Harry Potter fanfic--Student Teacher at Hogwarts
by Terri Wells

Chapter Ten - Mad Old Mrs. Figg

July 5, 2001

It was approaching the end of the first week of summer vacation, and at 4 Privet Drive, many brightly-colored flowers were blooming in the Dursley's well-maintained garden. The grass had grown past a quarter of an inch, and the hedges had a few stray twigs that dared to poke past their well-defined lines. Naturally, this meant war, and Petunia Dursley, second-in-command for keeping up appearances at the suburban home, sent her well-worn private out onto the field of battle. So, on the afternoon of July 5th, Harry Potter sat pulling weeds in his aunt's garden while the hot sun blazed down.

Mopping sweat from his brow, the youth known as the Boy Who Lived throughout the wizarding world found himself rather wishing that he hadn't. It wasn't the weed-pulling that made him entertain such thoughts; the task itself wasn't arduous. It would even be pleasant -- if he hadn't already mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedges, washed the car, scrubbed down the kitchen, and vacuumed the living room. His lack of caloric intake also did not make him long for death. His cousin Dudley had come back from Smeltings with a special diet again, and so Harry's Aunt Petunia was making the entire family follow the diet (again). She'd become very concerned, in fact. Dudley had lost enough weight to fit into the largest size Smeltings uniform; however, the medical staff at the school reported that, in their annual examination of her dear Dudders, they had turned up diabetes precursors, hypertension, and high cholesterol.

No, Harry Potter hardly noticed whether he ate or not these days -- a fact that would have been worrying to his family, if they ever noticed him at all. For the Dursleys were the worst sort of Muggles, and would much rather pretend that magic did not exist at all, despite knowing otherwise. They had living proof in their own house, in the person of Harry Potter himself. They did their best to ignore him and his terrible, shameful abnormality...and, for a change, Harry wished he could do the same.

The previous year at Hogwarts had been a short course in hell for Harry, capped with his meeting -- and nearly getting killed by -- the head demon himself, in the guise of Lord Voldemort. Harry had escaped with his life, but others weren't so lucky. Cedric Diggory, for example. The two had both won the Triwizard Tournament, and, by mutual consent, grasped the cup at the same time -- neither one knowing that the cup had been made into a Portkey by one of Lord Voldemort's Deatheaters. The cup transported them both to Voldemort. The Dark Mage, wanting only Harry, killed Diggory with the Avada Kedavra curse. Harry's blood was used in a spell that recreated Voldemort's body; if not for some completely unexpected magic, Harry himself would have died, instead of returning, alive, to Hogwarts, with Diggory's body.

My fault, was all that Harry could think, when he could think again. My fault. My fault that Diggory's dead, my fault that Voldemort's back... In the wizarding world, he had friends he could talk to, and mentors to guide him: Dumbledore, Sirius, Hagrid, Ron, Hermione...but he was not in the wizarding world now. He could never talk to the Dursleys about his problems; he didn't think Ron or Hermione would understand; Hagrid would no doubt be off on that important mission for Dumbledore already; Dumbledore himself was busy planning the response to Voldemort's return; and he didn't dare contact Sirius. His godfather was still on the run from the law, and Harry's snowy owl Hedwig was too noticeable; besides, he, too, was on a mission for Dumbledore.

The first few days back he had taken out his frustrations by taunting his cousin Dudley and running away while the whale-sized boy lumbered after him, hopelessly behind; when his aunt yelled at him to stop, he claimed that all he was doing was trying to help by getting Dudley to exercise. Surprisingly, he got away with the ploy, and was given free rein so long as he did not overtax his cousin. But the novelty of that had worn off more quickly than Harry would have thought possible. Now, sitting in the garden, even the weeds he pulled reminded him too much of the maze, where he and Cedric...My fault. My fault. The thought repeated itself with every weed he pulled, and though he did not will it, he could not stop it, either.

So focused was Harry on his task and his self-torture that he failed to notice when a visitor knocked on the Dursley's door. After a moment, however, he did hear the door opening and his cousin's voice. "Oh, hullo Mrs. Figg," he said. Harry finally looked up at those words. Sure enough, there she was, mad old Mrs. Figg, standing on the step. She didn't look mad at the moment, though. She wore a white straw hat over her gray hair, which was put up in a neat bun that painfully reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall. Her silky lavendar blouse provided a perfect contrast to her white linen summer suit. Looking at this immaculate senior citizen, no one would ever guess that her house always smelled of cabbages, or that she kept no fewer than five large photo albums containing pictures of all the cats that she had ever owned. Harry knew both of these facts from personal experience; she babysat him every year when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon took Dudley out for his birthday.

"Ummmm...it's not my birthday, Mrs. Figg," Dudley ventured hesitantly, clearly confused at seeing her at the door more than two weeks earlier than he'd expected.

"Oh, I know that, dear," Mrs. Figg replied sweetly. "Actually, I came here to ask a little favor of your mother. Is Mrs. Dursley at home?"

"Who is that, Dudley?" came Aunt Petunia's voice from within the house.

"Oh good!" Mrs. Figg smiled -- a somewhat frightening sight to Harry, since the last time he saw her smile was just before offering him the stalest chocolate he had ever tasted. Clearly, the smile did not have the same effect on Dudley or Aunt Petunia. In short order, she was invited in. Aunt Petunia asked Dudley to serve tea (Harry was clearly too grungy, and would not clean up quickly enough -- besides, she wouldn't have one of his kind serving her guests).

The living room looked out onto the front garden, where Harry was still pulling weeds. The large window was slightly ajar, so Harry could easily make out the conversation from his spot on the warm grass. It wasn't exactly eavesdropping, he argued to himself; and at least it distracted him from his feelings of guilt. Strangely, he even began to feel guilty about trying to escape his guilty feelings; he shook his head to clear it, and strained his ears to listen.

"I really can't stay for long -- thank you, Dudley," came Mrs. Figg's voice. "I was wondering if I might impose on you for a little favor."

"Well, you know how we'd love to help a good neighbor like you," replied Aunt Petunia sweetly. Harry rolled his eyes; he knew for a fact that his aunt and uncle never even thought of Mrs. Figg except at Dudley's birthday. "Still, I'm afraid with the way things are right now --" Harry sighed at that; the excuse must have sounded lame even to Petunia's ears. It was certainly vague enough to cover any situation. "-- it would very much depend on the favor."

"Ah." A pause, a sipping noise, a clink of china as cup touched saucer. "If it isn't too much trouble...I'd like to borrow Harry from you today."

"Borrow Harry?" Petunia asked, surprise plain in her voice. "Whatever for?"

"Oh, you see, I was walking by, and I couldn't help noticing what a good job he's doing on your garden. I'm afraid mine is in dire need of tending -- arthritis acting up, you know." Mrs. Figg sighed regretfully.

Harry could picture Aunt Petunia pursing her lips, considering the question. She would be weighing the importance of whatever remaining chores she wanted him to do that day with the importance of staying in Mrs. Figg's good graces -- what if refusing this favor caused Mrs. Figg to refuse to take Harry for Dudley's birthday this year? "Hmm, well...that should be okay, if you get him back early enough. I wouldn't want him to miss dinner, of course." Harry knew that last statement for the false show of "proper" concern that it was. Dudley had swiped his dinner twice since he'd gotten back from Hogwarts, and his aunt hadn't even noticed. Of course, he hadn't bothered protesting at the time, either; it just didn't seem worth it.

"If I keep him too late at my house, I'll gladly feed him dinner. It seems only fair to me. Would that be all right with you?" Mrs. Figg asked. Harry remembered the smell of cabbages at his babysitter's home, and gagged. He took several deep breaths, inhaling the earthy scent of growing plants in the soil mixed with the heady perfume of the flowers, to steady his stomach. He hated cabbage.

"Why yes, that would be fine," Aunt Petunia chirped.

"Splendid. Thank you, Mrs. Dursley." Harry heard her stand up to go, then pause. "Oh, one more thing: my son and daughter-in-law are preparing to celebrate their anniversary on Saturday -- I'm not quite sure what number they're up to, heavens, but they've been together a long time! Anyway, I know they can use a hand with their garden on Friday to get ready, and they begged me to find someone to help...they might have to keep him late, but they'd take good care of him. Would that be possible?"

"Hmmm," said Aunt Petunia. "I might have to check with Vernon about that," she hedged. Harry knew she was again weighing his usefulness to herself in doing chores against the family's general desire to not have him around.

"Oh, funny you should mention checking things," Mrs. Figg said idly. "I'm going to be out one day near the end of this month; I just joined a mah jonng club, thought it would be a good idea to get out of the house once in a while. And I'm afraid I forgot when exactly your son's birthday is! Could you remind me? I'm not sure, but it's possible the club will be meeting that day..."

Harry had to admire Mrs. Figg's ability to go for Aunt Petunia's weakest point, even as he felt disgust at being treated as a piece of property. Before this last year at Hogwarts, he might have protested loudly, using his own ace-in-the-hole for leverage: his godfather, Sirius Black, a full-fledged wizard who was also a convicted mass murderer escaped from prison. Harry had conveniently forgotten to tell his relatives that Sirius was innocent. But now -- now it just seemed like too much effort.

I'm even laboring out in the fields, he thought grumpily, grasping yet another weed. He pulled too hard, and sent clumps of dirt flying onto his too-big hand-me-down jeans. Sighing, he brushed off the dirt and mopped more sweat from his forehead, depositing dirt near his lightning-shaped scar. At least THAT hasn't been a pain lately, he reflected, remembering how it would hurt whenever Voldemort was near...and how just this year it also began to hurt whenever the dark wizard was in a particularly murderous mood. Sometimes the pain woke him out of a nightmare...but so far, he had had no pain since he returned. Nightmares, on the other hand...

"Dudley's birthday is July 24th," Petunia responded. "That's a Tuesday, if that helps." She paused; Harry supposed she was feigning consideration of Mrs. Figg's request. "You know, I think it'll be all right with Vernon -- they're your family, after all, I'm sure they're good people. I'll talk with him tonight, but I'm sure there won't be any problems."

"Thank you so much!" exclaimed Mrs. Figg.

A moment later he heard Aunt Petunia call to him from the front door. "Harry! Are you done with the garden yet?"

"Almost," Harry replied, pulling yet another weed.

"Well, hurry up, will you? Mrs. Figg needs some help with her garden today, and I told her you'd be glad to help."

No you didn't, thought Harry, but all he said was, "Yes, Aunt Petunia."

"And watch your tone!" his aunt added.

Quickly pulling the last of the weeds that he could find, Harry brushed off his sore hands on his pants, tied off the weed-filled trash bag, and stood up. Mrs. Figg smiled. "Come with me, Harry," she said. Harry meekly followed. Please, not cabbage, he thought, and not chocolate, either. His mind perversely formed an image of chocolate-covered cabbage, and he swallowed hard to keep from gagging.

In less than ten minutes, they arrived at Mrs. Figg's house. Harry started to move toward her flower garden at the front of the house, but she stopped him. "Those can wait," she said, slipping a key from the pocket of her suit coat. "It's my back garden that really needs help."

Harry walked with her to the side of the house, where she turned the key in a padlock on a seven-foot whitewashed wooden privacy fence. The chain that the lock was holding in place clattered free, and Mrs. Figg opened the gate and gestured for Harry to proceed her inside.

The mingled herbal aroma hit him before he came all the way in. Harry didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. Only one tree stood in the garden, providing shade for one of six raised plant beds. The terra cotta colored beds, each six feet square, sat in three rows of two, with space to walk around and in between each bed. All of them had a sort of built-in bench all the way around; with that seating, even someone as short as Harry could reach every part of each bed by leaning in. Several of the plants were in bloom; of those that weren't, well, Harry didn't think he'd seen so many different shades of green in his life outside of Herbology at Hogwarts. A gentle breeze rustled through the plants, bringing more scent to his nose. Something about the garden made him feel strangely homesick...not for the Dursleys, of course, but for Hogwarts.

"Now I know your Aunt Petunia grows ornamental flowers, not herbs," Mrs. Figg was saying; was it his imagination, or did he hear a note of contempt in the elderly woman's voice? "So let me show you the first bed, and help you tell the difference between a weed and the plants I want to keep. `One man's weed is another man's flower,' as they say." She quickly pointed out the St. John's Wort, catnip ("Good for a bedtime tea, though my cats have other ideas"), and other plants, as well as what to pull. "Now just pull the weeds and leave them on the bench as you go around the planter, and I'll check on you in half an hour or so. Okay?" Mrs. Figg leaned towards Harry with a look of concern on her face. Harry blinked hard a few times, and nodded; he didn't dare speak. This was too much like Herbology at Hogwarts.

Mrs. Figg frowned, and looked thoughtfully at Harry's face for a moment. Then she sighed, shook her head, turned, and went in the back door to her house. Harry turned to the task at hand. At least for a few hours he wouldn't have his Aunt Petunia leaning over him with an ever-increasing list of chores, or his cousin Dudley trying to bully him and wind him up, or his Uncle Vernon exploding at any sign of his "abnormality." He smiled briefly at that image -- his Uncle Vernon literally exploding -- but shook it off. He was an underage wizard, after all, and not allowed to practice magic away from Hogwarts. The Ministry of Magic had already sent him a warning notice once, just before his second year at Hogwarts, for a hover charm performed at his home that wasn't even his fault. Getting some time away from my relatives might even be worth cabbage for dinner, he thought.

Sadly, that was one of only a very few pleasant thoughts to engross him during the time he pulled weeds. The change of scenery did not prevent him from obsessing about what had happened at Hogwarts; quite the opposite. He found himself wondering about the wizard world. Even though he'd only been away from it for just under a week, he knew things could move quickly. What was Dumbledore planning to do to defeat Voldemort? What help could he rally? And more gloomily, how many lives would be lost because of Fudge's lack of belief that Voldemort had risen again?

Harry thought back to a photo snapped by Colin Creevy, of his best friend Ron Weasley with his arms around Harry and his other best friend, Hermione Granger. Hesitantly, without his willing it, his hand touched the spot on his cheek where Hermione had kissed him after they left the Hogwarts Express to rejoin their families. Hermione was Muggle-born -- and Voldemort's Death Eaters killed Muggles for sport; they weren't exactly fond of Muggle-born witches and wizards, either. Colin Creevy, too, was Muggle-born. Ron and his entire family, though pureblood, were what Harry's arch enemy derisively called "Muggle lovers." How many of these people would die because of Voldemort's return? Because of Harry?

My fault. So focused was he on this thought that he didn't hear the back door open, and jumped when Mrs. Figg called his name. "Sorry, dear," she said, and that same look of concern returned. Harry noticed that she'd changed from her suit to a loose-fitting sun dress. The thin shoulder straps and the dark indigo color did not suit her. "You've been working so hard, why don't you come in for some lemonade? I've also got some cookies baking..."

Somewhat reluctantly, Harry stood up and followed Mrs. Figg inside. It's hard to mess up lemonade, Harry thought, and her cookies CAN'T be worse than Hagrid's rock cakes -- can they? As he inhaled the warm doughy smell of cookies -- chocolate chip, and clearly NOT burning yet -- Harry allowed himself to hope just a little bit.

All thoughts of cookies, lemonade, rock cakes, and even Hagrid were driven out of Harry's mind when he saw who was sitting in Mrs. Figg's kitchen. "SIRIUS!" he cried. Even though he had seen his godfather less than three weeks ago, Harry threw aside any pretense at dignity and rushed over to embrace him.

"Ouch!" Sirius grinned, but pulled back and winced. "Sorry, my ribs are still a bit sore."

Harry pulled back and actually looked at him. What he saw made him gasp. Sirius's face was bruised, his lower lip was split, his nose looked as if it might have been broken..."What happened?" He asked.

In reply, Sirius glared at a spot over Harry's shoulder. "Arabella happened," he said.

Harry turned, but all he saw was Mrs. Figg. Surely Sirius was not talking about Harry's elderly babysitter! Mrs. Figg simply smiled as she reached up into one of her sea-green kitchen cabinets for some glasses. "What did you expect? When a dangerous escaped criminal goes to the house of a poor defenseless old woman..."

Sirius snorted. "If you're a poor defenseless old woman, I'm Celestina Warbeck." He leaned forward, and squinted at Mrs. Figg. "And unless I miss my guess, you're about to prove my point."

Mrs Figg placed three glasses on the battered wooden table next to Harry and Sirius. Harry noticed just then that her hands were darkening...and straightening...and growing less wrinkled. "It's about time he knew," she said, retrieving a pitcher of lemonade from the clean white refrigerator. "Even Albus thought so." Her voice deepened, so that by the time she said the last word, it had gone from a high old lady's voice to a rich contralto. When she turned back to the table with the pitcher, the Mrs. Figg Harry thought he knew was gone. In her place stood an attractive black woman, with close-cropped hair and an athletic build that reminded Harry of Angelina Johnson.

"Who are you?" he asked, goggling at the change. "And what have you done with Mrs. Figg?"

The woman laughed -- and so did Sirius. "Oh dear," she said, and began filling the glasses. "Harry, I am Mrs. Figg."

"You mean you're one of them," came another voice -- an old lady voice. This was quickly followed by the entrance of a woman who looked exactly like Mrs. Figg -- the elderly Mrs. Figg. Just then a buzzer went off on the stove, and the elderly woman retrieved a pair of oven mitts and opened the oven. The aroma of just-baked-to-perfection chocolate chip cookies became overwhelming.

Harry looked at the two women in bemusement, but even the cookies couldn't completely distract him from what he'd just seen. "Just how many Mrs. Figgs are there?" he asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

"Oh, just us two -- now," said the older woman grumpily. She took out two cookie sheets full of cookies and placed them on wire racks on the counter next to the stove to cool. As she did, she muttered a few words that Harry was sure would not meet with approval from Mrs. Weasley. "There were three, but thanks to He-Who-Must-Be-Drawn-And-Quartered..." she continued angrily.

"Nana, your heart --" the younger woman interrupted.

"What about it?!" The older woman turned on the younger one, stripped off her oven mitts and all but tossed them away. "It'd be one more death they could lay at his doorstep...and if what we're hearing from Albus can be believed, I might not have much to live for anyway."

"Don't talk like that!" the younger woman exclaimed.

"Would somebody please tell me what's going on!" Harry cut in. Both women jumped, turned to look at Harry, then each other. Then, most disconcertingly, they giggled. Oy, do they ever OUTGROW that? Harry wondered.

"Allow me to perform the appropriate introductions," said Sirius grandly. Pointing to the black woman, he continued, "This is Arabella Figg, an old schoolmate of mine and widow to one Samuel Figg. And this," he continued, pointing to the elderly lady, "is Victoria Figg, widow of Oscar Figg and grandmother of Samuel Figg. Does that help?"

"Only a little," said Harry. His head was still swimming. He knew that Arabella must have used Polyjuice Potion to look like her -- grandmother-in-law? -- and apparently did so with Victoria's consent. The only thing missing was..."Why?"

"Why, he asks?" The elder Mrs. Figg cackled. "Because you're the Boy Who Lived, of course. And you're also the Lad Who Lives -- and we want to keep it that way."

As the older woman retrieved her own glass and filled it with lemonade, Arabella sat down at the table and gave Harry a serious look. "I know the headmaster hasn't gone into a lot of detail about this with you," she said, "but he's put all sorts of protections into place --"

"I know," said Harry, a tinge of irritation creeping into his voice. For all the good it's done me -- and it certainly hasn't helped anyone around me, he thought, remembering Cedric.

"Harry, mind your manners," Sirius reprimanded gently. Pointing to Arabella, he continued, quot;You're talking to one of those protections right now."

"It's okay," said Arabella. Giving Sirius a mischievous look, she added, "I remember what you were like at his age. How would you have felt if you knew everyone was putting all these precautions into place, cramping your style?"

Harry drank some lemonade to cover up his embarassment. He remembered his third year, when then-Professor Lupin reprimanded him for dodging the safeguards that had been put into place to protect him -- but had also restricted Harry more than any of the other third-year students. It was a betrayal of trust -- and Lupin felt it most keenly, because he himself had done something similar when he had been a student at Hogwarts.

Sirius sighed. "I'd've found a way around it," he confessed. "Or ignored it." His smile returned. "Of course, my dear Bella, that's why you're here." Turning to Harry, he continued, "Arabella Figg is a Guardian. That's a special kind of Auror -- "

The elder Mrs. Figg snorted. "Oh sure, like Albus Dumbledore is a special kind of wizard," she muttered.

Arabella did a spit take. "Give him a break, Nana, he never made it all the way through the training." Turning to Harry, she picked up the thread of the explanation. "Only the best Aurors can become Guardians. After completing Auror training, a Guardian gets additional training, and is expected to keep all of her skills in top form. But we're very different from Aurors. Aurors track down malefactors. Guardians...guard. Sometimes things, but usually people. We're trained to do whatever it takes to keep our charge alive and well -- or from harming himself or others." Arabella sighed. "I've been your Guardian for fourteen years now, Harry."

Harry looked from both Mrs. Figgs to Sirius and back again. He sighed, and shook his head. He thought he'd become used to strange surprises; after four years at Hogwarts, he supposed he should be. But it still startled him when these surprises invaded what he thought of as the Muggle world -- a world that, in his experience, mostly did not change. Mrs. Figg had always been Mrs. Figg, and if she was a mad old woman, and he didn't like visiting her, at least he knew who and what she was. Or so he'd thought. The revelation that Mrs. Figg was not a Muggle, but a witch, and not even an ordinary witch, but his own Guardian angel...this was too much. He put down his lemonade and frowned. "Are there any other shocking things I need to know?" he asked.

Just then the phone rang. The elder Mrs. Figg went over to the counter and picked up the white handset. "Hello? Oh, hello, Albus!" Harry's ears perked up at the first name of his headmaster. "Well of course she's here, it's summer vacation...who else? Harry and Sirius...yes, he told us all about it -- lucky thing he got it out before Bella got done with him...oh, don't worry so much, it's nothing we can't fix...Sure, I'll put her on." Turning to Arabella, Mrs. Figg covered the receiver and said, "Albus wants a few words with you. It sounds serious."

Arabella raised her eyebrows. "It probably is. He doesn't call very often." She stood up and took the handset.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Since what Arabella did to me is `nothing you can't fix'..." he began.

Mrs. Figg grinned. "Yes, I think you've been hurting long enough to reconsider the way you showed up here." She withdrew a wand from her apron and used it to touch Sirius' face. All the bruises disappeared. She touched his split lip, and it mended instantly. She mended his nose the same way. "You'll have to undress for me to get the rest of it -- like that ache in your ribs," she explained.

"They're WHAT?" said Arabella, talking into the phone. "Already?" She muttered a word Harry knew Mrs. Weasley would not approve, then sighed. "We'll have to check what Harry's received since he came back from Hogwarts, then...Oh?...You want me to WHAT?!" Arabella shook her head in disbelief. "All due respect, Professor, you're joking, right? Right?...You're not joking." There was a long pause, during which Arabella looked thoughtfully over at Harry. "I figured that would be part of it, yes, but Hogwarts is..." Another long pause. "Oh. Of course." She slapped her forehead. "I hadn't thought of that...no, that has nothing to do with it, Albus, you know me better than that. It's just been a long time since I've done anything like that...Really?...Good, I'll have somebody to ask for help...Him too? Ho, two somebodies then!...Oh, it will be, Professor...bye." She hung up, took a deep breath, and turned to face three pairs of eyes. "Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

"Are you sure you know which is which?" asked Mrs. Figg.

Arabella laughed. "You're way too perceptive for my own good, Nana. Harry..." She faced the teen-age wizard with concern on her face. "Professor Dumbledore said that they're already starting to see owls getting intercepted. This is NOT good. Um...have you received anything from anyone by owl since you got home?"

"Just a letter from Ron saying that we'll be having a new Potions instructor." Harry couldn't help smiling at the memory.

Arabella and Sirius frowned. "Do you still have the letter?" Sirius asked.

Harry laughed. "Did you think I'd let go of something like that? I had to keep it, just to make sure it was real." He'd thought Fred and George were playing a prank on him at first, but it wasn't really their style. Besides, given the way they looked after he made them take his Triwizard winnings, he figured they wouldn't play any jokes on him for at least a couple of weeks.

Arabella nodded. "We'll have to check it, see if anyone got to it before you did," she said. "If the wrong person saw it..."

Harry gave her an annoyed look. "Ron didn't say anything about it being confidential information!" he insisted.

"And it probably isn't," Sirius agreed. "But if it was intercepted, we'd know that Voldemort -- or, more likely, one of his Death Eaters -- is watching and reading whatever mail arrives for you. We can use that information."

"What, to make sure nobody tells me anything important?" Harry asked. He was liking this less and less.

"No," Sirius explained. "Actually, we could set up some kind of code for that..." He smiled wickedly. "Or even use it to feed them disinformation..."

Harry's eyebrows rose. He hadn't thought of those possibilities. Suddenly, he felt as if he'd gone from overprotected to the center of the loop. He wasn't sure he liked this either, but it was better than being coddled. "Um, you said there was good news and bad news," he said to Arabella. "What's the good news?"

"Oh." She grinned. "Actually, depending on your point of view, this might be the bad news. Damn Albus for being so persuasive!"

Sirius laughed. "Don't feel bad, Bella; he'll talk me into something even worse, no doubt."

"No doubt," Arabella agreed, eyes twinkling. Turning to Harry, she said, "I'm your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Harry stared at her. He had just learned, within the space of less than an hour, that his babysitter for 14 years was not the person he thought she was; that she was in fact a witch, not a Muggle, and had been guarding him all those years; and now, to top it off, that she was going to be his DADA teacher next term. On top of everything else that had happened within the past couple of weeks or so, that was just too much. "Oh, that's nice," he said dully.

Sirius and Arabella exchanged a concerned look. "Harry..." Sirius put his hand gently on his godson's shoulder. "Let's -- let's go into the living room for a bit, okay?"

"Okay," said Harry, in the same dull voice. The two got up and went to the living room; Arabella and Mrs. Figg did not follow.

Harry let himself drop onto the cat-scratched flower-print sofa, exhausted from garden work and from trying to sort things out. Though he'd been out of touch with the wizarding world for nearly a week, in some ways it felt as though he hadn't left; he hadn't stopped thinking about it, about what happened. About Cedric, and Voldemort, and everyone he cared about...and now there were new curves to deal with. Didn't it ever stop? Unthinking, he put his head in his hands.

"Harry." His godfather's voice cut through his thoughts. Harry raised his head. "Look at me, please. " It was a gentle request. Harry turned to look at Sirius, sitting next to him on the sofa. For a few moments, Sirius just gazed at Harry, his dark eyes looking for...what? Finally, he broke eye contact, and sighed. "I haven't been there for you as much as either of us would like, but I'm here now. And what I see..." He looked at Harry again. "You haven't been sleeping or eating much in the past few days, unless I miss my guess. He reached out and took his godson's hand. "Talk to me, Harry. Please."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. When they finally did, it wasn't a protest, it was a plea. "I can't sleep," he whispered. "I have nightmares. Not like...not like the other nightmares. I see Voldemort...and Cedric...alive, and dead, and after he came out of the wand...and Cho crying... and Moody, I mean Crouch as Moody...and..." He swallowed, and blinked hard. "And it's all my fault," he finished, barely audible now.

"Harry, listen to me." Sirius squeezed Harry's hand so hard it almost hurt. "Cedric's death was NOT your fault. There was NOTHING you could have done to prevent it. Do you understand me? Crouch fooled Professor Dumbledore, there's no way you could have known the Triwizard Cup had been turned into a Portkey --"

"There must have been something!" Harry cut in. This was too much. His father and mother had died because of him, Wormtail escaped to raise Voldemort because of him, Cedric died because of him...the sob that had been threatening to escape him ever since Mrs. Weasley had held him in the Hogwarts infirmary clogged up his throat again. No, please, not now... Harry thought, but the next thing he knew Sirius was holding him in his arms, his body wracked with sobs. I'm too big to be crying, Harry thought stubbornly, but couldn't make himself stop.

"Get it out, Harry," Sirius said softly. "Bottling it up will only make it worse." He stroked Harry's back, soothing him until the tears ran their course.

When Harry finished crying, he pulled back from his godfather, afraid to meet his eyes. It was the first time Harry had ever cried in front of anyone else, and it frightened him. He'd be turning 15 soon; boys weren't supposed to cry -- certainly not boys his age. He'd faced so much without crying already; was he losing his mind?

Sirius put his hand under Harry's chin and turned his head to face him. Harry did not see disapproval in his godfather's face...only concern and -- understanding? Sirius nodded, as if reading Harry's thoughts. "I know what you're going through. I've been there myself." He sighed. "I know it's going to be some time before you believe this, but it's true: Cedric's death was NOT your fault. And you're probably blaming yourself for a whole lot of other things that weren't your fault, either." For a moment, Harry saw the haunted look return to his godfather's eyes.

"If it's not my fault, why does it keep looking like my fault? Why can't I get it out of my mind?!" Harry swallowed hard as another sob threatened to emerge. "I tried to distract myself with schoolwork...that didn't work. I couldn't concentrate. Couldn't even distract myself with all the chores I get." He'd tried not to think about what was going on with himself, but he couldn't lie to Sirius...and seeing it all out in the open was beginning to scare him.

Sirius took a deep breath. "I'm glad it's not worse," he said softly, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I think Dumbledore did the right thing in getting you to tell us what happened as soon as possible." He looked in Harry's eyes for a moment, as if to make certain he had his full attention. "Harry, there's a name for what you're going through. Dumbledore called it `battle fatigue.' Muggles today call it `post traumatic stress disorder.' Do you understand?"

Harry nodded. "I'm going nutters, right?"

"Wrong." Sirius gave Harry a stern look. "You're responding to what you went through in the only way you knew how...holding yourself together as long as possible. But when you do that, there's a price to pay later. You are not nutters, and you are not going nutters, is that clear?"

"So why do I feel like I'm going nutters?"

"I know that's what it feels like, Harry, but please trust me: I've seen nutters. I've BEEN nutters, or close to it. You're not it." Sirius sighed again. "Fortunately, there is something we can do to make you feel better. Several somethings, actually." He glanced toward the kitchen, then back to Harry. "When Arabella told you that Guardians are trained to keep their charges alive and well, she wasn't kidding. She can brew you something to help you sleep and calm those repeating thoughts."

"Really? I'd like that," said Harry eagerly. If he had a Guardian, he figured he might as well make use of her -- and he was tired of not feeling like himself.

"As to the other something --" Sirius smiled. "How would you like to go to a little party tomorrow night?"

"A party?" asked Harry. He gave his godfather a puzzled look. "What sort of party?"

"Oh, it's just a little thing...don't worry, you know everyone who's going to be there," Sirius explained. He could barely hide his smile as he added, "It's just a little going-away party for Hagrid before he heads out on a job for Dumbledore--"

"Hagrid hasn't left for that yet?!" asked Harry. He remembered the sense of urgency that had possessed his headmaster about sending an emmissary to the giants -- and, even though Hagrid stubbornly refused to say what mission Dumbledore had assigned him, neither Harry nor either of his two best friends could think of anything more appropriate. Hermione had even hypothesized that Hagrid's very status as a half-giant would point out to the giants how well they could be accepted among wizards.

Sirius shrugged, and shifted his seat on the couch. "Madame Maxime agreed to go along with him -- but she had to deal with some business as headmistress at Beauxbatons before she could leave," he explained. "She has a deputy, but since she doesn't know when she'll be back, she had to make sure the school could run without her for several months."

Harry's face fell. If Madame Maxime thought she'd be gone for several months...then so would Hagrid. The gentle giant had been his first friend in the wizarding world, and Harry often looked forward to an afternoon visiting Hagrid's hut -- and right now, Harry even missed Hagrid's rock cakes. For a second, he thought he could even smell them...but no, they never smelled that good...

"Here you are," said the elder Mrs. Figg, walking into the room carrying a tray which held a plate full of chocolate chip cookies and four glasses of lemonade. She placed the tray on the glass-topped walnut coffee table, then distributed coasters and lemonade as Arabella came in.

Harry took a cookie, and, remembering the chocolate he had previously received from Mrs. Figg, bit into it cautiously. It tasted as good as it smelled. He couldn't hide a surprised look, and both women laughed. "Humph," said Mrs. Figg. "I knew I should never have let you cook!" she exclaimed to Arabella. "Young'uns...honestly..." she muttered.

Arabella rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to her, Harry," she said. "The chocolate you've eaten here before was her idea."

Harry paused in mid-chew. "You did that deliberately?" he got out.

"Of course," Arabella said. It was the same tone of voice that Hermione used when pointing out something obvious...but somehow it sounded less offensive coming from his Guardian. "Nana and I knew that your uncle, especially, would never want you coming over here if you actually enjoyed yourself, so we came up with some, hmm, harmless annoying habits."

"Like the cat albums," Harry observed, suddenly understanding.

Arabella nodded, while Mrs. Figg glared. "I still say they're wonderful cat pictures, even if they are Muggle photos," she muttered, settling onto an overstuffed armchair and drinking her lemonade in indignation.

Harry turned from the two Mrs. Figgs to Sirius. "I'd love to see Hagrid again," he said, "but how are you going to arrange it?"

"Easy as alohomora," Sirius grinned. "Remus is renting a car, and he and I will just show up on your doorstep tomorrow morning as the married couple having an anniversary that our dear Arabella told your aunt about."

"You and Remus -- married!?" Harry laughed, then shook his head. "There's no way my aunt and uncle will buy that."

"You mean not yet, there isn't," Arabella laughed, grinning wickedly.

Sirius rolled his eyes, a resigned look on his face. "You just can't wait to get your hands on me, can you?" he sighed.

"And Remus, too," Arabella pointed out. "We'll have to age him if he's going to pass as Nana's son."

Sirius friends turned to Harry, who was looking from his godfather to his Guardian in puzzlement. "Guardians are supposed to be jacks-of-all-trades," he explained. "Whatever it takes to protect their charge. That can involve anything -- including disguise. And medicine," he added, with a quick, meaningful look at Arabella and Mrs. Figg.

Mrs. Figg looked at Harry, and frowned. "Shell shock," she said softly. "Albus thought as much." Her expression cleared, and she stood up. "I can mix something up for you that should help--"

"I can take care of that, Nana," Arabella put in, but Mrs. Figg waved a dismissive hand at her granddaughter by marriage.

"I was brewing this stuff when your mum was in diapers; you can chat with our guests!" So saying, she huffily left the room.

Arabella flopped into the overstuffed armchair that Mrs. Figg had vacated, and rolled her eyes. Looking to Sirius, she said softly, "Count your blessings you don't have to deal with this. She keeps trying to prove she's still useful."

Harry drank some lemonade, hesitant to make any comment. He thought Mrs. Figg must be considerably younger than Professor Dumbledore, and the headmaster was still quite spry. Well, most of the time, Harry amended, remembering the flashes of tiredness and age that he'd seen in Dumbledore last school year. Perhaps it had to do with how strong the wizardly blood ran in the family.

"Let her still be useful," Sirius replied, equally softly. "At least she's still around." As Sirius bit into a chocolate chip cookie, Arabella gave him a startled, apologetic look, as if she had just put her foot in her mouth. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sirius held up his hand. "I've had a long time to mourn my losses," he continued. "I'd rather dwell on what I still have." He smiled at Harry. Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh! Speaking of losses and gains," he said, "another reason you'll want to make the party is...well, I probably shouldn't tell you everything, but a very old injustice -- and a very old loss -- will be righted at the party."

"Your name will be cleared?" asked Harry excitedly.

Sirius shook his head. "Older than that -- much older than that. I'm looking forward to seeing it myself."

With that as temptation, how could Harry say no? Even without that, Harry would have been glad to get away from his relatives, even if only for overnight. Almost before Harry knew it, it was dinnertime. Mrs. Figg served a simple meal of beef stroganoff over noodles, fresh salad garnished with herbs from the garden, and cooked peas and carrots. Harry was delighted that there was no cabbage in sight. While they ate, Harry asked Arabella all sorts of questions about Guardians; his mood had improved somewhat, and with it, his old curiosity had returned. So, for that matter, had his appetite, which Mrs. Figg noted with a nod of approval.

"The Guardians go back to before I was born," Arabella explained. "They come under the jurisdiction of both the Department of Mysteries and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement -- but those two don't share well." She shrugged, as if it was a point of no consequence. "Nana told me they were created to deal with Grindelwald, and then stayed around, almost dormant, until You-know-who showed up."

"So you had a lot of guard duty then?" Harry asked, taking some beef and noodles into his mouth.

"I'd just finished my own training not long after you were born, so mostly I've just had you to protect." Arabella said, smiling, "but my sister and brother Guardians had their hands full."

Mrs. Figg snorted. "Listen to her -- `just' had the Boy Who Lived to protect! Honestly..." she shook her head.

"Well, I was one of the lucky ones," Arabella insisted. "I got a new assignment when so many of the others lost theirs."

"Lost theirs? You mean when Voldemort...disappeared --"

"Not long before, actually," said Arabella, and Harry heard a bitter note creeping into her voice. "The Ministry of Magic, in its infinite wisdom, decided that the Guardians were getting too expensive. We'd been fighting Voldemort for a decade or so, after all, and it was a costly battle. So, rather than having well-trained Guardians -- who require such costly things as a salary -- watching over the prisoners in Azkaban, Cornelius Fudge fired the lot --"

"And replaced them with dementors," said Harry, seeing where this was going.

"Got it in one," said Arabella. "Eventually, he also ended the training program." She sighed. "I've kept in touch with some of my fellow Guardians. As far as I know, though, I'm the last one that's employed as a Guardian."

At the end of the evening, Mrs. Figg gave Harry a jar filled with a dark-colored liquid. "Two tablespoons at bedtime, every day," she told him, and handed him a measuring spoon as well. "You'll probably want to dilute it in a glass of water, but if you do, you have to drink all the water." Harry nodded. As Sirius walked him to the door, he reminded his godson to bring the letter he'd received from Ron when he and Remus came to pick him up the next day, so it could be checked to see if it had been tampered with. The older Mrs. Figg escorted Harry back to the Dursleys, with Sirius following them just out of sight. His relatives made hardly any fuss when he showed up that evening; just the usual yelling, which he had learned to ignore. They did not see the jar or the spoon, because Harry hid them under his too-big hand-me-down shirt.

Upstairs in his room, he closed the door and gagged down the medicine without bothering with water. Almost at once, he felt relaxed, as if something that had been pressing on his thoughts had been lifted. As he laid down to go to sleep, he found himself looking forward to the next day for the first time in more than a week and a half.