Prologue
Arabella Figg of number 7 Privet Drive was, in her own opinion, an observant woman. This was after all the reason why Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had placed her here- to observe. It had been her sole and solemn duty for nearly 10 years. It could be menial and monotonous at times, but considering the generous stipend and the house she never had to pay for herself, it wasn't thankless work. She had her cats, well muggles would no doubt see them as such. Her "cats" were in fact part kneazle, magical and aggressive fantastical beasts who closely resembled cats. She had made a hobby of breeding them. Kneazle whiskers were after all sometimes used as wand cores, they of course made inferior wands when compared to phoenix feathers or dragon heartstring, but it was something to keep her occupied and they sold well when she made her trips to Diagon Alley.
Mrs. Figg was, at the moment, bent over one of her rosebushes. The flowers had taken to climbing in between the gaps in her fence and she was currently engaged in a battle of wills against the plants. It was hot in Surrey this afternoon as it often was once July came to an end. She sat back on her haunches in the yellowing grass, wiping at her forehead, sweat dripping. She would have to take a cold shower once she was satisfied that her war against flora had come to a ceasefire. She took a moment to gaze at the other side of the road, just in time to hear a loud masculine voice shouting angrily at someone. She stood, dusted of her trousers and walked towards the edge of her garden. She pretended to inspect some of her begonias but she was really straining to hear what was being said, no, shouted from number 4.
"...do you hear me boy? I will have none of this nonsense in my house!" No doubt it was Vernon Dursley husband of Petunia Dursley, father to Dudley Dursley and, most importantly, uncle to Harry Potter. A small trembling voice answered, though it was not loud enough to be heard by Mrs. Figg. She sighed despairingly. That poor boy. She had mentioned countless times in her reports to Albus that number 4 Privet Drive was no place for a magical child. Certainly not for Harry Potter. The shouting voice from across the road continued:
"I've had enough of these sodding birds! You will make them stop coming here or you'll have me to answer to, do you hear me? I-" The voice was cut off by a nasally feminine voice. No doubt it was Petunia come to urge her husband to keep his voice down. Mrs. Figg looked around, indeed it was not just her that had turned her head towards number 4, many a neighbor had stopped trimming hedges their to stare. Mrs. Figg scoffed to herself. Of course Petunia was more worried about her reputation among the neighbors than her nephews unjust treatment. Mrs. Figg lifted her head just enough to see Vernon say something to his wife in an admittedly lower voice. He then took a handful of poor Harry's hair and dragged him into the house. She couldn't watch this. She couldn't just stand there and allow that kind boy to be beaten again. Damn what Albus had said. She straightened, an idea coming into her mind. She dusted of her trousers once more and made her way towards number 4.
Half an hour later she sat across from a 10 year old boy on one of her comfortable chairs in the sitting room. Harry was careful as he petted one of her "cats", so very careful. As if he was scared he was going to scare away the creature. Mrs. Figg sighed to herself. Who would want to hurt him? This boy who was quiet, polite and always cleaned up after himself. The look of absolute relief on his face when she had knocked on the door to number 4 to request that Harry help her in her garden was disturbing to say the least. When they had arrived at her home a little while later and she had explained that she didn't need help with her garden, he had looked confused at first. Then he had flushed and looked at the ground. Mrs. Figg wanted to tell him that there was nothing to be ashamed of, that it wasn't his fault, but she would be overstepping. Albus had told her not to get to personal with the boy, lest he suspect something wasn't quite right. Harry was wearing a t-shirt that was too large for his small frame and was sporting several nasty looking bruises on his forearms. They were shaped like hands, as though someone had grabbed hold of him and refused to let go. She quietly despaired once more and then decided to make an attempt at conversation.
"Harry dear, I was wondering if you would perhaps like to come help me out in the garden sometimes? I'm getting older and my back isn't as it once was, it's getting harder to bend over the rosebushes." Harry looked up at her words, but quickly looked down at his lap once more. He opened his mouth to speak:
"Of course Mrs. Figg, I would like to help you", he said in a quiet voice. She smiled then.
"Call me Arabella dear, there is no need to be so formal. Then if you would really like to help i shall speak to your aunt when i return you to her later. You know you can always come here if you need some peace and quiet dear? I'm always happy to-" She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Harry immediately flinched and shrunk down into himself. He no doubt thought it was his uncle come to drag him back to number 4. Mrs. Figg gave him a reassuring smile, put down her teacup and stood to answer the door. She opened it ready to make excuses for Harry, but it wasn't Vernon Dursley that stood on her front porch. Instead it was a tall, darkly clad man with a slightly hooked nose. He looked quite irritated. Mrs. Figg raised her eyebrows, unimpressed, and asked:
"Good afternoon to you sir, how can I help you?" She was certain she had never seen this man before.
"Good afternoon to you Mrs. Figg, I am sorry to bother you but I am looking for Mr. Potter, his relatives told me he was visiting you. I am a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and I am here to speak to him, he hasn't sent an answer to his acceptance letter." Mrs. Figg's brows shot higher up into her fringe. This was a professor from Hogwarts? He wasn't wearing the traditional robes, rather he was in dark muggle clothing. More importantly: Harry hadn't answered his acceptance letter? Then it was worse than she had thought. Had they told the boy anything about his heritage? She looked back to her sitting room and saw that Harry was looking at her, worried. She made a decision then. Looking back at the man on her porch she said:
"Please come in Mr..?"
"Snape. Severus Snape, potions master at Hogwarts, I understand that you are familiar with our world? Or so I was led to believe by the Headmaster." Well that was a kind way of calling someone a squib, she thought. He let himself in and she closed the door behind him. She looked to Harry again, and the potions master followed her gaze to the small boy on her couch.
"Harry dear, I'll be in the kitchen with professor Snape for a bit. We'll join you in a little while." Harry nodded and said:
"Okay Mrs. Figg." He turned back to the cat in his lap who was now impatiently meowing at him wanting to be scratched. She noted that the professor's eyebrows shot up at the polite response as if not expecting it. He looked at the boy for a little while longer with a confused look on his face. Mrs. Figg thought she knew why:
"The little dear is small for his age is he not?" She whispered quietly, so that Harry wouldn't hear her. Professor Snape gave a small nod and she led the way into the kitchen.
What followed might have been one of the hardest conversation she had ever had in her life. She sat the professor down with a cup of tea and started to explain. That she hadn't known at first, that she hadn't thought it possible. They were his relatives after all, and after the boy had lost his parents, well, she hadn't expected such cruelty. She told the professor about the marks on his arms, of the horrible games the boy's cousin and his hooligan friends played, of "Harry Hunting" and of never ending chores. Of the cupboard under the stairs. That last one she had accidentally stumbled upon once when she had given the boy a picture of one of her cats to set up in his room for his 10th birthday, and instead of saying "my room" he had said "my cupboard." The professor looked disbelieving at first, then confused, then outright shocked. When she finally stopped recounting her observations he just sat there, staring at his cup of tea, that had now no doubt become quite cold. She spoke up once more:
"I have, of course, spoken of this to professor Dumbledore, but I fear my concerns have never really been taken seriously. I was hoping that you sir, as one of Harry's future teachers, could do something about this." Professor Snape looked up at her then, it was strange to see sadness in what she had assumed to be quite a hard man's eyes. He cleared his throat, took a sip of his cold tea and said:
"I appreciate you bringing this to my attention Mrs. Figg. Though I find it hard to believe the Headmaster capable of such negligence. I will speak to him upon my return to the school, for now I shall give Mr. Potter the regular instructions given to those students of muggle descent and have a conversation with his relatives. Then we shall see if we can't do more for the boy. I must ask you to write to me by owl if you notice any more.. physical abuse." The professor's stern and irritated manner had completely dissipated by then. Mrs. Figg nodded at the words. This, she could do. She might be a squib, forever without magic, but this she could do. Observe. It was why she had been placed here. It was her duty. The professor stood and she followed him out into the sitting room. He took a seat across from Harry and introduced himself in a calm but firm voice. The boy was polite and quiet as always and Mrs. Figg gave him encouraging smiles and nods during the conversation that ensued. She felt relieved when she saw the boys face lit up at the mention of magic, a rare smile spreading across his lips. He then eagerly told the professor of all the magical incidents in his life. About how, once, he had flown up onto a roof, and how he once regrew all his hair under one night. Mrs. Figg smiled. She herself had never had such incidents, being a squib, but the boy's excitement was contagious.
In the end professor Snape handed him his newest Hogwarts letter and told Harry to remain in Mrs. Figg's home, while he went to have a conversation with his aunt and uncle. Harry's face blanched immediately at that, but the professor only reached out and squeezed his shoulder firmly.
"There is no need to worry, Mr. Potter, you will not be on the receiving end of any ire from your guardians any longer. I will see you again in a weeks time to accompany you to Diagon Alley to procure your school supplies." Harry didn't look convinced but a little color returned to his cheeks. Professor Snape then turned to Mrs. Figg.
"Wait for a couple of hours before returning him to his aunt and uncle's, I should be done by then." Mrs. Figg nodded in the affirmative. She had no doubt the stern professor Snape would make short work of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. He stood and she followed him to the door, leaving Harry to stare down at his letter, wonder in his eyes.
