Harry tore a small piece of his bread and held it out between two fingers, waggling it teasingly toward the tabby cat across from him.
"C'mon, have a go. It's good stuff," he whispered conspiratorially, as though sharing a priceless secret.
The cat just stared at him, unblinking, golden eyes cool and imperious. Then, with slow disdain, it turned its head away, lifting its nose as if the offering were beneath it.
Harry blinked, chewed his own bite, and huffed. "You're a proud one, eh? No matter." He leaned forward, stretching a hand across the table to scratch behind its ears. "Here's a good pussy-cat—"
"Boy!" Mrs. Figg snapped from behind him, her voice scandalized. "Language!"
Harry froze, turning slowly with his most innocent, wide-eyed expression. "I didn't say a single word, though. What could you be talking about?"
"Don't you get cheeky with me," she warned, plopping a heavy mug of tea on the table with an unnecessary clatter before sitting down.
Harry shrugged, unconcerned, and returned to inspecting the cat. Something about it was… odd. The markings around its eyes almost looked like little spectacles, and the way it was sitting—straight-backed, composed, silently judging him—wasn't helping.
"You've got a real strange cat, Mrs. Figg," he said finally, watching the feline carefully. "This one doesn't blink, doesn't lick its paws, doesn't even meow for a change!" He leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. "Merlin's beard, she doesn't even feel like a cat!"
The moment the words left his mouth, both Mrs. Figg and the tabby froze.
Harry frowned. "What? I just said—"
"Harry." Mrs. Figg's voice was tight, strained in a way he rarely heard. "Where did you learn to say those words?"
Harry tilted his head at her, confused. "Huh? Oh, that? 'Merlin's beard,' you mean? Read it in Conversations Between Barnacle the Bumpkin and Master Potious in the History of Magic." He grinned at the look on her face. "Gotta say, Mrs. Figg, that book is weird but brilliant!"
For a moment, the only sound was the faint creak of the tabby's tail curling against the chair. Mrs. Figg looked at him, completely dumbfounded, and then at the cat, who had turned its head just enough to give her what Harry swore was a knowing glare.
Mrs. Figg's lips twitched as though she were having an argument with herself. Finally, she sighed heavily. "That book," she said, half to herself, "is going to be the end of me."
Harry, oblivious, leaned forward eagerly. "So? Who is Beedle? The book mentions him like a dozen times but never actually says who he is. Was he, like, some magical knight? Or a warlock? Or maybe a… wizard historian?"
Mrs. Figg's expression tightened further, but she glanced at the cat again—another silent exchange—and then stood abruptly. Without another word, she disappeared into the hallway closet.
Harry sat there, bouncing his legs in barely restrained impatience, the tabby still staring at him like a furry gargoyle. When Mrs. Figg returned, she was holding a slim, worn volume bound in faded blue leather. She hesitated for a moment, then handed it to him.
Harry's face lit up like Dudley spotting a box of chocolates. "You had it all this time?!"
"Don't make me regret this," she warned, settling back in her chair.
"I won't!" Harry said quickly, already flipping the book open. The pages smelled faintly of dust and something faintly floral, and he inhaled it like a rare treasure.
Mrs. Figg watched him silently for a long moment, her lined face softening in spite of herself.
For years, she'd told herself to keep him at arm's length. Orders were orders, and getting too close would only make things harder when… when the time came. But Harry had wormed his way past her defenses with that stubborn little grin and his insatiable curiosity.
He'd been abandoned, shunted off to people who didn't love him, didn't even want him. And yet, somehow, he'd grown into this sharp, inquisitive, maddening boy who inhaled knowledge like air.
She couldn't bring herself to tell him "no" anymore.
The cat shifted on the chair opposite Harry, tail twitching in what looked suspiciously like disapproval. Mrs. Figg ignored it.
Harry, meanwhile, was utterly lost in the book, muttering snippets under his breath: "…Beedle the Bard… Elder Wand… Resurrection Stone… wait, three brothers?!" His eyes widened, and he glanced up at Mrs. Figg.
"Are these stories real?"
She hesitated, then gave the smallest shake of her head. "They're just stories, Harry."
But her voice wavered, and Harry caught it. He always caught it.
Mrs. Figg stood abruptly, pretending to busy herself with the kettle. "Finish your bread, boy," she said over her shoulder, the tension creeping back into her voice. "And don't be late getting home. You know how your uncle gets."
Harry frowned, but didn't press. For now.
Still, as he bent over the book again, tracing the illustrations with his finger, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. For the first time in ages, he had the sense that the world was much bigger—and much stranger—than anyone had ever told him.
And maybe, just maybe, Mrs. Figg wasn't as ordinary as she pretended to be.
Harry now sat cross-legged on Mrs. Figg's worn dining chair, the slim blue book propped open on his lap. One hand absentmindedly reached for the last crumbs of cake while the other turned the delicate, dog-eared pages as though each one were made of spun glass.
The room smelled faintly of chamomile tea and floor polish, sunlight spilling lazily across the cluttered table where mismatched china sat in a haphazard collection. A kettle let out a quiet hiss somewhere in the background, and the soft tick-tick of the clock on the wall kept time with Harry's murmurs as he read under his breath.
Mrs. Figg sat opposite him, watching him with the kind of furtive attention one might give an unexploded cauldron. She'd poured him tea—three sugars, one splash of milk, exactly the way he liked it—and, in a moment of misguided kindness, she'd even offered him cake.
She regretted the cake.
Her tabby, perched primly on the windowsill, had narrowed its golden eyes and given her a hiss so quiet Harry hadn't heard it. Mrs. Figg winced.
"Don't you start," she muttered under her breath, glancing sidelong at the cat.
The cat did not respond—at least, not verbally. It simply flicked its tail in a sharp, accusatory lash and turned its face to the garden, as though refusing to be associated with such reckless behaviour.
Really, it had been an innocent mistake. How was she to know she'd grabbed the wrong vial when preparing the cake? It was supposed to be just a harmless enhancement—make the sponge fluffier, a bit sweeter. But no, she'd accidentally added a potion that made the eater recall their least favourite food whenever they tasted something similar. Harry had eaten two slices. She hoped, for both their sakes, that he didn't hate treacle tart.
Time passed quietly as Harry devoured the book. She busied herself making another pot of tea and pretended she wasn't on the receiving end of the tabby's judgemental stares.
Eventually, Harry closed the book with a soft thud, sighing deeply as though the entire weight of Beedle the Bard's woes rested squarely on his shoulders. He pushed the book away, his expression unusually sombre.
Mrs. Figg frowned. "What's the matter?"
Harry looked up, still scowling faintly. "Magic is so troublesome, huh?"
Mrs. Figg froze. Across the room, the tabby let out a loud, sharp mrrrow! that made Harry jump in his chair.
He blinked at the cat. "What's wrong with you?"
Mrs. Figg leaned forward, her voice tight. "Why—why do you think that, Harry?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, considering. "Well… I dunno, really. But these Beedle stories are so daft. Magic in them's always making everything worse."
Mrs. Figg raised an eyebrow. "Worse?"
"Yeah! I mean, look at Cinderella—magic's simple there. Pfft, poof, she's off to the ball, gets the prince, happy ending, job done." He gestured vaguely at the book. "But this Beedle bloke? Nothing but curses and people messing up! And there's that one story with the bloke who made a pot that wouldn't stop spewing slime—what's that about? It's no Aesop's Fables, I'll tell you that."
Mrs. Figg couldn't help it—her lips twitched. "Don't you think maybe the stories are trying to teach something, though? About being careful? Responsible? Not, you know… hexing your neighbour over a bad haircut?"
Harry frowned at her like she'd said something silly. "But isn't magic supposed to help people? Every other story I've ever read, that's how it goes! Defeat the baddies, save the day, happy ever after."
Something soft settled behind his words, something Mrs. Figg knew better than to poke at.
She forced a small smile. "Stories aren't always that simple, Harry."
He shrugged, unconvinced, but let the matter drop.
They chatted idly after that, mostly about nothing—the book, Dudley's latest tantrum, why the milkman's eyebrows were suspiciously uneven. But eventually, Mrs. Figg shooed him toward the door, wagging a finger.
"And don't you go wandering off, you hear me? None of those… peculiar people you've told me about. Merlin knows where you find them."
Harry grinned cheekily. "You sound just like one of them when you say stuff like that."
She clamped her jaw shut and ushered him out before he could push further.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the house fell into a silence broken only by the faint ticking of the clock. Mrs. Figg turned around—and stopped dead.
The chair opposite hers was no longer occupied by a cat.
Instead, a tall, black-haired woman in grey robes sat primly, polishing a pair of square spectacles. Her lips were pressed into a line so thin it looked as though it had been carved with a blade.
"Oh, Merlin's—" Mrs. Figg caught herself, hand flying to her chest. "Professor McGonagall."
The woman glanced up briefly from her polishing, those sharp eyes gleaming behind the lenses. "Mrs. Figg."
Arabella swallowed. Her hands, entirely of their own accord, began wringing together. "I—I can explain."
"Can you?" McGonagall replied smoothly, sliding the spectacles onto her nose and fixing her with a look that could have frozen lava mid-flow.
Arabella cleared her throat, glancing anywhere but at those eyes. "'He just comes around during weekends and holidays, you see. Finds it unbearable staying there all day."
McGonagall didn't answer. She simply nodded once, crisp and measured, and continued polishing an imaginary smudge from her already pristine robes.
Arabella fidgeted under the silence. "Honestly, Professor, I didn't think there'd be any harm in letting him read a few stories. They're harmless, they are, just old fairy tales!"
McGonagall's head snapped up, and Arabella flinched.
"Harmless?" The word cracked like a whip. "Arabella Figg, why in Merlin's name would you give that boy access to wizarding texts? What if he said something out loud to those Muggles? Or worse—"
Arabella held up her hands in surrender. "I know! I know! But you've met the boy, haven't you? Persistent as a Blast-Ended Skrewt, cheeky as anything. He'd worm it out of me sooner or later, and honestly, Professor, he's cleverer than you'd think!"
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. "Clever, yes. But subtle? No."
Arabella hesitated, then risked a small smile. "Sounds like someone else I know."
McGonagall's eyebrow twitched, but she ignored the comment.
The next half-hour was spent with McGonagall administering what could only be described as a thoroughly educational scolding. Arabella, for her part, nodded when appropriate, muttered apologies where necessary, and quietly resolved never to underestimate the woman's lung capacity again.
Finally, mercifully, the tirade ebbed. McGonagall leaned back in her chair with a long-suffering sigh. "He is a troublemaker, isn't he?" she murmured, almost to herself.
"You've no idea," Arabella replied dryly.
McGonagall's lips twitched—almost a smile, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
After a pause, Arabella asked softly, "Was there a particular reason for your visit this time?"
"Nothing unusual," McGonagall said, adjusting her spectacles. "A routine check. Dumbledore likes to keep an eye on him. I volunteered."
Arabella nodded slowly, chewing her lip. Then, before she could stop herself, the question burst out: "Why do we even keep him there, Professor? You've seen it. The boy and those people—they hate each other. Hardly a place for him to grow up."
McGonagall stilled, her expression unreadable.
"Dumbledore insists it's for his safety," she said finally, voice low and careful. "I… do not pretend to understand all of it myself."
Arabella's hands clenched in her lap. "Safety's not much good if the boy wastes away from neglect. If not for that cheeky mouth of his, they'd probably have starved him by now!"
McGonagall's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
The silence stretched between them until McGonagall finally stood, straightening her robes with precise, deliberate motions. She plucked her pointed hat from her pouch and settled it atop her head.
"Albus will hear of this, Arabella," she said firmly, though there was a softer note beneath the steel.
Arabella swallowed, nodding. "Tell him… tell him Harry's curious, Professor. He wants to know things. He needs to."
McGonagall hesitated. Then, without a word, she drew her wand. There was a sharp crack, and she was gone.
Arabella collapsed back into her chair, letting out a shaky sigh.
"Magic's convenient," she muttered.
The empty room offered no argument, though she could've sworn she heard a faint, disapproving mrrrow somewhere in the distance.