saw that she wasn't there anymore, he knew he would find a chore done even though he'd been working on another. Once or twice, he could have sworn he'd caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he stopped to see what it was, everything was still again.
Aside from the grumbling complaints of his stomach, life was pretty much perfect: he had less work than usual to do, but his relatives believed he actually did more, so he went for an incredibly long time without punishments. All his most recent bruises had healed completely and he hadn't done anything to deserve new ones yet; sometimes, he even found himself with some real free time; but most of all, he had someone to talk to. Tabby couldn't answer, at least not in a way he could understand, but she didn't get angry at him for saying anything he wanted freely, she didn't laugh at his fears and she never left his side when he cried. She allowed his tears to wet her fur without running away, and a few times, when he lay on his cot, he knew that her rubbing against his face instead of his legs wasn't just an act of friendship, as Mrs. Figg had said, but a way to dry them. And then there was The Look, with a capital L. Only Tabby's eyes could possibly tell him: 'I don't speak your language, Harry, but I understand you. You know I do.'