Five
The War Museum
The sign over the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place read simply: “War Museum”. Next to the doorknob, a small plague announced that it had been donated by Harry James Potter and the Estate of Sirius Black.
Not that any of that was visible to passersby. Despite all the debates which had raged recently about the abolishment of the Statute of Secrecy, the Ministry was not certain the Muggle world was ready to embrace the wizards who had been living amongst them. Better that wizards set their sights on correcting the injustices within their own society before inviting more trouble was the prevailing argument. A viewpoint which was often fostered by those who protested any changes to make the wizarding community more equitable for all magical creatures.
So the museum curators had been designated as the Secret-Keepers of the Fidelius Charm protecting the former headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix from public view. Admittance was only by way of tickets distributed by the Ministry or through one of the wizarding travel agencies which had sprung up throughout Britain and other countries in the wake of Voldemort’s defeat. Each ticket had to be hand-lettered with the address by one of the curators to allow the premises to be seen by visitors. They soon learned to issue only one ticket to large groups to enable one of the curators to be at the gate at the appointed hour. It was the surest way to guarantee that those at the back of the queue would not be left gaping on the sidewalk as the rest of their party disappeared before their eyes.
It was a job that Arabella Figg had taken to from the start. She had been lucky enough to secure a small house adjoining the narrow backyard of number twelve so her cats could lounge in comfort. She had merely to walk the twenty paces from her backdoor, turn the key in a gate which no one else could see, and she was at work. She had always enjoyed meeting new people and this job was ideally suited to that.
Unlike Mrs. Figg who was in charge of admissions and tours, the second curator handled the exhibits themselves, a truly demanding task in the case of a civil war which had been fought covertly. Just how much should be revealed about the heroes who wanted nothing more than to return anonymously to their ordinary lives? Yet some sort of memorial was necessary. To not acknowledge what had been accomplished by the small band of freedom fighters would just make it easier for another despot to take power. That was perhaps the only thing which had everyone in agreement
It was a constant tightrope to be walked, though, often allowing the people who were being honored to be the final arbiters of a given display. The constant diplomacy and tact required made it an ideal post for the unique talents of Luna Lovegood. Although she often worked long hours when the museum was closed to the public, she reveled in the flexibility of her schedule. Her boyfriend’s employer required him to travel abroad on a regular basis, but Luna could always adjust her work hours to spend the maximum time with him when he returned to British soil.
Luna displayed an instinctive knack for the delicacy required. Take the section devoted to those who had served as wartime spies. There were no traitors, just double agents; pitting the likes of Peter Pettigrew with those of Severus Snape. Moles who had infiltrated unfriendly territory included Percy Weasley and Dolores Umbridge.
It had been more difficult to ignore the pleas of anonymity from those members of the Order of the Phoenix who had been awarded Orders of Merlin by the Minister himself. After the unavoidable public ceremony that pinning the medals entailed, many just wished to return to the course of their private lives. Harry himself had dwelled far too long in the spotlight and just wanted to be left alone.
Between his natural modesty and the uncertain status of werewolves, Remus had begged to remain in the background as much as possible. Honoring his concerns as valid, Luna’s display had simply mentioned that although he had not been present at the final confrontation with Voldemort, Remus had been instrumental in luring one of the enemy’s chief lieutenants to an undisclosed site, allowing the others to attack unimpeded. After mentioning how his unsurpassed foreign language skills had aided with the translation of classified communications, the verbiage concluded with the words that Mr. Lupin continued to pursue a career in education. Much to the relief of the Ministry, no mention was made of the werewolf encampments and the role Remus had played with that. Not that Luna’s objective had been to placate the Ministry; her primary goal was to honor Remus’ request that he be treated just like everyone else.
“I know it’s perplexing to anyone who has not walked a mile in my boots, but the fact that I’m a werewolf is irrelevant,” Remus had confided to her. “It does not make me more heroic in the eyes of others who will stop to consider what obstacles I’ve had to overcome. Quite the contrary. It will lead them to conclude that the Order was directed by a chained monster in the shadow of Dumbledore’s demise.”
“No one who knows you would think that, Remus,” Luna mollified, her slightly protuberant eyes conveying the sensation that she saw things so much more clearly than most.
Instinctively, the diplomat in him sought the common ground. “Let’s not forget the museum will be visited by hordes of strangers, then.”
Ever mindful that she was dealing with real, living people and not artifacts, Luna had agreed that to list Remus as a werewolf was tantamount to providing overly personal details.
It was a history not unlike uncovering the layers of an onion, each display often giving rise to another to flesh out all the pertinent details. With a critical eye, she reviewed the wording of her newest exhibit and decided it should rightly be situated near the entrance. Even though such arrangement was not strictly chronological, sometimes it was best to organize things in a way that simply made them easier to understand.
It had all begun with a prophecy: stark in its pronouncement, much more complicated in its interpretation. One child born at the end of July 1980 had the power to destroy the Dark Lord. Born of parents who had outwitted the Dark Lord three times.
But as the appointed date drew near, there were two such families who fit the bill. The Longbottoms, Frank and Alice, a pair of established Aurors with the Ministry of Magic and the Potters, James and Lily, married just out of school and still struggling to establish their place in a world quickly being swallowed up by war. Both couples were active members of the Order of the Phoenix, the underground group which stood steadfastly against Voldemort’s rise to power.
As the month of July drew to a close, Alice Longbottom gave birth to a son, Neville, at approximately 11:30 p.m. on the night of 30 July. Having gone into labor at almost the same moment, Lily Potter gave birth to a son, Harry, in the early morning hours of 31 July. Two sons, both born as the month of July died, their births separated by only a matter of hours.
Not being one to leave any loose strings, Voldemort was determined to eradicate the threat before it grew to manhood. For reasons that have never been made clear, he sent one of his inner circle to locate the Longbottoms and torture them repeatedly with the Cruciatus Curse while not touching a hair on young Neville’s head. The Potters, he killed personally on the night of 31 October as a full moon guided Muggle Halloween revelers in the nearby village of Godric’s Hollow. He would have killed one-year-old Harry, too, had the green light of his Killing Curse not rebounded from the boy's forehead and hit his attacker squarely in the chest instead. Harry was left bereft and abandoned, crying inconsolably for parents who could no longer come to his aid, branded with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
Thus Voldemort fulfilled the portion of the prophecy which stated that he would mark his nemesis as his equal, many argued as the eyes of the wizarding world hailed Harry Potter as their hero. The other boy, Neville Longbottom, could no longer pose a threat to Voldemort, others -- including the venerable Albus Dumbledore “ maintained, as only Harry had been marked.
Not to be swayed by so simplistic an interpretation, Neville weighed in after hearing of the prophecy from Harry himself. He believed that his weekly visits to catatonic parents in the Incurable Patients Ward had scarred him just as deeply on the inside.
Although he did not hold much stock in prophesy himself, Harry was not one to leave anything to chance, either. With that in mind, the final confrontation with Voldemort was executed in tandem by the two seventeen-year-old wizards, each distracting the mighty Dark Lord in turn so the other could attack with impunity.
Luna straightened the edge of the frame one last time before she was satisfied with her morning’s work.
Now all she needed to finish was the display on the moles and double agents. Well, one in particular, if she was perfectly honest with herself. After all, the section on Peter Pettigrew had been easy; he was hardly in a position to object to being portrayed in an unfavorable light. Percy Weasley had been a cinch; his tale of misunderstanding among his family members would strike a cord with everyone who felt friction at home. She’d even managed to inject a note of humor when Percy recounted how difficult it had been to maintain his cover in the midst of a Christmas Day food fight.
The paragraphs on Severus Snape had been more troublesome as she wanted to encapsulate the crisis of conscience which had led him to change paths without betraying too many facts of an overly personal nature. It had proven to be a daunting task; Snape had sacrificed too many things in his life in order to correct his wrongs. To totally omit those was to ignore the profound selflessness which had led the Minister to eventually present the man with an Order of Merlin, third class.
For a man with such a naturally caustic nature, Snape had shown great perseverance in convincing the Order of his true loyalty “ even though he’d resorted to approaching many of them one by one. In retrospect, Luna had concluded that without the full weight of the Order behind him, things might not have turned out so well for the Half-Blood Prince. He had played his duplicitous roles too perfectly and the evidence against him would have been too overwhelming for the war tribunals to dismiss. It was only the eloquence of those who spoke before the Wizengamot on his behalf, coupled with the fervent written testimonials of others who did not feel up to the task of personally addressing such an august assemblage, which had turned the tide in his favor. As Scrimgeour himself had noted for the press, “These were hardly the words of a legal counsel who had made a career of swaying juries in his clients’ favor.”
In the end, Snape himself had come to Luna’s aid and distilled his exploits into the bare bones version she had ultimately used.
“Please don’t think me ungrateful,” Snape himself had commented after reading her preliminary drafts, “but your words are so much more than a scoundrel like me deserves.”
When Luna had made to protest, he reminded her that his fledgling potions business would not be enhanced by her attempts to paint him as a romantic hero. “Political controversy and business seldom mix,” he intoned succinctly. He much preferred to be depicted as an ordinary man who had been pulled into events he could not ignore.
Then there was his position as the newly reinstated Potions Master in the wake of Horace Slughorn’s second (and final) retirement. “I would be inundated with personal questions from day one,” Snape pointed out. “Despite the temptation, I can’t put everyone in detention without my wife complaining that I never come home in the evenings.”
A slightly rakish lift to his otherwise somber eyebrow left Luna thinking that Voldemort’s defeat had been a liberating moment for Snape as well.
A number of hours later, Mrs. Figg found Luna at her worktable in the attic. Despite the pitched ceiling and tall windows which gave the former children’s nursery an airy, uncluttered feeling, it was clear Luna was not finding much inspiration today. Balls of wadded up parchment littered the table as well as the area surrounding the wire dustbin.
“Sorry about the mess,” Luna noted sheepishly as her wand sent the debris to resettle within the dustbin before Mrs. Figg was tempted to bend over to tidy up herself. “Umbridge is proving just as uncooperative as ever.”
“You’re determined not to just gloss over the facts, aren’t you?” Mrs. Figg ventured as she urged Luna to help herself to some sandwiches from the luncheon tray.
“I want to present as unbiased an exhibit as possible,” Luna maintained, the idealism which had led her into the fight against Voldemort still shining in her pale blue eyes.
“Bearing in mind that history is written by the victors…”
Picking up the threads of a familiar topic, Luna added, “I just don’t want to be accused of rewriting it.”
“But, my dear, isn’t that precisely what that Umbridge woman has already done in her recent interviews?”
“Worse than that, she’s accused us of a complete fabrication.”
“Seems rather unfair, don’t you think?” Mrs. Figg noted with dry sarcasm. “She hasn’t even seen a single one of our exhibits.”
Luna laughed despite the seriousness of the situation. “Oh, Figgy,” she cried, “I don’t know how you always manage to ease my frustrations, but somehow you do.”
“Well, my dear, it’s like my mother always used to say: you can rail at the stupidity around you or you can laugh in its face!” She watched Luna noticeably relax as the young woman took a large bite of ham sandwich followed by a long swig of iced Butterbeer. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”
“Nothing really,” Luna admitted. “Just the copies of her Educational Decrees from Hogwarts. Her complicity with Voldemort’s camp has never been documented.”
“Which is why she escaped punishment. Neither of us doubts the evidence Harry unearthed among the Horcruxes he had to destroy.”
“So how do I approach this?” Luna posed. “Bearing in mind that I can’t lead with the most damning evidence of all and she’s sure to raise a hue and cry if she considers any of my words libelous, even though it might be the truth.”
Mrs. Figg took a moment to consider before suggesting, “The worst thing we can do is to omit her from the exhibit. It will be more difficult for her to repudiate the entire war effort as blatant lies if we can establish that she was a participant.”
“Agreed.”
“So let’s begin with those actions which were reported in the Daily Prophet. Start with how she came to be the Ministry’s envoy to Hogwarts. Her mission: to debunk the rumors that Voldemort had indeed returned.”
“Don’t forget how she undermined any attempts for students to learn defensive spells.”
“Did she really, in retrospect?” Mrs. Figg urged with an intense look. “I believe you could easily paint her as the catalyst for Dumbledore’s Army. She galvanized the students to become involved in a way that a less controversial teacher might not have.”
“Surely, that’s not the story you want me to tell!” Luna protested.
“No, I was just making a point about there being more than one way to look at things.”
“Perhaps I should portray her as a bureaucrat sent to do a thankless job for a boss whom she idolized,” Luna volunteered.
“Would that boss be Cornelius Fudge or Lord Voldemort?”
“Both, when you get right down to it!” Luna couldn’t help laughing outright at Mrs. Figg’s devilry.
“Why don’t you tie it in with the section on Fudge’s vain attempts to keep his administration from crumbling. You can still depict her actions are being covert, even though she was just following her boss’ orders -- as she will undoubtedly claim.”
When Mrs. Figg returned an hour later to fetch the tray, Luna had the rudiments of her exhibit falling into place.
“Here, I found this in another file,” Mrs. Figg presented Luna with a letter on Fudge’s personal stationary. “We requested he review the data concerning his tenure for accuracy. He sent this as part of his response.”
“Do you think it might provide the perfect segue?” Luna asked with interest as she scanned the former Minister’s words.
It is regrettable that an administration which did much to benefit wizardkind will ultimately be remembered for its most grievous flaws. As the man in charge, I have no one but myself to blame for my myopic view of the events unfolding in the world around us. It was a short-sightedness buoyed by idealism, not that such is any sort of excuse. We had finally banished the worst among us and our society deserved to live in peaceful coexistence. Was I too stubborn to think that our halcyon days could be numbered? It was a dream for which I was willing to fight, to wager my own reputation for the sake of our mutual happiness.
It was unfortunate that Fate proved me to be so fundamentally wrong-headed. But a man who has done his best and failed can only step down from office draped in the mantle of humility. Disgrace is reserved for those who willfully abused the responsibilities which were thrust upon them “ and that I never did.
There are those who will say that my stubbornness allowed our mutual enemy to obtain an undue advantage and for this I am truly sorry. That the forces of good eventually triumphed is a benefit which I will reap along with everyone else.
I cannot think of a more fitting tribute to your relentless heroism than the War Museum you have planned. Let the private citizenry witness firsthand how their very neighbors took it upon themselves to rid the world of evil. We are all indebted to them for their selfless donations of time, property, and in the most extreme cases, their very lives, so that wizardkind would be liberated in their wake.
With quiet certitude, Mrs. Figg proclaimed, “It takes a certain type of courage to admit one’s mistakes, especially without rancor as Fudge has done here. I think we owe it to him to include his words.”
“That’s fine by me, but I still need something more on Umbridge herself. It’s as if I’ve abridged her tale somewhat…”
“Well, you have, Luna dear. You’ve buried her true intentions among the political posturing. What you need are some inoffensive facts about her schooling and early career perhaps.”
“I’m not sure any of her former coworkers are likely to want to cooperate with us. I’d have more success if I sought fodder to deride her.”
“So she wasn’t very popular, I see. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Mrs. Figg poured the last of the lukewarm tea into her cup as she considered the alternatives.
With an accommodating smile, Luna leaned over and reheated the brew with a dainty tap of her wand.
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Figg acknowledged. “Tell you what: why don’t I take a little walk to the archives and bring you back some innocuous tidbits? I’ve been cooped up in this dreary townhouse much too long.”
“But the weather…” Luna cautioned with a wary look towards the dubious cloudcover.
“You think I’m afraid of a little rain? It looks like its hours away, at best. I grew up in the city and, believe me, if we waited for the weather to cooperate, Londoners would have long ago died of starvation within their own homes.”
Recognizing a losing battle, Luna desisted. A bit of exercise never did anyone any harm, she allowed inwardly. And Mrs. Figg was right about the rain in the city being more manageable than in the bucolic countryside where she had spent her youth. Luna still recalled the tall tales her father told of the mighty mud holes which could easily swallow a horse and rider.
Looking down at the formal parchment she still clutched in her hand, the words came unbidden from the depths of Luna’s subconscious: The evil men do lives after them; the good is often interred with their bones. She would double-check the exact quote form her father’s Collected Works of William Shakespeare. Her quill struggled to keep pace with the torrent of words flowing onto the creamy sheets before her:
Although this fictional eulogy was never delivered over the grave of Julius Caesar, the words remain true nonetheless. One has only to consider the tenure of Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic, from 1990 through 1996…
Despite Arabella Figg’s fondness for grandmotherly calico and comfortable oxfords, Luna would have been hard-pressed to find a more steadfast muse. With her shabby Macintosh tightly belted against autumn’s sharp bite, Mrs. Figg turned the far corner of the sidewalk and was lost from view. A slight pout of concern lingered on Luna’s lips as she turned her eyes from the leaden horizon and concentrated on the task before her.
She came upon it like a Muggle would: against the slate grey sky, it stood as a darker lump before the modern cityscape. It was only as she drew nearer that the silver ribbons of cold autumn rain parted like a watery fringe, allowing the details to come into sharper focus.
The tumbled concrete cinderblocks and plaster looked like colorless pieces of cake demolished by a giant’s footsteps. The broken timbers were still blackened by the hatred of an enemy long vanquished, yet the metal mesh fence wove around it like a bandage on a wound that, for many families, would never heal.
The small weathered sign identified that the ruins had been declared a national monument by governments past, an homage to the nightly terror which had gripped the city during the dark days of the blitzkrieg. It was a time Mrs. Figg recalled vividly from her childhood and from nightmares for many years thereafter. The vague sign implied that the site was being developed in some manner, yet it never changed. No construction crew ever came to provide sidewalks for the tourists to stare wide-eyed at the haphazardly cantilevered planks above their heads. It would have ruined the starkness of the memorial, Mrs. Figg maintained, somehow diluting the sacrifice many innocents had made for their country.
As for Muggles, they passed by it on their way to work each day and hardly gave it a second glance, a part of the landscape and nothing more. As such it was the perfect locale for the Daily Prophet to house its archives. The morgue, to speak of it in journalistic jargon, a term whose irony was not lost on Mrs. Figg.
She had disembarked from the tube at the prior exit so she could stop in at the bakers and had walked the intervening distance on foot. Having lived in London all her life, the rain did not bother her. Besides, Luna had charmed her umbrella to repel water and she always remained inside a dry bubble despite the angle of the downpour. A subtle effect which proved invisible to Muggles who barely glanced at her through a curtain of rain.
Such a dear that Luna was, Mrs. Figg smiled to herself. She could have never asked for a more agreeable working companion. Always insisting that Squibs didn’t have to live without the benefits of magic; after all, what were friends for?
Immediately across the street from the archives, she ducked under the awning of the concrete pavilion which marked the tube access. With a sigh of relief, she closed her umbrella and went through the motions of shaking it before clasping it shut. As damp as the pavement was in all directions, no one would notice that no droplets actually clung to her magically enhanced brolly.
Two short flights down and just prior to the ticket turnstiles was the short maintenance tunnel she sought. Unobserved by the few Muggles around her, she made as if to reach a single drinking fountain at the rear wall. Unseen from the landing, the tunnel turned at a sharp right angle leading to a single metal door.
She retrieved the plastic card that would allow her access as a frequent visitor. It looked no different than the employee passes worn by the Underground workers; but once through the initial door, a dark crack materialized in the poured concrete before her. Splitting open like a prehistoric egg, it allowed her into the brightly lit and bustling lobby beyond.
The morgue was a regular crup’s den of activity despite the less than hospitable weather conditions outside. Mrs. Figg nodded in a friendly manner to the desk clerk on duty as she found herself a nice spot near the massive file cabinets. She carefully arranged her cloth shopping bag to keep the white bakery boxes stacked properly inside. Courtesy of Luna’s charm, the thick cloth remained bone dry as well. But no wizard would question that; they would assume she had applied a drying charm herself.
A quick mental calculation told her that she should begin her research with 1969 and then proceed backwards until she found the obligatory Hogwarts graduation photo which included Dolores Umbridge. From there, she could limit her research to the seven years prior that would comprise the woman’s student years, assuming she had returned for her N.E.W.T. levels. That was highly likely as Umbridge had obtained a posting with the Ministry right out of school. No need to research the woman’s more recent reign of terror while she enforced Cornelius Fudge’s agenda of misinformation at Hogwarts. They had already amassed reams of parchment about that, not to mention extensive firsthand accounts from aggrieved students and faculty alike.
Although the giant drawers were designed to be manipulated with magic, there always seemed to be a helpful clerk on hand to assist a frail, old lady. Having wrestled the proper stacks to form a small fortress around her end of the reading table, young Jimmy secured her promise that she would not hesitate to call him if she needed anything else.
Mrs. Figg gave him her most benign smile and murmured, “Thank you, dear. I’m sure I’ll be quite occupied for at least an hour or two.”
Chuckling amicably as he gallantly adjusted her chair, Jimmy waved off to his assigned post.
It was all Mrs. Figg could do to hide her guilty smile as she turned the yellowed pages of the decades-old newspaper before her. All young people assumed the elderly were so incapable of helping themselves “ even among wizards where it was a well-established fact that magical ability continued to grow with age. One had only to look to Dumbledore or even Minerva McGonagall to see that. Yet the prejudice persisted.
Ageism, Tonks would surely scoff with a disgusted twist of her face as she assured Mrs. Figg that she was not old by any means. Always thinking in terms of stealth and concealment, Tonks had quickly conspired to use society’s short-sightedness to mask that Mrs. Figg was a Squib.
“Here, just carry this old defective wand in your pocket,” Tonks proposed. “No one will suspect if you wave it around vaguely. Let them come to your assistance. No one could possibly look more inoffensive than you.”
Such a sweetheart that Tonks was, Mrs. Figg concluded. Remus was a lucky man to have snared her. Or had she snared him? Well, it hardly mattered; they were clearly happy with one another and the two delightful children they had produced.
It didn’t take long to lose herself among the subtle nostalgia, recalling how each new event had influenced her own life. A thin stack of issues containing stories from Dolores’ school days was painstakingly set aside. Not much to go on really. Mrs. Figg had so hoped it would not be necessary to travel to the school directly. As much as she would have enjoyed a nice visit with Minerva, she did not have the option to travel by Apparition without a guide (not that it didn’t give her the most beastly headache, mind you) and her one experience with the Knight Bus had been enough to last a lifetime. Several lifetimes, actually. To think that her companions had expended so much energy to convince the young conductor that she was merely suffering from a wayward jinx which had temporarily robbed her of her magical abilities and nothing more.
As she continued to flip the weathered pages, she was caught short. It couldn’t be, her mind screeched. Well, perhaps it could; but how had they not known? No one had thought to ask, she concluded. Of one thing she was certain: she needed to show this to someone who could put it in perspective. Perhaps she was just overreacting, although she had never been one to see conspiracies under every rock like Alastor Moody.
The squeal of her chair as she slid away from the table echoed hollowly in the chamber. With a start, she looked around to find that it was almost closing time. She had not noticed the afternoon slipping away.
“Can I help you with anything?” The solicitous clerk smiled in Mrs. Figg’s direction. It was a young woman now; the shift change had occurred without her noticing at all. “Need copies?” The clerk nodded towards the small stack at Mrs. Figg’s elbow.
“If you don’t mind, dearie,” replied Mrs. Figg, followed by the stock line which Luna had taught her. “I much prefer it when the photos continue to move about and that just doesn’t seem to happen when I copy them with magic.”
The clerk smiled down at her kindly. “Please don’t think there’s anything wrong with your wand, m’am. The Prophet has a copyrighted charm which blocks the replication of its moving photographs unless one of us clerks does it.”
Mrs. Figg knew that, counted on it as a matter of fact. It was one of the reasons doing research at the Daily Prophet morgue was so easy to accomplish despite her limitations.
Remembering the time, Mrs. Figg placed a gentle hand on the clerk’s arm to forestall her. “Not meaning to be a bother, dear, but is there anywhere nearby where I could send an owl? I seem to have lost track of the time today.”
“You’re welcome to use the Floo.” The clerk tilted her head absently toward the large blazing hearth which dominated the far wall. “Complimentary powder is in the pot to the right.”
“I don’t mean to impose…” Mrs. Figg let her words trail meaningfully. “Well, kneeling like that makes my head spin so. Not as easy to get up and down at my age, either.”
Deftly levitating the oversized volumes before her, the clerk turned an indulgent eye towards Mrs. Figg. She really was such an old darling, revisiting the good times of her youth instead of obsessing over the obituaries as so many of these old birds were wont to do. “Tracing old friends today?” she inquired.
“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Figg nodded eagerly. “Today I was lucky to find a path to renew an old friendship. I’m just a bit late…”
“Of course, your family will be worried. And it’s still raining like there’s no tomorrow outside.” Glancing at the minute hand of the clock which indicated it was now officially closing time, the clerk made an immediate decision. “I’ll just get one of the express owls we keep in case the Floo acts up. I won’t be a moment.”
“I don’t want to keep you after hours,” Mrs. Figg demurred, peeking worriedly at the clock herself. Luna was sure to be concerned by now.
“Really, it’s nothing. I still have another hour to my shift while I straighten up and finish some paperwork. It will be pleasant to have a bit of company, if only for a short while. Why don’t you prepare your message on a bit of parchment and I’ll be back for it as soon as I’ve seen to your copies?”
Mrs. Figg graced the clerk with her most beatific smile before turning her attention to the note she needed to send. How should she word it exactly so the seriousness of the discovery was conveyed without raising any undue alarms? There was really only one person she felt comfortable confiding in now that Dumbledore was gone. With a quick flourish of her quill, she addressed the outside of her note to:
The clerk assured her that she was welcome to wait for a response. The Floo was not closed until the building was locked up in the wake of the cleaning crew.
Mrs. Figg leaned back in one of the padded chairs which flanked the ornately carved hearth, idly wondering whether it had been part of the original structure. It would not have been unusual to find such a large fireplace in the basement kitchen of one of the stately Edwardian homes which had once been the toast of London.
With a regretful sigh, she realized she had no real idea what sort of structure had stood on this spot before it had been bombed by the Nazis. She had only been a child, caught up in the minutia of childhood and had never visited this part of London that she could recall. Schooled among Muggles, she had learned of Hilter’s views on Aryan purity only to have those same twisted tenets echoed by Grindelwald’s mantra of pureblood superiority for wizards. Two madman, each from the same part of the world, had often made the child in her wonder if there was something amiss with the water supply.
It was too much to be coincidental, she had come to believe, but she never had anyone with which she dared to discuss it. The Statute of Secrecy forbade her from bringing such explosive news to the attention of University historians. As for wizards, they were often the worst about assuming that Muggles were just ants beneath their boots, paying heed only to the events in their own society and disregarding the rest. We share the same world, Mrs. Figg had often wanted to shout, the same sidewalks, the same air, the same bloody rock standing in the middle of the frigid sea “ and, ultimately, the same destiny.
It was Albus Dumbledore who had finally made her see that she was not alone in her beliefs. Although the time had not yet come to dismantle the Statute, he warned, she was not the only one who questioned whether it had outlived its usefulness. Introduced to the other like-minded wizards in the Order of the Phoenix, she was pleasantly surprised to find that, for the first time in her life, she fit in. Imagine that, a Squib finally finding her place among wizards!
Dumbledore had actually seen her total lack of magical aptitude as an asset and assigned her to watch over Harry at Privet Drive for the sixteen years the lad had lived there. No one else would have passed muster with the Dursleys and their obsessive rejection of everything magical. Stupidity in the face of what they knew to be true, what they had witnessed for themselves, yet Vernon had poisoned his wife Petunia to turn her back on her own sister “ and by extension, her nephew, Harry.
She often wondered how the Dursleys had fared in the eight years since Harry had left them for good. Were they happy to finally be rid of him as they had always maintained to the poor lad’s face? Or had he left an inexplicable void in their lives only to have them deny it to themselves as well? Mrs. Figg often suspected it was the latter, but she knew it was too big a risk to try to find out. Her own safety depended on her anonymity just as the Dursley’s welfare in the midst of a brutal war had depended upon them cutting all ties with the Boy-Who-Lived.
Mrs. Figg remembered Harry asking her about it as they stood among the dusty tomes of the neglected study at Grimmauld Place and dared to dream that the shabby townhouse might be suitable for a museum.
“I often wonder…” He had left the sentence unfinished, the hitch in his voice unmistakable to her ears.
She had given his arm a gentle squeeze and counseled, “Sometimes we have to let go, Harry. They never really wanted to be a part of our world. Are you really ready to go back to theirs?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to lose all I’ve gained,” Harry admitted woefully. “I just worry…”
“That they might have become victims?”
He nodded dumbly.
“The Auror Division has kept meticulous records of Muggles who fell victim to Voldemort’s rampages; you can thank Kingsley Shacklebolt for that. Have you checked with him?”
“Yes,” Harry admitted hollowly. “He allowed me to comb through the lists to convince myself. Promised he would never keep such news from me regardless of how…painful…it might prove to be.”
She had seen the haunted look in the back of Harry’s eyes then, the ghosts of all those whom he had lost along the way. It saddened her that such hardships had been visited upon him at an early age, wondered about how much they had cost him despite his ultimate triumph.
But then she’d heard Remus calling up from the landing, reminding Harry that they’d promised Tonks to be back in time to help feed the children and all vestiges of the past had flown out the window. With a high voltage smile which demonstrated just how much he had come to love his extended family, Harry wrapped her up in a quick hug and took the stairs at the breakneck speed of youth.
Almost as if on cue, a bright emerald flare drew her from her musings. But instead of seeing Remus’ features nestled among the blazing coals, Mrs. Figg was surprised to find the man himself easing his long limbs from the gargantuan hearth.
“Why, Auntie,” Remus remarked with a winning smile directed at the clerk, “we were beginning to worry about you. Did you forget you were dining with the family this evening?”
“She lost track of the time as she meandered down memory lane,” the clerk supplied as she assisted Mrs. Figg to assemble her packages. “Is it still beastly out?”
“Deplorable,” Remus commiserated in his most charming manner. “I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble. She so prefers the bustling ambiance here to the library.”
“No bother at all,” the clerk assured them. “The dear is welcome anytime.”
“Ta,” Mrs. Figg offered as she deposited three shiny Sickles on the desk to pay for the copying services. As Remus led her towards the fire, she couldn’t help being relieved that she’d bought an extra box of the lavender tea biscuits which Luna preferred. No point in arriving without a hostess gift “ despite the impromptu nature of the invitation.
“I already Floo’d Luna to let her know you were in good hands,” Remus breathed reassuringly in Mrs. Figg’s ear as he helped her over the low stoop.
Briefly, she wondered if she would get a chance to see Harry tonight as well. Or were he and Ginny still enjoying their honeymoon?
Taking an extra moment to steady her by the arm, Remus nodded that they should step into the hearth in unison. With a mighty green swoosh, they were swept away in the direction of Godric’s Hollow.