Chapter 3
Aunt Petunia knocked on his cupboard door sharply, and told him to come out with a demanding, “Breakfast isn’t going to make itself, boy.” Harry got up quickly that morning - because this was the first morning in a bit, over a week bit, that was different. He had slept in for one, and Aunt Petunia had gotten him with a different sentence than usual! Now that he thinks about it, Aunt Petunia hadn’t said anything in the mornings of Halloween, just got his door unlocked and made sure he was helping her…
Harry first went to the bathroom to wash up, splashing water on his face after pulling out the step stool. He scrubbed his hands clean quickly and dried off, not bothering to look in the mirror. He knew what he’d see, and he didn’t really want to. He put the stool back under the sink and went to the kitchen, where a stern look was all he was given before he got to work.
Today it seemed to be more simple with fruit and french toast. He sorted the fruit into a neat array on the platter, following a rainbow design the best he could. Strawberries and watermelon slices were on the left, followed by orange and banana slices. Grapes were the last to be set, and it didn’t stay exactly in the pattern he hoped for, but it was pretty anyways. Aunt Petunia looked at it and hummed in approval, as she had done before when he made the jam perfectly sometime during his version of the last week. He helped clean the table and set it, following the silverware etiquette he had seen his Aunt do before. He put Uncle Vernon’s mug of tea next to his plate, ignoring the near-scalding warmth that came from the dish. He also ignored the glare he received, staying a good distance away from the man.
And when it was all finally gathered, he was to wait in the kitchen, by the counter. He followed the order wordlessly, staying within reasonable distance when he passed his Aunt, but didn’t go any closer. He looked at the calendar for the last confirmation he was aching for and sighed quietly in relief. It was flipped to the next month and the first as that day.
But what made him live the same day for so long? Harry knew it couldn’t be a trick the Dursleys played on him - they didn’t like to even look at him! - but he also knew that it wasn’t normal. He looked down at his hands, and simply traced the outline of them with his eyes, thinking some more to himself. Maybe it was related to the.. ‘freak’ thing that his hosting family sometimes talked about? They said it wasn’t normal for him to do what he did that one-time Aunt Petunia tried to cut his hair. He had grown it back overnight, and it was even longer than before, actually, but it certainly wasn’t as short as when she cut it. Definitely not, he shuddered at the remembrance of the horrid haircut she had given him. It was like freshly mowed grass, just on his head, and it was all sorts of choppy and ugly. It made him look even more like the freak they considered him to be.
Harry knew that he wasn’t ever a normal boy like the Dursleys expected him to be. He didn’t play with his classmates at school, mostly because Dudley was really mean whenever he did, but also because it would be boring. He could grow back his hair however he wanted, or he thought so at least, and… no. He shook his head. Harry was not special, he would not be even more of a freak as Vernon hated him to be, and he-
“Boy, come clean up!” Uncle Vernon demanded, already leaving the dining room. Harry looked away from the calendar and toward the other room, seeing the dishes laid out and no one else occupying the table. He stepped towards the sink and filled up one side with warm, soapy water. He grabbed a couple of empty dishes from the table and set them in the sink. He moved back and forth, quietly, and followed his usual routine.
Clean the dishes, eat leftovers if there were any, and wipe the table. Dry the dishes and put them away, clean out the sink from any residue, and wait by the door to the living room. He had it down to a T, experience playing a part in his dutiful actions. There was no food left over, but considering last night, he was not surprised. He would have to make do for the day.
He waited, and waited, and Aunt Petunia came downstairs to look at him. She sniffed and pointed up the stairs, telling him to “freshen up, boy,” because he was going to Mrs. Figg’s place while they were gone. Harry hurried up the stairs, staying out of reach of her and her hands, and went into the bathroom. The water was cold, but it helped wake him up more. He dried his hands and face and stepped out of the room and down the stairs. Aunt Petunia nodded at his appearance, dismissing the oversized rags that were originally Dudley’s, and told him to wait.
After a couple of minutes, everyone else was ready to leave. While Dudley and Vernon got into the car, Aunt Petunia lead Harry to a house down the street. The pristine, copied homes were nearly identical, with yards clean and neat. It was chilly outside, and Harry was grateful to arrive at Mrs. Figg’s home alas. Her home was less tidy, with plants on the verge of growing too much. The bushes were in desperate need of a trim, and she did not have the neat flowers that Aunt Petunia had. Although, that makes sense, as it was nearing winter and the flowers were barely surviving the cold..
A knock on her door, and after a few moments of standing in the cold, the entrance opened. A lady with hair greying from age and a practiced pleasant expression on her face greeted the two.
“Until 5, right?” She asked, looking down at Harry for a couple of seconds before returning her gaze to Petunia.
“Yes, until 5. Thank you so much for watching over Harry, Arabella. We should have you come over for dinner one of these nights if you’d like.”
‘Arabella’ - or, as Harry had to call her, Mrs. Figg - tittered a bit and shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Petunia, but an older lady like myself retires more early than you’d think.”
“If you’re sure, then I’ll head off now. I’ll return this evening to pick him up and pay you for your services.” Aunt Petunia amended, bending her head to show her agreement.
“Have a nice one dear, we’ll be here.” With that, Harry was led inside with a gesture from Mrs. Figg, and Aunt Petunia turned on her heel to head back home.
After a directed request to take off his shoes at the door, he followed after his caregiver, passing by a handful of cats every now and then. With a few more steps and a turn to the right, they were in the living room of the house. It was certainly lived in, too. A deep purple carpet covered most of the floor, nearing a plum-like tone, with cat fur scattered over it. The white, brown, and grey furs hid in the tufts of the rug, and Harry could see a couple of cats resting beside the single couch and loveseat. Photographs laid around the room - on top of side tables, the coffee table, and on the walls. Each photo contained cats, some weird looking with long, long ears and dotted tails, and some more normal breeds. A beautiful tabby sat beside its own photo on the side table, its green eyes watching his movements.
He was taken out of his observations by Mrs. Figg calling out to him, “Come, Harry, sit. I have many more photos for you to look at of my cats!”
Harry nodded, some of his tangled curls getting into his eyes from the action. He sat down on the loveseat next to her, stepping over a lazing grey cat. He stayed still, his back straight and his hands crossed over his lap.
“Oh, none of that dear, relax! I’ll be right back with the album. Little Tibby will keep you company.” She hurried off back into the hallway, presumably to get the photo book. Harry stayed as straight as he had been before she told him to relax and looked at the cats around the room. Which one was Tibby?
Ah, probably the one that is climbing into his lap. Harry looked down at her and moved his hands away from his thighs to beside him. A short-furred cat with bizarre patterns decorating its coat was sitting on his lap, staring at him. Their eyes - deep green with gold speckled throughout - would not look away from him. After a moment, a tense one for Harry and a seemingly normal one for the cat, they stepped forward and scented him. They kept pushing against his chest, rubbing their face against his worn shirt. When he didn’t move to pet them, they meowed and glanced at his hand.
Getting the point the cat was making, Harry carefully brought a hand close to their head, keeping his movement slow and gentle. The cat leaned close to his hand, and he started to pet it. The fur was soft beneath his fingers and he was taken away by the closeness the cat was allowing him. After a few more minutes of petting, they turned around and started kneading on his shorts, preparing to lay down.
“Sorry for the wait, dear, I couldn’t choose between which to bring, so I brought them all!” Mrs. Figg apologised, carrying with her a handful of thick albums and cats clambering after her. She only looked at him after she set them down on the coffee table, and blinked in surprise at the sight before her. “Oh! Tibby seems to really like you. She’s normally a scaredy-cat - get it? - and mean... But, well. If she likes you then there is no reason to move her!”
With that, Mrs. Figg sat next to Harry, keeping only an inch between them so that she can place the topmost album on her lap for him to look through with her. It was the thinnest of the bunch, with a date between two distant years, 1976 to 1987 titling the cover. She opened to the first page and pointed at the top left photo.
“See here, this is Nancy. She’s my baby pumpkin. She died a long while ago, you know, and she was the most loveable cat I’ve ever had. I would lay in bed every night, and she’d come walking into my room, and..” Mrs. Figg continued on for a while like that, describing each cat in every photo. Tibby did not move from his lap, even an hour later when his caregiver took a break to make some tea and biscuits for them to share.
Harry was grateful for the snack and drink, as he was sure he wouldn’t have gotten any food today otherwise. With the Dursleys out for the day, they were likely to stop at a restaurant to dine in and spend time as a family. They wouldn’t have him make dinner, and even then, it’s only sometimes that he’d get leftovers. So, while the biscuit was a bit too salty for his liking, and the tea was too tangy to enjoy, he savoured every last bit. Mrs. Figg only got to show him two of her albums, as at 5 PM sharp, there was a knock at the front door.
“Oh! The time must have slipped by. Let’s bring you to your aunt now, yes?” She stood up without an answer, expecting him to follow. Harry looked down at Tibby, and she seemed to sense that he was leaving, because she meowed quietly to him. She got up from his lap, and rubbed her head against his stomach, before letting him stand. He quickly got up and walked to the front door, putting on his shoes once he arrived. Tibby sat at the doorway of the living room, watching him silently, her tail wrapped around her front paws.
Mrs. Figg opened the door and smiled kindly at his Aunt Petunia. “Good evening, Petunia. Was the outing well?”
“It was nice. Thank you for watching over Harry. He wasn’t a hassle was he?”
“Oh, no, the boy was just the right amount of good! He was very well-behaved. Do have him come around anytime you wish, will you?”
Petunia looked behind Mrs. Figg at the boy, seeing that he was ready to leave. “I will keep that in mind. Thank you again, Arabella.”
Harry stepped outside to stand next to his aunt and nodded at Mrs. Figg. She smiled at him and shooed him on, “Go have some dinner, dear. You’ve had a long day with me.”
With that final goodbye, the two left the less-than-pristine house and walked down the sidewalk to their own house. Each orderly house they passed brought forth more fear for the rest of the week. Harry was meek as he followed behind his aunt, having stepped behind her once they were a good distance from Mrs. Figg’s place—a reminder of his place in her life.
When the tall, white door came into view, and it was opened to welcome Harry to the sight of the long hallway, he felt the familiar dread seep into his bones. He stepped inside after his aunt. He was quick to take off his shoes, which were a wrinkled and worn-down pair of trainers. Standing up again, he looked at Aunt Petunia for instructions. She sniffed at him and pointed to the cupboard, not bothering to say anything. All he did was follow the silent order, open the cupboard, and walk inside. The door was shut promptly behind him, and the lock clicked into place.
Harry sat down on the mattress slowly, trying to stay quiet even when in his room. He brought his back to the wall of the cupboard, finding his throw blanket and draping it over his knees. He rested his head on his knees, arms holding them close. He didn’t bother looking up at his tiny roommates, knowing they’d probably be on partial alert until prey came to their web. The day was full of looking at photo after photo of feline animals, and at the end of it all, he came back to this place.
This house.
This prison.